I was very moved by your performance of “A Terrible Beauty” last evening. It was a heartwarming reminder of where many fathers have come from, one way or another. I am a psychoanalyst who hears a great deal of trans-generational trauma passed down from fathers to sons and daughters. I don’t just have “the Irish” in mind when I say that, but reading Yeats’ poem (Easter, 1916) heightened my sense of sadness – and gladness that we may be gradually getting somewhere as a species with all our “motley” differences of character and points of view.  I was touched by that glimpse of the Troubles into which my father was born, grew, and finally flew – becoming who he was with me. It was terrible to be reminded of that Voice of authority that had traumatized me so – and of how I spoke back with equal and opposite intensity. Neither of us spoke with the beauty of surrender in the service of a beloved land, the birth of a nation, the mercy for innocent civilians caught in the crossfire, and the passionate defense of basic human rights that we heard in those letters. The Irish rebels’ rights were equal to those of other persons and nations, like Belgium for which some Irishmen fought, while others suffered or fought at home. Unfortunately, my boyhood rebellion against my Dad had deadly effects on the vulnerable, already traumatized human being that he was, hidden behind such absolute authority.  Oh, how we keep going there in the name of “God”, or of “Greatness”, or even of “Dominion” from sea to sea! We keep on defining strength in terms of superior knowledge, force, and absolute right, rather than the capacity to bear pain and uncertainty, whether it be in childbirth or in the birth of a nation, openly witnessing and graciously accepting the limits of what we know and can do to save or protect those we love. Oh, the voices of women, last night, from whom we have so much to learn! And the light in your (Lucy’s) eyes! Irish, British, Jewish, Palestinian, Christian, Psychoanalytic, Muslim, Anti-Muslim, Democrat, Republican, Canadian. So many who had to get out of a toxic atmosphere in order to survive – but not without grief, longing and affection for what was left behind. I recall my father’s wistful singing of “A little bit of Heaven fell / from out the sky one day”. Fortunately, that mixture of feelings can spark remarkable creativity and devotion to understanding what we are all about as human beings – as Yeats, himself, embodied.  Thank you for ‘bringing him home’. John Sloane