My digital picture frame sits on my desk at work. Ireland flashes by me all day long.
I look and I catch myself standing on a cliff over looking the ocean. Right there I am. Standing forever in Ireland. Sitting on stones that Kings traversed and fought for Ireland upon.
Climbing a mountain where a saint lived for Ireland’s souls. Singing songs in a pub. Eating with joy and no reserve. Smiling faces around me. Dear faces. Rain that feels like life when I’m there. Houses and ruins old enough that my own heritage goes back and intertwines with it’s history and is a part of.
There I stand in the castle of a king. The abbey of men who died for their religion.
I lie upon the bed of a queen who fought for Ireland and provided for her people.
There is comfort for me in knowing that at one time I was there. I stood there. I slept there. I ate there. I wrote there. I lived there. I find great joy in the gifts of my life.
And I take comfort from sometimes being in a place that I no longer am. And other times I take great comfort from being where I am instead of where I was.