The clock just struck midnight, which means that it's Thanksgiving, officially. My sisters and I have been feeling anxious about this day because it's our first Thanksgiving holiday since our father died. Like most families, we have happy memories of being together on this holiday, eating lots and lots of food, watching the Macy's parade on TV, and feeling, in general, and if only for that day, the contentment that only a loving family can bring you. Self-satisfaction, maybe even so much so that it's a little boring. A non-event that, even on such a day when you're supposed to give thanks, you forget to really commemorate it, forget to tell everyone close to you that you would be lost without them, that you are, actually and truly thankful, because you forget that there might be a time when you won't be able to. That time and place will all diverge in such a way to prevent you from having these inconsequential days that seem so obvious, it's more about the food and the ritual than it is about the sentiment. But time and place have put me on this plane of existence, floating in a world where my family is not, and now I'm standing at a sort of precipice, staring down at all the 36 Thanksgivings that came before this one and wondering how I will manage my 37th when so much has changed.

I've been thinking lately about a Thanksgiving I spent with my father at my apartment in Boston. We didn't have turkey; we had a meat fondue. We did not have pumpkin pie; we ate coconut macaroons. The wonderful thing about my father was that he was never afraid to do things differently. He hated the way old people tend to get caught in ritual, and was always up for an adventure, be it culinary or otherwise. He hated, most of all, to feel old, which was good, because we loved having an adventurous father willing to try new things, and who was not afraid to let go of old traditions in lieu of something unexpected.

This week, I went to the funeral of a friend's mother. The ceremony was a loving tribute, delivered by the most sincere and affable priests I think I've ever witnessed (and I've seen my share of priests). Personally, I am atheist, but as a formerly devout Catholic, mass soothes me in a certain kind of way, another cue to memories of family and comfort. When the priest recited the first sentence of Confiteor – “I confess to Almighty God, and you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do” – I suddenly thought back to the hundreds of times I have said that prayer and it never produced any kind of feeling in me. But today, on Thanksgiving, I think about “what I have done, and what I have failed to do” and this nagging worry eats at me. Did my father know how thankful we all were? Did he know, I mean really know, how endlessly he was loved? At the time, our comfortable complacency seemed like the best thing in the entire world. Maybe it's possible that he enjoyed the quiet happiness we experienced; he didn't need big expressions of grand emotions. Maybe it's possible that he did know. That possibility keeps me going, because I honestly don't know if I could live if I thought otherwise.

So, following in my father's footsteps, I will not be frightened of setting a new tradition, of celebrating in a different way than ever before. I will cook large amounts of food; I will eat with my new family in my new country. And I will not regret those lazy, comfortable Thanksgivings in another time and place. Perhaps today will not be the most relaxing day I've ever had, but I hope to feel and show the same quiet love and affection for my family that I have always felt, and always will. Because, despite it all, I am still blessed, and there is still so much to be thankful for.

Yesterday marked one year since I touched down in Dublin with two bags each easily twice the size of myself (and I mean that), plus my bike and my cat Gypsy. I arrived at about 5a.m. then promptly went to sleep. On the plane over, it took me a good hour to stop crying. To be honest, the emotions I felt when I left made me wonder if I was doing the right thing by leaving my friends and family behind to go to a place I didn't know anything about.

The first few months were not easy. Sure, if you read my blog it looks pretty rosy, but I can tell you I felt homesick; discouraged by running out of money and not being able to find work; hemmed in by the rainy, windy weather; at times depressed because I didn't have any friends; frustrated at getting lost and having to look at maps, not to mention trying to negotiate the buses; isolated from people back home whenever bad news struck -- you name it, I felt it. Some days I would just log onto my gmail and wait for people in the US to wake up so I could talk to them, and then would do little else all day.

But slowly things started to turn around. I began to make friends. I got used to being broke! The weather got a bit warmer and drier. I started to realize that there are places in Dublin to have fun without spending a ton of money. I started being better at exploring the city. I started getting back to the things I used to enjoy doing, and found some new hobbies too. I set up a work table for myself. Basically, I got myself out of my rut.

So looking back on the past year, I feel satisfied. Did I accomplish everything I would have liked to this year? Hell, no. But was it a happy year? It definitely was. And for the first time in many, many years, I'm going to have a couple of New Year's resolutions!

However, the weather over the past few days does remind me of what I encountered when I first got to Ireland. I'll take a snowstorm any day over this wind and rain. All I can think of to do is stay inside as much as possible, safe in my little hovel! It's so easy to hole yourself away when it's like this and decide not to come out until Spring. But sadly, spring won't be much better! Living in Ireland means coming to terms with the crap weather. So I'm going to make an effort to go out and do fun things rather than stay in with tea (ok, whiskey) and TV just to stay warm and dry. But I gotta tell ya, it ain't gonna be easy.

So today I feel my heart being pulled across the Atlantic more so than usual, because my Uncle Freddy passed away over the night, and his wife, my Aunt Annie, is struggling to recover from recent surgery, but is struggling due to the grief from losing her husband. My cousins are crushed, and I'm sure my father is saddened at the news, as are my siblings and I.

Freddy was one of my only uncles, on either side of my family, truth be told, that didn't scare or intimidate me. When he walked into the room, he always, and I mean always, had a smile on his face, and that smile was contagious. Since my father's side of the family have always been a tad on the serious (or shall I say reserved) side, Freddy was a breath of fresh air when he came to family events with my Aunt Annie. I am smiling right now just thinking of him and thinking how I felt as a small child through my teens and twenties, whenever I saw him, knowing he'd always have that same gregarious grin and open arms. And the best evidence of the kind of man Freddy was can be found in his kids, who are among my favorite cousins (of which I have over a hundred at last check) -- always kind and pleasant to talk to. I know they learned it from their parents. So today I feel sad to be so far away and not a short car ride away as I would have been if I hadn't moved. I have no regrets, but still, my heart is heavy and it would be nice to hug my family.

However, moving on I will report what I have been up to these few couple of days. On Thursday night Mark and I went to an art opening at the Gallery Thisisnotashop. The new installation was of the artist Andréa Stanislav, who, as it turns out, is a friend of my friend Heather! This shouldn't have been surprising since the gallery is run and owned by friends of Heather as well, but I felt all warm and fuzzy having that connection, and we had nice conversation throughout the evening. A very nice (and talented) singer named Gar Cox did a few songs with his guitar, and it was really enjoyable. Then we all moved on to the Dice Bar, and some more people joined in. Mark and I both had a great time talking to new acquaintances about all sorts of things: fashion, art, music, and nonsense. We probably should have gone home after the Dice bar closed, but then Andréa and Jessamyn convinced us to have "once more drink" at a bar down the street. So we went, but I ordered a club soda, and Mark couldn't even drink his Maker's shot. (Note to self: if your partner can't drink his drink, don't drink it for him, thinking "it can't go to waste"!)

We stumbled to our bikes, and realized that it was imperative that we get some food on the way home. We were going to stop in at Burger King, but we were allured by the je ne sais crois of Johnny Rockets, so we went in there instead for some late-night eats. Mostly, I would not recommend it, but the fried mushrooms were tasty!

After we got home, we both felt encouraged that friends in Dublin are only just around the corner. I know it will still take more time to build relationships, but I know that it will happen, because there is sure some fun stuff going on in this town! But it's hard because I don't want to be too pushy with the few people I do know here.