How feeling small can be a big deal …

"... I’ve crossed more than a sea 
to get to where I am 
this journey began long ago
in dreams and visions 
of a quieter life ..."

It’s hard to believe that, at time of writing, I’m already half way through my trip to Iceland.  Yet it feels weird to even think about time, because quite honestly, it feels irrelevant.  It feels like time has stood still and I could be in a different era entirely, on another planet.  A couple of days ago we had to drive to Reykjavík to buy a replacement stove (don’t ask … long story!).  I felt completely out of my comfort zone, navigating a busy ring road and lots of traffic.  For weeks, it feels like we’ve been living in a time warp, where you can drive for miles without seeing a car and where isolated farms populate an otherwise wild and wide open space. 

I’m intoxicated by the huge landscape, so much so that it feels rude to break the spell.  Whilst driving, I usually listen to the radio, or to music, but here we’ve driven in silence.  It feels too much to add to the already crowded senses.  If I say anything to my husband, who is sat beside me in the van, I almost whisper.  I’ve purposefully avoided listening to the news.  To some, that may sound irresponsible but, goodness, I feel so light as a result!  

It’s been a complete detox from so much of what drains me at home.  I wrote in an earlier blog about how travel can give you fresh perspective, and I’m certainly feeling that.  When you encounter a landscape both as ancient and alive as Iceland’s, you can’t help but accept that we humans aren’t as powerful as we think we are.  We’re not in control of this planet we call home.  We aren’t even that well established as a species in the grand scheme of things.  It’s thought provoking in ways I didn’t expect, and the poems just keep coming.  I’ve felt truly humbled and inspired, brought down to size by the sheer scale of the scenery, attracted by the seeming simplicity of life here (which I accept may not be simple at all, but I can only share my impressions).  Most townships are small and unassuming, usually with a church, a swimming pool, a football pitch and not much else.  I find it incredibly refreshing and perhaps it’s just what I needed as I transition from one way of living to another.  I needed to reconnect to nature and be reminded of my inconsequential place in the world.  I have plans and dreams for the next chapter of my life, of course I do, but I’m learning not to look too far into the future.  

One of the lessons I most needed to learn is to live in the moment.  I’ve watched a lot of tourists here (almost all Chinese) pour out of coaches and hire cars, to view a scene, take a photo and quickly get back on the road.  Who am I to judge?  I’m just as guilty sometimes of seeing something through the lens of my iPhone camera, rather than really looking.  I’m privileged because time is on my side: we’re here for an extended period of time.  I can and have surrendered to Iceland’s spell, engaging all my senses.  I’ve felt the roughness of the lava rocks and the softness of the vivid green moss carpeting the valley floor.  I’ve listened to the howling wind, felt the rain on my face, and tasted the saltiness of sea.  I’ve felt my bones rattle on unsurfaced roads and soothed in thermal pools.  Quite simply, I’ve lived in a big place and felt small.  I suspect planet earth approves.