The Land of my birth, a cold fortress of sledding dogs, racing with reindeer, sculptures of ice; and singing flickering lights in the northern sky. Birch tree's create lovely writing paper, and chewing Spruce sap is so delicious, the metamorphosis of this sticky substance into gum textures and colours after a 12 hour cross-country ski adventure is magick to a nine-year olds heart. I've ventured far from my origin, and landed in a heat induced oven, so here are some pictures to cool off to, during this particularly sultry Summer.

And saving one of the most beautiful creatures for last, and one that I personally experienced seeing, as my Father pointed out His wise grandfather frame within the trees and snow, He looked right at me and I knew I was in the presence of a knower of great secrets.

I think I could turn and live with animals,
they're so placid and self-contained,
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied,

not one is demented with the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another,

nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

("Song of Myself", Walt Whitman, 1819-1892)