Of Contrasts and Conversations

Back on the plane again today headed back to who-knows-what in a place we call America. Having had enough experience elsewhere in the world, the "shine" of the American way has largely worn off. I don't find there to be the same comfort, the same ethos anymore. It's a country that is weary, dragging itself along because it has no other choices, divided along ideological lines that are at the same time toxic and somehow comforting to a large portion of the populace.

I am constantly running back to the photos that I've taken, some good, some awful, of the places I've been. I find within their digital aspects, the various signs of our weaknesses and strengths. There's a foundational strength to the earth, you see, that resonates largely in the places I've traveled to, been blessed enough to traverse.

In the Faroes, you're exposed almost immediately to contrast. You're faced with winds and water, pelting you from all sides. You're exposed to the fickleness of weather, at time beaming sun and at others, lashing rain and winds. It's a powerful place to be with a history to match. It's a home to a stalwart people, fiercely dedicated to their ideals and home, while also recognizing their place in the large world beyond.

The landscape, too, reflects this reality. It's carved from tectonic ablations, the millions of years of geologic churning coupled to the ocean's tempest and pounding surf. Its valleys are cut by ice, its peaks are dusted with frost, and in the spaces between, the ocean, with all of her bounty, provides sustenance. In the picture you see here, you're getting the full effect: the water, the towering peaks, and the verdant green in between. It's an incarnate beauty that lends itself to the questing soul.

I'd come back here again. I'd venture the streets of the small villages and towns of thousands, if only to catch a glimpse of the realities of their daily lives.

For as much as I romanticize these captured moments, life presses on with a different set of actors, mostly removed from my consideration. It's a living island, full of the diversity of thoughts, social agitations, and movements that I've seen elsewhere in the EU, but on a smaller, more intimate scale. It's rich with a history brought by the sea and demonized by the outsiders who don't understand how culture is persisted through time, through ritual, through expression. The whale and sheep culls, brutal in their momentary violence are, in turn, endemic to a land and people who practice their culture in ways foreign to us peering in through our camera obscuras.

The Faroes demand respect and understanding, a conversation held under the darkened skies of an autumnal evening, poured out in glasses of crystal clear water and locally brewed ale. There's the tension of "what comes next?" in the whispers you hear, of how an influx of outsiders will change the fabric of community, of place, of purpose. How do you handle the exposure while still protecting the very heart of your being?

These questions come at a time when Iceland struggles with much of the same. The crush of tourists overwhelming the safety and sanctity of lands once held inviolate from the horde has lead to a burgeoning economy, sure, but what's the cost to the people who live there? These are questions answered not in hallowed halls of governance (at least initially) but held over bulb-lit tables in community halls, churches, and homes.

For this moment, the Faroes have the pleasure of being harder to get to than other locations. They are aloof in the North Atlantic for the time being, watching, waiting. Their time will come, for that is the way of us, and I can only hope that when it does, their dedication to the people who form their heart and the protection of their society lies at the fore.

May it ever be so.

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