Skip to main content

Follow the light.....



I am at my favourite place on Earth. Fingal Headland. I have been here many, many times before, but today is different. I am the only one here. There is something very special about this place. The magnificent view is one thing of course, but there is also a feeling here of majesty and serenity. The ocean pounds upon the rocks below and surges through the Giants Causeway, a passage of giant prehistoric black pillars of lava, remnants of an extinct volcano.  The sea a kaleidoscope of greens and blues and iridescent mermaid tails come to mind. Sometimes it is so windy here that one struggles to stand, but today there is but a soft breeze and I am here alone, just me and the light.
The light that stands is Fingal Headland Lighthouse, built in 1878. I can't tell you how many photos I have of this structure. Too many...not enough.  I am fascinated with lighthouses, their purpose, their history, the stories they must have, the weather they have endured, as they stand silently bearing witness to all that lays beneath them.
Today, most lighthouses are electric and no longer require the loving care of a keeper. But back when.....what a life that must have been. Isolated, rugged, windswept and salt etched. I can feel the keepers spirit here, the spirit of endurance. How passionate those keepers must have been, those that stood the test of time, those that lasted.
When standing on the outcrop of rocks, under the watchful gaze of the curvaceous white painted sandstone, I feel invincible, I feel empowered. Strengthened and purposeful. What makes me feel this way, the lighthouse, the keepers spirit, the ocean, or the land itself?
Will other lighthouses evoke this response from me? I wish to journey through our land to stand at the base of every lighthouse, in all weather, night and day and simply embody the energy of each place. This is something I am compelled to do and I am not completely sure why. I'm sure there is a reason, maybe to take too many photos, or to write about my experiences and feelings at each one, or just for the sheer joy of it and to capture that wonderful feeling of empowerment. Whatever it may be, the call grows stronger every day.
The keepers call me. The wind calls me. The ocean calls me. The lights guide me.




Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Broken free

I made an angel. Created her out of clay. Painstakingly I sculpted and moulded her. I loved her. I loved her heavy wings, they way they sheltered her and protected her heart. I loved that tiny heart, the way she looked down on to it "I will always look after you" she whispered, "you are safe".  Until the day she broke.   My son rang me on my way home. His voice was shaky, apprehensive. "Something terrible has happened" he mumbled. Moving straight into mother mode, I panicked. "What is it?? Are you ok??" "I broke her...I didn't mean to... she fell...I tried to catch her...I wasn't quick enough"  Oh My god... who?, where? What the?????? "Your angel mum... she smashed!!" The poor boy. He knew I loved her, created her, protected her. But the sense of relief was instant. Just a sculpture, not a life, a girl or an animal. Just a sculpture. It wasn't long however that the realisation of what had just...

Spiral Bound

I have a collection of journals. Writing Journals. I do not collect journals; however, journals seem to collect me. It’s true I do write and yes, in journals, however on closer inspection, I own a great many empty journals. Too many. The empty journals are not lying in wait, I did not purchase them knowing that in due course, I would fill their pages with beautiful prose, witty satirical observations, or heartfelt outpourings of emotion. In fact, I did not purchase them at all. The empty journals were gifts. Gifts for a writer. Carefully selected, each one. Some leather, silk and fabric bound. Some hand made with flower pressed paper pages. Recycled, reclaimed, re-purposed. From distant shores, India, England, Thailand. Leaves of possibility, tactile and tempting. I have journals with pages illustrated with moons and mermaids, clouds and clowns, pages tied with ribbons and some with jute. All empty, too beautiful to touch, to fill. When I open their pages…words fail me...

Dream-song - A Tribute to Shavarnia

Once upon a time there was a girl. A girl with aspirations and dreams. Dreams of colour, of movement, of dance. Of spirit and angels and love. As the girl grew she was taught a great many things. How to walk, how to hold herself, what to think, what to wear, how to act. The girl with the dreams kept dreaming but her dreams were now in the background and her REAL life was all around her. Every now and then the girl would focus on her forgotten dream and in return the dream would sing to her. The dream-song was so beautiful. It sang of a life of purpose and peace. The girl tried to follow the music of her dream-song however she often lost her way and the song would fade into the background again. After many years of this following and fading, the girl fell to her knees and wept. She wept for the dream lost. She wept for the futility of her REAL life. Her face awash with broken hearted tears, the girl gave up. Gave up trying to find balance between her dreams and her responsibi...