Today I went for a walk. When I first set out, there was little purpose to the walk; my work glazing figurines in the ceramic workshop had been very calming and soothing, and I was simply looking to draw out the feeling of mindfulness. As I walked up the gravel road, I began noticing the simple, archetypal changes that are signs of fall. I had grabbed my camera before I walked out the door, and decided to focus this walk on observing and doing my best to capture the little autumnal indications in my surroundings.
The lupins
by the geothermal pump were still thriving, despite the chillness of the air
that became increasingly apparent as I walked on. I have become more conscious of lupins as a
non-native species in Iceland; yet it seems that there are few catastrophic
side effects from this introduction of a foreign plant. Instead, the lupins provided an unassuming,
natural contrast with the faded red pump house—verdant and lush for now.
As I moved on
towards the cliffs overlooking Sólheimar, I encountered a patch of ice directly
in my path. The magnitude of the
seasonal change struck me at this moment; this pool of ice hadn’t melted during
the day, despite the abundant sunshine.
There was a distinctive nip in the air that made my fingertips tingle
every time I shed my mittens to take another photo. Fall seems to have hit us all of a
sudden. This swift arrival is
intriguing, like watching the world in fast-forward... at least relative to my
perception of a normal seasonal time-scale.
Next I encountered the pitiful
remains of our once-bountiful blueberry patch.
I was delighted to find a few blueberries still hanging on in shriveled
defiance. When I touched the berries,
they immediately covered my fingers in a sugary bloodbath. It looked as though I had pricked my finger
and droplets of blood were beading on my skin; instead of my blood, however, it
was the final death-throes of the blueberries.
I snapped a quick shot of my juice-covered fingers. The simple naïveté of a peace sign seemed
fitting in the company of these innocent blueberries, still sweet even as the
creeping cold and frost brought them to ruin, one by one.
As I looked out over the village, I realized:
I am a part of Sólheimar, and Sólheimar is a part of me.
Nose
running and fingers beginning to itch from the cold, I turned back. In contrast to the icy pools I met on my walk
up the cliffs, this time my eyes were drawn to the sprigs of grass taking
cheerful shelter near a rock. The
ruthless advance of winter had not yet wrought its fury on these delicate
flora. As it glowed in the light of the
setting sun, the grass whispered to me of the waiting warmth and comfort of
Brekkukot. Closing my lens cap and
turning off my camera, I hastened back home.
The comfort that met me there was as the grass had promised: friends
gathered in the kitchen knitting and chatting, with the savory scent of onions
in the air. Here was home, community, security. Yet I was immensely glad to have found
another definition of home, community, and security simply by being alone in
nature.
Tracy Mandel
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