It was the very middle of the day in the fields of Ireland. The scorching sun lay at the top of my head with such a fierce intensity and brightness that human eyes wouldn’t dare to glance at. The grass on which I walked on had, throughout the never-ending plains and subtle mountains, the same average proportion, as if nature itself aspired for perfection, and the same light shade of green that hinted a healthy atmosphere and fertile soil. This pattern was hardly broken by taller bushes that formed straight lines, as if they were commanded to, and contained a different, darker green that did not variate throughout the rows of the natural walls lost in the mountains and horizon. The sounds were as simple as the surroundings that generated them, the human silence of absence forced the hidden melodies of birds to become discernable, and the wind constantly wailed as it hit the seldom leaves in the vast lowlands and carried the only recognizable smell, the fresh scent of grass.
I followed a rocky trail created by uncountable steps of humans and animals, hoping to find a town where my next gig could take place and a bed where my next night could unfold. I walked the line with worn out shoes, the taste of nothing in my mouth, and the only presentable clothes I had at the moment, oblivious of their horrible combination, with only five pounds in my pocket and a wooden folk guitar on my back that hadn’t experienced a good original song since my creativity had run out and my wallet had stopped meeting enough money.
I was then a nowhere man looking for a future in the unknown world, traveling to find new musicians and experience the world and this one-time offer we call life. But such a bohemian lifestyle obviously comes with its disadvantages, for questions such as where will I eat or sleep? or how will I make money? bugged me every day of my existence.
In just moments, I got so lost in the thoughts of how my life had turned into a survival novel that I became oblivious to my surroundings until a drop of water fell on my messy hair.
Immediately, I looked up only to see enormous gray clouds, monstrously approaching me after hindering every beam of sunlight to touch earth. I looked around the plains anxiously, trying to find shelter from the incoming storm and through the grasslands, a tree stood. I didn’t stop to decipher the reason why such a foreign form of nature lived there, I only saw its long branches and the numerous leaves that could certainly protect me from the god-like clouds and approached it.
Nevertheless, before I could get to my eminent destination, the rain started to precipitate. The drops were frequent and as massive as those that only come in the middle of a storm that only threatens to form chaos. I ran as fast as I could (not fast enough) and only when I reached the protection of the immense tree I realized how cold the waters were.
It only took a couple of minutes before the prevailing smell in the atmosphere switched to the wet scent of earth and soil (petrichor) as the grass relished the coming of their primordial resource. The sound of the ceaseless drops falling with intensity towards the green floor left no space for silence or any other minor noise or utterance that dared to manifest in the same atmosphere. The wind, like an accomplice in the storm’s doings, pushed the waters towards the east, forcing me to stay on the opposite side against the brown, scratchy bark.
Whilst the weather stayed the same for a handful of minutes, I realized that the tree was actually rather ancient. Not only its tremendous roots were anchored firmly to the soil, causing its surroundings to sometimes rise to adapt to its structures, but the trunk was uncannily wide and its branches were interestingly long and full of green leaves for a lonely specimen like it.
Just when I started to philosophize about the reasons for such an unnatural appearance, the loud crack of a thunder stopped my train of thought. The rain was now so abundant that not a living man could see past a mile of where they were standing, it formed precipitating whitish curtain. Enormous puddles were creating randomly throughout the visible part of the field and water had started to break the natural barrier that my dear tree had originally created “for me”.
It came to a point where the storm didn’t seem to stop, should I build an arc? I asked myself funnily. Slowly, I got used to the unpredictable freezing drops of water hitting my body every time the tree leaves failed to stop them and got to predict the sounds of thunders after and accordingly to the closeness of its lighting.
And in all this chaos I took out my guitar and peace was made, for the tunes that I played in the middle of that monstrous storm are, to this day, not only the melodies that made me triumph in the world of music but the most beautiful sounds those fields had ever heard and my guitar had ever played. They were the dissonant harmonies of nature through the lost soul of a nowhere man.