It’s easy to get fixed in place, to lose the rhythm of how to transition from one life, one way of living to another. Part of this is the perhaps the natural biological inclination to let roots reach down and curl into the earth, to stay with the familiar, and to be close to loved ones. Another part is the lingering effects of Covid with its caution, pinpricks of fear, and my desire to not be a virus spreader. A third part is the Jiminy Cricket conscious-be-your-guide that whispers about being wise with money, five-year plans, ten-year plans, the future.
But some souls, like mine, are cloaked in the sticky web-spell of fernweh and have feet that itch to move forward, on, onward. Fernweh is a word of German origin and means farsickness, a longing for far-flung places especially those not previously visited, the ache for travel. The opposite is the more familiar heimweh (homesickness).
Despite all the reasons against it, there comes a time when in order to stay aligned with that spellbound part of my spirit, I have to go. Somewhere. Elsewhere.
This time, I’m heading northward to the Faroe Islands, a self-governing division of the country of Denmark. Located above Scotland and between Norway and Iceland, the Faroe Islands are a collection of seventeen inhabited and one uninhabited islands, along with various islets and reefs. Shaped by long, long-ago volcanic activity and further molded by ice-age glaciers, the windblown landscape features majestic mountains, stark cliffs, yawning valleys, and narrow fjords (all of which so far, I’ve only seen in pictures). The land area is 540 square miles and the surrounding sea an expansive blanket. As a size comparison, Rhode Island is 2.24 times as big as the Faroe Islands. Vermont is 18 times as big.
In the movie How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, one of the characters tells the other, “You can write anywhere.” While this is true, some locations provide a better environment than others. And I’m anticipating that the Faroe Islands with all of its breathtaking vistas, its unique and isolated position on the map, its elemental qualities (wind and rain mostly), and its newness to me will act as the perfect combination as I write a novel about light, the effects of light, and a main character’s motivating flaws and strengths.
For now, I’m doing my best to remember how to pack light for a long trip. Then soon enough, I’ll get on a plane and then another and then another and go to a place I’ve never been before. Where for the next few months, I’ll write, explore, listen to the voice that calls me out into the world and, in that way, sate, however temporarily, my fernweh.
The islands await.
