The road from Reykjavík to the south has a rhythm I still remember — long stretches of emptiness broken by sudden bursts of beauty. Lava fields, distant glaciers, the scent of rain on moss. But the moment that always caught my breath came just before I reached home.

I had been living for months on a small farm tucked beneath the shadow of Eyjafjallajökull. It was a quiet place — cattle in the fields, wind in the grass, the ocean’s hum somewhere beyond. And then, as the landscape began to open, Seljalandsfoss would appear.

Even from miles away, I could see it — a streak of white descending through dark cliffs, a pulse of movement in a still world. Every time I rounded that final bend, it felt the same: the familiar tightening in my chest, the quiet awe that follows recognition. I was almost home.

I stopped there often — sometimes at dusk, when the sky turned slate and the water caught the last of the light, other times in the morning mist, when everything felt hushed and endless. Standing before the falls, I could feel the ground tremble, the air cooling with spray, the sound wrapping around me like breath.

Water has a way of reminding us who we are. It moves endlessly, shapes everything, and yet always returns. Seljalandsfoss felt like that to me — a mirror of life’s constant flow between stillness and change.

When I framed this photograph, I wanted to hold that feeling — the calm after long roads, the quiet relief of returning, the awareness that home can be both a place and a moment.

Even now, whenever I see this piece, I hear the steady roar of water against stone and feel that same peace rise within me — the peace of arriving.

This artwork will be available as part of my new collection — Traces of Water — arriving this November. I’ll share the exact date soon.