So here's another memory, from not so long ago. A simple journey. The sandwich at the ready. Cos there's nothing as wonderful as the soft texture of the bread and the firm but soft texture of the boiled egg within,  garnished with a shallot or just salt. Another podcasteen. Little baby podcasts. To start the weekend.

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I love egg sandwiches. And I love nuns. And I love memories. So here's a single one minute podcasteen. A remembrance of a moment. Nothing more. I looked at her. and she looked at me. But we were in different worlds. Only the egg sandwich linked us. 

Hello again and here comes the weekend.  Today three pod-cast-ini, and tomorrow a lot of talk about tea.

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Here I am wandering again on a Sunday morning. Thinking about every old man as my father. Every old woman as my mother. The beauty of not being sure if the cuckoo is singing in the tree or in my heart. On the outside or on the inside. When we  live without boundaries around the self and find that the outside seeps in and the inside seeps out, we find ourselves in heaven. 

So this is my usual Sunday morning ramble.   

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Ok. So here's the Lizard story. Warning; Don't try it. It's a story. There are many cures which are stories. They are profound little jewels of wonder and poetry. They are like dreams and sometimes they have the same effect. Because dreams also can change your life. Certainly stories can.   The lizard is the only reptile in Ireland. That in itself makes me adore it. And how did it survive Patrick. And is that why it has a cure in the slime of it's underbelly. But please. Don't take me seriously. It's just another story. 

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That's a hard word to spell. Fuchsia, not Cortina. 

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Once upon a time the hills of Glan were not so peaceful. It happened in 1949. And the story of the night was given to me a long time ago. The fish is a story told to me in south Fermanagh. I'm in Glan mood this weekend. I'm grateful to have the memories and to be able to see west cavan in the distance, ever as I stand in Arigna with Lough Allen behind me. 

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I started this with a story about a friend, her cardigan and a hug she got from her mammy in China. It's a true story with a happy ending. But then I just added a few thoughts about how the podcast is evolving, and where I want to go with it during the next month. And finally I wanted to send a big hug to you. Hope you enjoy. Thanks for listening. 

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When I was a child I yearned for the city. I dreamed of liberation in the sophistication of urban life. And one of the jewels in Dublins cultural life is Grogans pub on Castle Street. Saturday was always my favourite day to go there, although its years ago now since I stepped across the threshold. So in memory of Tommy Smith that outstanding supporter and patron of Dublin's cultural life, I call to mind some of the mad fun and long ago memories of that wonderful drinking house.

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There's no naming it. Call it Joy, or Heaven. We all have names for the strange condition of being here, being still, being present. It's like experiencing a beautiful full moon or hearing a bird sing or seeing the complexity on the wings of a moth. And today the weather has changed. it's wonderfully windy and soft and misty up here in the hills. Blustery. And the news on this first Saturday of June is that the self isolation will end sooner than planned. in another 4 weeks we will be able to travel across the countryside. I'm looking forward to that and to podcasting from the camper van. So exciting. so I'm upbeat and wanted to share this personal reflection with you. 

Later in the day you'll find a post in memory of Tommy Smith and in praise of Grogan's pub in Dublin. And later still there should be a little clip of video available which I recorded on one of the first days of this lockdown. Thank you for being with the podcasting. I'm loving your company.

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It's lovely to play a flute, or to be alone or to sit watching  cats. 

The space inside me is always looking to be filled. I am an empty cup; I need an other to be the wine. 

So that's how I am when I'm dozing. My mind is never still. It's more like a river; a mighty agitation of emotions and ideas ever  flowing and all I can do is watch the river. That's as near as I can get to calm abiding. But maybe it's close enough.

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