“Writing is the only way I have to explain my own life to myself.”
– Pat Conroy
My husband and I recently spent an afternoon in Salthill, a seaside area in the city of Galway. It was a beautiful sunny day in Ireland, something residents repeatedly reminded us was a freak of nature. We strolled the promenade enjoying ice cream cones, felt the salty breeze on our faces as we watched brave souls fling themselves into frigid Atlantic waters, and squinted to catch a glimpse of the distant Aran Islands.
An amusement park across the street beckoned children and their parents with merry-go-rounds, bungee cord rides, and my husband’s favorite, the Ferris wheel. “Let’s do it!” he said. It is probably important to note here I am not only claustrophobic but also have an irrational fear of heights. “Imagine the view once we get to the top!” The ride operator, to my chagrin, enthusiastically agreed.
I, on the other hand, pinched my eyes shut and mumbled in agreement as my husband pointed out all he could see as our car climbed closer to the clouds. When we arrived at the top he exclaimed, “Look at this view!” I reluctantly opened my eyes and scanned the horizon. We could see for miles in every direction. The entire span of Galway, the coastline, and even the Islands came into view. “Aren’t you glad you didn’t miss it?”
Yes I am. I don’t want to miss a thing.
