Black Sands Meditation.
So my great, great grandmother accepted boat passage to Prince Edward’s Island with its red sands. The other women all told her it was mad and that her petticoats would never come clean. They disapproved of her plan and reminded her she had a suitor who had bought her a pair of white kid gloves. But she met this sailor on her day off while she was admiring the jewelry in a shop window. And off she went.
I wonder what the people at home said about those women leaving on their own for the black sands of Iceland. Were there even any such women? Granted, Iceland is a bit more out of the way. But when you can’t get to a metropolis, desolate doesn’t change much. I thought it was wonderful to see but I was very content in knowing I had transport and a return plane ticket. In my great, great grandmother’s day (the 1860s), the going rate for most people was a one-way ticket. A somber thought.
In search of a lighter theme, I rested upon Edward Gory and his art. Clearly his background imagery had come to life here. Should the story be about a shipwreck or a sea monster? Brenna climbed the basalt ledge, only to tumble down into the gray waves, which picked her up and threw her on the black sand, from which she was quickly snatched up by a barnacled hand and dragged into the sea. My comfort level was improving.
Here are some contemplative scenes of Iceland’s black sands and their environs. The sand looks black because it is mostly of basalt lava. When looking at some of Reykjavik’s architecture, you can see they are trying to incorporate the look of basalt columns like the ones on this beach.
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