Hiraeth. It’s a Welsh word meaning; to the best of our ability to define it, a longing for home…there is not an exact English translation for it.

I’ve felt it stirring in me for the better part of a decade. There is something restless, a calling that beckons me. Yet, it’s allusive – something that I have only glimpsed in it’s passing. I feel as though I am in a state of wakening. My head is full of fog, heavy like sleep, and there is something that I’m supposed to do, something important…but I can’t quite remember what it is. So I hit snooze and return to my slumber.

I’ve been doing this rise and fall of consciousness for years. Once again, I’m trying to wake up and stay awake but I can sense an undertow trying to pull me back down, it’s made up of distractions. The TV, my computer, the never ending pile of laundry. It’s the next diaper change, the next meal, the next bath and the next middle of the night feeding. It’s the stress of keeping up with my daily life, an anxiety that courses through my blood. When I pause long enough to sense the yearning, I know that it’s in the rustling of the trees and in the crashing of the waves. It’s what motivates me to pack up the kids and retreat outdoors, to escape the buzz of electricity and the enclosing walls.

There is something ancient that is calling to me. It speaks of simpler times, of Gaelic song and ways long forgotten. I seek to answer it…

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