On Dancing and Deconstruction

I'm not sure which early-2000s rom-com convinced me of this, but for some reason, I thought by 30 I'd be doing a fair bit more "dancing in the kitchen" than I am.

To be fair, I dance quite a bit when the lights are low and I have nobody to entertain but myself, but I guess I thought by now I'd have some sort of...dance partner?

Note that this idea stands in direct contrast to everything I've ever professed about my feelings around love or coupling since I was an adolescent, but that's not the point. Nora Ephron owes me something and I intend on cashing in. 

I am obsessed with love and coupling these days. Rather, I'm obsessed with the nuance of love and with not coupling; with deconstructing my nebulous and conditional and wolf-in-sheep's-clothing picture of love and reframing it into something...else.

Something more congruent with "is patient" and "is kind" and "bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."

Catch me sick to death of the refrain: "You are so loved, despite..." 

Despite what? My inherent wickedness? My fundamental badness? My square peg, round hole, too sharp, too loud, too inconvenient, why-don't-you-fit-in-this-box-ness?

If love is so unconditional, then why the conditions? Why the caveats? Why the disclaimers and boundaries and redirections?

I'm beginning to understand the answer to these questions, and I do not like it. 

I am such a flight; I hide when there is trouble and at times I have traveled to the far corners of the Earth just to find adequate hiding places. Comically, I try to make my large frame small; I cover my eyes because "if I can't see you, you can't see me," I pull my covers and my shades and my hair and I turn off my phone and I wait in my own shadow until. 

So because I do not like the answer and the answer requires reflection and critique, and bravery and authenticity, I just want to stay safe until I solve it.

And the thing is, the honey-sweet thing is, I actually am safe right where I am.

Despite Erna Solberg and Prince Philip stealing my thunder, one of my little articles appeared yesterday on a Norwegian news site. The biggest thing there isn't that I've been published (because I'm published all the time) but rather, that I wrote the article in Norwegian.

As of the date of this writing I have lived in Norway for 570 days, and when written like that, it seems like a long time. But it is a very, very short time to learn your very first second language, in your late twenties/early thirties, on top of all the other things.

But there is, as per usual, a method to this madness and a reason behind the rallying cry.

One of my (very dear) coworkers told me yesterday: Du må bli i Norge en stund nå - du skjønner det? Du har knekt koden til å klare seg her i steinrøysa.

She meant, roughly, that I have to stay in Norway because I've figured out how to live here, really live here -- I've cracked the code, and I fit, and it's done. Punktum.

Norwegians seem to think that this is a nearly-impossible thing to do, and at the risk of fighting the hands that are reaching out to me, I politely disagree. 

Every time I go someplace new, I approach as an outside observer until I integrate my way into the inner layers. Once there, I can study this strange new world from inside it and I can weigh the comparisons and stark contrasts to the things I already knew, thought I knew. 

And over these 570 days, I have learned so much.

Not only have I learned to write in Norwegian or to gain a better understanding of how we actually measure and interpret and simulate Solar magnetic fields (as my actual job requires) but I have learned volumes about how I love, and interestingly, I've done this by watching Norwegians love.

This love is different from my expectation or experience. It is a love that Norwegians would likely never describe with the word "love" at all, but with other words like "solidarity" and "equity" and "opportunity" and "space" and "time" and "go outside when it's sunny." It is a love deeply rooted in community care, support, and empathy; it is not so bound by tradition or expectation or performance, but rather a living, breathing thing that is allowed to grow. 

And grow, and grow, and grow.

I recently realized that for me, love means wanting to grow alongside someone; to watch them grow and grow myself, to be seen and heard and nurtured and known and held. 

And the unexpected, often overwhelming, beautiful thing about that is: I am all of that here, in the purest, deepest way. Because being loved by my Norwegians is...really something. 

I'm beginning to understand that the reason for this comes out of the same vein as the answer I was looking for several lines up, about why love has conditions sometimes and caveats often; the answer I did not like. I'm starting to realize that these seemingly conflicting approaches to love are two poles of the same axis, separated only by degree, as they say in the old Hermetic philosophy.

The root of this has to do with lineage, foundation, values, security...but mostly lineage. And that is a deep, wide, scary thing to think about and I won't do it here, but rest assured that I am thinking about it in my secret prayers.

Instead, I'd like to wrap this up with a not-secret prayer, a lavender-and-sage blessing. I'd like to be indulgent for a moment and wish us all the possibility to find out how we love best, to be surrounded by folks who respect those languages, to hold enough courage and gumption to go there, and to find our own safe corners of the universe until we solve it.

Blue Hour

"Jeg elsker blå time," she said. "I love the blue hour."

Despite my adoration of the golden hour, I agreed. Together we acknowledged the depth perception that we were losing as everything faded into deep blue; we knew that the waning Arctic February was bound to turn soon into a brighter Vernal Equinox and then soon after, nothing but Sun for a while. 

I like the light up there and, just as much, I like the dark.

Before quarantine was cool or even real, I (more or less) isolated myself in the north of Norway for some time last month. I ran my fingers along waist-high snowdrifts, I counted pine treetops, I squinted at the glaring and glittering mountains that held the fjord, I hunted for the wimpiest northern lights of all time.*

*In the business, we refer to these as "Northern Shites" and yes, that is the technical term

While the cottage I rented up there is in every way superior to my little studio in Oslo, I am still happy to be home now. But I miss it, and I will miss it until I return, and I will miss it until I am allowed to return in this strange new world.

A strange thing happened up there, though -- a strange and wonderful sprig of growth. As those close to me might tell you, I have an awful habit of optimistically planning little solo getaways "for myself" because "I'm sick of everyone" and "I just need some me-time" or whatever. And every single time, I end up painfully aware of my isolation (designed by me) and loneliness (because I went alone on purpose) and I hate, hate, hate it. I have a good time, but I hate it.

This time, though, I didn't.

I stretched and I walked and I breathed in the icy air; I fried fresh fish and I handled my work and I smiled and pretended to speak Oslo-Norsk and oh, what a view I had and oh, what quiet I found. 

I'm always looking for quiet. 

In retrospect, my time in Alta was tremendously important preparation for my actual quarantine which is halfway over, but who's counting? I'm having the time of my life in here. Turns out, I am an extreme introvert and I am fine. I know how to do that, now; to be alone but still recognize and acknowledge community, love, and almost-intimacy. 

I'm good at this. Everything I've done since leaving Clemson has prepared me for this; I know how to self-drive because of my deliverable-dependent wages, I know how to be resourceful, I know how to manage my time, and I know how to steward the privilege of being able to say "today was enough" and waiting until tomorrow.

The relationships I'm cultivating now are growth and salve; they're calm and helpful and gentle and they're work, but they're wealth in other currencies. 

And, as much as I love the blue hour, this is golden.

You Can Still

Since leaving mine, I've had to find my Sunday Church in other ways and because I firmly believe that there is not one single place I've been that has shadowed me from the ubiquitous presence of my Sassy Octavia Spencer God, it hasn't really been that difficult.

Mostly, it happens when I go to the mountains. Mountains bring me straight to my knees, and always have. Sometimes the mountains make me cry because they're so majestic, or because I'm so tired from trying to conquer them and knowing, deeply understanding, that I could never. 

Tatranska Lomnica, Slovakia

Sometimes it's because I'm too hot and my body starts to send alarms from my pelvic base to the top of my head; this body cannot sustain life, this body cannot sustain, this body cannot.

Yanama, Peru

Sometimes it's because I'm too --

Digression: I'm in a cafe and there is a child who is legit dipping her croissant in water before eating it and I'm not sure whether or not I should intervene or if it's just because her soft baby skull still has soft baby teeth, but she just turned around to smile the sweetest baby smile at me so I suppose she's alright. 

...anyway. Sometimes it's because I'm dragging around much more than my backpack. Turns out, you can do something with the intention of freeing yourself and still realize that you're bound, critically bound, to the laws of nature and the parameters of this universe. 

Lofoten, Norway

But also, I've found my Sunday Church inside the walls of actual churches, but churches that don't look anything like the ones in which I grew up. I've wandered into ornate temples etched with gold and red and blue, massive statues wishing me peace as I carefully circumambulate them. Gods I've never met greeted me there like an old friend because, as it turns out, God is all the same no matter where you are. I had to go pretty far to learn that, but perhaps I can save you the trip by just letting you know that this is a core truth. This is what lies beneath interpretation and culture and misinterpretation and religion and skin.

Wat Chedi Luang, Thailand

We talked about the person of Jesus as much as we discussed the teachings of Buddha. I asked a Thai monk for blessings and he obliged, bringing me deeper into his mother-tongue prayers than I had thought possible. 

Chiang Mai, Thailand

I stood reflective amongst ancestors that aren't mine but may have been in the beginning, might be in the end. I walked through Torii gates and crossed the metaphorical threshold between the physical and the spiritual, letting that transition bathe me in warmth. 

Kyoto, Japan

I began to let myself pray deeply, breathe rhythmically, worship wholly, cry softly. I began to leave my cares in the hands of whoever occupied those sacred spaces. I began to blossom because you can blossom if you open up just enough to let some light inside.

Wat Phra Singh, Thailand (photo: Brandon Reed)

Sometimes I need to remember what it was like to set those intentions. Sometimes I need to gently remind myself that no, you left that prayer behind, you do not need it anymore. You released it; it is a butterfly and you should not try to snatch it back. It's delicate. Leave it.

Aguas Calientes, Peru

You can, simultaneously, actively not want something and still be a bit envious of those who have it. You can deny ever having been in love and still think fondly of him every time you sip a cortado. As my sister and I briefly discussed yesterday, you can suck and still be brave. You can text your therapist every day and still be mostly okay. You can be mostly not okay and still be a valid human. You can be 29 and still roll your eyes and bleed through your jeans. 

And regardless of the way things are right now, it is true that every little thing wants to be loved -- not just admired from a distance.

Not just admired from a








distance. 

Laos and Now

I've been meaning to tell you this story for a while, but I've been busy absolutely smashing it lately. As it turns out, Doing Better and having your Dreams Come True is pretty bad for writing. But it is good for living, and at the minute, that's probably more important.

Having been a few places in my time, folks often ask me what my favorite country is. For this, I don't have a simple answer but fortunately, I don't think anyone is looking for a simple answer. I generally have two (three, four) suggestions: the Slovak/Polish High Tatra mountains, my former home Iceland, Tasmania for obvious and surprising reasons, and Laos.

A couple of years ago, I was sitting pretzel-legged on a deck that overlooked the Mekong river, chatting with some new friends. I don't really remember what particular poison was being passed around nor which card games were being played, nor do I remember which melodies were wafting through the air. Instead, I remember our piles of sandals lining the deck and that I was just really happy to be there.

Down the street, we could pay about a dollar fifty for a plastic bowl filled to the brim with whatever delicious, unidentifiable, mushy foods we could fit inside. We would stroll through the market, stopping for coconut pancakes or to speak with young students learning English, running our fingers through wooden windchimes and ending our evening with freshly sliced pineapple; juice running down to our elbows every time we took a bite.

Most nights were quiet if you wanted them to be; it was easy to settle in and drift off into a peaceful slumber. But one night, I woke with a start because somebody was pounding on our door and saying something about a "fire" and how we should "get out" and "pack our stuff" and "burning" and "let's go." 

I calmly opened the door and walked out onto the deck, and peering through a thin grove of banana tree silhouettes, everyone's beloved Utopia bar was burning -- or rather, being consumed by hungry flames reaching for the stars. 

Startled and afraid that the barrier of banana trees would not be sufficient to shield us from any rogue flames, I returned to our room and suggested that we pack our things and move to the street. 

When your entire life fits into a backpack, it's surprising how quickly you're able to jam everything inside when push comes to shove. But once we reached the calm nighttime streetscape and threw our backpacks into a pile...what then?

I began to notice a shuffle, a rumble in the otherwise peaceful neighborhood. I saw folks with bins of water running from house to house, spigot to spigot, and heading straight towards the conflagration.

So, I followed.

I ran, barefoot and blind, towards the end of the street where women were handing out bins and running the outdoor faucets. We lined up, filled up, and sprinted as steadily as possible into the flaming structure, so as not to lose too much precious water on the way in. 

While I was filling my bin, the woman told me: "We didn't call the fire department." And that's all she said. 

Confused, I wondered aloud if maybe someone should? But by the time I formed that thought, my bin was full and I was on my way to the fire. Inside the bar, folks were holding flashlights to light the way for anyone carrying water to the burning balcony. It was slippery, we were barefoot, there were rocks and furniture all askew in the darkness. It was a maze, an obstacle course, a death trap with the flaming light at the end of the tunnel being just as dangerous as what it took to get there. Men from the village were climbing steady beams to get a better vantage point and aim, and we were passing bins of water to whichever one of them needed one. 

This went on for what seemed like forever, but it was probably something closer to an hour. Once the flames were under control, we cautiously (but probably not cautiously enough) entered the smoldering structure to snuff out any remaining embers with buckets of water. It seemed unreal to me -- the mighty Mekong was just down the bank, but we didn't have a viable way to pump that water up to where we needed it. We also didn't have a way to involve the fire brigade, because the donated fire trucks were from European towns with much wider streets and they would have never fit down ours.

Instead, it was up to the neighborhood to save the neighborhood. Well, the neighborhood as well as the neighborhood's guests. Apparently not as eventful for the neighborhood as this night was for the neighborhood's guests, the untouched bits of the bar were up and running within a day or two of this catastrophe. The yoga balcony was in shambles, but the pizza oven was back in business, thank the Universe.

But at the end of the night, we returned to our rooms and re-unpacked. We were soaked, we were somehow unburnt, our ankles were miraculously unsprained, and we were filled with adrenaline and pride for a community that, in one fell swoop, became ours.

Here's the point.

I want to always be the kind of person who runs towards the burning building with water, but I also want to always be the kind of person who can lie on a pillow next to a pile of ashes, and sink into my own head while staring at the part of the ceiling that hadn't burned down. 

I want to find productivity with my community, but solace within myself.

My vibe over the past few months has turned incredibly inward, in spite of all of the new outward necessary things. Since moving to Oslo I've found a new community but I've also sanctioned a great percentage of my time for myself, and just myself.

A few months ago, my heart broke. Really, really broke and the thing that hurts and sucks is that there was nothing anyone could do. Nobody had done anything wrong. But to salvage whatever I had left looking forward, I decided that it was okay. The things I had needed from that relationship just weren't going to be available moving forward, and I would have to find them somewhere else. 

Grief is nonlinear. Fortunately, life is nonlinear so mathematically, that means that there exists a nonzero chance that at some point, my nonlinear grief and nonlinear life cancel each other out. Unfortunately, though, there's pretty much an equal chance that they'll constructively interfere and in that case, I will never stop crying.

Either way, whether it's because I've reframed my needs or met a ghost or that I'm killing it at work or got a new therapist that I adore, I've decided that I don't want to fall in love right now. Nevermind romantic love; I don't want to fall in platonic love for a little while. Just until it's right again. Just for some quiet. Instead, I want to learn how to better self-soothe, manage, survive without so much heavy reliance. 

I just want a tiny quiet space, and it has to be okay if that tiny quiet space occupies the, as I've said before, vast and nebulous real estate inside my own head. I enjoy spending time in my room and singing Icelandic lullabies to myself while I do the dishes. I enjoy rest, and I have time for it. I do not need to be tougher; I need more peace. I need foundation work and to understand my wide extroversion but more importantly, my deep introversion. I want to be free.

I can be free now.