Where I Am

Where I am is not necessarily where I’m sitting.

Where I’m sitting is in the back room of my house, night has fallen, the snow is heavy and it’s cold outside.

But I’m not there.

I put my pen to paper.

And I left.

I scribbled out where I am tonight.  While the world around me is hushed and settling.   I set out to my travels.  This is the way to go this night.


I am carrying a book written years ago by an Irish man, and I carry that book as I travel that very same Ireland.

I carried that book every where I went.  I read it every night.  Whenever our feet paused, my mind opened to the words and time of the author’s life

I have that book sitting atop my desk, at my right.  Because it was with me then, I want it with me now.



I am staring at a dolman.  With the grey skies behind it.  Setting it up perfectly to remain lodged in my memories and my recollections.  Just where I need it to be on nights like tonight.  When I want to travel, safely, while the world blankets me in.




I am sitting down with a warm cup of tea.  Easy enough to transport, into this evening.  With the chill in the air here it plays well with the warmth of the tea of my travels and the warmth of my cup tonight.




Tonight, as I sit in my little house, I am really in another little house.   It was a perfect place.  It had a little dolman and a little roundtower in it’s grassy yard.  The mountain we stood on when we found it, was not the highest part of the mountain, and the vision is seared into my head.  I am there, tonight, in the roaring wind that added music to our memory.




I am quickly scribbling a sheep behind a wall.  Because they are a backdrop to many of the places I am wondering through.  I laugh at my attempt.  And I have joy knowing that looking at this, I can see what it really is.





I find myself in all of the churches, and all of the cemeteries, that hold the stories of all of the peoples that have gone through the doors.  Some of them for centuries.  Some of them, no longer having doors.  The world they lived in, the world that they prayed for, or didn’t, I go there and imagine the celebrations and the sorrows.







I’ll go the distance tonight to find the castle, or the tower house, the place where I can imagine, vividly, existing.





I come back to where I sit.  The tea is empty.  The night is darker.  The chill is brittle.  I can feel the flush of my cheeks as if I stood in the wind.  I’m comfortable this evening.  Traveling from where I am, leaving this little room in the comfort of my imagination.