It came at the top of a path in an outdoor museum; I leaned over the stone wall, looking down at the statues and streams, the multi-hued green leaves, lackadaisical sunshine bathing my skin.
Home, I felt at home- for the first time in years, I knew I was exactly where I belonged.
And I promised myself I would come back to Wales, to Cardiff, to St. Fagans museum.
This weekend, I fulfilled the last part of that promise to myself.
---~*~---
With my roommate and her visiting friend in tow (who were almost as rambunctious as the entire group of student ambassadors, but much more delightful), I hopped on a bus and made my way to St. Fagans.
The first thing I saw getting off the bus was a delapidated house, vegetation poking from every direction, climbing and clawing for the limited sunlight. A small group of people appeared to be battling this vegetation, attempting to enter the empty house.
An old woman with kind eyes looked at me and smiled, wrinkles shifting on her face like the shadows from the impish plants.
"My grandmother lived here," she laughed, adding that she remembered going to school right up the road on which we were standing. "Oh, that must have been 70 years ago!"
My roommate called my name, and the woman faded into the overgrowth. I turned toward my destination, St. Fagans, and knew the day held more perfect timings, more coincidences, more answers.
With my roommate and her visiting friend in tow (who were almost as rambunctious as the entire group of student ambassadors, but much more delightful), I hopped on a bus and made my way to St. Fagans.
The first thing I saw getting off the bus was a delapidated house, vegetation poking from every direction, climbing and clawing for the limited sunlight. A small group of people appeared to be battling this vegetation, attempting to enter the empty house.
An old woman with kind eyes looked at me and smiled, wrinkles shifting on her face like the shadows from the impish plants.
"My grandmother lived here," she laughed, adding that she remembered going to school right up the road on which we were standing. "Oh, that must have been 70 years ago!"
My roommate called my name, and the woman faded into the overgrowth. I turned toward my destination, St. Fagans, and knew the day held more perfect timings, more coincidences, more answers.
---~*~---
The grounds were like a dream to me; I remembered the sights, but I could not place them in order... I could envision a floating map of scenes: the stream, the future house, the pig stye, the old-fashioned stores, the castle, the gardens, the walkway with the stone walls.
Each location I stumbled upon was dessert to my soul. Nothing much had changed in five years, except that the pig stye behind the red cottage was cordoned off for construction.
Even the lighting was the same: heavenly streams of sunlight dripping like syrup from the tree tops and sparkling like fairy dust on the water.
And then I found it. That spot. The place above the tree on the path, looking down at the little musical boy statue... All the leaves swept together perfectly, emerald green and blue green and lime green and pine green.
This spot, my heaven on earth, had not changed, either. Standing there, my heart slowed down and filled with calm. Again, I was exactly where I belonged.
The grounds were like a dream to me; I remembered the sights, but I could not place them in order... I could envision a floating map of scenes: the stream, the future house, the pig stye, the old-fashioned stores, the castle, the gardens, the walkway with the stone walls.
Each location I stumbled upon was dessert to my soul. Nothing much had changed in five years, except that the pig stye behind the red cottage was cordoned off for construction.
Even the lighting was the same: heavenly streams of sunlight dripping like syrup from the tree tops and sparkling like fairy dust on the water.
And then I found it. That spot. The place above the tree on the path, looking down at the little musical boy statue... All the leaves swept together perfectly, emerald green and blue green and lime green and pine green.
This spot, my heaven on earth, had not changed, either. Standing there, my heart slowed down and filled with calm. Again, I was exactly where I belonged.
---~*~---
Soon, the museum closed and the three of us made our way to the bus stop. We weren't sure we were in the right place, so I asked the sixty-something man standing next to the sign.
He looked over at me, thoughtful and engaged and quick, and I knew him. I couldn't place how I knew him, but I knew him.
"Do you work at the Assembly?" I asked. His two male companions began laughing.
He was Shaughan, a man who worked part-time at Ty Gwynfor, Plaid Cymru's head quarters.
We laughed at the coincidence and he introduced me to his two male friends and a young lady who was sitting close by.
Rowland works in my hallway at the Assembly, as the press officer for Mohammad Asghar, the first Muslim AM.
Gareth was visiting from Anglesey, and Laura had just graduated from university and was job hunting.
All four of them had returned from a British Mensa meeting, and they were delightful company.
They took us out for drinks to the pub connected to Owain Gyndwr on St. John Street.
Three pints -and great conversations with new-found friends- later, I was lying in my bed, fast asleep and likely snoring.
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