The Book of Lindsey's Head

This was me sitting on the lawn outside Trinity College Library where the Book of Kells is on display. It was right up my geeky-bible/love-of-turquoise alley. Go ahead and click on the links and stare slack-jawed and buggy-eyed, like I did.
I had a pilgrimage-y sort of day. It all seemed holy, from the too loud clicking of my boots through the quiet wooden halls as I drank in the books produced by a monastic lifestyle to the stuffy and grand Trinity Library upstairs to the schmaltzy gift shop below which was more hustly and bustly and alive than either of the the solemn halls.

And then I bought stuff.

I sat on the edge of a restricted lush green fairway-like lawn on the campus and wondered why they planted this beautiful perfect grass if we cannot walk on it? It turned my brain back to the monks. Were they doing what they were made for, really? Was a quiet and solemn life what God intended for these bodies? Did they feel cheated? Would I? Is what they gave the world...this book...these writings, was it the plan all along? I can look at this beautiful book all day, through an inch of glass, but i cannot flip through the pages, I cannot read Latin, and I do not think I know Jesus any more or less. Perhaps the knowledge that these people believed as strongly as they did to direct their whole lives and beings and purpose to Jesus is a great historical comfort to me.

I concluded that the monastic grass was rather appropriate here in this place, but I think I'd rather be playing golf on it. Leaving chunky wet divot-scars all over the ground while playing. Living life loudly.

And then I went all Brian Fellows on that bird. "Who does dat bird think he is? Why is he mocking me? White bird, can't you read? Brian Fellows will NOT be mocked, Bird! I'm Brian Fellows!" That bright green tree struck me. Because the rest of campus looks like Gotham City. Like this:
I got up and wandered around the city, afraid that if I got hit by a cab like that Just Jack song, that no one would know that today was a good day. Walking by myself in a large European city always makes me wary of my own funeral and of pick pockets. I eye every person with deep distrust and I try not to present my backpack zippers to anyone. It's a little different when you are not by yourself, I think. You do not seem such an easy target. Regardless no one did pick my pocket. I stuffed my money in my jeans where I can barely get my hand in there myself to fish out money. Other than that, Ireland is kinda like being at your cousin's house. A little different but still feels connected and homey.

Dinner for one. Dessert for me. Book suggested by Wayne. (THANK YOU, WAYNE!)

More on Golf to come. Yarp.