INISHEER: MY ARRIVAL

INISHEER: MY ARRIVAL
At age 22 I landed on the sandy shores of Inisheer. The smallest of the Aran Islands off the west coast of Ireland. There were rainbows dancing on the waters the day I arrived. I knew it was a good sign. Clustered on the beach were the men in their dark sweaters and rough clothes huddled in what I later learned were sheltered places from the wind. There I stood alone on the beach of this small island and I had arrived on the wrong curragh.(canvas tarred boat) Peter, my landlord yelled at me for my stupidity in taking the wrong boat in. (The one not oared by his son) Immediately the subtle personal politics of the island started to weave its net around me. Alone and landed, the same way a shell might was ashore. I had only to pick myself up and listen to the ocean dwelling within.
That day I saw the cottage for the second time. It was newly cleaned and the feeling in the house was one of handmade care.The scent of the lime-whitewash was still in the air. Most of the holy medals had been taken away, the pictures burned, but the Sacred Heart of Jesus seemed to beat steadily on the wall. My heart was beating fast too, as I began to contemplate my lost and lonely fate on this little island so far away from home. The cottage was fixed up in its simple way, as my landlord envisioned it should look for an American to live in. I found so many things in the nooks and crannies of the storyteller Joe Martins old house that I now inhabited. I reached in to the dark little square nook on the left side of the hearth and found his pipes, gnarled and worn, with cloth wrapped around them to keep them sound. I could almost imagine him puffing on this very pipe as he told a winterÆs tale to a rapt crowd in this very cottage.
His wife BiddyÆs knitting needles were in the right side of the hearth in a similar dark nook. . They were also wrapped round with cloth and thick with grease to keep them from rusting. How many stitches did she click as JoeÆs stories wound round the cottage and knit up the long dark night with fable and lore Peter started the fire with a leftover thick candle from Christmas time.. The sweet smell of turf filled the air. The smoke drifted upwards as thousands of fires had done before. Every action bearing a secret.
The first time I saw the cottage it was shining in the shadows with the sun high in the sky behind it. Immediately I knew that this was the place I wanted to live. Without thinking or carefully planning out the days ahead I agreed to rent it. Little did I know that this impulsive move would lead to a three and a half year sojourn on this barren and lonely island. A few days before I had made the rocky crossing to the island with my friend Paul. Crashing up and down with each roll of the waves, we held on. The gray skies tumbled together and the depths of the sea curled around the sides of the tiny boat. Inside the perimeter of the island we were safe. We docked, spat up by the waves.
As we walked the back of the island a few days later I casually asked an old man who weÆd met if there were any houses to rent on the island.öAh, faith there are a few cottages for rentö he said. His kind face framed by a wool cap and homespun clothes. The humility of his presence moved me.`. . I inquired no further. The next day we planned to set sail to the other islands. The rainy day kept back the boat in Galway. As we huddled in the pub for warmth another tourist relayed a message to me,öNow, arenÆt you the girl looking for a house to rent?ö IÆd almost forgotten that I had asked. The secret hand of the island had plucked me up. Drawn out of the waters like a fish, I felt myself on a new shore.
We stayed in the cottage that night. The old musty scent enveloping me. Days and years
of the past wafted around me. Being in the cottage settled my body that had traveled so far for so long. Lining the walls were clusters of holy pictures, heavy with smoke, hard to decipher. The
halos of the saints shining out, a few inscriptions denoting a pathway through pain. Suffering redeemed by a holy formula and whosoever remembers and adores the sacred heart of Jesus will have a happy death....only so many hail maryÆs and the fires of hell will be that much farther removed in the long gray halls of purgatory where one waits after death.
One candle lit up the curving walls of the old house. The stones set in place so long ago to form this dwelling in the bend of the hill, beneath the shadow of the ancient castle. I dove into the smaller room across from the fire. Among the bags and baskets emerged a wheel and then a standing wooden structure. A spinning wheel! It was intact with rusty scissors holding the straw part in place. The old ways began to reveal themselves.
The coal fire burned into a red glowing pattern. Sparks flew upward. The Jewish spark in my soul remained concealed there on this Catholic island. High above me, the Saint BridgetÆs crosses held their place, stuck into the beams, guarding against fire. Every year the old people gathered rushes on Saint Bridgette Day.They fashioned a cross that they believed guarded the house from fire. The wise old people whose stories were retold many times. Their hard work and suffering a constant reminder of how they lived. . Tucked into the hearth, seated by the fire on a small bench, it was not hard to imagine the old times. I felt the spirits move.
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