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Looking Out From Clare, for John O’Donohue
by David Whyte
There's a great spring in you all bud and blossom and March laughter I've always loved. Your face framed against the bay and the whisper of some arriving joke playing at the mouth, your lightning raid on the eternal melting the serious line to absurdity. I look round and see the last days of winter broken away for all those listening or watching, all come to life now with the first pale sun on their face for many a month, remembering how to laugh. But most of all I love the heft and weight and swing of that sea behind it all, some other tide racing toward the shore, or receding to the calmness where no light or laughter lives for long. The way you surface from those atmospheres again and again, your emergence seems to make you a lover of horizons but your visitation of darkness shows. Then away from you I can see you only alone on the strand walking to the sea on the north shore of Clare toward the end of an unendurable winter as if taking your first swim of the year. The March scald of cold ocean even in May about to tighten and bud you into spring. You look across the mountains in Connemara framing, only for now, your horizon. You look and look, and look beyond all looking. You can find this in Everything is Waiting for You.