Urban Escapes

The boat had that Sunday morning feel about it, smelled of coffee, not much talking. Not much of anything, it was mostly me and the German tourists. I sat in the windy sunshine and read my book, passed century-old summer houses in the archipelago before we slowed down and entered the Stockholm harbor. Here it is, here is my city, I thought, My brand new city all to myself and I wondered if it had missed me when I certainly had missed it. Weeks on that island, in such a paradise of warm sunshine, ocean suds, fiery dusk and endless wine, I felt ungrateful to long for streets, but it could not be helped.

We finished brunch at the one spot in town that was not vacation vacant and walked out onto scorching streets, strolled through antique shops and giggling at the stories that caught us up. The concrete underneath my feet soothed me, the friendly voice and familiar streets. I reassured myself that we were in no hurry; when the summer ends, I will have months yet in which to overindulge in them, friends and streets alike. I have had that feeling before. When New York was truly new and the entire adventure lay ahead.

How quickly I tear out the pages that came before. How eager to land on unwritten sheets.

Say Your Name Out Loud

If I kiss you
where it's sore
will you feel
better?

Will you feel
anything at all?

"But I Hope"

Endless delving in the misery; we read every new article and are appalled. A dear visitor arrives on the island, and over countless glasses we still go over the details, the little scraps of anything we know. We try to make sense, we try to connect. We are but human. We wallow in the tragedy, to try to understand.

When I woke up this morning, the sun was finally shining. A soft, steady light, unmarred by wind or clouds, the sea a blue glass mirror below. I turned on my computer and found a video waiting, just a short clip, just a greeting from a friend. But it was so much more than that. It was you. Since last I saw you, you've come home. Since last I saw you, you've held your babies and found new words. Since last I saw you, you've begun to smile.

And for all that is awful, and hopeless, and tragic in this world, for all that is incomprehensibly cruel, this one thing seemed proof that there is something left to fight for. You reminded me what a beautiful thing it is, Life. You reminded me these tears, could also be for good.

In Paradise

The day after the ground shook in Norway, everything moved so slowly on the island. What point was there in sun-basking, in happy socializing? I drowned in newspapers and stared into distant walls. We offered to make blueberry pie for the evening’s barbecue and I jumped at the opportunity to gather berries, needed the distraction.

Nature so quiet but the iPod so loud, between songs I would realize the stillness around me and it was only disconcerting. The blueberry patches stretched infinitely around me, it’s a good year this year, and I stood in a sea of blue, plump berries in every direction. Picked one. Picked hundreds. Filling my bowl, I had more than enough. Picked more. One by one, unable to stop, I simply focused on the simple act of carrying each berry to the bowl and stretching out for more. The loud music and repetitive behavior numbingly comfortable in an incomprehensible world. My fingers turned red, dark red, blood red. The pie was made, we still had blueberries for days.

Most of these days have passed in silence. It is too hard to speak of what has been, it seems impossible to speak of anything else. Life will return, words will return, it is inevitable. It’s just a matter of enduring the silence in between.

On Wounds Opened

A bomb explodes in the country next door. A street like a war zone and windows shattered. We lay disconnected on a sun-drenched cliff and remarked how lovely it was.

A deranged gunman steps onto an island, massacres dozens upon dozens of children trying to make a difference with the tools of democracy they've been offered. We went for a swim in still waters, not a sound to be heard but birdsong and our own laughter. Not until much, much later, when the sun had grown cooler, the barbecue coals had died down, the wine was finished, did we connect to the outside world, did we hear the disaster that struck so close to home.

Norway, our little brother. A nation we so reluctantly let go a hundred years ago, they fought and tugged to be free and yet not a weapon was fired. Norway, our dear ally, our closest friend, a million ties across the borders and our languages entwined. So many of us welcomed into their land of riches, so many of our dear friends still there now.

We thought we were safe in our sheltered peninsulas up north. We thought we were immune to hatred and insane violence, that we were free. Don't call me, came the texts to loved ones on the mainland. I am hiding, and I don't want him to hear me.

The island is beautiful today, sunshine and a light breeze. It's quiet, calm. Reality is incomprehensible. The words are not enough.

Night Swimming

There were thoughts, and thoughts avoided. There was a long day of plans and words on paper, waiting to be tied together, neatly wrapped, presented. I had them on the tip of my tongue.

But then the sun began to set, a great big peach of fire in the west, and I quickly changed, nearly ran down to the water. The pine trees were on fire, bright orange and red flames trickling through their branches, spreading onto the cliffs, the jetties and boats. The water was still, so still, and bright yellow in the low sunlight. I remembered a film I saw as a child, about whales escaping oil spills and fire on the water. Fire on the water! It seemed impossible in the world I knew.

For a minute, I let the warm rays dance across my skin, my hair in the breeze, and I dove in. Let the cold water surround me, mingle with my skin until I no longer knew where I ended and the sea began. After the initial shock settled, how sweet the moment, and I could not get myself to get up. Swam long strokes straight ahead, saw my fingers lift the clear water, break the surface, while I aimed for the island across the strait, still aflame in the setting sun. There was not a sound in the world but my steady strokes, my breaths, I was alone with the swallows, who skimmed the surface around me.

Eventually I got up, of course, the fire had died in the trees, left a purple shimmer for a few minutes before returning them to their regular browns and greens. The sea was still quiet, but the magic was gone. I carried a piece with me. Everything else had been washed away.

On Summer

How quickly the clouds disappear when the sun returns, every rainy sense of futility that was so close the day before is swept out to sea and I lay blissful in the bright light, basking. Feel the browning of skin freckle my heart with happiness, the cold water so welcoming against my restless body. Not a care in the world could ruin such a day, such a bouncy step. Another bottle of wine opened before the mosquitoes arrive and the neighbor returns to his home across the blueberry patch. We wash up dishes on the porch against a pink sunset; when I walk back to my cabin, the grass is dewy cool against my bare feet.

Such is bliss. We remember to love it all the more recklessly when the memory of cold rain nips at our heels and hearts.