Jennifer Carroll is a 21 year old actor and writer. She first began writing for the Uxbridge Cosmos in 2007 when she had the opportunity to share her experiences as a Canadian ambassador for an international conference for women in Dubai. At the beginning of 2008, she moved to Ireland to pursue a career in theatre and film. Far From Home is her monthly account on living and working in Dublin.
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Back in the Emrald City
The week welcomed me back with sun and Shakespeare.
As the clouds broke and I glanced down onto my beloved city, I could sense the sunshine glancing down behind me and following me all the way down to the streets below. Dublin in the sun is a rare and exquisite treat, one that sparkles with an emerald I have yet to see matched by any other place on earth. My gem glinted and gleaned and as I leaned against the window of my bus, I couldn't help but feel as if the sun was shining for me alone. I saw familiarities stream past me and I was drawn closer to the heart of my home, where diamonds were dancing on the surface of the River Liffey. The warmth on my face turned the corners of my mouth up into a helpless smile, one I could neither control nor mask. I was so glad to be home.
And then… the rain. It came the next day and stayed for over a week. Well, at least it was more familiar. Dublin had dressed itself up for my homecoming before changing back into the jeans and t-shirt it wears daily, one that floats from the grey sky with a gentle reminder of how close I am to the sea. The sounds of patters and splashes filled my ears, and I fell back into the daily dance of skipping between raindrops and over puddles. Because I just couldn't be kept inside. Every year, Dublin hosts its Shakespeare Festival, a program filled with as much literature as optimism as Shakespeare's greatest works crop up in every park, alley, square and outdoor marketplace, rain or shine. Do you know how good a Shakespearean sonnet sounds with an accompanying soundtrack of gentle rain? I'll give you a hint, it's pretty close to heaven.
Standing through the opening scene of King Lear in the park with W.B. Yeats' memorial leaning over me, imposing and garish, I was struck hard with a realization. As Cordelia gently refused to entertain her father's insecurities and my hair dripped with rain, I thought of Ireland's greatest asset: pluck. My muscles still faintly ache with the memory of my unsuccess over the past two years. But Ireland has been put through a more rigorous wringer than I could ever handle, and it’s still standing, still repeating beautiful verse and still creating art so pure it cleanses its audience as they gaze into its soul. This country has been beaten down every time it stands on its own two feet for its entire history. Yet Ireland continues to take a breath, gasp into the dirt as it lifts its face from the ground and stands once more, sometimes still shaking, but standing nonetheless.
Ireland's legs are shaky right now, as are mine. Yet here it is, reciting Shakespeare in the rain. Because that's what an artist does; they stand, face the forces that predict their failure and they tell stories. They gather an audience and share the most vulnerable part of themselves, that bit of them that's been torn open and exposed, the part that scares a person to look too deep into. And often, audiences are afraid to examine failure. They don't want to face a man's mistakes, his stumbles and shortcomings; it takes away from the glossy perfection of him. But I think there's a magnificence in imperfection, because if you examine someone's failures or stumbles you get to see something more stunning than perfection could ever achieve. You get to see their resilience. The only thing more inspiring than a person who never falls is one who stands again after they do.
So I stood there, hair dripping, nose cold and legs shaking. Lear raged at his youngest daughter in front of me, and my mind began to harvest its resilience. I'm home now, and it’s time to find my pluck. If Ireland can manage to stand back up after it's been beaten to the ground, so can I.
