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Today was edges again; on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge at Thingvellir, where the Earth is pulling itself apart. Huge tears in the surface, fissures; beautiful insane canyons. It was here in this place of transition and greater powers than we cannot really comprehend that the early Icelanders set up their first attempts at Parliament; people gathered, laws were made and enforced – there was a drowning pool for convicted women and a hanging rock for men –    stories were told, wisdom passed on and poets lauded. Even now they are buried alongside the statesmen in the national cemetery. A place for great consideration, perhaps meditation, on   meaning.

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