The huldufólk of Iceland.

Written 11/9/2016 for a travel blog

Folklore tells of an invisible people who populate the Nordic island country. The modern generations of Iceland no longer pay heed to them; however, the "hidden folk" prove time and time again to their visitors they don't need the belief of mere mortals to exist.

In November 2014, I flew to Iceland with four friends to the Iceland Airwaves music festival. After the second worst Halloween ever and a good six months into my first full-time job after graduating, the trip came at the perfect time. The cement walls of the Keflavík airport welcomingly echoed back my footsteps as I sleep-stumbled after my friends whose strides were much longer than mine. Swiftly and silently, the second I left the cold, gray structure and planted my feet into Icelandic soil, the huldufólk grabbed hold of me and I became theirs forever.

Huldufólk roam free and protect their mystical terrain — a lumpy place, as I discovered when I walked through a field of mossy volcanic rock. Their home is a land of fire and ice, of thermal hot springs and glassy glacier lakes, of serpentine lights slithering in the sky and Garðar basalt columns rooted in the black sand of Reynisfjara.

Their magic is strong. It has, admittedly, been two years since I’ve been there, but I have no tainted recollections of my travels there. They’ve taken hold of my imagination, kept my memories from getting dusty, and illuminated even the dark, slippery streets of Reykjavík.

If I hold my breath.

​If I hold my breath, I can hear my heart beat. And it's beating beating beating, the pulse tangible, echoing within the cave of my chest. I breathe, with each shallow inhale; each exhale, I create a syncopation between heart and lungs.

If I hold my breath, I can feel my thoughts slip from the synapses and slither their way down down down my spine, spilling into my stomach, simmering in the acidity, churning up sickness. I breathe, with each shallow inhale; each exhale, I feed the unforgiving flames devouring my fervent feelings.

If I hold my breath, I can smell the ocean as it disposes of its sediment along the contours of my face, waters rolling rolling rolling, and soon, I am drowning. I breathe, with each shallow inhale, the water fills me up; each exhale, bubbling

with the aftertaste of despair that overcomes me, the haze of anguish that blinds me

the symphony of palpitations of chatty voices of harsh tears crescendos into chaos and I am shaking and when the Players decide to stop

and lets me breathe

only then am I free

Tank Man.

While the image of the woman in Baton Rouge standing defiantly in front of police in riot gear is powerful, it is not comparable to the "Tank Man" of Tiananmen Square. Doing so offends the memory of him and all the men, women and children who died during the protests against a Communist government, the men, women and children who had to stand up to as many as 300,000 troops their own government mobilized against them, the men, women and children who have been erased from the history books in China. It offends the memory of the men, women and children, the memory of my family members who disappeared, who were tortured, who died at the hand of their own government's Communist ideals.

In America, we have the right to "peaceably ... assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances" (I want to emphasize "peaceably") as we see this young woman and many others across the nation exercising daily, and even more so (and rightfully so!) these last few weeks. The peaceful "Tank Man" was standing up to a government that did not allow that.

It is a powerful image, but not one to be compared to Tiananmen Square. Different rights, different events, different symbols.

Alone.

Lately, your nights end like this. All by yourself in an empty apartment, with only your sobbing to keep you company. Sadness is amplified when you're alone. And the recent air of death around you seemed to have pushed the closest people away from you. Or maybe they were never there for you anyway, and you're just now noticing it.

I've seen you fill your home with new friends and interactions in hopes that someone will notice you and catch you, in hopes of keeping your mind off of the night. But when the sun is down, you're falling onto your pillow, drowning in salty waters.

Hide-and-Seek.

When I was younger, I played a lot of hide-and-seek. I would hear the joyous reunions of the hiders and the seeker from my own hiding spot, and my heart pounded each time I thought they would find me. But I was never found. I was ok with it then. It made me feel like I was a good hider.

Now I am older and sometimes I make sure no one can find me. But I am afraid of those times because I can hide for a long time and I am more afraid that no one would ever seek me, or that no one would ever realize I am gone. I am the most afraid that I will disappear and that when I am asleep, no one will be there to hear my staggered breathing, heavy and withdrawn, no one will be there to touch my fingertips wandering in the dark to let me know they know I am here, and they found me.