Insignificance

As I lie on the water moulded sandstone rocks absorbing the sun I am as a dust mote, a fragment of feather, a tiny seed blown here.

The insignificance of the self is apparent on these vast mountainous grassy plains. This is the gift. A time, place and space to explore.

A room with a view of mountains, those blue dusty mythic ancients that greet me daily. Sometimes wreathed in billowy clouds that have risen up over the escarpment, other times flat and stark against the vivid blue skies, dormant signposts barely visible on moonlit nights signaling that I have limited time here. Four months of respite from the tearing of my life away from the weft and warp of community and familiarity. This liminal place is where I sweat and toil under the blazing sun, work with plants tiny to towering, climb on horses to play and find softness and sleep hard and undreaming at night. I am numb from exhaustion and hopeful that when I return to Ireland that I find a place in my heart that no longer wants to run screaming from the place I used to call home.