Clarity Above the Clouds: Awakenings in Iceland and Greenland

When weather prevented us from connecting to Greenland, I felt disappointment in the delay; however, I was also exhausted from a year that had already taken a toll on me. I see being grounded as the universe slowing me down and offering an opportunity to reflect in ways my busy life does not always afford. Once in the hotel room I covered myself with the plush down comforter, closed my eyes and slept. A lot. Jan’s typing on the keyboard of her computer felt miles away rather than a mere few feet.  My body felt like a bag of bricks. By the second afternoon I felt able to string thoughts together and start writing my first blog for this website. Sometimes it takes a rested brain and body to write reflectively, and a neutral space like a comfortable hotel room not at your destination where there are no meetings and packed agendas.

 The year 2022 will go down as one of great professional accomplishment and profound personal loss. The dichotomy of this has made it difficult to savor the professional highs as well as fully attend to complicated and gut-wrenching grief that hung over me months on end like thick gray cloud cover. While I knew I was tired, it was not until the brakes slammed to a full stop did I realize just how depleted I was. During our extended stopover in Iceland I regained a natural rhythm of sleeping, eating, walking, reflecting, and writing—humanely, not frantically.

 On a biting cold Icelandic afternoon, I stood by the sea and closed my eyes, paid tribute to those I loved no longer here for me to touch, have long chats with, or muck around in the complexities and conflicts we never resolved. Staring out at what felt like unending horizon, I resisted the urge to exit the sorrow.

Islands have a way of forcing us to confront ourselves and that which is easier to run from. I began the first of many visits to the Greek island of Folegandros in 1992. Folegandros is an iconic Cycladic Greek island with whitewashed churches, narrow streets in the chora lined with classic homes draped with colorful bougainvillea, quaint squares, and spectacular beaches. A few weeks into my stay a storm hit the island, wind whipping and drenching downpours, preventing me from leaving my small rented room. When the confinement became too much, I put on my raincoat and hiked up the steep hill behind the village to the large church. I sat in a covered courtyard and sobbed uncontrollably. The idyllic island turned on me. I couldn’t paint in my outside studio, visit with new friends, swim in the Aegean, and lay in the sun. The ferries weren’t running. There was nowhere to run, no escape. The storm came and “persuaded” me to face myself. I was 35 years old, mother of two children, rebirthing as an artist, and on the precipice of a divorce. Eventually the rain ceased, the sun appeared, and calm returned but I was never the same. In the storm came clarity. Harms, loss, and things never to be undone were glaring at me but so was beauty, love, possibility for transformation and redemption. There is no selecting it down, it’s a complete package.

 There was no storm in Iceland (it was in Greenland) but we were halted, our plan upended by forces out of our control. In the pause of Iceland, I found clarity. Being able to actually rest and sleep, I returned to myself, paced my work, and reflected deeply in more than a cognitive way. I achieved clarity without forsaking authenticity or justified feelings. My energy drew the energy of others, including those who passed, particularly my former partner of 20 years who died in February. I already had it out with him in life and during his numerous visits after he passed. My hurt and anger still existed; however, my peace allowed our energy to coexist. I likened this experience to being on the plane—at cruising altitude above the bad weather, cloud cover, and the ground where the worldly workings are in full force. The back and forth of energy, life and death, joy and sorrow is a constant.

 When we arrived in Greenland after a three-day delay, we dropped our bags at the Air BNB and walked to the Greenland National Museum. Steps into the exhibit I read the following:

 In the Inuit worldview, sila and inua are important concepts; sila can refer to the weather and air, but also more personal qualities such as understanding, wisdom, and common sense. Inua is the term for spirit that gives objects inner energy and power.

Everything is animated by this spirit and it possesses a lifeforce not visible in the physical world. The physical world consists of nature, all living creatures and knowledge and thoughts. Beyond the physical world exists the spiritual world. The Inuit spiritual world is often divided up into several spheres, each with its own meaning for life after death and communication with spirits.    

 The Inuit worldview is more complicated and fully explained in this exhibit, particularly the intersection with missionaries in the 18th century; however, the essence spoke to me and what I was experiencing over the past few days and beyond. Energy and communication transcend boundaries of convention. Call it what you like, and no need to make it a theological debate, but there exists a range of worldviews and experiences that defy one set of beliefs or perspectives. Thirty years ago, I wrote:

 one day I will elevate

leave this planet

my friend says I am a bird flying

everyone sees you in the sky

except you

you’ve got to be kidding I say, I don’t even recognize my world anymore

tell me your secret she asks because I want to be up there with you

 The elevation was not death or a physical ascent, it was a spiritual rising above, a kind of peace and clarity. Reading about the Inuit spiritual worldview and connecting it to what I was experiencing and thinking about was profound for me. Our attachments to objects—are they the objects themselves or the energy they deliver and memories they represent? For all we see with our eyes, there are simply things not visible in the physical world. But we feel them, and feeling is another way of seeing.

 As a world traveler, my path often crosses with serendipity and what feels like destiny. This happened many times in Greenland last summer. One June morning before we departed Pearl, Pippi, and I were on our morning walk around Mackworth Island and the phrase In the meantime everything changed flashed across my mind. I called Jan and told her a new series was brewing inspired by the concept of in the meantime, a space after and before something happens. It is not suspended in motion but more sandwiched between the two. While our team toured the Nuuk Art Museum, I was taken by the work of Anne-Birthe Hove, a Greenlandic artist who passed away in 2012. While I was moved by all her work on display, I was drawn to one piece in particular, an assemblage of notes, drawings, and text displayed on a wall. When I asked the curator to return to the piece and tell me more she said, “That is from her In the Meantime series”.  Jan and I exchanged Oh My God looks. There was a reason I was drawn to her and this piece in particular, which on our return trip early this month we learned the assemblage was created as an homage to the artist and the In the Meantime series by the curators at the museum. That was the beginning of many serendipitous and spiritual encounters in Greenland, which along with our experience combing through the archives of Anne-Birthe Hove’s work is fodder for a later blog.

 In the meantime, I began work on my series with three pieces completed thus far. It is a journey, and as with all journeys the planned and unplanned coexist with tension and offering. I am here for it, and to the best of my ability, will embrace the parts I control and those I do not, what I see with my eyes as well as what my feelings illuminate, whether I am at cruising altitude, stuck in cloud cover, or making my way in the worldly workings of this glorious and complicated world.