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I used to believe that I was a good relaxer. I still scrolled through my phone as if my life depended on it on "do nothing" Sundays, coffee breaks, and the occasional weekend off. But I didn't fully comprehend what it meant to slow down until I spent a few weeks traveling throughout Ireland.

Something about Ireland subtly compels you to stop. There, the mist rolls in like it always has, the sky moves more slowly, and even the sheep don't seem to be in a rush to get anywhere. I had a to-do list when I arrived in Dublin: museums to see, sites to take pictures of, and day trips to organize. Ireland, however, had different plans.

Somewhere on the Dingle Peninsula is where it began. The wind from the Atlantic and the soft murmur of the sea persuaded me to stay even though I had only stopped to take a picture of the cliffs. Wearing the Aran sweater I purchased from ShamrockGift, I sat on a mossy stone wall and felt the strangely cozy Irish chill descend upon me. Hand-knitted in that recognizable diamond stitch pattern, the sweater was plush and thick. It served as a comforting reminder that I didn't need to be anywhere else but here, so I wore it practically every day of the trip.

I didn't cross anything off my list that day. Rather, I listened - to my breath, to the waves, to the silence that, when you listen, isn't truly silent. I realized for the first time that I hadn't remained truly motionless for a very long time.

I spent an entire evening in a pub in Doolin, a little village famous for its traditional Irish music, where the Guinness was so rich it tasted like history. Travelers and locals sat around wooden tables and told stories leisurely. There was nobody "checking the time." Nobody was hurrying to move on to the next topic of discussion. There was a type of presence I had forgotten, along with music and laughter.

I discovered that I needed to adjust both my expectations and my pace. I gave up trying so hard. I stayed over brunches, strolled aimlessly through misty hills, and even napped in a meadow close to the Rock of Cashel, my sweater acting as both a blanket and armor. By that time, it had a subtle scent of wool and sea salt, which made me appreciate it even more.

Ireland taught me that significant things don't always need to be productive. because what gives the voyage a sense of realism are the in-between moments, the ones we typically skip. Hours passed during my talks with strangers. In cafés where the only sound was the rain rapping on ancient glass windows, I kept a journal using a real pen and paper. I didn't have music playing when I walked for kilometers. I let myself just be.

Perhaps the scenery is to blame. It might be the people. The virtue of slowness may have been imparted to me by centuries-old Irish knowledge, which is found in quaint pubs, worn stones, and leisurely tea cups. Of silence. Of ease.

My itinerary was no longer a need at the end of my journey, but rather a recommendation. And for some reason, it made me see and feel more.

So no, I didn’t see everything in Ireland. However, I saw enough. I witnessed what it's like to live in the now. And embroidered into memory and wool, I carried a small piece of that with me.

And truthfully? I couldn't have wished for a more perfect memento.