Muinntir is a Gaelic word; it means ‘the people who belong to a specific place.’ Maybe even more than just ‘the people’; a community of souls is closer to muinntir’s truth. The people of a glen. The folk of a lochside village. The families whose names have been carved into the same hillside for generations. I ascribe a Scottish connotation to the term, but that’s just me. I’m sure there are muinntirs of every size, shapes color, and culture the world over, not just in Scotland.
Do you have a muinntir? I’ve been thinking about mine. I believe it’s possible to have more than one. When Gaelic was the language of Scotland, folks didn’t travel the way we do today so their muinntir was probably just their village, or maybe their clan castle over in the next glen.
But now, we live in a different world, in different times. Today, I’m guessing we would have to expand the concept to cover all sorts of communities and kinship: cities and states, book clubs, political parties, genders, families, soccer teams—all manner of identification and affiliation. I realize that may dilute the concept to some degree, but I think the essence of the term could remain pure.
I’d like to think the human muinntir would extend to caring for our planet, but, alas, we’re not quite there yet. Too many factions, too few ties that bind us to our common Mother Earth. We’re already making plans to travel to other celestial bodies before we’ve figured out how to tend this one. C’mon, earthlings, first things first! But these days, it seems that our instinct is to expand and extend, not settle and coalesce. I suppose that’s a byproduct of our addiction to technology. Our reach is no longer confined to our little village, loch, or brae. We’ve flown over and away from all those definable muinntirs, only to land in a landscape in which it’s harder and harder to find our own community of souls. God knows, we try. There are all sorts of online communities and affinity groups, but somehow, when it’s digital, it’s just not the same. Our arms are open too wide; we hold nothing close.
Or do we?
The day I first came to this little riverside town fifteen years ago, I felt a connection as real and as tangible as any I had ever known. My wife and I walked by what is now our house and within a week, we purchased it. I knew this place was my muinntir the minute I laid eyes on it. My wife wasn’t quite so sure—there was no sandy beach, no ocean—but she’s come around, if not quite to my extent, at least to creating her own formidable community of souls here. And we make that work. My point is that centuries ago, the muinntir of my ancestors was a little lochside village in Scotland, and now mine is a little riverside town in Kent County. I’m worlds and centuries away from those forbearing souls but maybe we share more than they or I ever imagined.
It’s quite possible that one could go through life and never feel the connection to a place or to a community of souls that the term muinntir implies. But I think that would be sad. There is a strength that comes through a muinntir; I feel it here. I hope you feel yours, too.
I’ll be right back.
