For ever and for ever when I move

“She is like the morn in May
Mild, divine and clever
Like a shiny sommerday
She is mine forever.”

Six days in Iceland is not nearly enough. Two days in Reykjavík, artsy, charming, full of tasteful Viking men in full beards and flannel, many of them pushing baby trams. Vintage thrift stores full of furs and Icelandic sweaters, all fully beyond my price range. Nibbling on bread and yogurt (incredible dairy products! just incredible). Poetry painted on the sidewalks, art painted on the walls. Café by day and bar by night. 

We rented a car, a nicely aged Toyota: the rental was quite cheap, the petrol quite expensive. Three enchanting days driving on the ring road, Route 1 along the southern coast, through misty rainclouds, flooded streets, spots of sunlight on the horizon. Waterfalls spilling over the cliffs, rocky crags shrouding the glaciers behind. Rainbows shadowing clouds on the horizon. Stop alongside the road to take pictures with the Icelandic horses; admire their charming size and friendly dispositions. Face total isolation on the black misty beaches of Vík as dusk settles in, the whole landscape seeming somewhere between heaven and hell; if souls were meant to wander after the body has perished, surely this is where they must come.

In the glacier lagoon float icebergs the color of a melted blue raspberry icee; the wind is bitter and relentless. Warm mud masks in buckets on the edge of the Blue Lagoon, bury the feet in mud on the bottom of the pool, relax. Black lava landscapes, pebbles and sand, flattened volcano tops on the drive north to the coast. An unexpected invitation to a party, always say yes. Small chunks of shark meat that reek of piss, salted seaweed, mussels, sea anemones, scallops fresh out of the shell; salad, potatoes, meat carved off the carcass of a lamb, dancing and poetry and music.

Leave with reluctance and promise to return.

An Icelandic poem must be clever, written with humor and poignant intention:

“Sleep Lóu bird, long and slender
The lights nearby are dying.
There will be quiet on the sea
In the lakes and the woods are silence.”

Less than one month until my departure date.

I gave my notice to one of my three jobs, knocking timidly on the office door, my voice informing my boss of my plans with the slightest tremor. “Aren’t you afraid?” she asks, in the ever-so-polite way that Minnesotans inquire about personal things. In her eyes, I have rough plans sketched in the aftermath of a one-way flight, no contacts to follow, just the whisper of adventure. I am leaving my jobs, my family, my friends, my country, any stability I have established, to go off on my own.

I have a very nostalgic sense of fear, felt only when I think of how my life is moving in a different direction than those of my closest friends. Instead of engagements, weddings, job promotions, career paths, masters degrees, or PhD’s, I have a map sketched on a piece of paper, dreams of organic farms, hobbies to nurture, increased self-dependency to develop, global citizenry to establish. One path is not better than the other. Each path is blazed according to circumstance, opportunity, connection. In response: I am more nervous for the return than the departure, and I have only a vague idea of when the return will be.

My brain is clicked into travel gear, ticking through list after list. To pack: clothing, warm gear, preventative medications, health and beauty, gadgets. Each category contains its own column of items. To do: box up belongings, write letters, make last-minute appointments, purchase train tickets, make reservations, inform friends and co-workers. Sketch out calendars with remaining days, red and blue boxes that make my stomach simultaneously nervous and giddy, little sketches in the margins, lists on sticky notes, phone numbers and addresses.

This chapter of my life is drawing to a close; the next chapter is rustling with promise.

As I get in the car after our conversation, turning the key in the ignition, listening as the engine whirrs into life, emotions begin to swirl violently in my chest. Excitement, fear, a hysteric flush of realization at the reality of it, months of talking about it and suddenly, we are here:

Balancing on the delicate cusp, still before the mad rush of beginning.