Þingeyri, Westfjords, Iceland.
The colours behaved like a mist, so dense that they lingered in the air before organically making place for the next wave of atomised droplets of pure light. Letting it wash over me feels like a balm to my soul.
There is something about this time of the year that resonates deeply with me. The changing of the seasons that happens so quickly and dramatically in this part of the world. It reminds me of the changes in our own life and how their colours determine who we are. What makes us pure light if we would just go with the flow.
Autumn in Iceland start around the mid-end of August already and lasts until the end of October. It’s when all the colours of the landscape start changing, the snow starts creeping down once again. But for me it’s mostly the changing of the light that characterises these 2 months.
s I look down from the hills, I see the landscape changing. The mountains and valleys are not longer bright green and purple, for a mustard haze started to take over. The promise of yellow lingers in the soil.
I shift my gaze up to the horizon. A red sun glances back at me, as a flaming cold breeze, going right though me. It is in these days of fire sunsets that autumn makes her entrance in the fjords. Persuading the mountains of orange. Winning their trust before going to sleep in the sea.
White clouds run over the horizon, their feet splashing in the ocean before rising to red and purple above me. I look down over me. The rivers are still running blue, the course of the water unchanged.
But it has been quite a journey.
And I go back to that feeling. A calling. I keep coming back to it. Again. Again. Again.
I used to write letters, in my mind. Now i know, it was to this.