Category: Consciousness

Railyard

Posted on by Tom Kelly

Railyard > Listen on BandCamp

I dream often, but last night was no ordinary dream. What I saw wasn’t imagination, nor the drifting fragments of sleep. It was a walk through the impossible.

The setting was a rail yard. Sidings scattered, lanterns swung, and men with tools worked the hard grind of years gone by. I wasn’t just standing there. I was seeing through a lens bolted to the front of a slow-moving train that inched through the yard. And this lens wasn’t human. It didn’t record, it revealed. It peeled the world apart like thin paper shims of light and process.

A man lifted a hammer to strike a spike, and I didn’t just see the blow; I saw the strike ripple through air and metal, detail unfolding in fractals. A train wheel shifted inches, and it became cathedral-like, an entire geometry of sound and weight. Even the sway of a lantern as someone walked became vast, multidimensional, and psychedelic without the drugs. Dream-born, but in a sense more real than anything I’ve seen before.

At the center of this dream stood a figure, an engineer, steady-handed, practical, and shaped by the logic of steel and structure. He smiled like a creator, guiding me through the yard as though showing me a secret film. But he wasn’t bound by the rules of engineering. He was a master of imagery, directing something far beyond proof or logic.

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Hill of Tara

Posted on by Tom Kelly

The Hill of Tara > Audio on Patreon

It was the first day in Ireland, the kind of day that blurs after a long flight and little sleep. Our friends were driving us north to their home from Dublin. Somewhere along the highway, they pulled off and said, “Let’s stop here, there’s food, coffee, and there’s an old historical site, maybe something interesting to see.“

At first glance, there was a cute country store and restaurant on a medium-sized hill, with a narrow parking lot and washrooms. I was glad to stretch my legs and let the first sights and scents of Ireland touch me. The tiredness I felt eased as I studied the landscape. The valley stretched out below, and I marveled at the cows grazing free, Holsteins. I commented that back home in Canada, cows are locked away in barns. It made my heart happy seeing them at peace on the land.  Already, Ireland was showing me something different, something freer.

Inside, the café was slow, friendly, buzzing with tourists and locals. We were seated and ordered our lunch. While waiting, I wandered into the gift shop up front. Still dazed, I noticed that everywhere I turned, one word followed me: Tara. Shirts, mugs, magnets, books. Tara. There were even containers of crystals, sage, and feathers. This was my kind of shop! I hurried back into the restaurant and asked, “Are we at the Hill of Tara?” My friends laughed. “Yes, Tom. We thought you might find it interesting.“

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Rock of Cashel

Posted on by Tom Kelly

Rock of Cashel > Audio on Patreon

From the moment I arrived at the Rock, I felt its presence. Large, unyielding, a stone giant rising from Ireland’s green heart, the Rock of Cashel stands as a sentinel over the ages. Its walls, rough and cold, are patched with lichen, gray-green and ancient, like the earth’s own memory.

A gentle wind whispers through, brushing along the stones, soft and unnoticed, yet alive, a breath that seems to carry the clearing, the shifting energy of this sacred place.

Outside, the graveyard sprawls, Celtic crosses standing tall or leaning crooked, their carved circles weathered by many years without new burials. These stones mark Ireland’s storied dead, chieftains, poets, souls who shaped this land, their presence woven into the wind’s quiet song.

At the Rock’s heart is a grand hall, not a chapel, but a magnificent ruin that once buzzed with life. Its floor is lined with stone slabs, tombs, raised just enough to mark the graves beneath. You can feel the faint emboss of these graves underfoot. Through tall, glassless windows, remnants of soaring arches, golden white sunlight cascades in, long, rhythmic beams. From east to south to west, the light shifts, painting the slabs with a warm, protective glow, almost godlike, transforming the cold stone.

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Sing

Posted on by Tom Kelly

Sing > Listen on BandCamp

The gym was its usual self that afternoon, metal clinks and grunts, the thump of bass-heavy tunes, the faint hum of treadmills like an endless tide. And then, without warning, something split the air.

At first, I thought it was tucked into the overhead speakers, some chorus layered behind the beat. But no, this sound floated above the noise. A voice, clear and shimmering, cut through the stale fluorescent air with impossible purity. It didn’t fit, not at all. It rose much brighter, like sunlight breaking into a windowless hall.

I froze, half-turned on my machine, ears straining. No one else seemed to notice. Around me, people kept lifting, scrolling, laughing, and checking mirrors. I was the only one stilled by it. That aloneness made it feel even more otherworldly, like a gift dropped into my hands, meant only for me.

It wasn’t an everyday voice. Not casual but high, lilting, yet rooted with undertones that spoke of training, sweet and angelic, as if trembling on the edge of heaven itself. Whoever sang wasn’t fooling around. This was a voice born for song.

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Cliffs of Moher

Posted on by Tom Kelly

The Cliffs of Moher > Audio on Patreon

I step onto the path at the Cliffs of Mohr, early morning, wrapping me in a fine, misty rain that clings to my face like a soft veil. The sky stretches wide, a pale white-gray glow, not dark or heavy, but pulsing with quiet life.

The cliffs loom before me, their massive forms draped in light mist, their vastness spilling along the coastline, unhidden, eternal. My boots press into solid rock, a granite mass that feels old like it’s anchored the earth forever, a thin skim of soil barely covering its ancient heart.

Tiny plants, some no taller than my thumb, curl inland, bowing to years of relentless breath from the Atlantic, their delicate arcs telling stories of endurance. Shrubs and stunted trees lean away from the sea, sculpted into gentle curves, as if sculpted by an unseen hand.

Below, the Atlantic surges with a deep, steady, and hungry thud, pounding the cliffs with unyielding force, announcing its might. Swirls of foam and whiteheads dance in its retreat, carving eddies in the dark water.

The wind, the soul of this place, roars across the cliff tops, tugging my coat, lifting and spinning my bag, daring me to stay upright. It carries that misty rain, stinging my face, sweeping over the land like a cleansing breath, not just nourishing the stubborn lichens or the grazing cattle on the nearby hill, but lifting centuries of Ireland’s grief, its struggles etched into this harsh, unyielding terrain.

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Loughcrew

Posted on by Tom Kelly

Loughcrew > Audio on Patreon

The last steps to the summit leave the heart full and strong, breath rising in steady waves. I pause, turning to see the hill fall away, the valleys stretched wide in muted greens and grays, their edges softened by drifting cloud. The land feels endless, and for a moment I stand between earth and sky, the climb behind me, the cairn before me.

The summit opens slowly, as if unveiling itself. The great mound waits at the center, its stones dark with age, the three outlying cairns keeping watch at the edges, and the rings of upright slabs, each gap like a threshold for the unseen. Their presence is not silent; it hums, low and deep, just at the edge of hearing.

I step apart from the others scattered lightly across the dome. Their voices fade into the wind as I walk among the stones. My hand comes to rest on one, and the surface is cool, coarse, alive. It exhales into my palm, and the breath of the stone moves into me. It is not simply contact, it is a merging. The longer I remain, the more the boundary thins, until I feel the stone leaning back, meeting me.

Around me, the air stirs with its own rhythm. It does not come and go but circles, climbs, folds back on itself, weaving with the shape of the hill. A brush of coolness across my cheek carries with it the taste of mineral, as though the rock itself has risen into the air. My mouth waters, unexpected, as if drinking from some hidden spring. The breath of the cairn becomes my own, and within it, a memory flickers, of hands that placed these stones, of voices that once rose in chant, of firelit faces lifted to the sky.

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The Sounds of Music

Posted on by Tom Kelly

This little adventure started while driving and listening to music. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon when this song came on.

“Betcha by Golly, Wow” by the Stylistics.

Within 30 seconds, I was carried away, and after listening to the song once, I replayed it. I yelled “wow” out loud and then asked myself these questions.

How could a voice be so beautiful? How could it be so true and innocent and pure? How was it possible for a human to do this, to be so magical, to speak every emotion all at once?

I felt everything that came through and knew this wasn’t superhuman but a gift.

When I got home, I looked up this song and found Russell Tompkins Jr to be the singer.

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Talking Yourself to Sleep

Posted on by Tom Kelly

It is so interesting how our busy minds can show up when our heads hit the pillow. Sometimes, it’s about nothing important, or even stressful, just an interesting thought or idea that keeps us awake.

I’m most creative in the evening so bedtime can often still be rich with ideas. Usually, I can take a few deep breaths, close my eyes, and quickly fall asleep. Other times it’s not so easy.

I’ve learned a process (very much by accident) that has helped me fall asleep and would like to share it with you.

Below is what I do.

I was lying in bed ready for sleep and drew my attention to a workplace I knew in my teens and early 20s. I had a part-time job in a school as a cleaner which through high school and college paid a lot of bills. I enjoyed this job and got to know this school as well as anyone could.

At this moment in bed, my mind intuitively opened the front door and I started walking through the main hallway exploring all the features, looking at trophy cabinets, walls, doors, floors, etc. The next thing I know it’s morning and I’m getting up after a great night’s sleep!

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The Gift of a Second Chance

Posted on by Tom Kelly

My father was starting end-of-life care at an Ottawa hospital and I had just arrived for what had become my daily visit. He was growing less aware and my time with him was becoming more solitary, although it was still nice to be in his company and share this way.

Today I was lucky and able to park closer to the hospital. It was a gloomy, grey day in November with a lick of wind to enhance the understanding of the coming transition into winter.

I pulled my coat together and hunched to maintain warmth as I walked to the crosswalk, and then along the path to the main entrance.

I noticed a man walking in the opposite direction, along the driveway with parked cars between us. He had a cane and was moving slowly and with poor balance. My first thought was “Where could he possibly be going without help as he looked that frail?

By now I was almost stopped, worried, yet excited for every new step this man took. Others were watching too and as he approached the crosswalk I assumed someone closer would assist him. This was not the case. He staggered across the road and up a cut in the sidewalk, gathering himself for the remainder of the journey to his vehicle.

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The Magic of a Sneeze

Posted on by Tom Kelly

Recently I was sitting on our front porch with our dog. It was a beautiful and warm evening and a neighbor saw us and came by to say hello.

We weren’t together long before another friend showed up. Matthew is a neighbor’s son and is just a wonderful spirit. He is in the sense of our world challenged in that he wouldn’t learn or socialize like most but this has never stopped Matthew from fully enjoying life.

Matthew waved from the street turned toward us and marched up the driveway, asking if he could sit and visit with our dog Tucker. Matthew is always welcome so I gestured for him to have a seat.

Matthew lives a block away and spends his summer evenings visiting people in our neighborhood.

One day when I was at the grocery store he came over and we started chatting, which concerned his mother. I think she wondered who I was and how I knew her son, to which I told her we live around the corner and see Matthew often. This brought a warm smile to her face and she said, “I hope he’s not bothering you.” I told her that he’s not and is always welcome.

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