Living in Ice-Land

I've only been to Iceland

once, around the year 1992.

But the exact day was certain:

it was June 21: the longest day of the year.

And in Iceland that means the sun

never leaves the sky.

In Iceland in June,

many fields are green, but

you can also find ice, for sure,

and geysers,

and the 

omnipresent smell of

sulfur,

and the pale blond Icelanders

smile at you and dance

in the sun, determined to celebrate

their endless day.

The man who was my husband at that time

was mad at me,

when I slid between the sheets

and fell asleep

around 1:00 a.m.

He wanted to stay up through a night

with no night

(I believe he actually did, too),

and now I understand why:

It was a rare occasion,

it was why one would be

in Iceland on June 21,

and I, with my usual

naivete

fell asleep.

( thepunkguy )

The people of Iceland

drink a lot,

sincerely and matter-of-factly:

it's what one must do to weather

those long, cold, dark nights.

The people of Iceland

read a lot too,

and their eyes burn like

smoldering coals,

turned inside out by months of

darkness.  

One of their great national poets was a guy

named Snorri Sturluson;

I visited what is reported to be his home,

but it looked like a mound of sod with a door:

the people of Iceland know

that when it's really cold

true warmth can be found

underground.

( mangabay )

When you look through the Icelandic phonebook,

(and if I recall correctly, there was only one

for the whole country)

you will find the names are alphabetized

by first names,

not by last;

even last names are spawned 

by first names;

I interpreted this to suggest

that these people accept and acknowledge

they're all in this together,

so they might as well not try to mask anything

with the false veneer of 

formality.

In fact, reportedly,

there is not much crime in Iceland.

One would be foolish to alienate one's self so

in such an alien land.

( icelandweatherreport )

I remembered that trip to Iceland

today, as the sun glinted off the deep, hard packed snow

in the quadrangle of the college where I work,

and then again, as I shoveled over a foot of the heavy stuff

off the second story porch roof

connected to the place

where I live --

We are, so many of us,  living in Ice Land right now.

And I believe

we have a lot to learn

from the people of Iceland

in this chilly season,

as our wounded earth pulls round herself

this deep white blanket,

a death-like blanket to us,

but really intended to restore.

We struggle across the surface of it,

insistently trudging

through our self-important, self-destructive

lives as we know them,

but what we really know,

if we listen to our bones,

is that we should be sleeping right now,

gently resting inside the womb

of our slumbering mother,

Earth.

Iceland, they say, 

is the youngest landmass on earth, and under her surface

bubbles the cauldron 

of new life.

The ice and snow protect the budding rebirth,

and heals the wounds inflected

by her heedless inhabitants.

~ ~ ~

I've decided to become

an Ice-Lander today,

tomorrow,

and always,

and the next time I get the chance

to experience endless day,

I'll stay awake,

and bask in it.

( theodora.com )