Here I am reading a magazine at one of my favorite places in Sligo--St. Patrick's holy well in Dromard. I used to go there alone to cry and vent and did quite a bit of both. You can see how green and quiet and lovely this spot is. Now that I am in Sharon, Wisconsin, I have no such luxury. I am sure I would be arrested if I went over to the local Catholic church parking lot and started screaming and moaning. No one ever caught me sobbing at this well where St. Patrick stands guard with his staff. I left lots of despair and desperate thoughts there with him and the murky well water.
Since I no longer have my private holy well, I will vent a bit right here. Many trivial, borderline petty things are bothering me today:
Like an old friend who recently stopped by for a visit after ten years and corrected me five times when I used the word 'hotel' instead of 'pensione' when we talked about one of her trips to Medjugorie. "I stayed in a in a 'pensione,' Brenna, not a hotel." I did not correct her.
Like how someone I dare not name corrects me pompously when I leave out a syllable in 'acetaminophen.' I can't seem to remember all of them. Yet this person has no idea how to use many common words in the English language, such as 'mortify.' I never correct her barbaric use of words. Why would I? It would hurt her feelings. She might be mortified if I did.
Enough pettiness. This holy well is unbelievably scenic. Sheep all over the hills surrounding it. The tour busses in Sligo drop their passengers off at another, way, way less impressive holy well that is all built up with Stations of the Cross and benches and video cameras hidden in the trees to catch petty thieves. St. Patrick's holy well in Dromard has been there long, long before he turned up in Ireland. I am sure this well has heard everything by now. Petty things and tragic things.
Brenna Briggs writes the Liffey Rivers Irish Dancer mysteries.