One thing I will always appreciate and be reminded of is the terrifying harshness of mother nature. Growing up in Iceland you learn to fear and respect her, we tell stories about deceitful elves and trolls. We tell stories of drowning fishermen and freezing babies.
The feeling of being utterly insignificant in her presence is very humbling. The landscape can be so overwhelming and the elements can strike at any moment. The pitch black of the dark sea, the bright, blinding snow.
It’s really a cliché, the whole thing, Iceland, the beautiful nature, the believing in elves and trolls, being a annoyed with tourists who die while sightseeing. But there is also something else, something much more important. Something religious.
When I was younger I was really interested in religious images, like the small ones you could get in Sunday school. My parents were never particularly religious so we never went to church and I think I only went once to Sunday school, I never had any of these images but for some reason my sisters did and I used to admire them greatly and hide them away with the rest of my stolen treasures. But I was never religious, I’ve never been able to get into Jesus and friends or any other saviours of any kind. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that my faith is in nature and my saviour is mother nature.
I see her as the rising sun. Full of energy, watchful and bright, mostly warm but sometimes cold.
As the winter frost. Laying her protective blanket over our delicate life.
She is the mountain. Black, jagged rocks pointing to the sky, streams of green moss crawling down her side.
She is the young girl. Standing in the sun, hair in two braids and her fingers tasting bitter after picking dandelions.
She is death. Merciless and cruel, too powerful to be tamed.