Scott Corridan Design - I S. I T. P O S S I B L E

I S. I T. P O S S I B L E

Is it possible?


Strands of DNA braid together. Weaving generations of human beings. Each generation adding strands. Coding. Time passes. Sending forward a tomb of storytelling. For those who will follow.


Blue eyes. Like none you find anywhere else.

Eyebrows. Pointed high… as if to eternally question.

Lashes. Long and batting, protecting those smiling eyes from sunlight.

Freckles. Like Milky Way constellations across cheeks and noses and shoulders.

Smiles. Filled with champing teeth.

Hands. Sturdy, strong and bred for the field.

Noses. Bulbous and quirky.

Hair. Wavey and curly.

Butts. Big and strong.

Skin. White as winter in the winter.

Dark as the Mediterranean in the Summer.

The Black Irish.


Is it possible?


That these strands have braided and woven across hills. And valleys. Pastures and villages. Oceans… and a New World.


Is it possible?


That a single color of yellow can brush itself into every weave of life.

That a specific ocean wind, with rain and bursting sunlight, can tap the software of your mind and provide… comfort.

That wet feels… calming. So much more than dry ever could.

That a buttercup can make you… smile.

And you know not why.

That Queen Anne’s Lace looks as brilliant to you, exploding everywhere you look, as the sun’s rays do in the bright blue sky.

That you wouldn’t want or wish it any other way.

And you know not why.

That hyacinth and grape muscari delight you, anew, every time you see it bursting through tall grasses.


Is it possible?


That the lime that emanates from an ancient stone, for you, will always be the right color of white.

That a red door has always made sense to you. Saying “slainte” to all who pass.

That the sound of hooves asserting themselves into the work to be done for the day, along lanes and byways, is the sweetest music you’ve ever known… tip tapping and tip tapping away like the keys on a grand piano.

That you, in your own special way, somehow know… how to speak to cows, and how to gather sheep… just with your kindness and your soothing words.

That an instrumental harp’s chord vibration is a language your ear understands innately.

That language, as we know it, shared or not practiced, can take second seat to laughter. That that language is universally known among kin. The language of Laughter.

That the Word… written in the Book… through all the vitriol, makes sense to you, acknowledging all its human failures of application over the millenia. Knowing, fundamentally, all the while that its tone and tenor, glory and joy, focus and discipline realize more easily in some place other than where you’ve been.


And you know not why…


Is it possible that ‘ home ‘ has always been here.

In pasture.

Of stone.

And timber.


Standing strong and leaning into the wind.

Shaking off the rain to bask in the sunshine.

Kneeling down in humility.

Raising up in laughter and joy.

Welcoming all those who come anew.


And celebrating all those who depart… until we meet again.


Right in front of you.


Ready to welcome you back.


Over all the travels and travails your bloodline has forged before you. No matter how far afield it has taken you and no matter the reasons you distanced over time. She knows no bother as to why you return… to her. This land. Home.


That all the braiding and coding, as you look up to Heaven, represents exactly what its always been. An incredible tapestry, by a devine hand, weaving an extraordinary story of your life.


Is it possible that home was here.


All along.





It is possible.