Vientiane, Laos- Somebody told a joke. Two of them liked it, but the rest did not. I wish I could have known what joke they told because I bet it was funny.
The Country
Days pass by, driving North around the fjords, through tunnels, over mountains – always driving, searching. Churches and cemeteries dot the countryside next to abandoned farmhouses, whose only inhabitants scurry about looking for food and shelter from the incessant storms that batter the well-weathered walls.
In the small towns that litter the countryside, church steeples rise up, stretching toward the sky. Every Sunday, town people fill the pews, solemnly giving thanks for the lives that are their own. One-by-one they file outside, walking past the old cemeteries filled with small wooden crosses. The grass is long and unkempt, still brown from the winter, but on the verge of change.
The earth rotates and warms the air. Iceland is waking up from its winter slumber.
Driving by country houses, mothers hang clothes in the yard while keeping an ever-watchful eye on their children who wrestle around close by. Animals, with their thick winter coats, plod through fields grazing on the spring foliage, perfectly content to lie about in the sun.
Endless expanses of color stretch out toward the horizon: Rich green valleys, carved smooth by receding glaciers follow crystal clear meandering rivers and streams. Rugged mountains, torn apart by years of volcanic abuse, shoot up from the ancient flood plains. Clouds race across the sky as shadows roll over the earth.
Sounds of nature are soon mixed with sounds of man. Tractors yawn and roll out of the barns. They lumber over the fields, tilling the earth, cracking the surface, allowing it to breathe. The farmers who toil under the sun day in and day out share a connection with the land. They’re in touch with every living thing, waiting, patiently listening, watching for signs that tell them it is time to start the process. From creation until death, all of Iceland belongs to the earth.