When I was a child I took the world map out of the family National Geographic Magazine and used coloured pins to remind myself where in the world I wanted to visit before I died. Extremes were preferred, and places that I deeply desired to see were always the red pins, and one of those places was Iceland. I didn't know why, exactly, other than it sounded like it would be an out of the way place to go, likely full of glaciers and funny people in horned hats who drank a lot of ale and sang songs about Thor. Such overgeneralisations were often used in Elementary School to inspire apathetic young persons into interest. All I ever remember about the Nordic Countries had something to do with the Norse God of Thunder, and buxom blonde women in braids wearing hats.
I remember my father showing me The old Kirk Douglas film, The Vikings. It was painful.
Interest in my geneaology actually led me to Iceland. My last name is of Swedish origin, and I was always curious about that, but could never really find out the lineage as my fathers father wasn't ever interested in me or my life and never really pursued a relationship with me. When I returned to University I took a minor in Nordic Studies, and this in turn led me to remember the map in my room and the little red pin stuck in the heart of Iceland.
Knowing that student loan money could actually assist me visiting such a place, and recognizing that debt slavery for years to come was inevitable already, I decided to blatantly use the system to visit another country. Rumours of a Study Abroad to Reykjavik circulated in the department, and I made a silent pact with myself that I would not back down from this pursuit of a childhood desire until I had set foot on Icelandic soil.
My father died on Christmas Eve this past year. It was sudden and painful to handle, and has been of considerable stress to me and my sister and my mother. It has changed me and made me harder and less hopeful than I used to be. I had told him of my interest in Iceland, and he had openly offered to help me get there. But he died before we could really go into anything solid, and I decided in January that I was going to continue to try and get to Iceland, even if it was fairly unafordable and difficult. To be honest it came upon me fairly quickly, and most of the time I was there I didn't feel it could be possible to actually be there, but I was. I would like to write about it, if anything to get down my memories before they are lost to the UNreality I live in and the concerns of survival for an old soul in such a difficult world.
Disclaimer: I'm not really writing this for anyone but myself, so if it seems like rambling to any random person that seems interested in wasting there time here, and you don't want to read all my prose dribble, you don't have to. Its been a long time since I've rid my well of inspiration of muck and foul writing, so it is likely that the stuff I write sucks ass. I'm also not really a fan of computers, but lately seeing my handwriting on paper has made my heart hurt more than I can tolerate, as my hand is similar to my fathers handwriting, as we are/were both Left handed.
On to Iceland.
It began with this dream I had in May. It was a very vivid dream and when I woke I felt as if I wasn't really supposed to be in my bed. The Waking felt more like Dreaming, and this phenemenon has continued off and on for several months. This construct of reality is so limited, it feels more like a nightmare and less like my concept of what reality is.
In my dream I was in a place I had never actually visited or seen, although topographically I knew it was a volcano. The volcano was all there was, aside from a range of mountains and bluffs to the right of the volcano. I had a cedar flute in this place, and the purpose was for me to play the flute at a certain location near this volcano in order to facilitate and ease some kind of change. I did not know what, but I knew the change was a positive one and that it was some sort of introduction or reintroduction of a force of goodness into the world in order to assist and facilitate a shift in consciousness. It was as if a helper or guide or hero or event had to be initiated using intention and the flute as the tool for that intent in order for there to be a chance for true balance in the future of our species. I went to the place, I played the flute, and I woke up.
The funny thing is, I've never played a flute in all my life. I've never even really held one. I've been a fan of the cedar flute as played by Carlos Nakai for a bulk of my conscious musical awareness, but I've never actually thought or desired to play one.
I couldn't get this vision out of my mind. A month passed, and in late June my grandmother was placed in the hospital. She is 88 years of age, and of Cherokee lineage, although she has never talked much about it in spite of me trying to ask. I have heard my grandfather, who passed before my birth, was also of Indian descent, but there is considerable sketchiness to this claim as some say it is perhaps true, and others deny it. My eldest cousin was alive and interacting with Meme's husband Mart, and he told me our grandfather taught him the old ways of life. I have wanted to know more about this, but no one in my family has shown interest in talking about it in detail.
Meme and I are very close. I can't explain the link, other than it doesn't really feel like a link between grandmother and granddaughter, it feels more like a link between sisters or kindred spirits. I have known her longer than this life, and she feels to have been my sibling at times. Most people in the family have always been a little awkward about this, as Meme definately spoils me, and I definately don't deserve any of her attention, especially since I am a lousy granddaughter with regards to communicating with her. I think it is because it pains me greatly to see her in the state she is in, as she is an active individual leading a life past grace, in a world where doctors and pills keep her alive longer than is honourable. Meme fell ill less than a month before I was to be in Iceland, and it was difficult for me to make the decision to leave, knowing I might not see her again.
The day I visited Meme in the hospital, where she was eating a mass-processed tapioca pudding packet fighting cellulitis with the aid of a heavy antibiotic drip, she gave me a check for $200. This was unexpected money and all no's were refused (I have difficulty receiving gifts). It was one of the best days I ever spent with my grandma, who was clear of thought and happy to visit like two old sisters seeing each other after a very long time. I recall her looking out of the seventh story window of Penrose Main and asking me if I saw that man with the scythe. I saw no one, but she was convinced there was someone out there, but changed the topic and asked me of Iceland and wanted me to tell her all about it later, it gave her something to look forward to.
That weekend I randomly came upon a Native cedar flute with and eagle fetish in the Dulcimer shop in Manitou Springs. With tax it came to a little over $200 and in less than a day I was fairly decent at playing it.
More on this later. I'm a little spent.
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