Sitting down to listen to the presidential debacle — I mean, debate — with a stack of totes to paint for the craft fair at St James church in Arlington VT this weekend. Painting has been just what the head doctor ordered the last week or two while we work through an ongoing healthcare issue with T1, and a little doodling may be just the right antidote for tonight too.
When we returned from Iceland, I knew I would have to paint its landscape. It didn’t just creep into my soul; it exploded it, shaking me awake after a long sleep.
Kleifarvatn Lake, the largest lake on the Reykjanes Peninsula in southwest Iceland, sits on a fissure on the Mid-Atlantic ridge.
Not too long ago, apparently annoyed by the pesky elves and trolls in whom 60% of Icelanders swear they believe (and 40% won’t say they don’t) Mother Nature cracked up. The earthquake that resulted created a hole in the bottom of the lake. The lake lost quite a bit of water.
A few years later, after living with her impromptu makeover and giving it a real chance, Mother Nature began filling the crack again. She fed the lake from underground, and by the time we saw it, she had almost refilled it.
It’s almost like she was trying to remind us that life is a work in progress — even when you’re 4.5 billion years old.
It’s impossible to live in the mountains for a long time and not, at some point, see a female form in the peaks and valleys. They don’t make really recall the delicate shape of a young girl but more the convex curve of a belly that has nurtured life a few billion times. It makes it easy to understand how cultures around the world have personified the earth as Mother. It also makes it easy — and difficult — to understand why we treat her the way we do.
I was thinking of that this afternoon as I escaped to find something new to draw.