The Ocean Moving Before Me

Occasionally when things get really stressful, the only thing I want more than anything is to get away and unplug. No phone, no computer, no internet. At night, I imagine the sound of the ocean moving before me, stars trailing out across the evening sky, and I’m the only person around for hundreds of miles. Even if I wasn’t, it’s the feeling that is nice. I have huge amounts of respect for those people that set out on this course, and am constantly looking for an out.

On a past adventure to Iceland, I saw this tiny old home while driving around. Walking up, I peered through windows and poked my head inside. The smell of decay was thick. It’s current inhabitants scurried about, while it’s past inhabitants were nothing more than a memory. That night, I slept in the remnants of an old stone foundation farther up the road. The wind was howling, and it was a nice respite from the incessant gale. After donning my earplugs and rolling onto my back, I stared up into the abyss and sank deeper into the infinite that is the mind.

The Great and Black Expanse

Iceland- The lighthouse. A beacon on a stormy night. To those on land, it is a monument. A reminder of those who have perished on the waters. To those sailing out in the great and black expanse, it is a savior, A reminder that there is someone watching over them, keeping them safe, giving them hope.

The Country

Days pass by, driving North around the fjords, through tunnels, over mountains – always driving, searching. Churches and cemeteries dot the countryside next to abandoned farmhouses, whose only inhabitants scurry about looking for food and shelter from the incessant storms that batter the well-weathered walls.

In the small towns that litter the countryside, church steeples rise up, stretching toward the sky. Every Sunday, town people fill the pews, solemnly giving thanks for the lives that are their own. One-by-one they file outside, walking past the old cemeteries filled with small wooden crosses. The grass is long and unkempt, still brown from the winter, but on the verge of change.

The earth rotates and warms the air. Iceland is waking up from its winter slumber.

Driving by country houses, mothers hang clothes in the yard while keeping an ever-watchful eye on their children who wrestle around close by. Animals, with their thick winter coats, plod through fields grazing on the spring foliage, perfectly content to lie about in the sun.

Endless expanses of color stretch out toward the horizon: Rich green valleys, carved smooth by receding glaciers follow crystal clear meandering rivers and streams. Rugged mountains, torn apart by years of volcanic abuse, shoot up from the ancient flood plains. Clouds race across the sky as shadows roll over the earth.

Sounds of nature are soon mixed with sounds of man. Tractors yawn and roll out of the barns. They lumber over the fields, tilling the earth, cracking the surface, allowing it to breathe. The farmers who toil under the sun day in and day out share a connection with the land. They’re in touch with every living thing, waiting, patiently listening, watching for signs that tell them it is time to start the process. From creation until death, all of Iceland belongs to the earth.