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.