On The Road

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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The Work On My Book

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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Flamenco Rhythm Of Everyday Life

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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Beaches of Connemara on a stormy day

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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Let’s senses grow sharper for May

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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Galway Woman

Don’t think, man, what your life might be, otherwise, it wouldn’t be yours.

Czesław Miłosz, The Issa Valley.

Where are you from? – I have heard this question a thousand times in my life. And I always wondered what should I respond: where I come from or where I am currently live? When I lived in Poland, the answer seemed simple, because I was born in this country. Although I landed in the world in Warsaw and after years I moved to Wrocław.

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