Posted by: mdmusingsie | April 7, 2013


The Garden of Remembrance in Dublin sits right across the street from the Irish Writers’ Centre and is where I found myself on a lunch break during a workshop on getting published (one of my dreams/goals).

Despite being dedicated to “all those who gave their lives in the cause of Irish Freedom,” implying war and turmoil, this is a lovely, tranquil space symbolizing what we have the potential to achieve – hopes and dreams – peace and harmony.

Garden of Remembrance, Dublin

Garden of Remembrance, Dublin

Tulips sat closed lipped on the shaded path while their sun drenched counterparts had mouths wide in joyous song.  So to were groups of people basking in the rare rays with the sheltered side forlorn for lack of companions.


Sections of fence representing the Harp and Irish Horn reflect music and song – the universal language that brings disparate groups together in harmony, even if only for a little while.


Calm waters settled in the cruciform shaped pool with tiled implements of ancient wars buried beneath the surface where we hope they and their representation will remain.


A great statue at one end perfectly represents the turmoil endured by and inflicted upon the Irish people over the centuries – though occasionally downtrodden, the phoenix continues to rise again.


One thought has struck me over and over as a writer in this digital age – what will our ancestors find of us?  Numerous books have been published over the last few years containing hand written letters found in dusty attics. They were written by children at war to and from parents; between lovers both famous and familial; musings of celebrities, poets, authors, or world leaders, and more.  Will the attics of our great-great-great-grandchildren contain floppy disks or CD’s of emails, blog posts, text messages, and Twitter feeds? Even if they do, will those media still be readable?  More importantly, would something as brief as a text message evoke the same emotions or describe the goings on of this day and age, as that found in a hand written letter?

Something to ponder…

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