Faith of darkness: Iceland and isolation

Last January, I went on a J-Term course to Iceland titled “Glaciers, Volcanos, Sagas, and Songs: Interweaving Culture & Landscape in Iceland.” A big part of the course was looking at how isolation both from the world and from other Icelanders shapes Icelandic culture. At the time I had no idea how intimately I’d get to know isolation. We spent a few days in Reykjavík and then spent the rest of our time going from small town to small town. We were led by Associate Professor in Geography Jeff La Frenierre, a glacial researcher, and Associate Professor in Scandinavian Studies Kjerstin Moody, who specializes in literature. This course was the first time Gustavus had brought students to Iceland and I was so honored to be part of it.
The word “awesome” is overused. But as I look for the words to describe the trip, awesome is the only word I can come up with. Every day I was filled with awe. I remember one specifically awe-inspiring day. We hiked around a mountain to a river, then put our swimsuits on and jumped in. The river was hot and hotter than many of the pools that we went to. We sat and relaxed after our three-and-a-half kilometer hike. A lot of people were chatting, laughing, and taking pictures.
After sitting there for around half-an-hour with the constant chatter of human beings, I spoke up and asked everyone to be quiet for a few minutes. When people finally quieted down something magical happened. We could hear the wind whipping around the mountain above and the cold air nipped at our throats, but we were surrounded by the warm comfort of this natural hot river. This was one of the best moments of my life. Then we all slowly and quietly got up and got dressed. The hike back was completely blissful, despite the wind and freezing rain that almost seems to be a constant in Iceland.
The night before that hike is another night that I still can’t find the right words for. We spent the day hiking around the Althing, which is the original meeting point of Iceland’s government; people started meeting there around 900 AD. This point is on the rift between two tectonic plates. It really, truly does have a special feeling; I fully understand why the settlers picked this point as their central meeting point. After visiting the Legal Rock and the Althing, we went for a soak at a natural water pool, where there were four different pools at varying temperatures.
The biggest pool was called a “natural” pool and was completely built out of rocks local to the area. Oh, and all these pools were outside and on the lakefront. We were encouraged to take a dip in the lake. I spent my evening moving from pool to pool, sometimes sitting in silence and sometimes sitting in conversation with the other amazing people who were on this trip. At the beginning of this evening, there was still enough sunlight to make out the breathtaking landscape that surrounded us, but as the blanket of darkness fell, the landscape disappeared. As I sat in these pools and looked out over the dark lake, knowing what laid beyond, it occurred to me that this is what faith is. Faith is knowing that the landscape around you is breathtaking, but sometimes it is just too dark to see.
As we find ourselves facing the dark Corona winter ahead, I have found myself thinking back to these moments in Iceland. Even in complete darkness and cold, I was able to find peace, friendship, and an overwhelming sense of coziness. The Icelandic way of life had isolation built into it, even before COVID-19. They coped by building up their stories and folklore; maybe we need to go back to that. Instead of focusing on how alone we are, let’s bring back the elves. I urge you to take some time to write a COVID-19 fairy tale. We can prep our past travel stories and have them ready when we’re sitting around a fire. Together we can reminisce about a world where we were allowed to travel. Lots of good can come out of this lonely time.