I recently read an article in the New Yorker by Heidi Julavits. On the surface, it was an exploration of an active volcanic eruption in an accessible area of Iceland not far from the capital of Reykjavik.
The article accomplished many of the goals of excellent nature writing.
It faithfully reproduced difficult to spell Icelandic cities.
It delivered a sense of Icelandic outdoorsmanship and survivial skills through idioms and dialogue with memorable, eccentric locals.
It provided a highly specific, crisply rendered description of a remote and infrequently encountered geography.
But more than all of those things, it linked a volatile moment in geologic time to a near-universal human experience.
The author describes traversing a land bridge to arrive at a hill overlooking an active lava field one day, only to return the following day to find that access to the observation point has been cut off by a new flow of lava.
Newly formed land has cut her off from the vantage point she'd only recently enjoyed.
The change deeply depresses her, and she makes a connection between the completely predictable expectation that loss will eventually occur, and the difficulty of knowing how it will pain you when it strikes.
Over the past three weeks of family travel, I've witnessed my own children approach adolescence under a microscope. I've also known the advent of in-person schooling brings with it the prominence of peer friendships which will inevitably redefine our relationship.
I already dread what it will mean for me: feeling cut off from the inside observation point I've enjoyed until now.