When Irish Lungs are Breathing

With each intentional breath, I felt a deeper connection to my roots, a bond that had been obscured by distance and time. I found myself in Claregalway, a small town on the West Coast of Ireland, surrounded by relatives I'd never met before. It was a reunion of the O'Connell family, a celebration of lineage and heritage that spanned generations and continents.

My grandfather Michael O’Connell left his native Ireland in a ship for North America in 1929, and he never looked back. After immigrating through Boston, he met my Grandma Mary at an Irish-American social club in Boston. He was a chauffeur hailing from Claregalway, while she was a housekeeper from Ireland’s County Mayo. They married soon after, raising three children in Darien, CT.

As I sat in the Claregalway Hotel, the atmosphere was filled with laughter and stories. Across the street, cows grazed on green grass peacefully next to a bus stop, a serene contrast to my bustling life in California. Here I was, in a room full of forty-five Irish cousins, aunts, and uncles, experiencing the warmth of family for the very first time.

My Grandpa Michael never returned back to his homeland of Ireland, neither did my American-raised Mom. It took me, living in California nearly on the other side of the world, ninety-five years later, to be the first person from our North America family lineage to make the pilgrimage to the ancestral homeland. 

Filled with casual conversations, smiles, and shared memories, the night the night is one for the ages. I teared up when someone at the party shared that they knew me. I didn't expect to learn that at my grandmother’s wake, my cousin babysat me, and her mom was in attendance at the Claregalway Hotel.

We nibbled on hors d'oeuvres and sipped on tea I had brewed that morning. It was chaga tea from Ontario, Canada, a nod to my practice of using functional mushrooms for health and wellness. The simplicity of the evening, the genuine connections, and the sense of belonging were overwhelming in the best way. 

Breathwork had led me here. This ancient practice, known in Sanskrit as "pranayama," had been a guiding force in my life. It wasn't just about self-care; it is a scientifically validated technique with numerous benefits. Breathwork helped me reconnect with my inner self, providing clarity and purpose. It allowed me to break free from the cycles of fear and stress that modern life imposes.

I had a vision during one breathwork ceremony where my grandparents urged me to book a ticket to Ireland. During another breathwork session, I shared with both my grandparents that I loved them, words I did express to my grandpa who passed away before I was born. During another session, my grandparents spoke with me, sharing that we can chat anytime, since they exist in my cells. 

In Claregalway, I realized how breathwork had prepared me for this journey. It had given me the courage to reach out to Nora, a cousin who ran the hotel where I was staying. It had given me the patience and openness to engage with relatives whose lives were vastly different from mine. Breathwork was the catalyst that transformed a simple family reunion into a profound reconnection with my heritage.

Meeting my relatives, I learned about their lives as dairy farmers, plumbers, teachers, and historians. We shared laughs about our differences and discovered commonalities in our professions. My work with functional mushrooms, breathwork, and the environment seemed worlds apart from their daily routines, yet it was all connected by the fundamental need to breathe, to live, and to thrive.

Breathwork had also helped me heal from past intergenerational traumas. It taught me to harness my intuition and embrace the unknown. This practice allowed me to deal with personal pain and childhood trauma, even going as far back as the prenatal and perinatal stages. Breathwork became a way of life, helping me accept and navigate the complexities of my existence.

One day my cousin took me on a tour of Grandpa Michael’s old neighborhood, where he showed me a former British-occupied police station that was burned down by the Claregalway Irish rebel forces. He also took me to the Claregalway Museum where the revolutionary Ernesto "Che" Guevara’s family tree hangs on the wall, the museum proudly traces his lineage back to a Claregalway man named Patrick Lynch. 

In the midst of this reunion, I found myself teaching my Irish relatives, born in the 1940s and 50s, about breathwork. We gathered around family albums, sharing tea and stories, and I guided them through breathing exercises. It was a beautiful exchange of traditions and practices, bridging the gap between our worlds. My relatives suggest that I travel by ferry to Inishmore, of the Aran Islands. I took the day to bike, eat lunch, and enjoy the beach. We stopped by the Cliffs of Moher on the return trip home to Claregalway, which continued the magic of this adventure. 

This journey to Claregalway was more than a trip; it was a return to my ancestors’ land, a reunion with my family. This entire experience re-connected me to the web of my family’s mycelial network. I felt the interconnectedness of the O’Connells, as we joined together like threads of hyphae, the microscopic filament that form my mycelium. Our ancestral lineage is not merely a family tree, but a network of shared intelligence, memories, combining to re-form one familial organism. 

Mycology gives me the tools to understand this path, to embrace my heritage, and to heal generational wounds. Our family is more than the sum of our individual parts, we are a collective group, stretching from the West Coast of California to the West Coast of Ireland. It reminded me that despite the miles and years that separated us, family bonds remained strong and vital.

My Grandpa Michael had a tender heart, passing away from myocarditis related to drinking, working hard, and never returning back home to Claregalway. My cousin Seamus gave me a tour of our family's township in Claregalway, seeing my grandpa’s house where he was born, the school that he attended, and the local forge (blacksmith’s shop) where people like him made horseshoes back in the day. I felt him in my heart and still do today. 

If you resonate with this message, I invite you to explore breathwork for yourself. Take a few minutes each day to tune into your breathing, to feel the air flow through your mouth and fill your lungs. Let breathwork be your guide to self-discovery and healing, just as it has been for me.

All it takes is that first, full, intentional breath. From there, the possibilities for reconnection, clarity, and self-love are endless. Your breath has been waiting its whole life to work its magic for you. You can express love to your relatives both alive and deceased, living beyond space and time, loving yourself along the way.