Her email . . .

told me that she was an only child. Her father was Irish, and the only member of his family who lived in the States. The last few years of her mother's struggle and especially the time since her death had been difficult. She visited her father's family every summer, but she expressed a profound sense of isolation here, almost on her own in this country. At times the three thousand miles to Ireland seemed like three million. But, as my friend and I performed Irish music on St. Patrick's Day in class, she felt happy for the first time in the longest time. Suddenly Ireland, her family, happiness, seemed near. She sings in the high school choir, and that too had taught her how music had given her a powerful way to laugh, cry, and feel.

I spoke with her after getting the email and told her how happy I was that the music had touched her. I wanted to say so much more: I guess I just wanted to share similar experiences. But I left it at satisfied. Satisfied that she had come some distance in her grief, due in part to the music. I believe I will try to find some appropriate way, reading, writing, journal, for her to learn a little more about how she feels, and about what it means to be of two places. I don't feel qualified delving into loss, but I can certainly help, delving into the issues of place and the contentment of the self.

And I am certainly going to mention how important music has been to me. There was a period of about two years where I believe a seisiun on Sunday night and set dancing on Monday night were the only outlets that helped me hold things, barely, together. In fact, during the biggest crises of my life, if I had not had music I am not sure what I would have done.

The Irish in America are not immune to the pain of separation just because perhaps they blend in better. Or deny it.