Taking ownership

Yes so I was thinking about where I live as I was driving along. As you do. How I now feel as though these lanes are  now becoming  my lanes. And how that  up until this moment, the Sugarloaf mountain in Wicklow has always been very much home for me. As is the sea and the land. Recently, there is a subtle change . That familiar sense of  alienation is abating.  As I have yet to climb  Cuilcagh I can’t claim it . But the roads and lanes that I have travelled uncountable times. Yes those I can call my own. I have wanted to move away many times, tired of the obstacles and lack or work, the small minds and isolation but not really anymore. I think I  might have settled somewhat.

Roots are vitally important. As a gardener I should know that. Without roots a plant can’t possible obtain nourishment for it’s leaves and certainly not enough to flower. Some plants don’t flower for years after transplanting such as the Peony. I have tried to grow it for years and this year I almost succeeded. But just as it was about to bloom on this plant I got from a neighbour who could grow them in her ear, well this huge bud so full of promise and potential joy got destroyed when the wind blew the pot over. I couldn’t believe it.  Sigh, maybe next year….again.


The lane is breathtaking at times

There are a few special sunsets that scatter glowing  fragments on leaves and fields. Quite magical and  I am often moved to write poetry.



Maybe this would be happening to me if I still lived in the city or even a small town but somehow I doubt it. Regarding poetry, and art not so much music, well I have begun to claim these also . Having never really believed in myself for various reasons, My modus operandi ensures that I am often impervious to the regard of others . Likewise up until recently I questioned the vast far reaching power of poetry and art, feeling  that art was something that one just  did, like breathing and in so doing, took it for granted. I had not moved in privileged circles where art was truly  valued . Living in Ireland  where even  traditional musicians are annexed into the corner, they struggle to be heard over the roars of the television or the punters chatter.


Mc Girls Bar, where many a great session is still to be had

Somewhere along the line I got the message that “you have to be good to be listened to”. But that just isn’t the case.  It turns out that loud places don’t appeal to me. A lover of music but a hater of noise. Spaces need  to be created that  house the arts. Music is lovely in the pub, as long as there are some fiddles and uilleann pipes, loud instruments that can match the rising tide of conversations.




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