Greetings from Laguna! Think of this week’s column as a ‘flight of fancy’ back into the past in honor of St. Patrick’s Day and my New York roots. Since the newspaper won’t publish this until the end of this week, St. Patty’s Day probably hasn’t even come into your mind yet, unless of course you are Irish and/or were brought up in New York City.

If you are particularly stressed or “out of sorts” this day, take a moment to visit one of the Wisdom Workouts, find a photo that appeals to you (there are about 22 or so now) and take a few moments to read the exercise attached. Believe it or not, it will help settle you back into your core. Try it!

Warmly, Susan

Irish Eyes Are Smiling

Please forgive me for jumping the gun on Saint Patrick’s Day. I know that it isn’t until next week, Wednesday. The thing is, by the time my publishing date comes around again, all the green beer in town will have turned back to its normal pale ale color.

They say that you can take the girl out of New York but you can’t take the New York out of the girl. That is also true of the label Irish Catholic. I am part of a New York Irish-Catholic family. The real truth is that I am only half Irish because my mother is Czechoslovakian. That fact took a back seat. Why? Because my father was 100% Irish and he was 100% a New Yorker. That means that we were 100% Irish New Yorkers.

My mother was 100% New York Catholic. My father was raised in a Catholic orphanage; so, in an argument, he would outrank my mother in that area, except for one thing. My mother, her mother, and her mother’s mother were devout Catholics. Think big emphasis on devout. My father was an “I follow all the rules just in case it’s true” kind of Catholic, so he stayed in the background when it came to exercising religious muscle.

My mother was the actual voice of God. It was pointless to argue with her because she simply informed you that your behavior was shameful and that God was displeased. She also delivered God’s just punishment due for the flagrant disobedience that occasionally I, or my ten siblings, displayed.

Believe me when I tell you that talking for God trumps everything. There is no way that you can effectively defend yourself against the Ten Commandments and the laws of the church when you are thirteen and have started on a path of waywardness. That term blankets a lot of behaviors from lying. to talking back, to being insolent. By the time I was fourteen, I had accumulated three years of restricted mobility or what was called grounded, and this extended sentence was actually earned in two and three week increments.

Here is a hint to current parents that might be reading this. Too much control and supervision is just as bad as too little. It is impossible to execute that much incarceration without the proper jail structure and guards to implement it. It was only a matter of time before they would ask me to go somewhere or do something that would serve the common good of the family or their needs and I would righteously inform them that, though I would like to help out, I was grounded and therefore not available for active duty.

Irish extended to everything. Is a relative suffering from an acute illness? Simple. A transfusion of good Irish blood will bring them back to life. If I wanted to go on a date, it was mandatory that my parents met the guy. My mother was always polite but it was sketchy when it came to my father. Maybe the boy wouldn’t pick up on his thinly disguised distain, but I certainly knew.

One time, I brought a date to meet him and announced that he was currently in college, hoping that might impress my father enough to be cordial. He said: “And tell me, what is your major?” I waited to hear the answer from I forget what his name was, and when he said archeology, my stomach sank. My father didn’t miss a beat. He slowly and deliberately lit his pipe and took a few puffs. Then he snuffed out the match and looked my date in the eyes. He said: “Hmmm.  Archeology. I imagine it’s a good profession but like sheepherding, not a big call for it.”

There is a crazy, mixed-up pride that comes with being of Irish heritage. When my youngest daughter, Sara, went to college in New York City and when my third daughter, Jennica, married a part Irish Catholic New Yorker and moved to Long Island, they have gotten an experience of how the heritage continues. The Irish spirit seems to be like a hardy or ‘hearty’ plant that has roots that never die. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, early.

Susan offers local mentoring workshops on how to: Unleash The Power of Your Intuition. Her book: BEYOND INTELLECT: Journey Into the Wisdom of Your Intuitive Mind is available for self-help. Go to: www.susanvelasquez.com to sign up to get these articles free by e-mail or reach her at: (949) 494-7773.