I sit down on a stone by the R336 in the Maan Valley. The asphalt is quiet. Along the side of the road, one sheep walks. Thin black legs wobble slightly on the grey rocks. I take a sip of coffee from an orange mug. Brown giants – Maamturk watch me gently. A moment ago I have doubted the sense of being. Now, I contemplate a magical or ordinary fragment that is just happening.
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A few years ago, I got an idea for a book about middle-aged women who consistently work with passion. In Ireland’s humid and changeable climate, I met many self-satisfied women, and they made me love my graying hair. I made interviews to find out how they keep fire in their hearts and shape into action. However, when I wrote seven chapters, I locked them in a file for four years. Not because I didn’t want to continue with this idea, but simply because I didn’t organize my time to work on the book.
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Outside the window, I hear the sound of a hammer hitting the metal sheet. My cup of coffee is touching the saucer sonorously. A knife creaks on the glass board as I cut the bread, and the bottle of olive oil hits the worktop. Even though it is an ordinary Wednesday, I put on my blue flamenco shoes which I brought from Cadiz, and tap out my internal beat on the kitchen floor.
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The blue outside seems Portuguese, although it will come Irish rain in an hour. The first sips of my coffee taste of the waves, and I feel the slight swaying like on a boat. Where to go today? I try to revive hope by painting my nails cherry red. Himalayan salt twists my hair as princess Merida has in Brave. I follow my voice.
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There’s no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable clothing
Alfred Wainwright
The force of the wind on the Beaufort scale is nine, a little tree knocked over on some balcony in Galway. I prepare sandwiches and pour coffee into tourist mugs. We put on hoodies, jackets, hats, I take gloves, even it is May. Dauntless sneakers are ready for the adventure. The songs by Polish band T.Love sound in the car, so memories mix with the N59 road, and beige hills with newborn sheep hug their mums on the fields. Long before Clifden, we turn right to the Connemara National Park. The direction is three beautiful beaches.
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I dream of the tram in Galway. However one is sometimes sneaking through the narrow streets. It is blue and you can see go virtually. But not only that, because I cut out the tram from turquoise felt and made a small flyer.
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The world is full of magic, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper
W.B. Yeats
I admit as poet W.B. Yeats wrote. Although sometimes I think that I would hide inside myself, and not to look anymore, or dream. However, life goes on and it does not care about my concepts, plans, and fears. It just wanders and catches my hand with it every day. It gives me flowers on the meadow, charms me with the warm rocks on which I can lie like a lizard with the emerald ocean around. It brings me happiness in the rays that appear only for a few minutes. Do you think May is such a month that reminds us of the magic of life?
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