A window open to the breeze, the aroma of clay and Kaffitar coffee sashaying out of it. A potter’s wheel creaking and the sound of a coffee machine trickling into a mug ‘drip, drip, drip,’ the artisan tools scattered around in a disarray of shapes and sizes; Fettling knife, sponges, pottery needles, glaze, and pottery ribs. Rough sketches strewn across the desk, their corners yellowed and tattered with age, the margins filled with sporadic handwriting. The reflection of a woman emerges in the window, streaks of silver popping out in her hair, years etched into her face, each wrinkle a declaration to the hours spent on her craft, her gaze steady with deliberation. Hands calloused and dry from the clay, blisters forming on her inner thumbs; the sound of a bustling Reykjavik awaited just outside of the potter’s door. Customers fluttering in and out of the shop admiring oil paintings, the scenes of volcanic rock, picturesque mountains, and natural springs sprawled across the canvas, outbursts of color floating across like a silhouette of shadows tiptoeing among the sullen grass. Ceramics, made of the essence of volcanic ash from the volcano Hekla, located in the south of Iceland, standing at a staggering 1,491 meters tall. Hues of brown and gray speckled beyond the pottery. The brown symbolizes Autumn, melancholy, and a relentless shade of somber desolation. A middle-aged man strode into the shop like every other customer, wearing the fabric of his well-worn jacket, patchwork covering the hem that spoke years of  service, much like the man himself, authentic and unpretentious, his movements gentle and unhurried, marveling at the miniature sculptures and paintings, his eyes squinting inquisitively under his glasses. He lingered over to the ceramics with a soft reverence, humming a quiet song to himself. 3,448.58 Icelandic Króna jingled around loosely in his pocket when something caught his eye. An exquisite miniature black vase that fit snugly in the palm of his hand, its rough surface oddly inviting to the touch. The obsidian hue accentuated by subtle swirls and polyps, reminiscent of volcanic ash frozen in time, encapsulated in a sort of way, a testament to the potter, a cadence to the Earth. Unfathomable. Its sleekness is a stark contrast to the dirt of the Earth. Prestige, formality, and purpose, so delicate yet emitting an aura that confides in ulterior motives. A craftsmanship of the divine. 

A gentle draft flutters through the half-opened skylight, carrying the scent of early morning dew and mondlukaka, an Icelandic almond cake, fresh from the oven, set on a plate adorned with baby blue delphiniums, decadent whipped cream being piped on top. The distant murmur of the tourists in Haukadalur being carried into the bakery’s heart. Sunbeams, timid at first, creep across the sugar-dusted counters, their buttery glow dancing across the pastries as the sun crested the horizon. Baking equipment was dispersed among the counters, pastry brushes, tart pans, rolling pins, and measuring spoons. The bakery’s heart also beats within the pages of a well-worn recipe book, the cover softened by the touch of countless hands. Passed down from generation to generation, the lineage of bakers-from father to son, to grandson. On the pages, the ink was smudged by the fingers of devoted bakers. From years to days, soul flowed through the bakery, crisp air continually mingled with the warmth of cardamom, cinnamon, and rye. The visage of a young girl materializes in the bakery’s window, her presence momentarily halting the morning rush within. Bundled in a pink button-down coat slipping off her shoulder, it seems as if her spirit cannot be contained by mere fabric. Crocheted mittens dangle haphazardly from her hands, their colorful threads unraveling slightly at the edges. Her hair tossed back in loose pigtails; strands falling wildly across her sun-kissed freckles. The vivacious girl’s face is pressed against the glass, leaving a faint, fleeting impression of her memory, engraved into the world. Like the Earth, lands and seas of green cascading over mountaintops, a placid blanket. This young observer, cheeks flushed from the cold, becomes an artist, painting the deepest olive greens to the brightest shades of chartreuse across the small town. Her curiosity a promise, hanging in the air, a synonym to the stillness of the bakery as she stands there, feet planted firmly on the ground. Unfathomable. It’s as though, the very stars, their presence hesitates, yielding at the young child’s feet, as if acknowledging that her eyes whisper more than the stars could ever know.

      May the flowers remind us why the rain is so necessary, may the snow remind us of Spring, may the summer wind whisper to you why it’s so hard to turn a chapter when you know someone will not be on the next page. Farewell, my love. Farewell, the light in hidden places. Farewell, to the margins we are all stuck in so steadfast and unwavering. “Safety is in familiarity; change is in the dangerous.”