Attempting a "John Synge"

John Synge is the author of The Aran Islands, a book he completed in Paris after spending three summers on Inis Meain, living among the locals. As a part of an Irish literatures course, I was given the opportunity to do exactly as he did, only many years later.


The Aran Islands at night are mere shadows in the soft wind. It is difficult to distinguish between the land and the sea when it is so dark. A flash of blue and one to echo in white declare that out there, life is still happening, even after so many have taken to their beds. Scattered orange lights dot the largest of the three islands and I can feel the breeze traveling from her direction. So still. So somber and quiet. The ideal place for meditation and peaceful thinking. Life is simple here—with the dim stars above and a maze of walls built only of stone. No garda and only one tiny pub, which has no official closing time, but shuts down after the last drunk has gone home. Understood rules and but a handful of motorized vehicles. My heart can fall asleep here, take a short nap while I recline outside a comfortable home. I’ve never been this close to the sea before, with a clear view from the dining room window and the sound of colliding waves when I hold my breath. The ocean makes different sounds that are somehow always happening. It is a living force, constantly changing and communicating. Some days she weeps and mourns alongside my quiet emotions, and on other occasions, she is there to send a smile in return. Either way, she is a woman beckoning me to pause. I feel significantly awake, as nights such as these add weight to life itself; they fuel the core of my humanity.

A light breakfast is the way to get your day going here—tea or coffee and plenty of toast with marmalade. We eat around a family table and make plans to explore the island. Oh how I adore the freedom to think and reflect! They say that it is dangerous to leave a man alone with his thoughts, but at various points in life I find it utterly essential to my sanity. Today I want to look back on my journey thus far. How is it that I actually made it to this place? How is it possible that I feel so much more alive here? I see now why so much work back home was hindering my creative expression. The routine killed me. I must remember to rest and set aside time for more writing when I return, for here it is so much easier to write, glorify my surroundings, and worship what I see. The only thing I am truly missing out on is authentic human connection with others. I am more reserved and afraid to ask questions to learn about their lives. I am bored of Americans. I so desperately want to find a lone, elderly man who has no one else to talk to, or maybe a young girl who does not know how to feel. I suppose I crave the sadness and loneliness in others, and use it to fill a void inside. Why do I desire to be their only positive connection? I am beginning to discover just how selfish I have always been.

My feet dangle off high cliffs of gray rock, with the ocean surging below. Each wave from the blue expansion sprays over smooth, weathered stones, swirling froth forwards and then backwards. There is an uneven pattern to the crashes, a fluid rhythm with different sized waves. Teetering and swaying, the dance of the ocean is mesmerizing.

Each rock I step on is surrounded by a tiny pool of still rainwater. I am making my way over a landscape of small islands. Somewhere behind me I hear a trickle of water that is traveling back to the sea. I am hearing a piece of the great circle—the cycle nature uses to take care of itself. It was created to be like this: the sea to reflect the color of the sky, and shadows resting under each friendly cloud.
I live in Iowa and have not once felt this close to the earth before. Ivy and blackberries crawl and conceal stonewalls. From the highest point, one can see marked and unmarked territory—a brown cow behind one gate, sheep behind another, and a lonely donkey behind yet another. Currently I sit a top the walls of a fort preserved from the pagan days, somewhere between the fourth and fifth centuries. Have I ever touched something so ancient before? It is entirely authentic, built with hands from an age I can hardly imagine. This fort is a simple construction of rough rock and lookout points set upon a high hill. I can see the Cliffs of Moher from here; they cast a shadow behind the thin sheet of ocean fog just across the way. Hammering and one dog barking, the far away voices of children, occasional buzz of a fly, and always the sound of the rolling waves. I wonder if I am sitting in the very same place Synge did. At the very center of the island you are still not far away from the sea. Everything about here breathes poetry, and I am tempted to try my hand at it. Another day.