A picture of white and ethereal blue not contained in a frame. A road that goes on forever, further than the eyes can see. A song that seals this moment in my memory like the firm mark of a rubber stamp. Mountains in the distance, like impossible dreams. And snow. Soft, bumpy, smooth snjór.Brilliant under the generous sunlight it hides all the myriad greens and browns of the Icelandic landscape. In the whiteness of the winter, I cannot tell they exist.
Ég elska sólskin á snjó.
I love the sunshine on the snow.
I repeat this to myself every few minutes as we drive into the nothingness and hope that I won’t forget this combination of words in a language I’m taken with. Lately, my mind has been having trouble retaining the best parts of the stories I’ve been living, losing them like grains of sand falling through a child’s tiny slender fingers. The loss is painful; the moments when I feel life energy rush through my veins are only so many and fleeting at best. This is one of those rare ones and I’m not ready to let it go. I fear it would pass me by quicker if I were to waste time bringing out my notebook and pen. So I look. I listen. I breathe. Inhale, exhale, inhale.
We drive past a stud of eager, playful horses. I look at the mountains, reassuring in their magnanimity. I am small and the feeling of insignificance is liberating. I am unimportant and so I am free to err, regret and pretend that none of it matters. We are perfect together, the mountains and who I am before them.
Thetta ert minn stadur.
This is my place.
Every now and then I write about what travel feels like, beyond the sights I see, the people I meet, and the foods I try- what it really feels like. If you enjoyed this note, you might want to read more stories straight from the heart. This story first appeared on my Medium page.