On the morning of my twenty-seventh birthday, I awoke in an empty house in a remote fjord above the Arctic Circle where no one really lived anymore. The house, having stood there for over a hundred years, was beginning to tilt, its fences rotting, its water tasting like marsh and moss and the deepest center of the earth. Outside, a herd of reindeer grazed by the seashore, the same herd that came every year and foraged in the tundra surrounding the house. Sometimes they were asleep in the yard when I awoke, their silver bodies nestled in the dewy grass. There was a fox, too, huge and red with a tail that seemed to float behind it over the dead, brown fields.
I stepped onto the porch, and the cold, clear air was alight with tiny snowflakes, glittering in the sun, like powder. I wanted spring, and growth, and for the buds on the trees to unfurl into brilliant green foliage, but the people who knew me best laughed and said that the weather was singing me happy birthday in its own, sweet way.
I stepped into the snow, barefoot and sleepy, and realized that I was not going to live here anymore. I realized that at twenty-seven, a person needs more than the company of reindeer and magpies and gulls; that the allure of places stems often from the people we share them with. When the people are gone, they take their magic with them, and you cannot spend forever dancing circles around your memories, no matter how dear they might be. It is time, I realized, for a new chapter. Something, somewhere, is waiting, and soon it will be time to go.
For now, it was a good, quiet birthday, bright and shining with this new clarity. One of the highlights was a surprise email from a reader, who read this blog back in the days when I wrote often. I’ve gotten a number of these emails over the years, personal letters of gratitude, of inspiration, that the writing helped them see the positive things in life, or encouraged them to apply to art school, or that they miss it and wish I would continue.
And you know? I want to write more than almost anything else. Every day that I am home, I get up and write for two or three hours – but now that project is a bigger one, a different one, and it may not be finished for years, but good things take time. All the same, I have missed this blog and the effortless way the entries fall onto the keyboard, the way it helps me process and document this beautiful life. For large parts of the year, it is hard – very, very hard – to find the mental space for things like this, but I think, maybe I will give it a try, again.
I’ve got a couple weeks here, now, to (hopefully) finish a photographic project I started a few years ago, while I’m still around. After that, it will be time to go back to the Arctic, aboard ships for the summer, amidst the ice and the midnight sun and all the animals of the sea. And after that, who knows? Time will tell.
For now, I know this: that spring above the Arctic Circle is a beautiful thing, that even in the past three weeks I’ve been away, the transition to summer light has come. When I sleep, the sky is full of the bright colors of twilight, the ocean still. In the morning the sun is already high in the sky. There is a profound tranquility and comfort in these Arctic nights that you’ll never know until you feel it yourself, and now, this season is upon us.