Winter at Jökulsárlón

About ten minutes from where we stayed on Iceland’s south coast is one of the country’s wonders. A tongue of the massive Vatnajökull glacier flows into Jökulsárlón Glacier Bay where icebergs break off and flow on Iceland’s shortest river into the Atlantic. Then waves break the bergs even more, and incoming tides push the broken ice unto the black sand, giving the place its name—Diamond Beach. Unfortunately, for our visit, no ice flowed back to the beach. Nonetheless, the mountains, glacier, bay, and beach were still wondrously beautiful.

Jökulsárlón Bay, Iceland

As we sat at the edge of the water, a school of fish fluttered and jumped in front of us, and soon seals were feeding. Far across the Atlantic, past Greenland, on Cape Cod, Mary Oliver watched seals and wrote a poem of memory.

Winter at Herring Cove

Years ago,

on the bottle-green light

of the cold January sea,

Breaker on Bagh Steinigidh

two seals

suddenly appeared together

in a single uplifting wave—

Seal on Jökulsárlón

each in exactly the same relaxed position—

each, like a large, black comma,

upright and staring;

it was like a painting

done twice

and, twice, tenderly.

Sunset seal

The wave hung, then it broke apart;

its lip was lightning;

its floor was the blow of sand

over which the seals rose and twirled and were gone.

Of all the reasons for gladness,

what could be foremost of this one,

Dawn Jökulsárlón beach

that the mind can seize both the instant and the memory!

Now the seals are no more than the salt of the sea.

If they live, they’re more distant than Greenland.

Over Greenland

But here’s the kingdom we call remembrance

with its thousand iron doors

through which I pass so easily,

Loch Ba golden ice

switching on the old lights as I go—

while the dead wind rises and the old rapture rewinds,

the stiff waters once more begin to kick and flow.

Herring Cove, Mary Oliver from What Do We Know? 2002

Dawn on Diamond Beach, Jökulsárlón, Iceland

The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac -- by Mary Oliver

Today starts National Poetry Month—no foolin’. I just listened to a rebroadcast of a 2015 podcast interview with poet Mary Oliver. I mentioned in an earlier post that I only learned about Oliver’s poetry after I read her obituary in 2019. Much of her imagery and metaphor come from her walks in nature and her incredible observation.

If you’d like, you can listen to the entire 49 minute podcast here or if you choose, the entire hour and a half unedited interview which is even better: On Being: About halfway through the interview, she reads her four-part poem The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac written after her encounter with lung cancer. Some excerpts of the poem accompany the images below.

Carlsbad Caverns National Park, New Mexico

The question is,
what will it be like
after the last day?
Will I float
into the sky
or will I fray
within the earth or a river—
remembering nothing?

from Part 2, The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac, Mary Oliver

The main reason to visit this park, of course, is the cavern. The second reason is to experience the whir of thousands of bats swarming out of the cave at dusk, some zooming a few feet over your head. An unexpected bonus of the park was walking through the Chihauhaun desert. In the image above, we were blessed with a striking setting sun over the Permian Basin.

Moonrise, White Sands National Park, New Mexico

I know, you never intended to be in this world.
But you’re in it all the same.

so why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

Bless the feet that take you to and fro.

from Part 3, The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac, Mary Oliver

The fierce wind the evening pictured above at White Sands blew sand into your clothes. The wind began to settle a bit as the sun set. On a distant dune, three people sat to watch the moon rise in the sky.

Purple Sand Verbena, White Sands National Park

The Purple Sand Verbena is a desert member of the Four O’Clock family. Natives used it as a sedative to reduce nervousness, anxiety, and tension. I suppose that is from consuming it. Seems like just looking at it can have a similar effect.

Late yesterday afternoon, in the heat,
all the fragile blue flowers in bloom
in the shrubs in the yard next door had
tumbled from the shrubs and lay
wrinkled and fading in the grass. But
this morning the shrubs were full of
the blue flowers again. There wasn’t
a single one on the grass. How, I
wondered, did they roll back up to
the branches, that fiercely wanting,
as we all do, just a little more of
life?

Part 4, The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac, Mary Oliver

If you’d like to hear Oliver read the entire poem—and I encourage it—you can find it here. Or you can read it here. And an interpretive footnote—Keats was 29 when he died.

Cherrio

Two years ago, my photo excursion was to leave Isle of Skye and head from the Inner Hebrides to the Outer Hebrides.

Elgol, Isle of Skye

Instead to heading to the remote island of Lewis and Harris, the restrictions in the UK were tightening and my traveling companions from Australia got notice that they had to return to their country. So we returned to the mainland, traveling through Glen Shiel.

Glen Shiel

The Five Sisters of Kintail are the mountain ridge on the north side of the Glen which are Munros, or mountains with peaks over 3,000 kilometers high. As we pulled over to take in this view, I remember seeing a pair of plastic gloves thrown on the ground. The first of a new type of trash of gloves and then facemasks that would litter the ground for the next two years.

Kiltain mountain ridge

Our final road stop was Invermoriston, a small village on the river Moriston as it flows into Loch Ness. The sun was just going behind the mountains and fog rolled in. We made plans that we would redo the photo excursion the following March.

Above Invermoriston

In Edinburgh, I met up with Caroline. We took a last walk through the now empty streets of the capitol city to the view at Calton Hill over to the Castle. The return trip for March 2021 was rescheduled to March 2022, and as Omicron spread, that too was cancelled. So this week, I again should be returning from Scotland. Hopefully, one day.

Sunset Edinburgh from Calton Hill