On Appreciating the Gifts
Confronting voices of doubt, and Seamus Heaney
Happy Wednesday, love!
Pardon my tardiness; I’m writing to you from Heathrow airport on my way back to Mexico City. My story this week is a little longer, but I’m optimistic you’ll enjoy it. If you’re gunning for the 3 tips on being shamelessly sexy this week, feel free to just scroll on down…
My Story 📓
“It’s impossible to get people’s attention these days,” my dad says to me over a pub dinner, “You can’t make a career out of viral moments.”
My shoulders shrink a bit as I look down at the table. I avoid eye contact with my brother, who is sitting opposite me and whose life choices aren’t subjected to such scrutiny.
“That’s not what I’m trying to do,” I tell my father, almost fighting, “I love writing. It’s about building a body of work, and that takes time. I’m only four years into my ten-year plan.”
I repeat it to myself because I have to in order to keep believing it. Even when my dad doesn’t see it, and not everyone believes it’s true. If I told you I don’t care if my parents support my creative path or not, I’d be lying. I try not to think about the things I wish they’d show me: excitement at publishing my next book, suggestions of editors to pitch next, a connection to a potential reader, or a helpful friend. It’s too painful.
That same evening, before the pub dinner, I had dutifully fulfilled my mother’s wishes to go through boxes of my stuff in the attic. She dreams of getting all the crap out of there so that they can renovate the house someday. I discover I have only two boxes up there: a big box and a small box. I dump all the old mementos that I don’t care about into the big box to be thrown away, and shove the toys and books I still care about into the smaller box. I save the smaller box, which is now much heavier but also takes up much less space.
I toss a box of CDs into the big box. On the cover of the CDs is Seamus Heaney’s calm, gently smiling face. The great Irish poet himself. These discs are him reading his own work. My dad gave it to me years ago. I had never listened to them, never even opened them, and in 2026, a CD is more of a fossil than a genuine way to listen to music. I don’t even have a CD player (does anyone?).
Yet I had kept my father’s gift to me, this box of Seamus Heaney poems. I guess, deep down, I knew I wanted to listen to them, to experience his work. It’s ironic that after all these years, the moment when I threw the CDs away was the moment I finally decided to engage with his work. Except that it makes sense at this time. This time, when I have been learning a bit of Irish. This time, when I just got back from Ireland last week, and visited the gravesite of my ancestors amongst the ruins of a 16th-century church in Kilteevogue, Donegal. This time, when I just submitted my first application for an Irish passport. This time, when I’ve been working on a piece called “Becoming Irish” on and off for months now, but haven’t managed to submit it anywhere.
A few days later, I am on a train somewhere in the UK. I open up the Store on my Kindle and tap to the most popular eBooks by Seamus Heaney. I download the sample of “Death of a Naturalist.” I tap the first electronic page and read the first poem, “Digging,”
“My grandfather cut more turf in a day / Than any other man on Toner’s bog”
“The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap / Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge / Through living roots awaken in my head. / But I’ve no spade to follow men like them. // Between my finger and my thumb / The squat pen rests. / I’ll dig with it.”
On the final day of my trip in London, I sit down with my father in the living room to say goodbye before I head back to Mexico. I look at the books in the bookshelf. He had given me some works by the philosopher Isaiah Berlin, and others that made me feel like such an academic snob when I started reading them at age 16.
I think of the years my dad put me through school. I think of these books, now secret messages, he smuggled to me at Christmas, subtly changing the course of my education. Maybe he couldn’t give me suggestions of editors to pitch next. Maybe he was never going to brag about my latest blog post to his friends. But he had given me the gift of Seamus Heaney. A creative man whose roots, like ours, were built on the backs of men and women who could cut more turf in a day than any other in the bog.
“I’m throwing out that box of Seamus Heaney CDs you gave to me,” I say, “Just because I don’t have a CD player. But I’ve just started reading his work, and I’m really glad you got that for me. That poem, Digging. It’s so good.”
“It is,” my dad says, smiling.
Your Shamelessly Sexy Tips 💁♀️
Desire It 💋
“You can’t make a career out of viral moments.”
Don’t let the internalized voices of other people stand in the way of what you want. Instead, identify a doubt you have about who you are, your potential to love, or your creative capabilities. Sit with it for a minute and try to separate yourself from it. Who or where is it coming from?
Honor It 🌞
“My grandfather cut more turf in a day / Than any other man on Toner’s bog”…“But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.”
Think of an ancestor or family elder who went through hardships so that you could be where you are today. Imagine yourself having a conversation with them. When it comes to your lifestyle and what brings you joy, what would they be most proud of? What would they be most shocked by?
Act On It 🎯
Reconnect to your family roots this week, or be open to messages from your ancestors. You could find some old family photos, engage with family history, or ask a living relative a question you’ve always wanted to know the answer to.
See you next week!
Love,
Tash Doherty
Author of These Perfectly Careless Things
Creator of The Intimacy Journal
Facilitator of Intimacy Writing Workshops
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Extra Treats I’m Working On 🍬
What I’m currently listening to 🎶
In the spirit of tending to the land…
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Ancestry.com showed me a photo of my fathers grave. It has a Native American symbol on it. I asked my sister if she arranged that. She said she isn’t sure because it wasn’t on the urn of his ashes when they sent it to her. I am very curious and confused because who else would have done it. His ashes are buried in a veterans cemetery in Wisconsin. My question is do I have family that I don’t know on a reservation in Wisconsin? Maybe I do. I wonder if I will ever get back there to find out. My point in sharing this is at least you know where your ancestors are buried. Mine are all over the place. Scotland, Sweden, Norway, England. They sailed across an ocean and made their way to the US Midwest. A place just as fucking cold and miserable as the one they came from. Then my grandmother rebelled and married an Indian man. I know I had a point but now I am trying to imagine my father giving me advice about my writing other than “Don’t say that, don’t air the family’s dirty laundry in public “ I have lost the thread here but I’m glad I saw your post. Hope you are well and thriving.
!!!!