The pounding of my feet on the ground.
The mysterious power of art to move a personMornings in Ireland were chilly; the frost bit through theair and the wind was merciless. Undaunted, I ran through the small dirt trailin the woods, my heart beating in rhythm to the pounding of my feet on theground.Within thirty minutes I finished my morning jog and was backin the warmth of my small cabin. I slipped into my morning routine, makingmyself a cup of hot chocolate and then stretched out on the front porch.Ireland was home to fauna and folklore, and sitting in my small secluded cabinI found no reason to disagree. […]