In Iceland the land is alive. Everything is newly formed with ancient hands. The country shows its fresh mountainous scars with pride while its volcanic pulse beats violently below and a thousand years can be felt in a moment. Land is violently born in guttural heaves while wing bones nestled in eggshells begin to whisper of feathers in the shadow of ash. Walking paths are re-charted year by year as the earth sighs and shifts. Rivers caress and tear in fits of mood. Life is small and strong and learns to sway with the winds. The joy of being alive runs deep between seething volcanoes, biting storms, and long winters. Nothing is permanent and everything is possible.
Before visiting Iceland, I believed that culture was the most important reason to see a place and to find out what makes it different. Iceland was the first place where I really understood that culture and land is interconnected and has always been, from the creation of gods, to how people eat and how they relate themselves with the world.
Sheep friends in the mountains of Emstrur
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