Day #024

Dublin, Ireland

An Ode to Family

In Dublin, I find myself nostalgic.

The small shops and bars are adorned with flowers spilling out of their baskets like laughter. Seagulls and pigeons jockey for crumbs at café tables. And buskers belt their songs at every corner – voices old and new, aching and alive.

Cranberries covers float down the street.

I think of my own family. Of sitting in the passenger seat of my sister’s Pathfinder in St. Louis. Windows rolled down. Volume turned up. Disc tray open.

She’d slide a Cranberries CD into the stereo – Linger comes on.

Suddenly the car was our stage. We sing off key, but with conviction – her voice weaving over mine as we filled the summer days with joy.

Two people - in the same car - lost in our own separate memories to the same song.

Every family has its soundtrack – the songs that take you back to car rides and laughter, to heartbreak and forgiveness.

To the love you didn’t yet know how to name.

To me, that is the essence of family. Lyrical. Tender. Imperfect. Intimate.

A love I did nothing to deserve, yet somehow inherited.

And cherished with my whole heart.

Family is not just where we come from – it is the gentle presence that reminds us we are not alone, even when the room grows quiet.

The noise in the silence is a memory – and it warms my heart.

Too often, people describe family as a portrait. Staged, Perfect. Smiling.

But families are not still lifes. They are living organisms.

They breathe. They fracture. They mend.

They evolve through the years – marked by tragedy and loss; stitched back together by celebrations and new arrivals.

My own family has always been a hub and spoke. We are a matriarchal household, and at the center was my mother – the nucleus. The fingerprint of our universe.

Affectionately called “Big D,” she was equal parts love and equal parts Irish fighter.

With her bare hands, Mom wove the bonds that held us all together even when everything else felt fragile.

But pity the person who mistook her tenderness for weakness – her strength was fierce, her loyalty to family unbreakable.

She was the architect of every ritual, every holiday. For days leading up to these events, stress ran high.

Cheeks were pinched. Bowls of pancake mix might have been thrown. A baker’s dozen “god dammits” likely slipped out.

But when guests arrived – Mom was radiant.

She had a gift: every guest – family, friend, stranger – walked away feeling they belonged.

She turned obligation into welcome.

Strangers became kin.

As a kid, I didn’t always understand this. I only saw the chaos. The rushing. The exhaustion.

But years later, I realize what looked like stress was actually sacrifice – the alchemy of turning fatigue into abundance.

Of pouring herself out so others would feel full.

We are far from a perfect family. Our faults are transparent. We wear the scars of a few battles. But that’s the paradox of family: luminous and difficult; broken and whole.

Gratitude does not deny imperfection – it’s been transformed into a gift. Kintsugi.

We cannot choose every circumstance of family, but we can choose the gratitude we bring to it.

Through life’s many challenges.

Through life’s many blessings.

We all have our lives now. We have all grown up – pushed to pursue the limits of our creativity, intellect, and talents.

And - as a result – sometimes chairs are empty. Sometimes laughter fades. Sometimes wine remains corked.

But what we share together cannot be measured in miles.

As siblings, we are restless travelers, wandering in all directions. Highways, airports, and oceans have stretched between us (literally and figuratively). Yet even from far away, the presence of one another grounds us. It is always part of us.

The voice on the other end of the line. The laughter in a group text. The memory that surfaces at unexpected hours in unexpected places.

These are the threads – the lyrical notes – that tether us back to one another.

Over time, our family has expanded. My mother’s open-door policy welcomed the tired. The lonely. The stranded.

Friends became brothers and sisters. Mentors became parents. Partners became home.

As the Irish say, We live in the shelter of each other.

And with that – our definition of family expanded. Its membership included not only genealogy but also those we choose to love. Those we’ve sadly lost. Those whose memory we carry. And those whose strength has carried us.

Today  – although the circle is smaller – I’ve carried that lesson of gratitude to California. Just as intimate. Just as lyrical. Just as loving.

My wife and I – warmed by the torch of my mother's – have kept her open-door policy going strong. Our San Francisco home has become a hive for any holiday – a place for shared memory. Shared food. Shared belonging. A place for family - no matter the definition.

No, it’s not as loud as the house I grew up in – and, yes, sometimes the absence of that noise makes me ache a bit.

But it’s filled with a love and memory that’s unique to the wonderful life we’ve created for ourselves.

Family. Friends. And a new generation of membership.

Now – more than ever – I appreciate that gratitude for family is not restricted to grand celebrations and declarations. It's not unique to holidays or events.

It is in the quiet moments too. It's in the stories we share. It's in the experiences we share. It's in the cries and the smiles and everything in between.

It’s looking at a star and wondering if someone you love is looking too.

It’s standing outside on Christmas morning and feeling close to someone so far away - while looking through the window to see the love of your life.

It’s a willingness to say, “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you” and “I love you.”

It’s remembering that the good old days are not behind us – they are here.

Now.

In every moment we choose each other again.

And so here in Dublin – with flowers spilling into the streets and music at every corner – I whisper the same gratitude I have carried since childhood about my family.

Thank you.

Thank you for being mine.

And thank you for choosing me.

And in the hush that follows – a busker song drifts my way – carrying me back to the stage in the Pathfinder.