Fifth Journey Day 25: Listening Shape

Date: June 2, 2025
Location: Vík í Mýrdal, Iceland

I walked Reynisfjara Beach this afternoon, staying close to the basalt cliffs as the tide started to pull away. The sand here is black and grainy — not fine like powder, but coarse, almost pebbled. It stuck to the bottoms of my shoes and collected in the folds of my coat. The sea was loud. It's not stopping, but going on and on, as if it had never stopped since the cliffs were created.

The air felt heavy but not too thick to breathe. It was damp and clear at once — a weight that made things more clear, not more blurry. I didn't take any notes. I had brought my small book with me, but it stayed in my side pocket. The mist had made the pages a little softer. Instead, I walked and watched. I saw the foam move over the black sand. I saw the birds fly in and out of the columns. I saw the wet stone glisten like oil.

A single gull stood still near the water. It didn't startle when I passed — it just turned slightly, as though adjusting to the wind. I wonder if I looked at it too. We were both inside something that didn't use words.

The cliffs curve back so subtly that you don't notice how far you've come until you turn. I retraced my steps just as the light began to fade, although it never got completely dark. In June, Iceland feels like time itself is taking a break.

Tonight, I feel relaxed but aware. It's not about urgency — it's about being a good listener. I can still see the basalt shapes in my mind, their angles softening into something fluid, rhythmic, and almost tender. I may try to paint them tomorrow, but not directly. They feel less like structures and more like memories of tension held gracefully.

I think that's what I took away from it — that tension doesn't always need to resolve to be beautiful. Sometimes it just needs to stay.