Tag: intuition

The Talk

Posted on by Tom Kelly

Today I’d like to share a story about a life experience of mine, and I hope that some of you will be able to relate to it. It’s about public speaking, the fear and anxiety it can create, but also the power that comes from taking a step forward that is uncomfortable.

Before we get started, you should know that I had mostly forgotten about this experience until the other day, when it stepped forward as a new story idea. Not only did the idea come through as a powerful nudge, but I’ve had several synchronicities come through to help anchor it.

Sitting down to write about this experience brought back some of the feelings I experienced at the time. I feel now that this was an important exercise for me to complete, and maybe it will help someone who is stepping forward with their own scary moment.

So let’s get started.

This took place a decade ago, and at the time, I ran a large lifecycle and asset management program for the City of Ottawa. Our program was responsible for every personal computing device, every phone, and all licensed software. It was a busy but fun role, and I understood each city department and the roles they played to keep our city functioning.

One morning, my manager came to me and said, Tom, I need you to give a talk about our program.

My reaction was a long pause. I felt my body twist and turn energetically as I tried to focus on what she had just said, and yes, these words had actually just come out of her mouth.

I remember confidently saying. Here’s the deal. I’ll create all the talking points and all the slides for you to give the presentation. In reality, I was anything but confident; I was more than a little uncomfortable. I was terrified.

My manager said. “No, Tom, you’re giving the talk. I’ll approve what you talk about.” And with that, she left my office.

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Cranberries

Posted on by Tom Kelly

Go Your Own Way > Listen on BandCamp

The universe gave me a nudge, steering me toward a music video last night. It was Dolores O’Riordan singing a cover of “Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac.

She sang it with an acoustic accompaniment in the studio. It was a beautiful rendition that took me away, tears forming. I remembered listening to the Cranberries in their day and how much I loved their voice (hers).

The song noted above created a bridge, and I pulled up more live versions of their songs, watching them one by one. One thing was clear, regardless of the timeframe, O’Riordan had magic in her voice. And what seemed apparent was her love of singing for her fans. There was joy in her eyes while onstage.

I listened to three or four more songs, and she sang them like they belonged to her. She poured in passion, torment, that sense of carrying a weight far greater than one person should.

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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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The Rite at Carnac

Posted on by Tom Kelly

The Rite at Carnac > Audio on Patreon

The stones rose like guardians against the dusk, their massive shapes catching the last streaks of fire in the western sky. Carnac felt alive that night, the air charged, as if waiting for an old promise to be fulfilled.

A circle had formed, not of granite, but of people. Watchers, witnesses, seekers. And at the center, two figures stepped forward, called not by chance but by the land itself.

He stood bare to the wind, his body offered without pretense, not as display but as vessel. She came toward him with a braid down her back, her belly marked with a spiral in ochre. She was not simply a partner; she was a priestess, chosen.

They touched without words, palms pressed together, foreheads aligned, breath shared. The silence around them was not absence but anticipation. Even the stones seemed to lean in closer.

When their bodies joined, it was not only for them. Each movement was measured, deliberate, as though testing the rhythm of the earth beneath them. Breath became chant. Touch became offering. The watchers lowered their voices into a steady hum, and soon there was no division between stone, body, and voice.

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Ballad of Mallard

Posted on by Tom Kelly

Ballad of Mallard > Listen on BandCamp

The ride from the airport was short but heavy with the weight of travel, lighter chatting with new friends. Home (Ballinamallard), our bags clattered onto the hallway floor, and before the jet lag could settle deeper, Brad and Craig nudged us gently toward the back door and back outside. The house itself was charming, but it was the backyard that opened its arms to us.

Late afternoon light poured in from the west, unusually warm for Ireland. The painted yellow walls of the garden glowed like they had been dipped in honey. The garden stretched long and neat, framed by waist-high stone walls, with flowers bending toward the sun and vegetables reaching upward as if in celebration. Their pup Winston is playing around our feet.

The garden seemed to lean closer, fruit trees flickering in the warm light, the shed in the corner humming faintly as if it were listening in.

A table was set under the awning, the smell of lamb stew curling through the air, mingled with roasted vegetables and potatoes crisping on the barbecue.

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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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