Calling the past

I wrote this blog today for work, but realized how much it meant to me, and wanted to post it here for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy.

I was describing today's incredible fog to friends of mine out of state this afternoon. I told them that it had settled over Plymouth like a thick blanket, covering everything in its path. You could see the clouds moving through the streets and visibility near water was almost zero.

I told them how much I loved the fog during the daytime (though not at night) and how I rolled down my windows and put my arm out and let the cool air and the mist rush in around me. I forgot to tell them that I could taste salt on my lips, and my skin was damp from it. It felt mysterious and mystical. I felt as if I were on the edge of another time.

One friend, taking my Irish heritage into account, said my Celtic ancestors were calling to me, and something about poetic something reaching out to me. She went on to say my love of the fog over fields and moors was tied to my people in Ireland. She's right too. I don't doubt it for one second.

One thing I've always hoped to do in my lifetime is return to Ireland, where my people come from, where my parents and grandparents and generations back worked the land and survived whatever way they could. I come from farmers on both sides, I'm told. And I have a dream of one day going back there, to a little house where I can write my stories by a warm fireplace.

Romantic, isn't it? I know. But it's a dream, one of many, to hopefully be realized one day, if fate or destiny or the luck of the Irish shines on me.

I had a dream last night that my book sold. It was a good dream. It felt good. Better get cracking. A hundred handwritten pages just ain't gonna cut it.