St. Patrick's Day, and any good Irish girl gets to lean into the Emerald Isle's mysticism: fairies, Druids and Celtic lineage. I read from the Irish poet John O'Donohue on the miracle of being here in a body.

Walk to a gate and pass through onto emerald land where the winds whisper secrets of the Fae. Press your feet into cool, damp earth, in a patch of four-leaf clovers. Let your feet become roots, breathe in heather and peat, and let your burdens sink into the ground. Then climb the rainbow: ruby red berries at the root, a carved Celtic cross at the sacral, the Cliffs of Moher at the solar plexus, a green you've never seen at the heart, a clear blue lake at the throat, indigo over castle ruins, violet heather at the crown. Let a golden sun pour luck and charm through you.

I closed the way the Irish do: may the road rise to meet you.