I have been to tropical islands. I have seen the rain coming towards me down the beach, and then move past in a moment. I have waited to go outside to swim until the skies cleared, because I knew they would. The constant change in the weather is easily planned around and expected on a tropical island.

When I arrived in Ireland, it didn’t feel like my previous experiences of an island. The wind was hard and brisk. The cold rain came out of nowhere, then so did the sun. What was this untamed weather? Not an island. At least not in my experience. Until, that is, I watched the skies.

The wild Irish skies are like a moving piece of art. The clouds race one another to be the first to the edge of the cliffs. Some swirl as if dancing with the mighty gusts of wind. Others are flat and move with stealth so as not to be seen until they are right above the pastures of green. The sun interplays between them and the overall feeling is that there is a boisterous ball happening in the heavens. The quickness of it all is very island-like. A constant movement where all are participating.

The puffy cotton clouds rise to the top light in both weight and color against the deep blue. The heavy grays slowly drag themselves across the land so they can spill over as needed. Their snippet of the sky is gray. The grays and blues mix like a color scheme of contrasts. The golden light spreads out between them and droplets of light form rainbows across the gaps. The constant movement creates a changing landscape beneath the skies from overcast drab to brilliant shades of green. Hide and seek of the most dazzling kind. The acreage becomes a partner in the dance of the heavens.

Then the sea…ah the sea…joins with spectacular force. The black waves throw themselves upon the craggy rocks. They break themselves open in abandon and fall back into white foam. There is no smooth in the sea, it is all swirling, churning, and rolling. Dancing without restraint. Kicking off its shoes and bowing to the gusts. The pair are a phenomenon to watch, while above, the clouds speed along with just as much vigor.

The sounds are howling, crashing, pounding…a jig of epic proportions. Driving rain joins in, but just as quickly moves along making way for the brilliance of the sun. Much louder than any dance I have heard before. It is a performance in which all are invited to participate. Every element shares the joy of the dance.

In the evening, the almost-full moon takes on a different role here. She is not stationary. The movement of the clouds give her the appearance of the solo dancer in the spotlight, which she herself operates. Back and forth, up and back, bowing and sashaying through the sky. She has an entirely different personality here, one of movement and involvement. One part of the party of freedom. I keep expecting to find her in a different part of the expansive sky, but she stays in her place. She only appears to be twirling and spinning with the wispy constantly-moving mist.

I am simply an observer until I am surrounded, encouraged to feel the music of the skies in my soul. It bubbles up inside of me as I listen and watch. How to describe this feeling of smallness in the vastness of the whirlwind around me? I cannot find the words. I am a part of it all, just for opening my eyes to see it and acknowledge the magnetic draw of the heavenly dance.

I believe this is where the very spirit of the island resides. In the heavens. It is where Irish music is born. It is where the strong and spirited people of this place find their home.  The very culture of this country is created in the wild Irish skies.