There’s a smell here, a certain scent that my waking
nostrils seem to sniff out every morning. It is fresh. My window, left open
again through the night, allows me to hear that same smell, or perhaps I’m
smelling the sound, I can’t configure the difference. Is it the scent of
thriving restaurant next door? The busy bodied wait staff and chefs working,
clanging and banging away, their shouts and laughter smell like breakfast and
sweet teas and warmth. No, no that scent isn’t fresh enough. Perhaps it is the
smell of the rain, the gentle but constant drizzle that has been going since
late in the night. It hasn’t rained every day though, so it cannot be that.
Surely it cannot be my own, tired self, waking amidst the tangled sheets and
crumpled pillows and holding onto my new favorite book as if I could absorb the
words through slumber... That is a scent not worth describing, but definitely
not “fresh”. I close my eyes again and breathe in, deeper still, the sounds of
the wind, the rain, the restaurant, the movement of my housemates, the stir of
the curtains, the stretch in the arches of my feet. . .
There is something fresh about a new home, something that
lingers, even when it isn’t actually there. It hides in the dark corners of the
nights mind and envelopes itself around candle flames and perfume bottles. It
changes all that I had once known as smell and makes all the other senses
gather with it, confusing my own understanding of them and blending them into
one ultimate sense. It is some sort of knowing, more than a feeling, and it is
here. Eyes closed I inhale yet again, finally deciding it is time to open them
to the grey clear light of morning.
Without much to do yet, school has only just begun and I am
far ahead in my reading lists, I choose to read a novel I have read a hundred
times before. Head propped up by bent elbows and cupped hands, I look to the
words on the page to slowly awaken me into a dream world. It’s nice, waking up
to a novel, the slow movements of my eyes and hands as the pages turn allowing
me to stretch the kinks of the night out.
After a while I decide it is time to really get up and move.
Ireland is still so new; there is so much to see. Again I take the morning to
go down to the water, although at my house here it is only a block or so away.
It is foggy, cloudy, misty and wet and I love the way it surrounds me. A heron
perches itself on a ledge of boulders, and cleans its feathers amidst the
foaming waves. Two older gentlemen in front of me share laughs behind black
umbrellas. A woman’s high-heeled shoes click loudly passed me. I have noticed
people tend to walk quickly around here. I feel myself moving in slow motion in
comparison. I don’t mind. I look out to the diving board after rounding a few
curves and see a man, large and in black trunks, waving. It is apparent he is
not waving at me but I wave back nonetheless. A woman behind me laughs. “Ye can
have him, if ye want!” I laugh with her.
Her name is Sarah, and we walk to him together. Apparently
he swims every morning here, and some days, when it is particularly cold and
grey, she drives to meet him, with a warm towel waiting. She asks where I’m
from, why I’m here, have I jumped yet? I answer her, enjoying our conversation,
learning about her and her husband’s life together. As the board grows nearer
he lets out a “hoot!” and splashes into the sea. He comes up, laughing as she
hands him the towel. We chat for a bit but I decided he’s probably cold and
Sarah looks really rather dismal in the rain. After brief goodbye’s and “see
you around”s we part ways, each of us, like the heron, tending to our own
dampened feathers. I don’t jump today; a different feel in the air has me
feeling like writing more than swimming. I stay though, looking at the diving
board and thinking about my meeting with Sarah.
 |
| You can see the diving boards on the right |
It’s the last question she had asked that has me thinking.
Have I jumped? Well…I’ve jumped off the board, which is surely what she means.
But I ask myself that question later, as I sit, typing up a blog about how
little I’ve done… how somehow I’ve run out of money and am waiting for funds to
get to really see Ireland. Perhaps I’m in no rush; I am here for a year or
maybe more, after all. Perhaps I have lost motivation to explore? No, no that
can’t be it. Well waiting for funds can’t be my only excuse. So perhaps this
blog can wait for funds, but I’m done waiting. I want to explore.
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