Healing and finding myself through nature in a remote part of Iceland
Every day was the same, yet it wasn’t. I would wake around sunrise. The sounds of the oystercatchers and snipes would waft in through the open window. Before anything else, I would watch the sky turn pink.
Then it was coffee, writing, a walk on the red path, followed by more writing, a swim in the geothermal pool, a stop at the grocery store, and an evening walk with my camera.
On every morning walk, I would take a seat on a rock that faced a certain mountain. I asked questions there; some yet to be answered. The silver light on the sea soothed me.
In the morning, the cliffs along the ocean beckoned me, while in the evening I craved the still pond or harbour and the sounds of Guillemots and red-throated loons. Sometimes I would wander to the black beach to comb for shells or to the graveyard to stand among the tombstones.
Hrísey was paradise in Eyjarfjordur’s majestic embrace.
There was a grandeur in this simplicity. Everything was a miracle. The waddling ptarmigans, how the long grass turned golden at sunrise, or how the fjord changed in the light. A walk on the long path beckoned you to linger. A seat by the mountain opened your heart.
One evening, I watched the Northern Lights dance for hours above me. It stretched across the sky like a green ribbon unraveling to its own beat. It brought me to tears.
Another day, I walked the long path, then to the lighthouse to watch the sunset, returning in the dusk to the sounds of evening bird song, and a strange, dim light across the moors. A redwing hopped along beside me. He made a fine walking companion.
I craved the ocean. When the salty air reached me, I realized how much I had missed the sea, how the soaring Fulmars and the wading ducks felt like the best company one could have.
One morning, I stood on the cliff’s edge and screamed as loud as I could. With each scream, another grief rose. The heartbreak I carried, my mother’s death, and then a fear of failing.
I feared my screams would disturb the seabirds, but they did not. Instead, it became part of the landscape, blending with the laughing gulls and crashing waves as if my grief belonged there.
I always craved northern points and thin places, and so it was no surprise how at home I felt and in touch with my true self, stripped away from earthly labels and expectations. Beneath my waterproof boots and parka was a soul and I had found her.
Then there were the three strangers I lived with, who felt as if I had known them forever. It was as if we were meant to connect in this lifetime. Saying goodbye was harder than I expected, yet it felt so natural. Fate was at play.
Claire gifted me a sketch book and pencils. There was so much to draw, yet I chose the view from my window. We agreed that lighthouses and the sounds of geese were melancholy.
One day, I took the ferry to the mainland and hired a taxi to take me to Dalvik. There, I boarded the ferry to Grimsey Island, where I walked North on another path to reach the Arctic Circle. It was surreal.
Below is my favorite photograph I took. It is the view from my window in Room 1 on Hrisey. A view I awakened to every day, listened to and watched the birds, had coffee at, sketched, admired the changing landscapes, and thought allot about life.
The house had a mug with owls on it, which I thought was appropriate. When people ask me how my trip to Iceland was this time, I have no answer. How does one define an experience that defines you and changes you at once?
One day I swam in the fjord. It was cold, and uncertain, yet I loved it. On the last day, a thick fog rolled it, concealing the fjord. I’d like to believe this was the mountain’s way of saying goodbye.
I made promises to myself when I left. These are non-negotiable. One changes after they jump into the ice-cold ocean of a northern fjord. That is why I did it. What else is there to fear now?
When I closed the door to Room 1, it did not feel final, yet I knew it was time to go. I will miss Hrísey so much, it hurts my heart. I will miss the precious ptarmigans, the curious Fulmars, the haunting Eider calls, the single raven I saw every day, the rolling long grass, and the smell of the ocean.
I’d like to believe Hrísey will miss me just as much; my whispers to the fulmars, my footprints on the path, and my questions to the mountains.
On occasion, during my walks, I would lie in the long grass, allowing the Northerly mist to envelop me. I often did this on grey days, for they felt the thinnest. I’d bury my fingers in the heather and slip between the worlds, closing my eyes to the sounds of the island. My grief felt safe here; as did I.
I heard the land’s heartbeat. It sounded much like my own. When I came to, I would awaken to the jarring realization I was in Iceland. It was as if I was suddenly aware of the last five years of traveling here, and all that had taken place.
I’d like to believe a part of me remains on Hrísey forever, walking the long path, touching the evergreens, and gazing out over the North Sea; unseen by many, but perhaps felt by some.
When I close my eyes I hear the waves crashing.
In 2021, my journey to write my first novel took me to Iceland. I was fascinated with the myths and the sagas. Since then, I have returned to the country ten times, even delivering a talk on Nordic Mythology at Midgard Base Camp. As my travels continue, I realize my personal story is developing. Reminiscent of a novel, Iceland gifted me with a plot twist that has enriched my life beyond words. Like the volcanic landscapes, lively winds, and glaciers that shape the landscapes here, the land of fire and ice has done the same for me.
May your wanderings be lucky enough to take you here.
