Every year, or more often depending on my disposition and bank account, I'll travel back to the United States to visit my father. He lives in the Tampa area, and I'm always astonished by the transition from one geography to another. Obviously, the sun is a welcome sight (I'm always astonished by that small warm orb due to the fact that I haven't seen it in months), and it's always nice to slouch around a swimming pool with an ice-cold glass of tipple in my hand. I should explain that in Ireland, most establishments don't serve drinks with ice. Or if they do, the bar-keep will place exactly one cube in the glass, as if ice were as valuable as gold bullion, and look astonished when I ask for more. So I'll sit at the side of a sun-kissed swimming pool, tinkling my ice fondly between sips, and wondering why I left America in the first place.
But then I'll hear it. The noise. It will infiltrate over the hedge surrounding the pool, and make its way to my sun-soaked ears: the noise of traffic from the far-off super-highway; the noise of aircraft descending into Tampa International; the noise of wailing sirens, piercing my somewhat drunken reverie and waking me to the reality of living here.
And I'll remember what I have in Ireland, and what it offers: of the peace that is there for the taking, and which is absolutely free of charge every day that I choose to stay here.
That Haunting Peace
Sitting in that Tampa sun chair, choosing to ignore the frantic sounds of close-by civilisation, I'll think back to the walks that I've taken in Ireland and the places that I've been and the quiet people that I've met. I'll think back to the time that I stood alone on a golden Donegal beach, a cooling breeze kissing my cheek, gazing out on a deserted landscape. The sea lapped quietly nearby, and the only other sounds were the far-off haunting cries of hunting sea birds, and the thin whistling of the wind as it shifted through tall sand grasses.
I remember that time, only a few years ago, as a time of hardship: my mother had passed only months earlier. But in the beautiful silence of that place, I could easily remember her. I could remember her smile and gentle laugh and glittering eyes and the song that would come so easily to her lips, and my memories were uninterrupted by the frantic sounds of what we so often call living.
White cumulus dotted the sky above me, driven inland off the sea as I stood there. And for a moment it rained, the drops cold on my cheek, washing away my tears with their gentleness. I remember sighing then and feeling somehow cleansed, and thanking God for the memory of my mother and for the haunting stillness that surrounded me and that gave me the space to remember her.
Back in Tampa, my eyes opened as I heard the renewed wailing of a siren, and the memory was shattered. I finished my drink, threw the ice into the grass, and walked back to my father's home.
But as I walked, the memory of that haunting Irish silence came back to visit me, and gave me peace, and I thanked my stars that soon I would go back to Ireland, and to the silence that is so freely given to all of us who live here.
