Fernweh

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.

 

 

 

 

 

For the Winter Solstice

The days get shorter and I rejoice. Here is a vivid reminder that I am on a planet moving through the solar system, tilting and rotating, orbiting and spinning. Here is a daily count down to the changing of the season. Here is word association: hygge, fireside, comfort, home. When the weather dips below fifty, I come alive. Ah this is living; sweaters, cheeks made bright from the crisp air during a brisk walk, no mosquitoes.

Weeks ahead of it, I buy some candles so that I can celebrate the winter solstice with my own kind of ritual. A welcoming to winter and a nod to both the darkness as it reaches its longest stretch and to the light which will trade places with the dark and begin its own ascension to owning the day cycle.

This year, even more than usual, I’m relishing the advent of winter. I follow online sites for northern places; the Faroe Islands, Svalbard with its Polar Night, Greenland, and the Shetland Islands, and dream about the snow, cold, stark views, icebergs, fjords, and the magic of long winters. With wistful appreciation of the past, I recall my winters in the Wyoming wilderness and all the backcountry skiing I did, the deep snow, the packed snow, the falling snow, the below freezing air, and the landscapes that took my breath away.

Like a secret, I hold my plans for my Solstice celebration close to my vest as if I’m afraid of making too much of them or too little. I’m not quite sure which. I tell one friend and she, picking up on my excitement, says she might get her children together the Solstice evening to light a candle and dance around in a circle. For myself, I have the candles. That’s my sure thing. I’ll light them at 3:48 PM Central time on December 21^st when Earth’s axis is tilted its farthest away from the sun. A passing moment. A shifting of seasons. A thing to anticipate. My own secret. I’m nearly as excited for the Solstice as I am for Christmas. It’s the anticipation that makes it so sweet.

Several years ago, after spending the fall in Norway and then traveling on to Finland, Estonia, and Latvia where I drank mulled wine in Christmas squares and took selfies with Santa, I returned for a second time to Sweden to visit a friend before returning to the States for Christmas. Every year, Sweden has its Saint Lucia celebration on December 13th. A combination of Pagan and Christian rituals to call the light back to the world. That December 13th, my friend pulled up a video of one of the celebrations and we sat around his table and watched the girl dressed as Saint Lucia with the wreath of candles on her head and listened to the choir sing. My friend who lives for warmth and sun.

Då i vårt mörka hus, stiger med tända ljus,

Sankta Lucia, Sankta Lucia.

Although the Solstice happens on the 21st and not the 13th, I decide to incorporate the Swedish Saint Lucia celebration into my very simple Solstice ritual. I pull up a video and keep it handy for when it’s time.

The day of, I make a circle of aluminum foil and put it on a plate, a yellow-orange plate as a hat tip to the sun, and set my candles on it. Outside, the sun already dips low in the western sky.  

My dad, always up for a ritual, and mom, always up to participate, sit at the table with me. It’s a little too windy, a little too chilly to do this outdoors. I start the Saint Lucia celebration video and the music swells up from my phone. I give a match to each one of us and watch the clock as the minutes tick by and the second hand clicks around to 3:48.

On the top of the minute, we light our matches and light the candles.

Night walks with a heavy step round yard and hearth,

As the sun departs from earth, shadows are brooding.

There in our dark house, walking with lit candles,

Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

When the video celebration has sung its last note, we get up. I leave the candles to burn down. I leave them to go out on their own. That seems the right thing to do.

Near 9:00 PM, they are still burning. Wax, in colored pools, fills in the flowered shape of the aluminum foil, nothing left of the candles but these burning wicks. I blow them out. Smoke swirls. Sulfur, tar, wood, and wax mix into a coiling scent evoking memories of heat, warmth, friendship, and light. The wicks smolder orange; pulsing, hot. One light goes out. Another one shines.

Winter is here!

 

 

 

 

 

Sankta Lucia song lyrcis found here: https://lyricstranslate.com/en/sankta-lucia-santa-lucia.html