Pot brownies, Philosophy, and Pagan Miracles

*Side note: I'm eating a sausage roll as I write this.  And I'm filled with glee.
**Side side note: My heaven is full of warm sausage rolls.  I just know it.

I left off so long ago, that I can't remember where we were, so I'm just going pick somewhere and dive in. 

I had an appointment last month with Dr. R. that left me meandering aimlessly around the Upper West side of Manhattan.  Lost.  I ended up sitting on a park bench outside the Natural History Museum, drinking a cup of tea, and talking to myself (in other words: I fit right in).  I just kept saying over and over, "You're okay, Alessandra."

Why on earth am I admitting to this?

Well, I've already written it, so I might as well press on.  After all, I don't think you'll find me crazier now than at any other point. [That last sentence just made me snort out loud.]

So, here's what brought me to a hobo level of insanity (no offense to the hobos out there): Dr. R. doesn't know what to do, and he wants me to go see another doctor.  Admittedly, it's the doctor that he would go to see, if he had Lyme.  The problem is that at this point, we have beaten the bugs into their dormant state (yay!), so by all intents and purposes, I should be feeling something resembling W.E.L.L., but I don't, and ineviatbly, we get to this point, and then it all starts unravelling, and we quickly have to resort to IV antibiotics again.  So, this new doctor (hereforeto referred to as Dr. B) specializes in Lyme, but does quite a bit of work with complementary medicine.  Dr. R. thinks that maybe he has something in his arsenal of weaponry that will help.

And I get it.  I really do.  But I did look at Dr. R. in despair and say, "You're not kicking me out, are you?"  Of course he's not.  How could I be so ridiculous?  But it left me feeling mildly abandoned.

Now, Dr. R gave me Dr. B's number.  His cell number.  A brilliant first impression, by the way.  Eventually I got an appointment (for the Monday of hurricane Sandy, so I had to reschedule) through his office, and was informed that the appointment fee for a first visit is $850 cash.

Eight hundred and fifty dollars.

I had already blown my doctor visit budget for the year.  And now I had to come up with an extra grand.

So, naturally I thought of having a bake sale.  Isn't that how everyone raises money?  I mean, who can say no to a BAKE SALE????  Patricia Folz.  That's who.

I called my mom, flushed with the thrill of my own brilliant idea, and she said to me, "Alessandra.  Exactly how many brownies would you have to sell in order to make even $300?".  Why does she have to be so reasonable all the time?  It's obnoxious.

So, I thought about it for a while, and decided that the only reasonable thing to do would be to make pot brownies, which would seriously improve my profit margin.  And then Jake pointed out that the Lyme Specialists in prison probably weren't that good.  Fine.  I see how it is.  Everyone just wants to SHOOT DOWN whatever brilliant idea I come up with.

I decided on dog cookies.  And a wonderful vendor friend of mine is selling them at her booth.  More profit than brownies, with none of the hassle of the po-po showing up.  (Is that how you spell po-po?)((That should tell you how much experience I have with both drugs and the police.))

Now, before my new found poverty showed up, I had booked a trip to Ireland with Jake.

Mom: Oh GAWD!  What are you going to do if you're sick???
Me: Be sick in Ireland.
Mom:  No, what if you're really REALLY sick???
Me: Be really really sick in Ireland.  Where at least people know how to make a good cup of tea.

Plus, I like to think that if I get horribly sick and die, then at least my friends will have a nice destination funeral to attend.  Morbid, but come on...

Where are we?

Oh right.  Ireland and philosophy and Pagan Miracles.

I've been thinking quite a bit about the word disease.  Dis-ease.  To be out of ease.  To be un-harmonized.  To be away from one's self.  Perhaps even, to be away?

I've always firmly held onto the belief that people have souls.  What they do with them, and where they go, is really none of my business, but I do know that everyone has one.  And as such, can a soul fracture?  Do you leave pieces of it behind, like a trail of crumbs, so that you can come back later and retrieve them all?  Is that how people get sick?  Too many pieces are missing?

I know what you're thinking.  And I swear I've never had a pot brownie, and I'm not eating one now.  These are just the things that I've been wondering.

So, I'm here in Ireland, where my mother's family is from -- quite immediately, too.  My mother is only second generation American.  And it is where I was christened, and I haven't been back since.  And I can't help but feel peculiarly at home here.  And in a way, more whole.

We flew into Shannon yesterday morning, and toured around a bit, and ended up in the afternoon going to see the Cliffs of Moher, and as night was falling on our way back to the B&B, we stopped at the Holy Well of St. Brigid.

Brigid was actually a pagan goddess that the catholics made into a saint, probably because, as no one would stop worshipping her, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.  The long and the short of it is that this holy well (the holiest well in Ireland...I'm not sure how big a competition that is, though) reportedly has healing properties.  And I think we've established that I'll try just about anything.

The spring runs in a sort of cave in the side of a hill under a cemetary.  It's claustrophobic with talismans and statues and cards and trinkets and photos stuffed and hanging everywhere, and it's lit with a few candles.  And at the back of this tiny cave, there is a small square basin cut in the floor where the water pools, before flowing out.

In the dim light, all I could see was that the area of water that is reachable without plummeting into the depths of the unknown was noticably frothy.  Frothy.  And maybe with a foliage around the edges.  Enough to give me pause.  But I didn't come all the way to Ireland to be a wuss.  I knelt down, plunged my hand in the icy cold froth water, and drank it.  That's right.  I drank the holy-pagan-frothy water.  It tasted nutty.  And Jake said, "Oh my god!  Did you just drink that?!?".  Yes.  Yes I did.  And then the whole thing struck me funny.  I started giggling to myself.  And then I found myself back in better spirits.  And 24 hours later, I still find myself giggling when I think about it.  And maybe that is Brigid's secret.

Laughter, after all, has always been the best medicine.