In Norse cosmology Niflheim is literally
the "World of Mist " .
According
the first part of the Poetic Edda also known as Gylfanning , Niflheim
is described as a primordial realm of ice and cold with the frozen rivers of
Elivagar and the Fountain of Hvergelmir from which the mentioned rivers come
from .
Niflheim is one of the two primordial reals to emanate from the primordial void
the Norse called Ginnungagap . The other one being Muspelheim the real
of fire .
This
world of Mist later would be that abode of Hel , Goddess of the Underworld who
received in her house of mist the unfortunate ones that did not die in battle .
Mist
has always exercised in me a profound influence in my spirit not one of fear ,
sadness and even bad omen, but rather one of magic and wonder .
Nature
has a way of drawing our attention to its intrinsic beauty . Who has never felt
bewildered by the beauty of a landscape covered with the pure white blanket of
snow ? Who had never felt the serenity of that vast sea of whiteness that
releases you from the chains of your Ego just to make you awe with that
nature`s marvel ?
Mist
its nature´s element of mystery , of dream . Mist is the way nature has to tell
you that life is nothing but a dream , a chimera , a "...walking shadow
" like the bard of Strafford Upon Avon brilliant observed .
Poe
says that " life is a dream within a dream " ; Calderon de La Barca
" La vida es un Sueño " and mother nature show us in a beautiful
misty , foggy winter day that indeed life is a dream .
When
i walk through wet , ancient cobbled streets in a misty day i feel like a
character in a Gothic tale for the enjoyment of a benevolent creature spending
a cosmic winter , windy , cold day while drinking a nice cup of tea .
I
feel mysteries and nameless creatures lurking in that vaporous scenario .
Silhouettes of unfinished works of a creative Deity .
What
i wouldn´t give to be a character in the brilliant film of Alejandro Amenabar ,
The Others , just to live in that dreamy world of Mist !?
I
am a child of Niflheim and there like any child my eyes sparkle with the
sheer magic of life .
Telling not of storms tomorrow;
No, the day has wept its fill,
Spent its store of silent sorrow.
O, I'm gone back to the days of youth,
I am a child once more,
And 'neath my father's sheltering roof
And near the old hall door
I watch this cloudy evening fall
After a day of rain;
Blue mists, sweet mists of summer pall
The horizon's mountain chain.
The damp stands on the long green grass
As thick as morning's tears,
And dreamy scents of fragrance pass
That breathe of other years.
Emily Brönte
