This land is ancient. The wild lonely wind whips from one horizon to another, sweeping the land of all high plants. Spongy and moss-like, water pools in my footprints on the Connemara high bog. The speckled grey, green, ocher boulders, jut out of the landscape, lonely sentinels to the wide-open sky, wildflowers massed in the crevices. A small lake is contained in a low place next to the freshly paved road from Roundstone to Clifdon.
This land is ancient. My eyes see the land, ground, boulders, lake. Overlaid, as if through a veil, I see an ancient tribe camped by the lake, smoke fires, women cooking, men repairing tools, children gathering water for the evening meal. I see the land of eight thousand years ago. In the distance, scattered trees — stunted, spreading oak-like, twisting limbed. The air is warmer and the light is different, perhaps it is summer in that time and place. I sense I know this place from a previous life.
This land is ancient. So much blood has been spilt; rivalry, hatred, revenge. We have grounded violent and dark energies into the Earth for cleansing. We are detached from the land; unaware of planting and regeneration cycles, unaware of the aliveness of rock, soil, water, plants, animals. This land will no longer soak up our blood, our hate, our separateness. It has been patiently waiting for communion, returning, respect and gratitude of its unconditional loving partnership. Tendrils of compassion and hope are alive that we will Awaken to the Oneness.
Listen to this ancient land. Open your heart and listen. She awaits.
