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05

Jun 2006

The Bard - Postcard from Ireland

By: admin | Tags: bard, prose, journal, ireland | Comments: 0

I sit here on a bench just outside the house amongst the vegetables and herbs – a menagerie of crisp leaves, delicate buds, and ancient roots. Surrounding the garden is an array of vines, flowers, weeds and ivies such as I have never seen; vibrant purples, golds, oranges, whites, and greens. The breeze pauses for moment and I catch the gentle buzz of a nearby bee indulging itself on a smorgasbord of delicate pollen. I’m surprised that my allergies aren’t betraying me.

I spy butterflies circling one another in a desperate dance of procreation. A black bird zooms inches from my face as he chases after his chosen prey. As I write this, I am shocked to discover a small brown-breasted bird sitting beside me on the rock wall. He is barely a breath away as I gaze into his skeptical eyes. He blinks once, twice, and then playfully bounces a few inches away and then back again. We smile and nod to one another before he flutters away. Moments later he returns and fluffs his feathers at me before scampering off again. I feel peace in every upturned petal, every sigh through the leaves, and every creature that looks my way. I feel embraced in the island’s breezy soft caress.

Just past this magical Eden, at the bottom of the hill, I can see the ocean and the deep majestic green of the main land beyond. The water is silent and still, and colored with the stripes of the many underlying currents. I breathe deep the sweet perfumed air and it smells like clean sunshine and a million flowers wrapped in fairy dust. If magic exists, it lives here.

And oh, the sounds! I am engulfed by the vibrant chorus of birds, the whiz and buzz of insect wings, the gentle lulls of cattle, and the sweet plucking of a harp. I could easily sleep here. No composer could ever recreate something as harmonious and cacophonous as this. I’m all at once overwhelmed and at peace. I believe I could easily lose myself in this world – to abandon the seemingly insignificant world of commerce, possessions, and progress. I find myself imagining a life where I no longer count days but rather count precious moments. I have never had such a moment before and I already yearn for it again.

I see a red and black butterfly land on a curling leaf and I feel as if I am that leaf; I am that butterfly. I feel connected with the soft white flowers and twisted vines of the pea plant, and I want to be the fuzzy brown bee that is kissing every soft anther.

Alas, the music stops, the breeze picks up and my thoughts are broken by the sound of hoof beats on the low road. The sound of tourist chatter reaches my ears as they parade around the island in their horse drawn carriage. Their harsh echoes make me return to my body. 

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