To miss a place like a person.

Ireland.

It's impossible to capture in a single post or essay the way this place feels. I think it would be impossible to present to you, in a way that is palatable and that will make you understand, the way I felt in a hundred essays or posts.

To put it simply: I fell in love with the land. Ireland sang a song to me, one that touched me at my foundation. And I miss it.

The first few days, there was apprehension. I spent most of the trip seeking what I had labeled “The Communion” in my journal. I couldn't find it in our first destination. A mixture of not knowing what I was looking for, but having the feeling I wasn't getting it, I was a little disappointed. Don't get me wrong, even in my “disappointment” I saw ineffable beauty, whether that beauty be rolling hills, sheep grazing in pastures, cattle lowing, abandoned structures older than Ireland's memory, or seals playing. Even inside of the massive cliff-fort of Dun Aengus, I had a sense that whatever it was, I was missing it.

My disappointment was light. Have you ever met someone, and felt, intrinsically, like there was much you shared, or much you could share? Did it feel sort of awkward at first while you tried to discover what that was? That was my first few days in Ireland. I knew that this country had so much to offer, things to tell me, things to show. Like any patient friend, I waited until Ireland and I found commonality. I waited for “The Communion.”

There were instances in which I almost felt like I'd found whatever that commonality was. Whether it was the stone fort on the cliff side or the island in the middle of a lake, there were instances where I felt close to metaphorical nirvana. And as one would defend the honor of a lady, I found myself almost lying for Ireland. “Oh yes, it's beautiful,” I said. “Oh, it's touching!” I might say. Granted, it was beautiful, and I would be touched, but initially, I was telling stories to protect Lady Ireland's reputation.

And then the ocean. Ancient Jews regarded the ocean as a place of deep mystery and terror. A place so vast and terrible, that you couldn't know it. If you tried to know it, you would be destroyed. The ocean. We have oceans here in America. I've been to them in three separate locations. I've been to our oceans in California and Florida. These are calm and domesticated oceans. They shine with emerald and lapis lazuli, they lazily come and go. They purr. The ocean in Ireland was a fierce ocean. It roared and shouted. It was black, gray: covered in a cloak of mist. It threatened you, and made you feel small. This was a wild ocean. It screamed towards the beach, and recoiled to strike again, the whole time the roar surrounds you. I watched the ocean until it could be watched no more, and then I listened. When sight failed, you could taste the salty seaspray on your lips: a gentle reminder that the ocean is still churning. And when the ocean spoke, I had to listen.

It was at the ocean that I found the start of what Ireland had to tell me. Ireland had many things to say, and I don't know if I heard them all. It's impossible to describe the way the ocean made me feel. Small, helpless, insignificant. Loved, peaceful, awestruck.

The door had opened, and we could be friends now, sharing secrets as only friends share them. Now I saw the beauty of this place wherever we went, and I could defend her beauty and be honest about it. Now there was magic even in her dirt and her trash.

Ireland wooed me with her rivers and her forests, her ancient buildings, and even her fairies.

But what's a relationship built on looks alone? If anything, strictly superficial. Empty. Ireland also showed me her art and her intellect. I spent hours staring into the eyes of the statues of her poets and the teachers and storytellers that preceded her. I sat in front of these statues, and I drew them, hoping to capture some semblance of what I felt in that moment.

Have you ever fallen in love? Most of us probably have. Have you ever had that love become unrequited or, for one reason or another, cut short? That's what it was like to leave Ireland. The day before we left, I spent time by myself, time in prayer. I was going to miss this place, and it would be hard to leave.

The day we left, I could muster little joy inside me. I felt that dull ache that accompanies loss. I could feel a ball in my throat, and heat in my eyes. I spent the flight home fighting tears. I was going to miss the people I came with as much as the country herself. We all hugged and said our goodbyes in front of the baggage claim, then some of us went outside to wait for cars. I could feel the tears coming on stronger now. I watched as one left, then two, then another, and another, and another, until it was just me.

Finally, my ride came. My family was pressing me for details, and I couldn't hold it back anymore.

I cried for want of Ireland.

I felt better, emotions released. I slept early and I slept long that first night back. I woke up early, and Ireland was still fresh on my mind, and the empty feeling in my chest still strong. I felt a stillness inside of me. I was not me, but I felt more like myself than I had. I was quiet, and though I was at work, I was in Ireland. I was thinking and contemplating. Much like how I spent my day, I spent my night.

Again, this morning Ireland woke me early, beckoning, “write.” I still miss her, and with such things as parting ways and missing a loved one, it feels as though it will never leave. Even now I listen to music I heard over there as one might reread letters sent to them by someone from far away.

I keep trying to figure out if the way I feel is rational or not. If it's warranted, or if I'm over-emotionalizing this event. I can't find an answer that is conclusively “no,” which leads me to believe that it's real. And that's when you know it's love, right? When it's strong and doesn't make any sense. And if there are two things I lack, it's strength and sense.