kicked myself out of paradise

In my magic Irish valley, walking through the woods as darkness falls.

As a city woman, I have not yet grasped the idea of being home before dark. The path is uneven, miles from streetlights and neon. Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams. A rustle of deer or wild goats among ancient oaks, but I am too melancholy to be afraid of dangers. This is home, the hearth of my heart - how can one have lived in these mountains and not feel their breathing for the rest of her life?

Yet, a visitor. A tourist in my own dreams. A few days to wander these woods and gaze at the lakes and then leave.

The wishing well is a dark pool beneath the ghostly tree where wanderers through the ages have tied pieces of cloth, strings of beads, shards of their lives. I dip a finger in the cold mountain water and say "may this valley always be home. May I keep coming back".

Even though it tears me apart every time I do. I could have stayed here for the rest of my life, and it would have killed me. The other dimension of this magnificent peace is a maelstrom of conflict and powerful emotions, a black hole where you lose control, lose yourself. Intoxicating experience, like that first shot of a powerful drug, the immense pleasure of taking leave of reality. But after that you have to stop, force yourself to stay real and sane, take yourself away from there. Because you know you have to survive.

I hear a low rumble in the mountains, an explosion in a mine miles underground. The shriek of a deer makes me jump. But I see the lights from the inn, the promise of warmth and village gossip and hot whiskey by the fireplace. I wipe away the last of my tears. I may not ever allow myself to stay. But I will keep coming back.

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

(A.E. Housman)