I spent my thirtieth birthday with icebergs. I was born and I learned to walk and speak and found love and bore children and on my thirtieth birthday I stood on an island in the North Atlantic at the foot of a glacier feeling dwarfed and insignificant and completely alive. Such is the way my life will be measured, in beautiful moments like these.
In the glacial lake of Jokulsarlon, wrapped in a blanket of fog, icebergs float slowly away on the glassy stillness of the water on their way out to sea. Stagnate and serene and completely silent save for the screech of a gull or the intermittent sounds of thunder. Until it occurs to you that it's not thunder at all, but the CRACK of the thousand year old ice as it fractures and separates and another iceberg is born. A birth which is really just the beginning of a journey to its final resting place. Such is the way of the world. Birth brings death and we are given the small space between to make our own. I am doing my best to fill it full of beautiful moments like these. Here's to the journey.