Donegal Breeze

I haven't written in ages and ages but I have plenty to say. It's been floating around for a while but I just now have finally let go of caring about the fact that I'm not sure where this piece will take me. Instead, I've decided to just write it. This is mostly attributable to the good mood I'm in, that familiar ocean swell in my heart, when the world has become my one good thing; I see that everything is as much mine as I claim it to be, that I'm free as I let myself be. World, world, world...of blooms and light, of laughing with my father, of lying in bed talking, of all that has not yet come.

But this moment is scary, too, for it's not truly mine (is it?) I keep myself detached from it even as I start feeling lighthearted. I've never been that person who could see the world around her and engage in it simultaneously. So, here I am, seeing the possibilities, and completely afraid of submerging myself. I am full. But I am also stranded.

There's so much more to say, and I've lost it now. It's like every time I'm with you. My mind beats ever onward away, away from what my heart was hoping. Neither seems enough: mind, heart. Neither quite does it for me. Where is the moment that's mine alone, that's always enough and always what it should have been?

And it's funny because I didn't foresee this becoming what it has when I commenced; I thought it would stay with the sea swells and sunbeams. I've become frustrated, though. It's not enough. This feeling of elation is not enough. I need confidence in the elation, I need to know it can change my life. I need to let it change my life and I need to move on.

I'm the neediest creature of all: I expect life to give me the things I expect from it, and am completely bewildered when that's exactly what it does.

I named this piece "Donegal Breeze" after a song by Mary Black. The chorus goes like this:
With your dark hair in the Donegal breeze,
Bringing me softly and sweetly to the ground,
But, there's madness in the sycamore trees,
And there's no salvation to be found.

It reminds me of my own life, and I suspect a bit of yours, too. Overwhelmed by the gentle moments, just as in awe of the uncontrollable ones, ultimately left with neither. So response-less in the face of such wonder.

We do not know the way and maybe never will.