A Cure For Homesickness?

photo by Elisabeth Arnold on Unsplash

When it rains in Indiana, I could almost imagine we were in Ireland. I look out my window and I see green fields of crops I know to be corn but could imagine were wheat, or barley, before it turns the colour of glazed corn and creates the summer patchwork that is so characteristic a view from any Irish window.

Today, I busy myself making endless cups of tea and for lunch I try to emulate the avocado toast from Two Boys Brew: I smear Costco guacamole on toast and top it with feta and red chili flakes and it’s not the same but it’s close so I close my eyes and I imagine I’m there, drinking overpriced lattes and chatting shit with Ciara, or Clare, or Liam, or all three, because I miss the avocado toast but I miss them, most of all.

I’ve been listening to the Indo Daily, a podcast I’m enjoying despite being further removed than ever from Irish politics and, honestly, not ever being an Independent reader.

On Monday, I’m sure, there will be a new episode about the Cathal Crotty assault case (in which a soldier beat a woman unconscious when she and her friend asked him to stop shouting “faggot” at a stranger on the street, and avoided any prison time because, according to Judge Tom O’Donnell, if he goes to jail, “his career is over”), and I’m imagining it will be presented by Ellen Coyne, because it seems like that would be her beat, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

The Indo Daily is one of the few podcasts I listen to that is presented by a man, at least what seems like the majority of the time. I don’t choose women-fronted podcasts on purpose, necessarily, but I no longer choose books written by women on purpose, either, and somehow they’re all I seem to read.

It’s not that I don’t want to hear men’s perspectives; it’s that their perspective is, so often, the prevailing perspective, that I feel like evening the score somewhat. Not to mention the fact that, as someone with an English degree, it’s fair to say I’ve read my share of male authors.

In terms of podcasts, I’m enjoying:

(Actually, presented by a man so maybe I mean cishet men?!)

I will put in a note to say that despite loving The Rest is Entertainment, I was disappointed by Marina Hyde – who I’ve always really admired as a journalist – in a recent episode absolutely dismissing the boycotts of Latitude festival by performers who didn’t want to be associated with Barclays (who are heavily associated with companies who supply weaponry to the IDF). It was… not great, to be frank. But I’m not one to toss baby and bathwater out in one fell swoop, so I’m still listening.

As for books, recent titles I’ve enjoyed include (*these are all affiliate links!):

Not in Love, by Ali Hazelwood ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Spicy, content warnings for food insecurity & difficult childhoods, also for slightly involved science talk I glossed over

Face Off, by Chelsea Curto ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Spicy, content warning for sports, abusive (former) relationship

Demon Copperhead, by Barbara Kingsolver ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Not spicy, content warning for poverty, foster care and, opioid use

Bride, by Ali Hazelwood ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Spicy but also VAMPIRES!!!

The Gathering, by CJ Tudor ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ (my top book of 2024 thus far!)
Not spicy, vampires, echoes of Fargo, True Detective and Mare of Easttown, THIS IS SO SO GOOD

Ask Again, Yes, by Mary Beth Keane ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Zero spice (see I contain multitudes!), content warning for knife violence, also content warning for cops but they don’t seem that bad

I feel as though reading is one of the best ways for me to get out of my own head, whether that head is focused on how homesick I am or how worried I am that I’m going to lose the baby I’m currently pregnant with (a fear I’d hoped was just a first-pregnancy fear, but no, it seems it’s a second-pregnancy fear, too) or how can I even call it homesickness if Ireland isn’t my home any more?!

Podcasts are a close second, but with a podcast I can sometimes find myself wandering off down an entirely separate path and missing a large portion of the episode, which is annoying (although bonus points for podcasts because I can listen while emptying the dishwasher, or playing Block Cat Jam on my phone).

I’m never sure if homesickness, though – that feeling of yearning for home, of grief for a life, a homeland, that I feel I can’t really lay claim to any more, at least not in any practical sense of the word – is something that should be embraced or ignored. Is it better to try to distract myself from my feelings, or to allow myself to feel them? Give myself grace, as my therapist would say?

I’m grieving her, too, now that she’s moved on to pastures new, leaving me with a list of therapists to look into but no real roadmap of what to do next. Just tell me who to call, I felt like saying to her, but also worried that would make her think she’d failed in her job as therapist. I don’t think they want their clients to end their time together acting like totally co-dependent weirdos who can’t make a decision on their own.

Joke’s on her though, because I’m like that with everyone (just ask my Dad).

I’m not sure what it would look like to truly embrace this homesickness lark. Maybe I’m doing it today, drinking tea and eating avocado-and-feta on toast, but I listened to a podcast while I ate, so maybe I’m both embracing and obscuring my feelings, simultaneously. This feels confusing.

What I do believe would cure me, honestly, is a trip home – something I can’t do until I get my Green Card, an eventuality which exists in the ether of the future. I’m not worried that I won’t get it; I’m married to an American with whom I share a child, or, rather, 1.3 children, if you’re counting the lemon-sized fetus I’m currently working on. I’ve been told the outcome is pretty much guaranteed.

But if it does come through before September, I’m planning on making a trip home for a few weeks. My previous trips were two-pronged: see people and eat food. This one, though, I think I want to focus on seeing Ireland: taking walks in the rain; sitting on the beach and soaking up the sounds and smells of the sea; driving from one place to another and looking at the trees and the mountains – God, the mountains!! I’ve heard Montana is flatter than Indiana but it doesn’t seem as though that could be possible – and beeping aggressively at other cars (where appropriate, obviously) without worrying someone will shoot me.

I want to go to the local shop and be asked personal questions by the shopkeeper I’ve known since I was a baby; I want to get the train and the Luas and then walk around town on feet that haven’t really walked anywhere in weeks, and I want to bump into someone I’d hoped never to bump into again and I want to say, and mean it, in the moment (although wonder, later, where that came from), “oh my God it’s so nice to see you!”

I want to go and see my friend’s new home renovation and my cousin’s new kitten and the new roundabout they put in down the road, “totally unnecessarily” and I want to go to Krewe and to Jean-Georges at the Leinster and to other restaurants that didn’t exist when I left (and also to Pickle and Proper Order and fine maybe food is also a factor).

I want to drive past friends’ houses and just POP IN! because sure I’ve an American phone and I’d no wifi and I thought I’d just chance it and I’d love a cup of tea and are you sure you don’t mind and I’ll just sit down for a few minutes.

And I want to relish – truly relish – the fact that, no matter how long I’m there, no matter how many people I meet or restaurants I go to or bus drivers I thank, not one person is going to ask, “is that an accent I hear?!”