The Westroyd Park is a well-maintained public garden along the lane where I live. Random benches hide behind trees and bushes, and the singing of the birds stands above the roaring of the suburb around. I used to go there with my dog, like most of the people living nearby.
One of the familiar users of the park I used to see was an Irish woman, of about my age, with a small dog always on the move. Her name is Aisling, meaning, “dream” or “vision” in Irish, and from the time I came to know her I knew the solution for all my investigation was just clear crystal in her eye.
We loved chatting of Art and Humanities, Freedoms and Philosophies, but at the end we both knew our daily goal was to survive the rain, like the trees and the bushes in the park.
Not far from the bench where we used to sit, inside the Park is a prominent House with the Coats of Arms, and sometime we played pretending Charles Darwin or Isaac Newton was living there, fuelling mysteries in life and evolution, chemistry and astronomy.
Than, one day she came out with the idea of writing a book, something to remind us of our educated conversations. “We can name it ‘The Catholic Satanic Verses’. I know you are after it! Came on!” she said, and since that day we have been searching for uncharted thoughts in education, assembling a map from the controversies that made our history since the ancient past, and the contradictions emerging from the textbooks.
Day-by-day, it was a point-to-point analysis, cleaning our education from false myths and parasites making their life out of our blood and our freedoms, and day-by-day meeting with Aisling become a part of my daily life.
Aisling was living a few minutes walk from the Park, with her dog Webster, and her love for him was unconditional; probably the only way she could be loved. This is the early impression I had.
Most of the time she was dressed in rough clothes, very cheap, almost to shield her beauty and sensitivity behind a misleading appearance, and that contrast was so attractive and disarming, so innocent, if the furrows of sorrow like scars and clouds were not to suggest a very different story.
“I know we have something in common, I feel it, but what is it?” I asked myself so many times but I never knew what was behind her tramp-like appearance. May be she was just a tramp, laughing at misery, or simply she was fickle and inconstant but for sure, I cannot doubt it, for a moment I felt her soul, coming close to me, and staying with me for a little while, companion.