The broken mirror

I still see you sometimes. It happens when I’m not expecting it, when my eyes are blurred and some dark-haired girl walks past and I think it’s you just for a second. You say it’s all behind you now but part of me wants to know if you ever wonder; if you ever just wonder. Part of me wants to know if you still think of me, if I still cross your mind out of the blue. It happens to me, does it happen to you?

I don’t want to go back to the way things were. I don’t think that could ever happen even if I wanted it. I drew too close to the fire and got burned too badly to draw near again. I’m probably just a distant memory to you, just a smile in an old picture. I used to stir your imagination and make you laugh. You said I understood you more than anyone else but I guess that was never enough for you. That’s ok, I’ve moved on with my life. I just wish I didn’t still see residuals of your face when I blur my eyes and look at these other women.

In all honesty, I must admit that you’re quickly becoming a distant memory to me. Gradually those memories we shared are fading into nothingness and soon all will be forgot. It may take a few more months or a year or whatever but it’ll happen eventually. Sure, there will always be some half-gone memory in the back of my mind but there will come a time when I don’t think of you in the middle of the day or night. You will be just another aspect of the broken mirror that is my past.

Observations

Just bury me beneath that big clear blue Texas sky when it’s time. Somewhere next to the river with magnolias and pecans for my shade will do. The big century Live Oak can stand guard over my resting place and I’ll be content. I don’t need a mausoleum, just those big green trees and blue skies for company. I hope that’s still an option a hundred years or so from now, because I’m not dropping dead for a good while. I’ll go explore the world and make a life out of finding new trails and old haunts but I’ll come home to this land someday. I’ll know I’m home when breathe that Southern air and listen to that country twang that even most of the city-dwellers have down here. It might be harder to find by then but I know where to find the good ol’ boys and I speak their language.

Life takes you along interesting paths though. It’ll take you into an area and group of people long enough for you to make lasting memories and feel it in your blood then take you once more to another place. I still miss the country sometimes. I regret that I haven’t seen my old friends from that area much this year but my life is here now and it gets increasingly harder to get away. Perhaps I can see them in my winter break. Then again it might be nice to just sit around and read instead of burn up the roads. My old Chevy truck is on its last legs anyway which doesn’t encourage driving back country roads. I feel pretty distant from that time and place now, and not just geographically. Sure, if my old buddy called me up and needed a favor I’d oblige but we don’t talk much these days. I’ve moved into different social circles now. It isn’t really something I regret, it’s just life and it’s interesting to examine the pattern.

Blarney

The stream flowed between the two hills down from the cliff where the castle sat. The water was blue and sparkling in the sun, running slowly by the green grass. The dirt path followed the stream for a while, and then crossed over on a bridge. Once over the bridge, one found plenty of flowers growing alongside the path. These flowers were pretty but had no name except for the daffodils which I recognized. For once, the sky above was clear and the sun shone down on the soft green fields and trees. I soaked it all in as I strolled towards the castle on the short cliff.

The castle was obviously the main attraction of the site. But on such a day as this, the landscape drew ones attention at least as much. But unlike the flowers and grass, the castle had been there hundreds of years. The winters weathered the face of the stones but it didn’t kill the structure like the greenery. And so it was that Blarney Castle sat obdurately upon the hill. Its walls rose straight from the rock face, blending smoothly into cut stones.

As I walked into the castle’s shadow, the path turned again. It went left along the rock face which held the dungeon caves. Ahead my eyes found the old watch tower, now nearly a ruin. Still, it stood prominently beside the creek. Inside, it was a hollow tube of masonry, the floors long since gone. Leaving the cool darkness of the aged tower, I continued on the path which led to the castle entrance.

Climbing sets of steps, I found myself at the base of the keep. My face turned up to the sky, I stared up at the smooth stone walls and turrets framed by the clear blue sky. It was both impressive and beautiful. I looked down again and found the entrance gate to the right. Passing through it, I read the signs in English. The signs told me to continue and that I had just stepped over a medieval trap door. Had I been there as an enemy a few hundred years previously, I’d have been dead. And no doubt greatly surprised.

Finding the stone door into the keep, I stepped in. I had to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Then I saw that I was in a large empty room labeled as the main hall. There were stairs to my left and I took them up and deeper into the castle. I could already feel the history of this place and a smile was on my face. As I went deeper, I discovered more rooms and chambers of many uses and designs. Higher I climbed on narrow stone steps, looking through slit windows at the sunlit landscape. I paused for at least a few minutes in each room, inspecting it and imaging the way it once was. I not only saw what it was then, but also what it once was. Intrigue and wonder filled my mind.

I barely made it through the last, narrowest, stairway but I arrived at the top. The sun warmed my face again. All around was laid before me the lands and nearby town of Blarney. I stood atop the stone wall and looked down into the heart of castle into the feasting hall below. Across this gap I observed a fellow tourist kissing the Blarney Stone.

Two native Irishmen assisted the tourist in this process. Once she lay down, they helped slide her out over the empty space between the wall and the crenellations. For that brief time, she hung halfway out over a hundred foot drop to the ground. When she bent over backwards, I only saw her legs and feet. She was held safely by the old Irish pensioner while the other Irishman took a picture. Tourism had clearly taken its affect here.

When it came my turn, I certainly didn’t object to being assisted. I’m not very afraid of heights but they do make me nervous. The old man held me and I bent over backwards over the precipice. I planted my lips on the cold Blarney Stone built into the crenellation and heard the click of the camera. I sat back up with the help of the man and gathered my belongings. Standing, I dug in my pockets and tipped them a two-Euro coin and thanked them kindly.

I walked along the wall a few paces then stood in one spot and looked all around me again. I took several pictures of the rolling green land and Blarney town through the copses of trees. I was happy and content. I savored the feeling and the experience. I knew this was special. I had just done one of the main things I went to Ireland to do. My journey wasn’t over yet though. Blarney was just one stop along the winding road through the beautiful green land of mystery and whimsical wonder that is Ireland.

Aspects of Traveling

If I ever do go on that cross-country road trip, I have a feeling it’ll be alone. For me, the call of the distant horizon is a lonely one. Loneliness isn’t always a bad thing though. You can learn a lot about yourself when you’re alone. You can also learn and appreciate many things about a place when there isn’t someone you know to distract you. Wandering around a cathedral freely and praying quietly in an empty pew brings a strong feeling of quiet and peaceful intimacy.

There is a good feeling in knowing that you are self sufficient enough to travel far off and unfamiliar places by yourself. I didn’t really think of it that way at the time, but going to Ireland alone was a bit of proving ground. Not just to others, but to myself as well. I proved that I not only knew how to travel and deal with various challenging situations, but could implement that knowledge successfully. In getting lost, you can find yourself. But of course, the goal of successful traveling is to not get lost.

I don’t know that I could travel for very long with just anyone. It seems that travelling with another person would either require a strong bond or would force one to develop. After all, being able to depend on them implicitly would be important. When you are alone, you know your own strengths and weaknesses. When something goes wrong, you know exactly where to place the blame. You can’t turn to the person next to you and blame them for a mistake. If you took someone along, your team would theoretically be stronger than a single person. However, you don’t know them as well as you know yourself. When something inevitably went wrong, who could help but blame it on the other person? Unless you knew them and the situation well enough to recognize that it was either nobody’s fault or it was your own. That’s where the grace of friendship would come in; the ability to simply forgive and move on.

That’s one thing about adventure and travelling that is always true. Something will go wrong at some point. There’s not any way to tell what it’s going to be or when it will happen. It just does. Of course, you can limit extremity and number of incidences by being well prepared and planned out. One needs to know where they are going (destination), how they are getting there (route), and what they are taking (supplies and gear). However, planning should never be done in too much detail or too strictly; otherwise there is no room for true adventure or flexibility.

Companionship is the tricky part. Do you want to take someone with you? Or should you just go it alone? In the event you decide to take a companion, you must be careful to choose the right person. Obviously, you aren’t going to just drive down the street and pick up the first person you see.

Choosing from amongst your close friends or family is probably the best place to start. Then you must consider what personality you want to travel with. If you are a calm laid back person, you probably don’t want someone who is completely energized and hyper all the time. At the same time, you don’t want someone too quiet, unless you enjoy extended awkward silences. You probably want someone of moderate energy who provides interesting conversation and has similar interests to yourself. Some of my favorite memories are of strolling around Killarney just soaking up my surroundings; the mountains in the distance, the interesting little book shops, the live musicians on the main street, the interesting people (native or foreign). Not everyone would enjoy that as much as I did. My brother probably would’ve been itching to hike the Gap of Dunloe in record time.

By travelling in Ireland alone, I discovered certain resilience within myself. Perhaps it was just determination. But I did much more than stroll down the main streets of small towns. I walked back and forth all over central Dublin searching out the sights and discovering many I hadn’t read about. In Cork, I jogged uphill with a 40 or 50 pound backpack to catch the train to Killarney even though moments before I was taking note of the burning in my legs. While in Killarney, I walked the 3 or 4 mile round trip to Ross Castle on Lough Leane at least twice, refusing to hire the horse-drawn carriages. Not to mention the 10 miles I rode around Muckross Lake, skirting the mountains on a bicycle and reveling in their fog-shrouded glory. The beauty and sheer awesomeness of each place more than made up for all the effort and expense required to get there. I learned that if I wanted to see something bad enough, my legs could carry me there.

The other side of the coin is to know your limits. While it is generally true that with enough determination and good directions that you can get to your destination, there are other aspects involved. You must know when to rest and let your body restore itself. You also have to provide it with good food and plenty of water. You can’t hike the Gap of Dunloe or do much of anything if you haven’t rested properly the night before, eaten plenty of protein, and drank plenty of water. It is much more difficult to appreciate your surroundings if your body is completely exhausted and your mind can’t focus.

However, something tells me that despite all these advantages, having a good travelling companion could make it even better. If I do decide to go on a road trip for my next great adventure, it would probably be nice to have someone to fill all those empty hours on the road. I remember driving through Oklahoma with my brother once and trying to find something on the radio. He’d set it to seek and it would just keep cycling through all the frequencies, not picking up a single station. After this happened a few times, we both started laughing.

Sea Serpent, a poem

When Lo the ugly monster raised its head from ‘neath the waves,

‘Twas then I beheld its true form and doubted no longer,

What had hounded my ship o’er the stormy seas was this beast.

Its great eye found mine as fast I held to the ship’s helm,

The malice deep within was to me conveyed in that single glare,

Convincing me the time had come for my ship to meet its end,

And I with it, on these briny waves far from home.

As alongside it came, I gave command and listened to the cannons’ roar,

Though I doubted to what effect this defiance would achieve.

But to my surprise, the serpent squirmed and uttered forth a most loathsome cry.

Once again, hope blossomed in my chest, and bellowed forth I again the command to the men,

Whose labors defended our vessel from such a horrid fate, a death in the watery depths.

The order to ready again the guns was obeyed in haste,

As slipped ‘neath the waves again our hunter, wounded by its prey.

A cheer came up from the crew,

Though again danger would come, I knew.

Holding fast the wheel, I scanned the grey waves with wary eyes.

Err long, I heard the foul beasts’ battle cries,

Straight ahead reared its terrible face.

To portside I turned the wheel,

Hoping but doubting to bring the ship ‘round.

My ship did groan, in unison with my men.

Though ‘round she came to my delight,

And another cannonade roared forth in the twilight.

The rearing beast did roar and groan,

Though as it died, it broke the masts with its writhing coils,

Err it slipped down to the depths, to whence it came.

Seeing that the useless sails’ drag sought to bring us down,

I ordered the men to cut the rigging.

With ax and cutlass, they laid about, fighting a new enemy,

Though should they fail, they would know the same fate.

Success was met, though now we floated,

The only tack and masts to aid us now laid in the holds.

As I surveyed my crew and my ship, I knew,

None at home would e’er believe,

That upon these open waters met we the great monster that ever did live.

Written by Matthew L. Henry, 3/6/11

The Restless Sea, a short story

This is a bit of a short story I wrote today (2/21/11) while thinking about good times spent at the beach on Galveston Island, one of my favorite places to visit. I usually spend a couple of hours playing around in the water and then fall asleep on the beach for a couple more hours each time I go. Of course, the inevitable sunburn has become a traditional part of going there for me. This story focuses on the water, which I have always found intriguing, mysterious, and somehow exhilarating. Also, it's based mostly on actual experience.

The Restless Sea

By Matthew L. Henry, 2/21/11

Air, water, salt, and sand are all thrown together in a chaotically majestic melee. I come up from the last onslaught, find my footing again, and brace myself for the next. I wipe the saltwater from my face to see and breathe. The next wave isn’t far off but it’s already building up strength and advancing on me. This struggle is a thrilling contest between the elements and man. The presence of danger is there like the undertow tugging at my legs but I stand stalwart and grin.

The wave reaches me and I tackle it with a set shoulder and clenched fists. The might of the sea pushes me back a few feet, while crashing down around my head and shoulders. For a few moments, the majority of my senses are disabled and I hold my breath as my feet slide across the muddy stand. Relying on my sense of direction and balance, I grasp at the muddy sand with my feet and steady myself with my arms. Eventually I gain purchase and rise up from the waters victorious, at least for now. The dark waters of the Gulf stream down from my head and shoulders, joining the rush for the next wave.

I’ve been at this for a while now, battered by wave after wave. In each deluge, my life hangs in the balance. I push the limits, probably in deeper than is wise. But it is in this danger that I feel truly alive. It seems that it is only when one is at risk of losing grasp of life that it seems so very real and precious. You want it more when you might be about to lose it. However, unlike the sea, my strength is not endless. Each successive mighty blow lessens my reserves. I know that eventually I’ll have to return to the beach, admitting the superiority of nature.

Another wave rises up in front of me. This one seems larger than the others that came before it. I adjust my usual stance, spreading my feet out just a little farther apart and lowering my center of gravity. My muscles tense in my legs, back, and arms as I draw a deep breath. The veritable wall of water slams into me and I am immediately knocked backwards, completely submerged.

The currents pull at me in different directions and the wave tumbles me. My sense of direction is horribly vague. I can’t seem to touch the bottom for more than a second or reach the surface. Somewhere in the back of my mind I wonder if I’m about to drown. But I’m too focused on surviving to panic just yet. My feet finally make contact with the bottom, but the water pulls me so hard I can’t set them firmly. I realize then that I’m not just fighting the wave anymore, the competition is serious now. My lungs are beginning to ache for oxygen.

Something clicks in my mind and I remember something I learned about swimming in the ocean. You have to work with the waves and currents; you can’t beat at them senselessly. I let my motions become more fluid, more in-tune with the motions of my surroundings. Somehow, I find a pattern in the chaos and begin working my way back towards what I hope is the shore. Suddenly my hand breaks through the surface, finding the precious life-giving air I need. With a great push of my arms and legs, I thrust my head upwards. My face breaks through and I draw in air for the first time in what seems an eternity. My relief is brief though, a wave submerges me again. However, this one must be smaller, as I manage to remain near the surface.

Aligning my body with the surface of the water, I begin working towards the beach. I use the push of the waves, riding their crests. After they pass, the water retreats, trying to pull me backwards. I paddle frog style, not going far but at least staying put until the next wave carries me forward. Eventually this pattern gets me far enough to where I can set my feet on the bottom again.

When I finally reach the beach, I flop down to rest. With the soft crashes and sighs of the water to caress my ears, and the pleasant afternoon sun warming me, I soon drift off to a light sleep. I’m grateful for the salty tang of the sea air in my lungs and the soft touch of the breeze on my skin as my heaving breaths become shallower sighs. The waves go on building up and crashing, the sea ever restless as it meets land.