Following Sacred Footsteps

   











     Powerful waterfalls, stark black lava fields, massive glaciers, flora-covered tundra, imposing volcanic mountains, boiling mud-filled cauldrons and dramatic coastlines ... this is Iceland's impressive, and at times surreal, landscape. While circumnavigating this country by car, at almost every turn, we found yet another striking new scene waiting to greet us. So one morning, near the end of our trip, I was surprised to discover that the first recommended stop of the day appeared to be nothing more than a lowly hill.  And as was the case with many other points of interest during our travels, my husband and I had the place to ourselves.

     Helgafell (Holy Mountain) was considered highly sacred in heathen times, so sacred that elderly Icelanders would seek out the hill near the time of their death. According to folklore, travellers are granted three wishes when ascending it, but only if they refrain from looking back or speaking on the way. The wishes must be of good intent, should be made while facing east, and not shared with anyone else.

     So, beginning at the marked grave of a heroine from an ancient saga, I mindfully followed the winding path to the chapel ruins atop the hill. Standing within that sacred space, sun on my face and faith in my heart, I made my three wishes, feeling deeply connected to all that had come before me. This completely unexpected, short yet powerful, meditative experience upon this humble hill, left quite an impression. And the fact that my mother's name was Helga is sure to help with the odds that my three wishes will come true.
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Reflections

Last night, I sat out on the deck breathing in the beauty of the sun setting behind the hill.  While the scattered clouds reflected orange hues onto the lake, I reflected on yet another magnificent MGMG event. From rookie beginners to seasoned golfers they had arrived, understanding that the level of proficiency out on the course was irrelevant to the degree of enjoyment they would experience over the course of the weekend.  Ranging from their early twenties to mid sixties, scores of friends and family members participated, with two toddlers taking it all in as well.  And then there were those who were with us in spirit, unable to attend this time around and much missed.  A few new faces were drawn into the fold as well, friends of friends - people who had never met Mike or Kelly but had accepted the invitation to join this special community.  The weekend was a resounding success with great conversation, plenty of laughter, heartfelt hugs, and fundraising for Canuck Place.

When I awoke at 7am this morning, my husband was already gone - he had left the cabin around 5am to make the four hour drive to work.  My plans were to finish cleaning, then leave for home later this afternoon. When I received a call from him around 8:30am, I assumed he was almost there.  Instead, he was calling to tell me that he was still in Princeton.  He had hit a deer an hour into his trip.  The bad news was that the car was likely going to be a write-off.  The good news was that he was perfectly fine - thank heaven.  However, when he filled me in on the details of the accident, my thinking went from "these things happen" to "what the hell?"  On the way home from this special weekend, my husband had hit that deer within a stone's throw of the memorial cross - mere metres from Mike and Kelly's accident site.  The car had then been towed to the auto wrecker up the hill, the same place Mike's car had lingered for months after that accident just over two years ago.  What??  When I finally picked my husband up a few hours later, we stopped at the wrecker's lot to retrieve some belongings - an extremely surreal experience.  Now, sitting here in my living room as dusk falls, I am still shaking my head in disbelief and reflecting on the mysteries of life.