A great big extra podcast. 

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Well half way through this podcast the voice changes. It's like a different person. There I was sharing the story of Julia and her tragedy as an example of natural but gifted story telling, and then the battery went dead and I had to start all over again. The break is after about 12 minutes. But it gave me a chance to describe another moment of quiet pleasure alone in the universe. 

I was so moved by so many stories I heard from Travellers that I wove them into a play one time many years ago, called The Tinker's Curse, which I might make into a  podcast sometime  in the future. In the meantime I hope you enjoy this story of a woman I really loved and admired for her generosity and her gifted way of telling a story. 

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Here's a simple little story for Sunday morning coming down. No meaning. Nothing important. Nothing explained. It's just a reflection. But Story is the thing. Story is the Surf.  

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I was remembering a day in West Cork. But when I was in West Cork I was remembering nights in West Cavan. I suppose the mind is always split between worrying about the future and being nostalgic about the past. So I had some tea, and Chopin and a slice of currant bread. More tomorrow.

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Everything is a story. Even when I say how I feel. Even when I talk to myself. No matter if I wrote one paragraph or a thousand words; the only thing is story. And I don't know who I am because I only exist as the one telling the story. And I have a plan coming. This weekend's podcast is about the art of memoir.

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A meditation on what this thing called the self is. What's on the inside. And who goes there, as Hamlet wondered. Who is it on the inside, if it's not me. and who is it that calls me out, when I want to go out and hug some person plant or other sentient being. I never have answers. I just keep wondering. 

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It's funny how the mind works. I started out sitting in the camper van remembering an incident that happened six years ago, when I was in the back of a car and the two in the front were having an argument about nothing. 

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I come back into the room after being away and there are tracks of an animal all over the. place. I look at them and realise it's me. it's me who does be here. and yet this Me seems strange.  As if different from the one who is examining the room. 

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Here's the second part of my Sunday morning meditation. Good listening. 

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This I feel is special. it's in two parts, for this morning. a meditation on lots of different things which came upon me  in a carpark outside shops in Letterkenny. I hope you like. Part two will follow within the hour. 

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