"What modern technical noises - for that matter, what music, even Bach - can compete with the music of water, river and fjord, constantly in motion? To extend that metaphor, what artwork that you hang on your walls can stand up to the splendor of the light that enters this house? It is good that humans labor to make beauty out of light and sound and language, but we must also practice a certain modesty in the presence of our superior - the world outside those windows." Bill Holm, The Windows of Brimnes
We all tend to see the world around us through windows of some kind, whatever boxes we place around our perception of the world. But literally speaking, I think the best introduction to this adventure of ours is to show you what really lies just outside the windows of this little farmhouse called Kálfaströnd.
Here is a satellite image of the Kálfaströnd peninsula and on the bottom left you can see the three buildings of the farm. The farmhouse is the little dot nearest to the water.
The beauty of this place lies not in the what of it (though there is plenty of quaint in this old, moldy little building) but in the where of it. There is just a bigness to the Icelandic landscape and every little wooden window beckons you to take a look, to soak it in.
I find myself forgetting my thoughts, forgetting the sentence I had begun as I watch a lenticular cloud settle over the crater south of the farm.
Today, I poured coffee into the french press and forgot to put the plunger in. I was watching the ewe outside, hobbling under the weight of a tragically damaged and distended uterus, protectively herding her lamb from an oncoming car. Even though she didn't have much life left in her, she was still compelled by her biological imperative: to care for that child. The lamb herself had a disconcerting habit of parking beneath the bedroom windows and coughing loudly. So much going on, can you see why it's easy to forget that coffee?