Woolgathering

My travels here in Ireland are coming to an end. A storm is blowing across this rocky peninsula that juts out into the Atlantic. I've been woolgathering on this journey. I have been carried on the words of author, musician Patti Smith, clouds pushed by winds.
It is time to return home.

“How happy we are as children. How the light is dimmed by the voice of reason.”

Is it the voice of reason or the voice of obligation or both? I am being called home.
I travel to remember. I travel to forget. The ancestors travel with me, whispering. They show me ways to see in the dark without using my eyes.

Patti knows this to be true. I find comfort in her words.

"As fate devised, I pursued a path far afield from my ancestors, yet their ways are also mine. And in my travels, when I see a hill dotted with sheep or a staff lying among the chestnut leaves, I am moved by a sense of longing to be again where I was not.” 

Where do you long to be?
Where does that longing live?
Can you be at home with your longing?
Written in Eyeries, a small village on the northern shore of the Beara Peninsula, County Cork, Ireland