St. Patrick's Day
There is a feeling I get on St. Patrick's Day that I have never been able to make sit still and reveal itself. Because I am not a reveller. I don't make a point of wearing green and I don't line up to get into an Irish-themed chapels with friends and people I have just met. With those bright, imbibing bands I have no claim to be.
And I don't walk uphill along a flat intersection wearing a green leprechaun hat and sporting some kind of green colour in my moustache while I flash an okay sign to traffic letting me pass.
But, and here is the point about not quite understanding St. Patrick's Day, I feel a kind of warmth as I ride into and through these scenes. Like the tingle of a first sip of beer that goes right by my stomach and swirls for a couple of seconds behind my knees. Like knowing the monks are out there somewhere praying for us all.
I don't tip this way and that walking with a friend along a sloshy pathway, turning to address an approaching bicycle rider and gesturing as if moving my hands through water, and saying, just a little too loud and just a little too slow, that it's St. Patrick's Day and why can't we all get along!