We were late, but I’d expected that. The July bitter sleet whipped us enthusiastically towards the small barn, passed the reclaimed sea swept gardens—furrowed determinedly into a flourish of good food. There were about twenty standing outside the small open doored shelter. They paused the concert and coaxed us inside, assured of seats all things worked together for good. Suddenly I was in the front row huddled behind my ten-year old nephew who I clutched for body heat and a slight creeping shame that I was sitting center stage one foot from the singer’s sweet duct tapped guitar. Well Frugalisto was the title of his last album and it had been inspired by the young Moy Hill surfing farmers who were hosting the benefit concert.
One song later and my comfort blanket had abandoned me to a face to face serenade. It was very intimate, and when this joyful singer songwriter invited us to hum along to support his Romany lilting “Fertile Rock” I gladly lent my voice. Suddenly he looked down at me and said to everyone “Oh great voice!” There was no escaping my mind. About a year before I’d come across some Facebook post that had linked me to Luka Bloom’s news feed, something in his posts had drawn me to follow him. Like all Irish people I was familiar with his music, but I had never seen him in concert. Now due to an impromptu camping weekend in Co. Clare courtesy of my biological brother I was practically sitting on his lap and feeling this huge connection.
My sister felt it too and I could hear her giggling as he sang a mermaid song. She literally thought he was singing “Sarah” instead of “My sunny sailor boy.” The two of us were wind swept and lovely after an hour in the tumble turns of Lahinch’s surf and my fair hair was set with a salt wave. I felt like a sponge absorbing the effortless ease of his Presence. It was so comfortable like being with an ancient friend. He was compleetely unafraid and could extend the purest Love generously to his audience. He told me after, that for him it was an exercise in total trust. He was in complete service to the music. I said it was “transcendent.”
I embraced him and thanked him for his Presence. We spoke of common friends who have passed and a party we’d like to have for our anam cara. He said he’d see me in Tipp. I was so alive. We all spilled outside to the wood burning pits and the restored sunshine. There was an eclectic mix of about 60 people and I was soon immersed with a woman experiencing a spiritual crisis who knew nothing of me but wanted to know what to do next. It was effervescent as we lent into the warming wind and sparkled in the Truth—that all is well. We spoke of trust, integrity and a willingness to disappoint cherished ideas of ourselves. She was practically wriggling with relief in front of me. We had both been touched by the classic emigrants tune “City of Chicago” and trying too hard. A deep and gentle surrender smiled across us as several others watched our Way and we sank into the smoke and softness of the setting sun. Nothing left to say…
Stone wall edging ancient graves around the sacred Mullaghmore site in the Burren, Co. Clare
“Listen,—perhaps you catch a hint of an ancient state not quite forgotten; dim, perhaps, and yet not altogether unfamiliar, like a song whose name is long forgotten, and the circumstances in which you heard completely unremembered. Not the whole song has stayed with you, but just a little wisp of melody, attached not to a person or a place or anything particular. But you remember, from just this little part, how lovely was the song, how wonderful the setting where you heard it, and how you loved those who were there and listened with you.”
T-21.I.6. A Course in Miracles