Run ragged, pressed to
recesses of crafted catacombs,
jagged textures
(sharp in their own
right, far from Their wrongs),
still, the echo of this
chamber (I crafted) wills itself in
waves: siren song
wafts on clear air, calls fear
forth, dares me still; you
must, out here are
voices worth
your trust.
What things do you know to be true?
How do know when a truth is to be trusted?
What forces have shaped your perception of truth?
In recent years, I began articulating my highly sensitized flight response as “the mental cave” – a simple metaphor, easy to explain. I retreat into myself, too suddenly, too easily, and the only remedy for reentry is time.
This prompt dropped me somewhere highly specific: a cave on the black sand beaches of Reynisfjara on the southern coast of Iceland. You’ve seen pics; the spot is just east of the hex formations that have served as the backdrop for everything from wedding photos to #GoT episodes. Since childhood I’ve been drawn to points far north, and a few Novembers ago, instead of planning turkey and stuffing, we were plotting a trip to Iceland.
I say “we” – but the truth is that while it was my dream, the planning was mostly him. Neither of us has traveled much, and yet. An Airbnb in downtown Reykjavik, a rental car, maps, an approximate itinerary for several day-long trips. It was a stretch for both of us, but looking back, it’s exactly how we’ve tackled this life together: plan for the key details, the structure of a thing, and then let it unfold on its own rather than orchestrating every moment. It’s the best of both of us, the ways in which we’re opposite.
There isn’t a way to capture what it *feels* like to be in this place. The photos and videos are stunning but don’t come close. It’s exhilarating, otherworldly. I felt every directional force of nature, every electrochemical signal, violently in motion, perfectly in balance.
It felt like truth.
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