I was once driving with a friend of mine after a delightful weekend away with friends. The sun had shone for days, and as we drunk copious amounts of alcohol, toked on joints and listened to music, we felt that we were in bliss. Good food and ridiculously happy company.
As we drove back from that weekend, the sun started to come down over a long, Victorian landscape. The light streamed left and right as far as the eye could see, a drawn out watercolour of reds, yellows, all resting inside the remaining blue and the impending black.
At one point, that colour dissipated, and dark clouds began to take over the sky. Hovering quietly above us, the first drop of rain fell on the car windscreen. And then another. And another. Softly, patiently and quietly.
My friends heart fell heavy, disappointed that the weekend was finishing this way. She felt the colour had been drained by the impending rain.
But I watched that rain fall softly, and felt the quiet in the car. I smiled at the peace that was all around us. I explained this to her, talking of solitary rain drops melting down the glass. And the misty light that softened the landscape's dryness. And that calm and quiet that descends between dry skies and heavy rain. A beautiful midpoint of everything.
And as we continued to drive into the distance, our conversation stopped. And we drove into the emptiness of that night that crept upon us, in quiet solitude that all was fine with the world.
When I was a youngun, my family would take trips up the coast. I would spend eternities in the back seat of a three seat bank mini van of sorts. For hours I would entertain myself in that seat, often taking the opportunity to lie down amongst the piles of suitcases. My little moving fortress.
And at night, I would sit in that darkness, occasionally never looking out the window. But when I did, the comfort of that darkness was always a safe place. A moment when I could be truly alone with the world.
And I see that here, on this small island now as Iceland. That silence. That isolation. That darkness. The opportunity for quiet. The opportunity to feel safe.