Wandering through the misty, gray streets of Galway, we finally come upon the shop Fabio recommended to buy fuel. Faherty's Paints. We head inside the cramped space, knocking cans with our bags in the tiny aisles, and search, but all I see is paint and varnish.
The only other customer in the shop leaves and the elderly man behind the counter asks if he can help us.
"Yes...someone told me I may be able to find paraffin here?" I ask uncertainly.
"Yup! You twirling fire?" He asks, upbeat, and leads Maya and I to the back corner.
I laugh, "Is it that obvious?" I didn't expect him to know the reason so quickly.
He shows me his selection.
"Oh, you've got white gas too...that's what I usually use."
"Now, you could use the white gas," he replies. "It is cheaper and it'll work, but the paraffin burns better. It's more of an even burn and it puts off less black smoke. It's better for your health and for your toys. I think in your line of work, this is better."
I'm grinning at this grandfatherly man, with his gray hair and spectacles, as he makes suggestions on what's a healthier product to light myself on fire with. "I love that you know about the differences for fire spinning. That's really cool."
"We've owned this shop for 40 years. All the spinners come in here." He grins.
"That's great. I'll take the paraffin."
"Lovely!" He heads back to the register. "Now, that container is 12.95, but we usually give it to the lads for 12."
I hand over my money, and we head out the door.
"Have a good show!" He calls after us, and I've got a warm feeling in my heart.
Small towns are so nice.
Maya and I curl up under the small blanket while Fabio and Ashlyn prepare dinner for us. So toasty, so comfy...we both pass out.
I wake some time later, with Fabio giggling at us from the kitchen. "You guys look like little fairies!"
I force myself out from the warmth, and we all enjoy dinner together, sitting on the floor around the table in the living room, one last time.
At three AM Maya's alarm goes off, and she's out of bed and bundled up in a matter of minutes. She leans over to wake me, but I'm already conscious, rising to hug her.
We embrace quietly for a long moment. There are so many things I could say at this time. I could tell her how amazing she is, how grateful I am for her friendship, how happy I am for her and her adventures...but I've never been very good at that. Instead I just say the main thing I'm feeling... "I'm sad," I mumble over her shoulder.
"Me too," she responds.
And with the rain pattering on the skylights above, she slips out of the house and into the quiet, wet night, on the beginning of her long journey, all the way back to California.
And just like that, dare I say it...I'm homesick.
Took long enough.
I sit in the large window of my apartment and watch the town center come slowly to life in the misty morning. An elderly man appears, carrying a ladder and wearing shorts, despite the bite in the air. He props his ladder against a building, and I watch as he begins hanging strings of little triangle flags between the light pools, looping them back and forth, creating a bright, colorful ceiling over the square.
Clifden Arts Week is fast approaching.
Little installations are popping up in the windows of shops and cafes, as everyone prepares.
"Here it comes, here it comes," the town seems to whisper excitedly.
Music comes floating up through my window from the square. A prominent horn and drum line. It's funkier than any buskers I've heard in the Clifden square in the last few weeks and I poke my head out the window in curiosity.
Hey! I know those guys!
It's some of the gang from the Galway Street Club. My pirate buddies.
I throw on a jacket and head down to the square to join the crowd they've gathered.
It's obvious Arts Week is underway from the amount of tourists currently in the square. I feel I've yet to see it so lively, but with the sun shining proudly from the clear blue sky, the scene of musicians and crowd and energy seems perfectly natural in the tiny, two-street town.
Dave and I walk back into town from the small waterfalls we ventured to after work, and my brain is drifting back to Austin and the life I had there.
"What're you thinking?" Dave asks.
"I was a shit person in Austin, and I'm thinking that I'm scared to go back and become a shit person again."
"Why would you become one?"
"Because I'd be back in the environment where I was one before."
We walk on a bit more in silence, my brain churning the possibilities of falling backwards, and assessing my feelings towards the eventuality of returning home. It makes me nervous...anxious...scared. Will I be able to hold on to all those lessons I've been grateful to learn? Can I stay calm and relaxed and positive in my old environment?
Dave's voice cuts through my thoughts once more, "You know...that's the first time I've ever heard you be negative about yourself."
And for a moment, all those worries vanish from my mind in surprise. Is it really the first time he's heard it? Is it possible my attitude has improved so dramatically in a few months? I know I feel better in my own head, but I didn't realize how much my outward actions must have also changed.
And though I still feel some nerves jangling about in my body, this simple statement calms much of my anxiety.
Because it shows I can change for the better.
And I can hold onto an improved version of myself.
I told Ixchel months ago that that was the goal. To be a positive person, no matter where I land.
So I plan to make it the first and last time anyone in Clifden hears me talk badly about myself.
Because sometimes in life, you just need to be your own damn cheerleader.
I've begun to struggle with being true to myself without hurting others. In the past, I let people walk all over me, because I didn't think I had the right to assert my needs. Right before I left home, I realized that was a ridiculous thing for anyone to think about themselves, but this realization came out as rage. I had allowed this mistreatment so long, I was angry at any person I felt took advantage of it.
Now I'm finding the balance. The happy, centered medium.
I sit under a bridge by the river, listening to the water rumble past, and watching the rain join the stream, and think...what are my ideals for interacting with others? How can I make sure to protect myself while still being kind to people and helping where I can? And here is my new personal mantra...the guide to my happy center.
The only other customer in the shop leaves and the elderly man behind the counter asks if he can help us.
"Yes...someone told me I may be able to find paraffin here?" I ask uncertainly.
"Yup! You twirling fire?" He asks, upbeat, and leads Maya and I to the back corner.
I laugh, "Is it that obvious?" I didn't expect him to know the reason so quickly.
He shows me his selection.
"Oh, you've got white gas too...that's what I usually use."
"Now, you could use the white gas," he replies. "It is cheaper and it'll work, but the paraffin burns better. It's more of an even burn and it puts off less black smoke. It's better for your health and for your toys. I think in your line of work, this is better."
I'm grinning at this grandfatherly man, with his gray hair and spectacles, as he makes suggestions on what's a healthier product to light myself on fire with. "I love that you know about the differences for fire spinning. That's really cool."
"We've owned this shop for 40 years. All the spinners come in here." He grins.
"That's great. I'll take the paraffin."
"Lovely!" He heads back to the register. "Now, that container is 12.95, but we usually give it to the lads for 12."
I hand over my money, and we head out the door.
"Have a good show!" He calls after us, and I've got a warm feeling in my heart.
Small towns are so nice.
 |
| The party pack. Fuel, hula hoop, guitar. Ready for adventure. |
Maya and I curl up under the small blanket while Fabio and Ashlyn prepare dinner for us. So toasty, so comfy...we both pass out.
I wake some time later, with Fabio giggling at us from the kitchen. "You guys look like little fairies!"
I force myself out from the warmth, and we all enjoy dinner together, sitting on the floor around the table in the living room, one last time.
At three AM Maya's alarm goes off, and she's out of bed and bundled up in a matter of minutes. She leans over to wake me, but I'm already conscious, rising to hug her.
We embrace quietly for a long moment. There are so many things I could say at this time. I could tell her how amazing she is, how grateful I am for her friendship, how happy I am for her and her adventures...but I've never been very good at that. Instead I just say the main thing I'm feeling... "I'm sad," I mumble over her shoulder.
"Me too," she responds.
And with the rain pattering on the skylights above, she slips out of the house and into the quiet, wet night, on the beginning of her long journey, all the way back to California.
And just like that, dare I say it...I'm homesick.
Took long enough.
I sit in the large window of my apartment and watch the town center come slowly to life in the misty morning. An elderly man appears, carrying a ladder and wearing shorts, despite the bite in the air. He props his ladder against a building, and I watch as he begins hanging strings of little triangle flags between the light pools, looping them back and forth, creating a bright, colorful ceiling over the square.
Clifden Arts Week is fast approaching.
Little installations are popping up in the windows of shops and cafes, as everyone prepares.
"Here it comes, here it comes," the town seems to whisper excitedly.
 |
| I have taken zero pictures of the art, but it did inspire me to do some drawing. So here's that instead! (haha) |
Music comes floating up through my window from the square. A prominent horn and drum line. It's funkier than any buskers I've heard in the Clifden square in the last few weeks and I poke my head out the window in curiosity.
Hey! I know those guys!
It's some of the gang from the Galway Street Club. My pirate buddies.
I throw on a jacket and head down to the square to join the crowd they've gathered.
It's obvious Arts Week is underway from the amount of tourists currently in the square. I feel I've yet to see it so lively, but with the sun shining proudly from the clear blue sky, the scene of musicians and crowd and energy seems perfectly natural in the tiny, two-street town.
Dave and I walk back into town from the small waterfalls we ventured to after work, and my brain is drifting back to Austin and the life I had there.
"What're you thinking?" Dave asks.
"I was a shit person in Austin, and I'm thinking that I'm scared to go back and become a shit person again."
"Why would you become one?"
"Because I'd be back in the environment where I was one before."
We walk on a bit more in silence, my brain churning the possibilities of falling backwards, and assessing my feelings towards the eventuality of returning home. It makes me nervous...anxious...scared. Will I be able to hold on to all those lessons I've been grateful to learn? Can I stay calm and relaxed and positive in my old environment?
Dave's voice cuts through my thoughts once more, "You know...that's the first time I've ever heard you be negative about yourself."
And for a moment, all those worries vanish from my mind in surprise. Is it really the first time he's heard it? Is it possible my attitude has improved so dramatically in a few months? I know I feel better in my own head, but I didn't realize how much my outward actions must have also changed.
And though I still feel some nerves jangling about in my body, this simple statement calms much of my anxiety.
Because it shows I can change for the better.
And I can hold onto an improved version of myself.
I told Ixchel months ago that that was the goal. To be a positive person, no matter where I land.
So I plan to make it the first and last time anyone in Clifden hears me talk badly about myself.
Because sometimes in life, you just need to be your own damn cheerleader.
 |
| No filter needed...feeling blessed that I can walk out of town and right into this whenever I want. |
I've begun to struggle with being true to myself without hurting others. In the past, I let people walk all over me, because I didn't think I had the right to assert my needs. Right before I left home, I realized that was a ridiculous thing for anyone to think about themselves, but this realization came out as rage. I had allowed this mistreatment so long, I was angry at any person I felt took advantage of it.
Now I'm finding the balance. The happy, centered medium.
I sit under a bridge by the river, listening to the water rumble past, and watching the rain join the stream, and think...what are my ideals for interacting with others? How can I make sure to protect myself while still being kind to people and helping where I can? And here is my new personal mantra...the guide to my happy center.
Be honest, but not cruel.
Be kind, but not weak.
Be flexible, but sure of your stance.
These words will guide me...what guides you in life? I'd love to know.
Have a good week, everyone!
Love that you are still drawing. Nice looking mandala-esque scribble you got going there.
ReplyDeleteI feel the same way about the view and weather here. Spectacular!
As is your writing. If you do return I hope you continue to write.
XOXO
Thanks, dad! I thought it was nice scribble ^_^ I'm glad the Colorado weather is treating you nicely. I love it there.
DeleteAnd thank you, again! I do plan to continue writing!
<3