Deep in the birch forest, the wild geranium blooms.
Blágresi (Geranium sylvaticum)
Worth getting the feet wet, I say!
In Gunnar’s Iceland, a man’s home was what he could build with his own hands.Rocks for a wall were present everywhere. The hands responded.
And a house was made of sod, cut from that home, by the same hands. So, all those fields in Iceland?
Those are the bodies of men. That’s what it is to be home.
Some mountains are so powerful, their names are primal forces from a land of giants.
Urðahlið: The Broken Mountain, or even The Broken Gate.
Borgarfjördur in Arnarfjörður
It is good that we are small. It is good to know.
The rock is full of air.
Here it is up-close:
Kind of like styrofoam, really. Every bubble chamber in the rock is a time capsule of a wee bit of a volcanic eruption. Grass even roots in it and sucks that old gas in.
How cool is that!
You can be of two minds, at once. They are not in conflict. A forest full of quick life to take you there, through the web of your thoughts?
Or a forest of slow, enduring life, the cliff of ghosts that awaits and towers above you, your body given face as memory?
At Botnstjörn, the windless pond sheltered by birches deep in Ásbyrgi, you can be both at once. They are not in conflict.
Surrender, and feel yourself lose all weight.
Well, the very first blade of the very first grass to ever grow on a steep, eroding slope, that’s what. Mmmm.
It’s self-defeating, but, oh my, it tastes so good.
Moss eats rock.
Sheep hooves cut moss.
That’s right, look the other way.