I don’t like to ride my bike against the wind. So I often double
back alongside Lough Atalia, letting the air guide me past the expansive lake.
An eternal klutz, I never appreciated cycling until I experienced the warmth of
fleeting October sun against the back of my neck, fingers snug inside woolen
gloves as they grip leather handlebars. I learned early on to leave for class
two hours early. Then I can allow myself to stop, to get lost, and to
appreciate the chattering streets of Galway in the autumn.
In particular, I always dismount my bike halfway down the
road so I could stop and look at St. Augustine’s Well. Sometimes the entire
embankment is flooded over with water and swans, but occasionally I can walk
right up to the well and its cross. There are so many swans in Galway. They put me in mind of funny water cats with the way they approach for food, only to glide away, shielding disappointment with elegance.
The noises of cars rushing by mix with the
calls of the birds, and of children and dogs in the park nearby. On days when
fog rolls over the entirety of the lake, I sit on a bench and imagine that
there is no boundary between lough and sky.
A rare clear day on the lough. |
With no synagogues in Galway, I sometimes wring my hands beside that hidden well, mixing Jewish guilt into borrowed Catholic
spirituality. I never considered myself particularly religious, but come Friday
nights I inevitably take the long bus ride to Dublin where I can attend
services.
After Shabbat services, the Rabbi collects all the foreign
stragglers into his home for a dinner. At a recent dinner he told a story, both
distinctly Jewish and Irish:
A man tries to visit his Rabbi.
The Rabbi turns him away at the door, shouting and screaming, forcing him away.
The man is distraught by rejection, and sits on the curbside crying. A group of
passerby see his distress and bring him with them to the pub. Together, they
toast, “L’Chaim!” - A Hebrew phrase
meaning, “to life”.
When the man next sees the his
Rabbi, the Rabbi explains, “When you came to my door, I saw the Angel of Death
behind you. I tried to scare you away so you could spend your last remaining
moments with your family. But now I see you are well, and the Angel of Death
has departed!”
The man, confused, explains that
he never made it home, and instead drank with strangers. The Rabbi understood
and said, “Every L’Chaim shared amongst friends encourages a small bit of
life.”
“L’Chaim,” we toasted one another.
Time moves slowly in Ireland and yet the air thrums with
vibrancy, of life lived consciously. Shabbat dinners last until midnight, as
strangers become friends. The walk to school takes hours, paths ever changing,
guided by a kind of lackadaisical curiosity, and saturated with questions of permanence. Likewise, my hand now moves slower as I paint, influenced by the humor and tranquility of swans that inquire after food from one who is watching the fog.
Less melodramatic people just get up and feed the damn swans. |