Ireland Told Me a Secret
What happens when you listen to the whispers beneath the storm
In light of the recent blackout (no pun intended—though the universe does love a joke)—and the global unrest rippling through our collective reality—I felt called to share a story to offer a different perspective—a higher perspective.
Earlier this year, I found myself drawn to Ireland. It hadn’t been a long-standing dream, nor was it high on my list of destinations. But Ireland began whispering to me. It showed up in book recommendations, dreams, random conversations, even ads. And then there was the dream: I was telling someone, “I need to visit a stone circle in Ireland.” I had no idea which one.
So I marked a few on a map and let intuition guide me. That’s how I ended up booking a night at the OM Dark Sky Observatory.
When we arrived, the sky was heavy with rain and low-hanging clouds. I hadn’t managed to reserve a tour—bookings were closed—but we decided to show up anyway. Two kind women greeted us, seemingly unsurprised by our presence and gently offered us a tour slot in a couple of hours. Meanwhile, they suggested we explore the nearby stone circles.
We were the only visitors.
As we stepped outside, the clouds parted. The Irish forest stood still and quiet, as if holding its breath. By the time we reached the stone circles, the sun was pouring golden light over the stones. It lasted just enough to bathe the scene in magic, before the sky cracked open in a short downpour, which gave way to the most magical rainbow I’ve ever seen. For a moment, the old tales of pots of gold didn’t seem like folklore at all. Everything shimmered with possibility.
We returned to the center well past the tour time, yet the women welcomed us without concern. At the exact moment we stepped inside, rain lashed the windows, heavy and unrelenting. We were right on time, in the only way that mattered.
But then the tone shifted. The women became anxious. They asked if we were staying in the glamping pods on-site. When we said yes, they exchanged a glance. A red warning storm was coming—one of historic magnitude. “Nobody knows how bad it will be,” one whispered. “The last one like this was 80 years ago.”
They advised us to leave. But I felt a quiet certainty that we were exactly where we were meant to be.
Months earlier, I’d had another dream—one I hadn’t connected until that night. In it, I was in a remote cabin in the UK. A storm raged outside, shaking the structure. But I wasn’t afraid. I felt completely protected. And when I looked up, the sky had cleared, revealing a vast canopy of stars. It felt like a divine painting. In the morning, everything was calm again.
Back in Ireland, that dream came back to me. I knew we would be okay.
We followed their advice to stock up on food, though being gluten-intolerant, I ended up walking away with just some grapes, trusting that somehow, it would be enough. Yup, you heard that right, in the face of the apocalypse I chose grapes. Recklessness? No. Unshakable faith that I will always have what I need at each moment.
This trust was new for me. During the pandemic, I’d hoarded food like a doomsday prepper. Ok, and toilet paper. But something had shifted since then.
That night in the pod, the storm was already beginning. The glass wall that faced the night sky revealed only thick clouds. Still, I felt sure I’d see the stars. So I went to sleep early.
At 4 a.m., I woke up suddenly. Something pulled me to the window. The sky was completely clear. The winds had pushed the clouds aside. Right in the eye of the storm we gazed up at Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn aligned in a quiet cosmic dance.
Then the storm arrived in full. The pod shook, but I slept like a child, warm and safe.
In the morning, I had just enough time to check my phone before the power went out completely. No signal. No internet. Just silence. We had dropped out of the world.
Time slowed. I read the books I had picked up in Dublin. There was nothing to do but be.
Eventually, hunger nudged us outside. The wind had calmed just enough for me to climb a hill and get a bar of signal. Half the country had lost power. A man in a passing truck told us a supermarket in a nearby village was open. It had everything I needed.
Against all reason, we continued north to our next destination. That hotel had been spared so we were able to enjoy all the amenities of the modern world. The next day we visited the Giant’s Causeway, nearly empty of tourists. The storm had cleared the crowds—and the parking fees.
What I learned from this journey is simple: When we’re aligned with joy, trust, and inner truth, the universe meets us there. Storms may rage, but we move through them differently. Reality reshapes itself around the energy we carry. We’re not spared the chaos—but we’re carried through it, guided step by step, if we’re willing to follow the unseen rhythm.
Recently, the whisper came again—Japan this time. I flew via Lisbon, leaving just days before its blackout. My logical mind objected: “You'd be safer in Europe! Japan's bracing for an earthquake!” But that deeper voice, the one that had guided me to Ireland, was calm: “Go. You'll be exactly where you need to be”.
There are greater forces at work. We only see a sliver of the full picture.
So, dear reader, the question isn’t whether the storm will come. It’s: who will you be when it does? Will you stock your shelves in fear? Or turn your face to the rain, knowing the stars still shine behind the storm?
The choice is yours.