I still spend so much of my time thinking of how we could be together, imagining how our lives could meld into each other. I imagine coming home to you, to lie in bed beside you each night, and how we would get to know each other. I imagine bringing you across the ocean to my homeland, driving you around to see the still lakes and green pines, to sweat in the summer heat and play board games while drinking wine with my family. I imagine having you all to myself, all of your affection, and your attention.
I think about the beginnings of our own family and what our child would look like. A baby in a bear coat, tucked into a pram, as we take her on chilly walks through the park, near the wild and unpredictable sea. I think she…
to come home is to arrive again in the place that we started from,
the place that we have always known, have always felt, to be true.
the streets we walk today may be more lawless, the signs non-existent, but our navigation steadily, and always, brings us back to centre.
to remember where we come from is not to picture a country,
or a landscape, or a house. All these are fleeting,
as the wanderer understands with a longing heart,
and how loneliness does not correlate with the distance of memories.
because home is where the heart is, as the old saying goes,
for the only place that is truly familiar,
is the body, mind and spirit that temple our sweet soul,
our essence that, at its own heart, is free and never lonely,
for it is wild, yet never lost. it welcomes the world to its front door,
in harmonious dance, a true traveler,
only experiencing the loneliness of separation and differentiation,
when we ourselves wander away from it, forgetting who we are,
running away from home.
Warm evenings, sitting outdoors by a fire, with the company of good friends, and yummy food. Drinking cider, and herbal teas, discussing shamanism, and other things.
What more can you ask for from a summer?
At ease, among the garden plants, the chairs digging in soil. At peace. Legs bare, skirt of a Cambodian dress rests lightly, air breezes across all my skin. It’s midnight, in Ireland, and I’m warm. A neighbour plays a rattle in the near distance.
Lost in the stars and dark skies spotted with greyish-white clouds from the moon’s reflection along the house-top horizon. I’ve always loved the skies as I’ve travelled. They are a sight in themselves.
Unique to each place. Ever captivating.
“Like a shaman’s drum, the rattle is used to aid in achieving the “altered state of consciousness,” that brainwave frequency measured between 7-8 Hz which is the threshold to journey work, reportedly in the Theta/Alpha range. That is roughly the same as the Earth’s natural frequency, known as part of the “Schumann Frequency” range…”