Originally written on 17 March 2025

Last year, a friend recommended a book to me. "It's a hard read", she warned, glancing at me sideways, as if sizing me up for whether I was of the right calibre for a read of this kind.

I purchased the book. I felt I had to. That I was duty bound to.

When the book arrived, it was bigger and heavier than I imagined, with big writing and lots of pictures inside. Think coffee table style book. Which is where it sat in my house for a while before it was relegated to the storage unit inside our cylindrical baby blue foot stool.

Unread.

The soft padded tufted lid placed firmly atop.

That book was called The Truth Behind the Irish Famine. Written by Kerryman Jerry Mulvihill, his dedication inside indicates the deep need for his work:

"The Irish people who passed away during the famine have a story that needs to be told and fully understood. It is the utmost importance that their suffering was not in vain. May they humble us and remind us how fortunate we are today. Let them awaken us to the suffering that still exists within entire populations. They will never be forgotten." - Jerry Mulvihill

By pure mistake, I carted the book with me last November whilst co-hosting a retreat in Scotland. It was hidden amongst a whole load of Positive News magazines that I brought with me for a visioning exercise. I was shocked when one of the participants held it up and placed it on our altar for healing.

"What's that doing here?" I exclaimed, in embarrassment and disgust.

When I returned home, I placed the book back in the footstool. Still unread by me.

This weekend, I felt called to unearth the book from the footstool where it lay beneath the same pile of Positive News magazines. Cradling my warm cup of tea, I began to read. I made it to page 6 before the tears began arrive. The book was setting the scene for the series of catastrophic events that led to the famine. With each and every page I turned, my tears became more plentiful, bouncing off the big shiny pages. Blurring my vision.

But it was page 18 that got me. Hook, line and sinker. The "ferocious and devastating" Penal Laws of 1695. The book wasn't to blame. The Penal Laws get me every time. They catch me in my throat and fill me with dread and fear. Their purpose was complete eradication of the Irish and Ireland's ancient ways.

It was hard to read on. With a hot drop of tea in my cup, I made it to page 44, past the "Heads of Power & People of Interest" section. Robert Peel, John Russell, Charles Edward Trevelyan, Queen Victoria (ah feck you, ya famine queen, sorry if that is offensive to you, but I had to let it out.)...The London Times reporting of the Irish plight with ridicule and satire, John Mitchel, Daniel O'Connell, George Wilkinson...

...flicking forward to Asenath Nicholson, an American philanthropist who, in 1844, travelled Ireland mainly on foot, and, traumatised by the suffering she witnessed of the Irish people, wrote back home to her native New York for assistance.

I couldn't go any further. I had read enough. The lump remains in my throat. The suffering and trauma still feels real. The wound is rising to the surface now. Begging to be healed.

Today is St Patricks Day as you most likely know. On this day in 2021, I wrote a poem in the form of a cultural enquiry and contemplation for myself and my Irishness.

As everyone celebrates being Irish, what does this really mean?

So I share it with you today as my gift to you. That you may continue this contemplation by inserting any word of your choice in replacement of "Irish" if you so choose.

Who am I when I'm Irish today?

I am Eimear.

I am Dubliner.

I am native to Ireland.

Her boggy river waters wind through me.

Words flow forth from Her mouth as She speaks.

Undammed.

Untamed.

Renewed.

Revealing the eons of pain, of sadness that seeps through Her land.

Saturated.

Rising to the surface in great big bubbling crescendos of…

…acknowledgment? Forgiveness?

…of love?

Blown away by wild Atlantic winds that have shaped Her rugged coastlines.

My roots, they’re spread across Her landscapes.

Timeless. Old. Wise.

Connected to the oral lore of these ancient times.

Who am I when I’m Irish today?

Click here or on the video below to enjoy the full narrated version.

Who are you when you’re Irish today?

With love,

Eimear x

There's a park near my birth home in Dublin called St Enda’s. It’s only a five minute walk up the road. We would go there to feed the ducks as children; play hide and seek in the stone folly's dotted around the park or roll down the grassy hill like wild ones, shrieking in dizzying delight.

As a studious teenager I'd take a break to clear my head crammed full of facts and information for the hefty Leaving Certificate exams and walk in the direction of St Enda's. But I rarely stopped there. I'd cut through the park to continue on up Grange Road to the jewel in the crown of Rathfarnham, Marlay Park. With sweeping views of the Dublin Mountains, it was here that I felt most expansive and free.

Yet now that I have lived away from Ireland since March 2000, it's to St Enda's park I am often drawn when I go home.

I have just returned from a week in Dublin celebrating my mother's big birthday with all the family. I felt a strong pull to wander the grounds of St Enda's across several days of my visit.

You see St Enda's isn't just your bog standard suburban green haven of elderly Yew, Hawthorn and Cherry Blossom; Horse Chestnut, Silver Birch and Oak. Where a tributary of the River Dodder flows serenely over silted river floor and an expansive walled garden is home to shapely flower beds framed by a central bubbling water fountain feature from which stony pebble paths guide you in contemplation to walk alongside the green grassy lawns.

Where squirrels run here and there whilst blackbird busily feeds his chicks, translucent wings of flies protruding from his strong yellow beak and thrush with beautiful speckled chest and sweet song hops amongst the pale yellow and orange daffodils. A place to enjoy a coffee, cake and chat in the tranquil courtyard, to the trickle of a smaller fountain.

St Enda's Park is home to the Pearse Museum in remembrance of Pádraig Pearse, poet, writer, teacher and activist. Gifted to the Irish state in 1968 at the behest of his mother Margaret in order to remember her two sons Pádraig and William.

On one particular visit, it was a quick visit with my husband and daughter. After a short walk, we popped into the Pearse Museum.

"Have you been before?" asked the lady at reception.

"Many times", I told her, adding that my daughter shares a birthday with Pádraig Pearse, born 128 years apart. It's so fitting since we named her Aisling which means a dream or a vision in Irish, with the deeper poetic meaning of the vision of a free Ireland.

I guided Aisling to the room that housed Pádraig's handwritten letter to his mother. It felt important to show her. Written on 3rd May 1916 only a few hours before his death.

I began to read Pádraig's words aloud, my eyes welling up as I paused on the line "Good-bye, dear, dear Mother...". I felt his deep deep love for his mother in his handwritten words alongside an acceptance of his fate. I realised that his unwavering love of Ireland mirrors my love for Ireland too. His prose flow like that tributary of the River Dodder with much depth, love and thought. We have a lot in common.

"Good-bye, dear, dear Mother...I have not words to tell my love of you, and how my heart yearns to you all. I will call to you in my heart at the last moment. Your son, Pat" - Pádraig Pearse

As we walked through the rest of the museum, I felt a connection rise up through my feet as I tread upon the dark wooden floorboards. A remembrance of walking these floors proudly, with confidence when it was a school for boys. Knowing that I have indeed been here before.

Pádraig Pearse was the first of fifteen men to be executed over the course of nine days. In front of a twelve man firing squad. In Stonebreakers Yard, Kilmainham Gaol. At 3:45am on 3rd May 1916. Aged 36. For his part in the Easter 1916 Rising. His mother and siblings were not able to visit him before his death due to the ongoing upheaval in Dublin. His final letter eventually found its way to his mother weeks after his death.

Did the twelve soldiers also call to their mothers in their hearts as they pressed their forefingers down on the trigger to fire those bullets that killed?

"I am happy except for the great grief of parting from you. This is the death I should have asked for if God had given me the choice of all deaths, - to die a soldier's death for Ireland and for freedom." - Pádraig Pearse

There is much more that I wish to share to honour this man who played a key role in Ireland's fight for freedom. I wish to carry on his legacy, not through guns and fighting but with my artistic endeavours of word weaving, poetry and our shared love for the indigenous landscape of language and these native lands.

☘️☘️☘️

Join me live on the anniversary of the beginning of the 1916 Rising in an online gathering

called

I AM IRELAND

Celebrating Pádraig Pearse

~ Ignite Your Aisling ~

~ Resurrect Your Inner Rebel ~

~ Activate Your Artistic Muse ~

24th April 2025

3 - 4.30pm UK

Purchase your ticket here.

A replay will be sent to all ticket holders within 24 hours of the live gathering.

☘️☘️☘️

I AM IRELAND Online Gathering Outline:

Honouring Bealtaine: Uniting with the passion, power and poise of Queen Maebh. Reclaim your true queendom.
Sacred Storytelling: The Story of Pádraig Pearse from Eimear’s poetic perspective
The Aisling & The Proclamation: In the spirit of sovereignty and freedom, birth your own Aisling, your visionary proclamation for yourself and your people
Mise Éire / I AM IRELAND Meditation: Why is Ireland lonelier than the Cailleach Béara? Reconnect to The Motherland and your indigenous roots.
Soul Journalling: Connect with your inner rebel and visionary truth this Bealtaine

CLICK HERE to purchase your ticket.

Le neart i mo chroí / with strength in my heart,

Eimear x