"The mountains where you have not been yet..."

One Russian poet, actor, singer and song-writer  asked a question in one of his songs: "What is better than the mountains?" and answered: "The mountains where you haven't been yet". The song being so well-known, the lyrics haven't struck me until now when I actually started to go to the mountains.
Every week I climb one mountain with a group of people in a small icy island in the North Atlantic, the mountain can be small and gentle or high and steep, sometimes we enjoy good weather, but often we are in a blinding blizzard. No matter how different the walks are, the end point is always the same - it is breathtaking, magnificent and worth going.
Walking gives you all the time in the world to go down to your thoughts, here I tried to jot down some of them. On mountains.

on the photo: Kerhólakambur on the 22nd of February 2014

Early Sunday morning is difficult enough: alarm-clock sharply cuts through the consciousness, you open the eyes - the time has come - you are about to be born. Mercilessly. Irreversibly. By that very moment I am dissolved completely in the agonizing empathy of the pure and innate emotion of a new born, halting with all my civilized nature a deep animal howl. Steps are feeble and shaky, sight is impaired by a blinding light of a sudden bathroom light-bulb, cold is wrapping limbs, stomach gets in a knot with a realization of inevitability of the following events; a splash of cold water in the face - there, I am ready to burst out crying, the world has to hear my voice and it suddenly gets easier.
Reviving gulps of coffee evoke the primate memory of a mother´s pacifying breasts - life gradually gets its true colours. Birth is finished, life (a mountain) waits ahead.
(setja te á brúsa og fara á fjöll...)

It is not by chance that I employed a metaphor of life here - to me climbing a mountain is similar to a living a life in a miniature: half of the way you struggle to get up, lose all your strength, leave aspirations behind, forget why you had to do that, get exhausted, and then, before you know, after a small glimpse of joy, you suddenly start to slide over the hill so fast you never believe you had been there. Sounds familiar? Yeah, and it´s called "a mountain".

A mountain itself is a powerful positive concept for many things in our life, primarily something difficult, demanding (whether an experience, relationship, or work) but, eventually, worth going through. The proof to this is numerous poems, songs, quotations, images and metaphors in all creative art, both verbal and non-verbal.

The great book of the mankind utilized this image at best - all the meaningful episodes happen closer to God, therefore, on the mountain. Among those are: The Mount Sinai, where Moses received the gift of Law, the Ten Commandments; Moses and Elijah encounter God on the mountain top in the Old Testament. In the New Testament Jesus appoints His twelve disciples on the mountain, delivers His sermon on Beatitudes in the Sermon on the Mount, there happen His final discourse and Transfiguration - some of what I remember.
In the Quran mountains are portrayed as stabilizers, as fixers of the earthly life: "Have We not made the earth as a wide expanse, And the mountains as pegs?". And lets not forget the powerful Four Sacred Mountains of Buddhism (Taoism). It is just obvious that such a meaningful and distinct landmark could not simply been overlooked by a man.

The religious connotations of the mountains being so strong, even in the twenties century literature one of my favourite writers - Aldous Huxley - endows mountains with a sacred meaning: "My father considered the walk among the mountains as the equivalent to the churchgoing" - which we all, after all do, together on a good Sunday morning.

Besides divine, there is a lot of earthly and insignificant matters, of course. Like the life itself, a walk up the mountain is overly romanticized, mostly by the highly metaphoric, hence poetic nature of the latter. For many people the attraction components are the ones which comprise the life yet again:

Nature: The only thing you actually watch most of the time is the exact distance between the feet and butt of the person who walks in front of you. The direction of the stare is most often dictated by the weather conditions (unless there´s something specifically interesting to look at): the better the weather the higher the stare is fixed, which also gives a possibility to employ the side vision and actually to see some natural beauties (snow) on a good day. But mostly, as I said, you just look down into the footsteps of the front person.

Fun: Most of the walk is difficult in this or that way: if it´s not the blizzard which gets behind the eyelids and hits the face (must get the seal fat next time I am in the ocean), it can be the path itself - going straight up or sloping abruptly down. There can be a lot of tricky ice under the fresh snow or sharp lava pieces, which heighten the chances of twisting the old joints; it can be small round stones, which primary purpose of being is only to take you downhill with a German motorbahn speed. It can be anything. It can be anything unexpected.

People: As in real life there are people around you - coworkers, neighbours, acquaintances, maybe friends and relatives, all walking with you - same time, same path, same destination. Mostly we walk silently with our thoughts. Once I imagined, what if we were thinking out loud, or if there was a person who could read our thoughts, how soon that person would go crazy? We all carry our burdens with us, everywhere, every time. And we take them with us up the mountain. Exactly as in the real life, most of the time each of us is alone there, and what is more difficult, alone with oneself.

Purpose: Often I was thinking why do we go there? Apart that it is a good physical exercise (still, running on a good day is much nicer, my moderately handsome husband says), it is (at least to me) a rather difficult task to complete every weekend. Edmund Hillary answered: "Because it is there". Gunnlaugur Júlíusson said: "Because I can". Why do we live then? What´s the purpose of life? "42"? No, wait, isn´t it "52" now?

Excitement: If someone thinks that going up the mountain is only about excitement, fun and new impressions, you are as far from the truth as you can be - climbing the mountain, even the smallest mountain is actually hard work with a varying degree of difficulty, but always work. But the result is always rewarding. The harder it takes, the more fulfilling it gets, which makes it an exact illustration to my favourite proverb: "nothing in this life which is worth having comes easy" (remember an analogy with life?).

In this respect a question "why are you climbing the mountains?" is as absurd as "why do you live?" - because it is small life. But unlike the real life, here every time you get to experience a strong feeling of completion, yet another test being passed. And what makes it much more valuable - it is a victory over something so grandeur and impressive, so meaningful and potent in the whole history of the mankind, that it becomes close to a cleansing experience.

And me - a woman from a faraway country - for the last years I have been trying to make peace, if not friends, with this strong, cold and independent Iceland. And every time I take one of your mountains, I get closer to you despite that you seem not to care. After first ten you looked at me with interest, I know. We all carry our lunch in the bag pack and coffee in the flask, we all go up for our different reasons, but on a good Sunday morning we are all united by a small victory, most important on ourselves.

At the end of the day, as William Blake said: "Great things are done when men and mountains meet; This is not done by jostling in the street".

So, it´s life. It hard and wonderful. Suck it up.

That Moderately Handsome Husband of Mine...

The Russian proverb goes as paganly as it can be: "A husband and a wife are one devil", bearing a direct reference, of course, to the most sacred book of the mankind: "...and shall cleave into his wife: and they shall be one flesh" (Gen. 2:23). I think I have already mentioned that unique spiritual blend of paganism, mysticism, eastern beliefs and Christianity in its splendid and grandeur case of Orthodoxy which makes up an ordinary religious vision of a commoner and explains the appearance of the proverb, but today it's nothing of a religion or of a commoner.
Today it's about someone very special... 



Some years ago (let's leave diachronic precision to the historians) in a far away land, in the most improbable circumstances, deep in the sweat of the work exhaustion, in a state as remote as it can be from any romance potentiality, despite all the odds, in the middle of my relatively set and content life, I am meeting a moderately handsome man - "my heart's desire", "an apple of my eye", "a flesh of mine", "my bread of life" and "the fat of my land" and so much more... whatever that above-mentioned Holy book may produce on the case.

Many things have happened since, and a lot of water passed under the bridge. As two pawns on the tricky checked field of a relationship we have suffered both our losses and our victories and certainly walked a long way to the other side of the board in understanding each other. Almost a year of a long-distance relationship with its inescapable emotional roller-coaster (to be honest, mine mostly), smoothed by the exuberant means of communication complimentary of the XXI century made the first years together Heaven on Earth (hence so many biblical references here). Then we became fruitful and multiplied and brought a brand new little human being into this wicked world.

And then we got wed. In the church. Twice. In two religions and in front of one God. Let no man therfore put asunder, yt which God hath coupled together.

But what I want to say, really, what I need to say now, is that I am grateful to him, to my moderately handsome man. And as now he sits on the couch, remote and deep in a silly movie, with a silly smile understandably provoked by the same silly movie (you know, that boyish "I-am-so-cool-fighting-aliens-with-my-laser" type), which he is so fond of watching, and has no idea that I am writing about him...

So, my love, there it goes:

I am grateful to you that you came to the (literary) End of the World in the temperature far below freezing point and common understanding and made us happen.

I am grateful that through that first dark year of a long-distant part of our relationship every day you were leaving "a morning message" for me. Always.

I am grateful that you always translate all those Danish movies that we watch together, even when sometimes I am not much interested.

I am grateful to you that you can make any call for me, and take me any place.

I am grateful that every day you try to make my life better.

I am grateful that you accept my neuroticims, depressions, and complexities with the exceptional sense of humour which kills it all.

I am grateful that you accept my mother (boy, that says it all, doesn't it?)

I am grateful that you take me as I am (basically, as my mother).

I am grateful to you to put Katya to bed and wake up with her when I do not even ask.

I am grateful to you for all the excellent food that you can cook from scratch.

I am grateful that you motivate me for something which I would have not even dreamt of doing otherwise.

I am grateful that you always believe in me.

I am grateful that in the quarrels, as stubborn as you are, you always come and hug me first.

I am grateful for you always patiently listening to whatever verbal emotional (not always, but mostly) trash I have to produce on the remains of the day.

I am grateful to you for Katya, who would have never existed if it were not for you.

I am grateful that you are an excellent father: loving, understanding, fun, caring and strict.

I am grateful to you for finding my apple earphones yesterday (seriously).

I am grateful that you show me better.

I am grateful that by your actions, decisions and thoughts you teach me to be better.

I am grateful that you love me (and I try not to take it for granted).

I am grateful to you that you are what you are...


Long time ago a rather mystical scenario ran out in the streets of my native city, when quite an elderly lady that I helped to come all the way home asked me what I want in the life most. My inborn sobriety, skepticism and politeness replied in chorus that I was quite content with what I had. In a proverbial pause, effect strengthened by a deep look, she said that I would soon get my halves back together, hinting in an obvious way on the romantic aspect of being, which I scoffed out, but apparently remembered, setting somewhere on the depth of the consciousness.

Years passed. In a relationship like this one, as close to perfection as it can be, one can easily allow to remember and cherish that episode with a witch. So, my dear single girls, there's an answer: open thy eyes and look for the old ladies around. Quite possibly most of them are just ordinary old ladies, who will benefit greatly from your help, but the beauty of it - you never know...


To conclude I, hereby, call upon you, commoners: let's eat, drink and be merry, as my cup runneth over - today is my husband's birthday!

Happy birthday, my love! And thank you for being with me.



...and seriously, just so you know: there's absolutely nothing moderately about him!
(you know what I mean ;-)




Copyright © 2013 by Olga Johannesson

Christ has risen!

On the holy day of the Orthodox Easter, Sunday, 5 May, indeed as the situation required, I thought of God. Then I thought of the seventy years of the soviet times when the Mighty Position had been secured by Vladimir Lenin with a twenty-year interim intermission of the ever more almighty, loving and punishing - Stalin.
Thinking back into the history, Russians have always had an extremely grievous and hard relationship with God, which, combined with the inherent mysticism and fatalism as parts of the national character, engraved religious traits even on the all-negating stoned stance of the atheists.  

In the Orthodox religious tradition the icons - the depictions of God and the saints - were present in every house. According to the rule they were positioned in the so-called "red corner"  ("red" in the old Russian language meaning "beautiful", "honorary" - c.f. the Red Square). The icons were supposed to be in the Eastern corner of the house, as praying, sending our thoughts and talking to God we face the appearance of the sun and, thus, symbolically greet the Advent.

In the Soviet years religion becomes quite a dangerous puppet in the hands of the master - just think what a believer may do for the God. Some clever man, unfortunately the history keeps his name a secret, offered - no, no, not just to abolish God - that would be impossible for the country where religion was so tightly intertwined with the everyday life - but to replace Him. And who comes into the picture?

The decision was exceptionally smart and worked for many decades. Even the honorary red corner was kept to fit yet another deity.

The portraits of Lenin were adorning the walls of every institution, every establishment, every official room, on a frequent occasion enforced by the bronze or gypsum busts, the honest and strong look coming from the different sizes. The Bible, the Testaments and the Gospels were banned, instead we were given the Stories of Lenin - now I cannot tell what part of truth was there, but looking back I realize how much of a hagiography or menology (the lives of the saints) it reminded of and certainly served the purpose well. There was even a children's version of the Acts with pictures - just like Noah's Arch story.

Interestingly, the religious rituals were still kept going - we baptized children, painted eggs for Easter. But the pure religious meaning of them was a bit tarnished - baptism, for example, started to bear more of a pagan belief of the holy water protecting a child from the illnesses. Still, most of the children were baptized - secretly, at home, by an isolated priest. Consequently, we even had a mummified deity (whose remains are still by the way kept uncommitted to earth in the Red Square, the spirit haunting economy and politics - so far the only obvious, undeniable, unquestionable explanation of the ongoing Russian misfortunes), a religious doctrine - a successful mold of communism and spiritism, a set of rituals - books, learnings, common meetings, portraits -"icons", in other words, even when we didn't have it, we had it all.

Nowadays, the busts are on the dump, the pictures faded in the cellars. With the life so cruel and grim, fiercely grinding people by its millstones, people are seeking for the alleviation and looking for God once again...

In Russia on the holy day of Easter we greet each other with the traditional words: "Christ has risen!" and for many He has finally risen indeed.




Copyright © 2013 by Olga Johannesson