solstice notes
from these recent weeks of unbroken daylight
Today, as I’m beginning to write this, the sun will set just after midnight and rise again a few minutes before 3 am, and in between, the sky won’t grow dark, but things will lose some of their saturation, a gray cast over everything. The birds, as far as I can tell, don’t sleep at all.
I’ve been in Iceland for two weeks now- I arrived on the 5th of June on a ferry from Denmark. Sailing through nine meter high swells in the North Atlantic left me with a rocking feeling that held on for my first few days back on land. Being in our cabin with no window and trying to sleep to the creaking and heaving of the ship over each wave was a new kind of disorientation and delirium.
I’ve been noticing that since I began this period of traveling alone, I experience many more shifts in my mood throughout a single day. Without another person to anchor my experience to, someone to commiserate with, and lean on when something is difficult, or to absorb and reflect back the joy and excitement of a beautiful moment, I find myself with more emotion to process than I’m used to. Journaling helps, to make sense of experiences and feelings through writing, but I’m realizing that I rely on conversation, and communication to sort through of the endless stream of happenings, and the emotional responses they each bring about.
The reason for this trip, is that I am beginning to work on a film here, following my familial connection to Iceland. My great-great grandparents emigrated from Iceland to Canada, and then to the US in 1888, while some of my great-great grandmother’s siblings remained on their family’s farm, Hagi. I used to feel that this great-greatness meant that this all happened a very long time ago, but since being here, I feel that actually this was all incredibly recent. Anything further in the past than the length of a single human life had always felt immeasurably distant, but in hearing stories that span generations and geologic time, and being at Hagi, where the landscape likely looked much the same then as it does now, it is as though a bridge has been built between.
My 4th cousin, and his wife who are now farming at Hagi have 30 dairy cows, about 100 sheep, and several horses. They began haying the fields about a week ago, which will continue for the next couple of months. They have been so welcoming to me, and have shared so generously- abundant meals, stories, and a feeling of warmth and ease.
I wanted to share this note from my journal a couple of days ago:
“Sometimes, the work seems to be in not filming, not recording. I pulled the II of pentacles today, an infinity sign, and saw the two pools at Svínafell, in the same shape. I didn't make the connection until now. There is a manic energy around these landmarks. I feel myself getting swallowed by it. I walked past a full car of travelers fast asleep in the parking lot, undoubtedly worn out completely by the endless drive to document. It is a hard urge to fight at times, and is never satiable. It grows with the accumulation of material, always larger, what we haven’t captured looming greater than these glowing blue icebergs, and slowly but surely melting into the sea.”
Later in the day, on a hike, I overheard a mother ask her son who had stopped, phone poised to take a photo, “and what are you going to do with all of these pictures?”
I’d like to write more soon, but it’s hard to sit down at the computer when the daylight is always beckoning, and there is much to keep track of as I travel about. Next month, I’ll be at a residency in Skagaströnd, which I am hopeful will allow for some more time for writing and reflecting, along with plenty of filming and sound recording.
~ Emma
Making some awesome memories. What a cool revelation about the crutch of dialogue in our understanding. May you bring that reflection with you upon reentry to your support community.
Have fun stretching through the residency.