Our hotel, sitting on the River Varga, was peacefully lovely, and we lolled the morning having a very leisurely breakfast and then sitting on our deck writing and reading and looking at the beautiful views that surrounded us.

We spent the afternoon driving up and down and around the main road in Hvergardi, population less than 3000.

We enjoyed soup, bread baked in a thermal oven, and hummus for lunch. The vegetables in the soup were likely grown in one of the local greenhouses that supply the fruits and vegetables for Iceland.

We took walks around the local garden and then on up a path that went beside a waterfall.

On our search for afternoon coffee, we happened upon the local art museum. They were featuring work by a woman artist and also had a video installation of women “taking over” the gallery.

After a final coffee of the day, which included a long conversation with the waitstaff, a woman who had lived in Atlanta for nine years, it was nearly six in the evening. It had been another slow day—traveling less than three miles.

Now it was time to drive back to Keflavik and prepare for the trip Friday morning to the Faroe Islands.

We were welcomed on our early morning arrival with the remnants of Hurricane Henri. So we hopped in our rental car and drove to spot the erupting volcano. Iceland!

I recently read a book about slow travel. It’s about hunkering into a place and staying long enough to be immersed in local living.

I’m doing that in the Selfoss (southwestern Iceland) area—for two days. It’s wonderful having no place to go except wherever you are.

Jet lagged, my best friend and I kept thinking we would check into our hotel early, but kept finding places to stop and stay.

A place to stop and to enjoy coffee and local pastries in a small town.

A place to stop and paint in my journal.

A place (many places, actually) to stop and wonder at thermal energy being released.

A place to stop and visit with the Iceland ponies.

And, when I finally arrived at my hotel, a place to stop and simply be with the view.

I’m sitting in Newark on a (planned) five hour layover. I’m waiting for my flight to Iceland which will lead to another flight which will end in the Faroe Islands for a week and one half visit.

This thrice delayed trip is finally going to happen. My best friend and I were ticketed and reserved when her car was totaled by a drunk driver. After nearly a year of painful healing, we were ticketed and reserved again and then postponed, as were so many, by the pandemic.

After a lot of planning and replanning and COVID testing, holding our breath, we are nearly on our way.

The day’s journey began by praying Episcopal Worship to Anchor Your Day. I planned our airport arrival to be there in time and then completely forgot. My friend has an alarm set to remind her to join, so she nudged me as I was going to get a snack and asked if I weren’t going to pray. Whew!

The entertaining part of waiting in the portion of the airport where international flights depart is the great variety of people. It’s also interesting to hear the many different COVID protocols for each country boarding. My friend mistook the Starbucks line for the long line checking health documents for those flying to Mumbai. Thankfully, she self corrected before boarding.

As we listen to calls to board: Amsterdam, Dublin, Brussels, Milan, London, Mumbai, Paris, United Emirates, and, yes, even Fort Meyers, we’ve imagined boarding those planes. As people race and scramble and misplace documents, there are plenty of opportunities to pray.

Traveling mercies wherever you travel this day. Wherever.

I’ll admit. I’ve been in a sloth place lately. I’m having a real motivation challenge.

I find myself sitting too much, watching too much tv, and binging novels. I’m leaving too much undone.

I’ll admit that I got a little pandemic discouraged (and anxious) when I had a COVID exposure attending church. It was the first Sunday I hadn’t masked during worship since we were given the vaccinated all clear. Of course the next day new research came out saying, well actually, that even if we were vaccinated, masking indoors was recommended because we could still get the Delta variant (likely unknowing; likely worst case a mild infection), and we could become spreaders.

The safety protocols for me all along were mainly about being most concerned I’d infect someone else—and there’s a lot of at risk people around right now (everyone 12 and under; immunocompromised folks who can’t take the vaccine; and the big swath of people who choose not to be vaccinated). I also am aware of how very exhausted our health system is. I don’t want to make that worse if I don’t have to.

Having been exposed, I cancelled all of my coming events until I could be tested. Thankfully, I did get my test back in time (negative—whew!) to preach at a friend’s funeral.

This COVID alert, however, was the beginning of my increased slothfulness. I’d been so careful!!!

The slothful attitude was heightened when I went to the funeral and saw that many of our care-full practices were no longer in place. Food was served, there was little masking, and we grieving people were sitting close to one another. I’ll admit that although masked, I hugged people I loved. It’s. So. Hard. We. Are. So. Weary.

My tampered down spirit also comes, I think, because it feels as if few folks are as concerned as me. When I ran errands on Saturday except for a few masked people (all too many worn nose out), most people seemed to be acting as if the pandemic is as done as we wish it were.

Then I remembered the Benedictine words, everyday we begin again.

I remembered the Daughter’s of the King prayer, I am but one, but I am one. I cannot do everything, but I can do something. God what would you have me do?

And I made waffles.

I was one of the the gazillions that began baking sourdough when the pandemic began. I actually created my own starter and have learned through my slothful habits that it can thrive in the midst of a great deal of neglect.

On Saturday night I fed my starter that had not had any nourishment (flour, water, and then rest) since at least July. Even though having sat in my refrigerator for well over a month, it perked back up.

I still had sourdough bread left in my freezer so I decided it was time to make waffles. I used yogurt instead of the buttermilk called for in the recipe. Each batch had a different flavor enhancement. I used bacon, blueberries, cinnamon sugar, and pecans in a variety of combinations. I was living on the edge.

The kitchen is now full of dirty dishes, but I have a dishwasher. I have a plate stacked with waffles that will feed me for a good long while.

For today, I am in my God rhythm. Like my neglected sourdough starter, I can still thrive after a long spell with a only little water, a little flour, and a little rest (you can fill in what those three things mean for you). Yes, there will be a lot of dirty dishes. Yes, I don’t have to follow the exact recipe for everything to turn out. Yes, it actually may be even more delicious than I think it will.

Okay. Mask back on. Praying a lot. Remembering to make waffles.