A man came up to me last night after my performance, and told me story, a story that filled up all the aching parts of me with beauty and light. This man, a fellow performer and audience member at the Come by the Hills Folk Festival, watched my set at the festival this summer. 

Now, let me give some context. I love the Come By the Hills Folk Festival, I met some amazing people there and connected with some old friends as well. Most of my good memories of the festival were overshadowed by one remark made by a booking agent there, when he was introduced to me. He says "oh....you. You're the girl that sings all those songs about death". The comment stunned me and I must admit I felt diminished and upset in some ways, that this was the lasting impression I had left. 

So, I had carried with me, that perhaps my set was not that successful, though I felt the music was strong and the musicians that played with me brought a poignancy to this music. For I had sung of death, but I had also sung of life and the small intimacies of life's emotional beauty; sorrow, yes, but most importantly, of love. 

Imagine then, what a gift it was to have someone come up to me and tell me that this performance had been a mystical experience. To have him say to me that while I was singing thousands of dragonflies descended from darkening sky to eat mosquitoes but also to hover above the crowd, an iridescent otherworldly chorus, that shimmered the day into night. A beautiful legion that he swears were just oscillating above the listeners, facing the stage and swaying slightly to the music as though intoxicated by the sound. It sounds fantastical, a dream about to wake, but this was his truth and for him to share such a image of beauty and whimsy was what I needed above all else this week. It was a gift beyond what I can measure. 

Dragonflies. Thousands of dragonflies. I cannot think of anything more lovely. 

Thank-you Paddy.

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