No one tells any story but their own. In writing my Irish book, I feel that is actually painful knowing that I bear an untold story inside me. Little by little we find our way, perhaps not unlike this Irish lad, slowly maneuvering through the hustle bustle of the crowded street on his prized pony at the Ennistymon Horse Fair in County Clare in hopes that someone may take a chance and like it enough to call it their own and let the story go on . . .
There’s nothing particularly special about my story. Although while recalling it, I still sometimes cry. Long ago I lost someone I loved. I was not expecting it, I didn't lose her all at once; I lost her in pieces over a long time.
We want to avoid the brutality of death at all costs but when it inevitably comes, it brings grief that takes its own sweet time to soften. But soften it does, somewhere in the manmade construct of Time and if Time does anything, it deepens our grief.
The longer I live, the more fully I become aware of who she was for me, and the more intimately I experience what her love meant, I realize its power and depth.
Love has made itself visible through grieving.
If one is lucky, one is reborn.
'There are many a rumor of the Jackdaw being a bad, or even an evil, omen that can indicate bad luck and bad fortune in your life. Generally, through befriending the Jackdaw totem the bad luck and bad fortune can be faced and worked through. The Jackdaw is in truth an omen to indicate what needs to be brought to attention in your life. With Jackdaw there are often powerful portends and premonitions ... as a familiar and totem guide, the Jackdaw makes an excellent companion.'
'The species may be the only animal aside from humans known to understand the role of eyes in seeing and perceiving things, according to a new study by Oxford University. While humans often use visual clues to communicate, it wasn’t known whether other animals share this social ability until recently.'
I have always been amazed at the sounds of these Jack Daws having twilight meetings in the trees along The Falls of the Inagh River. The air is filled with hundreds of conversations and musings from above. Sometimes if I listen real close, I begin to realize they are actually laughing.
"When you walk up to opportunities door... don't knock it.
Kick that bitch in, smile and introduce yourself.”
Footfalls . . .
“Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden . . .”
Did I hear a low echo of footfalls in this abandoned cottage nestled in hills of Kilfenora? In the shadow, I stood for a moment and imagined the souls that once lived here and where they are now.
‘Oh, roamer from lands where the vanished years go…’
Come out of your silence and tell me if Life is so fair in that world as they say? Do these sorrows die out with our breath?
I need to know.
One morning while I was walking down the street of Ennistymon, County Clare, I met this young Irish lass “hanging“ outside of Cooley’s Pub. With a nod of her red fly-away hair in its crowning glory, she reminded me of all that was wild and wonderful in Ireland.
Ireland has the highest number of red-haired people per capita in the world with the percentage of those with red hair at around 10%.