Sometimes when I get stressed I wish for another life. 

Right now, I wish I could drop everything (mostly just grad school) and plant myself in western Ireland.  I would be a milk maid on a dairy farm and get up every day before the sun to do the milking.  When I would milk, I would sit on a three-legged stool eight inches from the ground.  I would wear long dresses with petticoats (not exactly sure what those are per se) and an apron.  

When I was done milking I would help the hefty cook in the kitchen.  She would show me in her sort of gruff manner (her husband would be the skinny wrangler who doesn’t talk much to her, so she acts angry, but really… she’s just lonely) how to make homemade bread and potato pie.  Once I got used to her sour manner, she’d start to grow on me.  I’d work very hard and she’d eventually start liking me, but she’d never say it.  I would just know it, because every once in awhile she’d leave an extra scone out on the wooden table in the kitchen so when I came in from milking the cows I could eat it.  It would be a blueberry scone.

I’d have my own room in the servants quarter (looks like I changed time periods too) and there would be long, white, cotton curtains on the windows.  Most days in the summer I would leave the window open and the wind would make the curtains billow inside the room, like clouds.  All that I would have in my room would be a single bed with a straw mattress, a chest of draws, and a chair. 

Over time, I would save up my Euros and once a month I would ride a horse into the village to the little book store.  The elderly shop keeper would eventually learn my name and start keeping titles behind the desk that he thought I might like.  He’d become my friend and on my monthly visits we’d have good conversations.  On Thanksgiving and Christmas he and his wife would invite me to their cottage for a meager feast, like I was their granddaughter.  We’d laugh a lot, and when I left, they’d force some leftovers into my hand and hug me warmly.

Then I would walk alone on the dirt road all the way back to my room.  By the time I reached home it would have long been dark.  I’d be so tired I would crawl right into my bed and sleep deeply until morning.  On those nights I’d never even noticing the straw scratching my skin, because I’d be so tired.   In the morning I’d rise before the sun came up and millk the cows, just like I did every day.

Sometimes I would be lonely when I was milking the cows or in my room with the billowing curtains, but it would make me love the hefty cook and the elderly man from the little book store, all the more.  

Occasionally, I would write poetry by candlelight and then I’d walk out into the night and let the breeze carry it away, just so it wasn’t trapped inside me.  I would always work my hardest and in the end, I would be happy with my scones, books, and good conversations.   

As I got old, my final hours approaching, I would sit in my chair with a deeply wrinkled face and an utterly peaceful heart.  Before my time came though, I would write down one last thing on a sheet of paper and send it off with the night winds.  The candlelight would be flickering silently, casting shadows on the wall, and with slow, careful strokes I would write in Gaelic …  “Sojourn in every place as if you meant to spend your life there, never omitting an opportunity of doing a kindness, speaking a true word, or making a friend.” (~John Ruskin)