The clouds from up here, they look extra beautiful in their rapid-succession diversity. It’s not too often where I find myself glued to the soft-cornered rectangular window, taking in an-ever changing pattern of formations that would kill a chameleon. Different shapes and colors, each with their own impressive density. Sitting here as a viewer, it almost feels like a dream—and for once I can be convinced that the journey is truly the destination while mid-step.

I keep snapping photos like I’m a first-time traveler. But even in doing so, I know that this is of course not true. If so, I’d be armed with a purple Le Clic 110 camera that had a yellow shutter release button. And I would have gone through the entire roll of film before we’d even levelled out at 30,000 feet. The thing too with the Le Clic was that the developing process nearly always yielded disappointment. I’ve always known how to frame a picture, but I’ve never once gotten over the disappointment of how machinery can’t truly produce what my eye can record. 

What I appreciate too about these clouds is the context in which they came about. I’m no meteorologist, but I am aware of the world record breaking weather that was experienced today. Having withstood the heat and violent thunderstorms, I am now far above those weather systems. I can only gaze at the remnants of what was described as Hell on Earth. For a short while we were all in a mad scramble for any sort of temporary reprieve. And to endure such moments and discover that my body’s core temp will eventually come down, the end state feels rather satisfying. Thank god that’s over.

It’s the scars that are formed, the tattoos pricked into the body that will ultimately tell our stories and lay testament to all we’ve been through. While they each offer an unconventional beauty, sometimes I catch myself watching the coming weather patterns too closely. I’ll look past the more calm spots and over-focus on any potential evidence of doom creeping forth that will ultimately poison everything around it. And it probably doesn’t help that I live in a place where the weather is confoundingly unpredictable. You’d be hard pressed to fault me for walking around with my hands always covering my head.

We’re leaving the English coast now, about to cross the Irish Sea and make a break for the last stop before the Atlantic Ocean: The Wild Atlantic Way. You won’t believe me when I say that I caught a sliver of rainbow while leaving the English border, but I can tell you that it was there. It was short-lived, but for once I made a deliberate effort to recognize its fledgling presence.  Sometimes, even when it’s not true, the more turbulent moments seem to last longer than the lighter ones. 

So I took the tiny rainbow as a good omen. And once we left the English countryside behind, the clouds just below became suddenly disentangled. Again, I’m no weather guesser, but the layering just below was now smooth and wispy. Light to the touch as if I could have reached down to prove it. Another transformation was in progress, looking easy and moderate for as long as it would last. 

Even though I’m a middle-aged adult and have voyaged on hundreds of flights, when I’m up here I still think about those who came before me. My father, my godmother, and godfather. They were all pilots who made their living in the skies and were forced to make decisions that I will never be aware of from here in the back of the bus. But I think mostly about my dad when here in Ireland. On the whole, he’s the reason for this particular trip, and his kicking me out of the nest is the reason why I find myself getting voluntarily bound up in so many instances of rumbly-shaped cloud formations. It’s not the easiest way to live, but somehow this is my programming. It strikes me that a lot of us wind up living this way. Again, a quick glance of the body is more than validation of this assumption.  

Back down on the ground, I’ve just made my way through a rather wild week. It was far more taxing than anything I would have ever envisioned when I first cruised into July. And I know that while things may have settled out here in the Irish skies, the onward path ensures a world that will churn up more combinations of metaphorical weather fronts. But as we’re starting to make our descent, I’m not particularly interested in reflecting on the possibilities of the future. I can’t stop it from coming, and it’s pointless to live in a bracing position when you’ve got immediate tasks to attend to. Like for now, I’ve got a few days of refuge, familiarity and repose. From there, it won’t matter if there’s excessive sun or rainfall. And I’ll take it and be better about remembering to appreciate what I’ve got overhead. That trusty roof over my head, and the reminder that everything passes around me at the exact same speed.