Where I was forced into an obedience that I did not want, but which was not entirely bad. A great time in the monastery, locked away every night with the Buddhas and the Horses Milk, and then thinking about how sometimes being disempowered allows us to let go of anxieties and listen for a deeper voice. How sharing stories means that they are no longer burdens we carry in our hearts. they become the pathway to intimacy.

And I think I'm doing this big long song of remembrance for Mongolia because I think maybe it will be helpful for me to remember that time, if the Covid 19 second wave gets bad and we find ourselves in Lockdown again. If we do, I know I'm not alone. Cos we are in this together. That's the big secret of Covid 19; our common shared life on earth together.

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I wanted to put three columns from the old days together, so these are the ones I picked. Each one is about a secret held in. I think a secret held in can be exhausting for the one who holds it, but such a secret can also turn you into a writer if you just tell the story.  

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This podcast is close to a dream. First an old friend came, and then I remembered the story about the Stag. 

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The thing here is the rose. I've nothing more to say. But sometimes at this time of year I find the fading light as wonderful as the most splendid summer morning. This is the time of surprises. So I thought I'd share a few remembrances of Belfast and the drabness of the world, and the wonder of poetry and then I got thinking again of the garden. And all it's surprises.

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You'll be wondering why I called this Hello America. Well someone out there asked me to put together a few stories that collect into a big bun of nostalgia. So here it is. Glangevlin, Mullingar, a horse, a clown, a young girl, and funerals. All the usual on a single string with one idea going through; life is always past. Stories are always in the past tense. Being here now is the experience of silence and it's both hard to find and yet it's just at your fingertips. Hello America. We love you. 

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The troubles in Ireland were a strange time of tragedy and sorrow and silence. The story was in the silence between the words. I would drink late in the night along the border where sometimes guards came in after their patrol was over, and sometimes strangers in long coats. It was never easy to know who you were talking to. But sometimes there were funny moments. Like the time an Irish soldier got lost in the snow. 

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Living on the border between the north and south of Ireland during the Troubles was like being in multiple universes at the same time. I used to drink in a pub late into the night in West Cavan listening to stories of strange events that took place outside in the dark. 

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This is a mad podcast. Don't know how it got here. I was in my room talking to myself, out loud, and I was talking about being down and then being up and then being down again. And then I realised that there was another voice in the room but it was inside my head. Cos there's always two levels to any moment. There's what we're doing on the outside and what we're doing on the inside. 

But I didn't mean to talk about all this. I meant to tell you about my teacher. And so I left it until tomorrow's podcast. I'll talk about my teacher in the next episode. 

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We all make journeys. Like the Portlaoise Pilot who flew the Atlantic. That's a physical journey. But I met an old man one time in the kitchen at Christmas, and he too had travelled, in time and in his mind so that he was sort of deranged in his old age. Or maybe he had just grown wise.

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It's impossible to talk about grief. Grief is grief. It's a place we have to go sometimes. I hope you like the second part of this week ends meditation. In the Orthodox Christian tradition this is the weekend of the Dormition of Mary; the going to sleep. I love that phrase. And it was just accidental that I happened to be reflecting on Mother this weekend. Hope you enjoy. 

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