The Travel Of A Dream

Last night I lay my head on the pillow, by the window, by the pier.

We kept the window open to hear the wind.

And hear it, we did.

Those winds howled ferociously.  Sleep wasn’t easy to come by.  I worried about the storm, if it was a storm, blowing in.  I wasn’t worried about my safety.  Sure, hasn’t the island and the houses stood the test of all of the winds for centuries?  No, I wasn’t worried about that.  I worried about the things I ‘have’ to do.  The schedules I ‘have’ to meet.  Instead of just allowing myself to be lulled to sleep by what may keep me in a place I love, I worried about what I had to do next.

But the wind has a way of doing what it wants and going where it wants whether you give it permission or not.

It took me to sleep and woke me up in another dimension.

The first place it took me was outside, still at night.  It still howled.  And I discovered a large tree had fallen.  And when it fell,  a gun that had been hidden in it must have fallen too.  There it was, the stock and barrel of it was the length of two men.  I yelled for my nephew to come and help.  I don’t know why that gun was there.  Surely it was hidden there from another time, and for a purpose.  Suddenly I heard men approaching in the howling of the wind.  They thought the wind covered their noise.  It did not.  The night was moonless.  It was a very long time ago and these men mean to do us harm.  My nephew arrived by my side.  There was to be battle.  We would be ready.  Good fortune in the wind delivering us this gun. We picked up the gun.

And then the wind swept me away.

And I found myself in a stone cottage.  The wind still howled.  It did not feel cruel.  But it was letting me know who was in charge. The cottage walls were as thick as a man is tall.  Inside I was safe and warm.  The wind was no bother.  There was a fire that kept the cottage in a soft orange-like glow.  It was not uncomfortable at all.  Familiar.

And when I found the joy of it the wind swept me away again.

I was standing on the rocky edge.  Watching the dark night waters-tipped in white-making the shape of the water forced by the wind-visible.  The waves thrashed at my feet so very far below, unable to reach me but bellowing at me all the same.  The foam was white against the depth of the water with an almost green glow to it.  I didn’t feel fear.  I did feel the darkness and the measure of the sky.  The clouds were grey against the wild but still dry sky, the stone at my feet was black as black can be.  There was a stirring in the air.  An energy to be felt alive with.

And I felt nothing bad in it at all.

This is where the winds took me on the shores of Inis Mór while I tried to find sleep.

But the wind wanted me to find something else.

And though it may have been in a dream, as I write this, it is a very real memory.