Þingvellir
by Marilyn R. Wilson
We drove absently past the parking lot
Full of tour buses and cars.
The dusty dirt lot down the road
Offered a place of refuge to turn around.
Instead, a lonely line of determined souls,
Ambling down a faint, unmarked dirt trail,
Drew us to take a chance on the unknown.
It was here we discovered magic.
I stood at the edge of a coarse ravine,
Rocks and boulders strewn carelessly,
An ancient chaotic jumble of shapes,
Eurasia colliding with North America.
Nature called softly, luring us in.
Down the piled rocks we descended,
Monolithic walls rising on each side,
Their volcanic history etched in stone.
Tectonic plates always in motion,
Flowing away or crushing together,
Day after day, week after week,
Year after year, decade after decade.
I teetered and stumbled
Through the uneven landscape
Reverently pausing to look up,
To embrace the majesty on display.
All good things come to an end.
This magical natural ravine
Spewed us out into a open channel
Where nature’s beauty had been tamed.
There was a wide concrete pathway,
Cool green grass, a boisterous waterfall.
Tourists jockeyed agressively
Trying to capture Instagram worthy moments.
My heart, however, stayed behind.
Immersed in the chaos and majesty
Of the battle between the plates
And the layers of eruption.
Leaving the ordinary behind us,
We journeyed slowly and thoughtfully,
Back through the stony diorama
And sadly said a heart felt farewell.
On quiet, calm days
When I sink into nothingness
My mind returns to Iceland’s Þingvellir
Where I again stroll between two worlds.
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