My biological clock is still on Norwegian time so I’m up in the middle of the night and sleeping during the day here in Pennsylvania. Near sunrise I plan to take a walk outside to officially start my day.
The gift in Melissa’s banishing me from the kitchen and dining room before 9AM each morning, effectively disrupting my routine after Ian’s departure, was that I found a way back to my Self. Instead of bemoaning my inability to leave the island early and what I had come to experience as a hostile environment where I felt unwelcome: I rediscovered my inner resources and explored the greater universe surrounding me. I found a way to respond in deeper service and commitment to others: I cooked.
I surveyed the pantry and my memory of mention of a cabbage somewhere. I salvaged the head of broccoli in the refrigerator on the edge of spoiling. I repurposed the extra potatoes that had been boiled by the previous group of three social workers. They had come and gone - having overestimated the amount of food to prepare for themselves and the two other guests - Linda and me - with whom they shared this place on the island.
First I made cabbage. I quartered and poured olive oil on it, salted and peppered, then charred the pieces in the oven. To make best use of the heat, I also roasted red bell pepper, whole garlic cloves and onion. Some of the roasted vegetables would be used in our next supper’s red lentil soup. The rest would be used in a spread for buttered, toasted bread to accompany the soup. I also roasted four large sweet potatoes as a side dish: mashed and mixed with butter, cinnamon, cardamom and sugar. And I made rice, lots of rice.
Half of the boiled potatoes, browned and mixed with bell pepper and onions, went into the cabbage and the rest became breakfast potatoes for the next morning’s scramble. I for one needed a break from the daily ritual bread and butter, jam, sliced cheese and sausages, muesli, and coffee or tea. While bread was baked every morning, we never enjoyed it warm from the oven because there was always half a loaf remaining from the previous day. My solution was to make a bread pudding both for dessert and to catch us up on consumption of the bread. I sliced the very dense bread, placed it in a loaf pan and saturated it with about a quart of milk; then added four eggs, sugar, cinnamon, and cardamom. The only raisins were in the muesli so I added some of that as well. The Colombian bananas, while spotted and turning brown, never fully ripened. I sliced one into the mix. My hand kneaded mixture baked well, making for a very nice, warm dessert with coffee. And with no leftover bread, the next morning, we had warm, fresh bread from the oven for breakfast.
I remembered that Ian, the previous host, said that there was penne pasta around. In the pantry I found two cans of tomato paste and a can of diced tomatoes. I made a wonderful sauce with garlic, onion, bell pepper, black pepper, rosemary, salt and a couple of the bay leaves that I’d brought with me from my tree in New Orleans. The sauce cooked slowly for several hours during the day and Linda - who preferred a role as sous chef and dishwasher - agreed to boil the pasta and take care of clean up after dinner. I spent considerable time and attention on cooking as my meditative practice during my second week and experienced directly how local Norwegian artist Are Andreassen Kunst had described Fordypningsrommet (https://www.dwell.com/home/fordypningsrommet-fleinvaer-the-arctic-hideaway-d690708a). On my second day there, returning from our boat outing to check his lobster traps he said: « That place is a monastery. » I responded, « Yes and I am a monk. »
In our conversations, Linda and I talked about the solitude and beauty of the place. We could both hear the sound of my fountain pen driving, dancing across the pages of my journal. « It’s nice. » she commented hearing me write. We agreed that this place wasn’t for everyone. After my first day or two, I realized that the loudest sound I could hear, in fact the only noise, was the sound of my mind and thoughts running through my head. While we enjoyed the deep peace, we agreed that not everyone is ready to deal with themselves in this way. It requires the adeptness of an alchemist to leave civilization behind to be alone with one’s thoughts and inspirations to create art.
« Who are you? » I asked Andrew, attempting to place him inside an Hellenistic pantheon. After eating a mound of sweet potatoes and bowls of lentil soup heaping with rice, he thanked me for the blessing of the food I had prepared. He said that he was « sated ». What an interesting choice of descriptor I thought. The man is a poet, among many other pasttimes, skills, professions and pursuits. So I was neither surprised nor impressed by his vocabulary. But « sated » made me think of satyr. This child-like man who had seen perhaps too much of the world, traveled - writing poetry and playing wind instruments. For me, he had revealed himself as an incarnation of Pan. And now I am reminded of John Travolta in his role as Michael the Archangel (alongside Jean Stapleton of Edith Bunker and All in the Family fame alongside Carroll O’Connor who played Archie Bunker) in the film Michael. Like Andrew, Michael also enjoyed eating and travel during his earthly incarnation.
On my last night, as I left the dining room to return to my cabin, Andrew said that he had been summoned to serenade me as a proper farewell. He stood outside in the winter chill and darkness to play two choruses of Amazing Grace on bagpipes. What a gift! That meant more to me than . . . well I cannot compare it to anything. He had seen me and thanked me in the same moment for having prepared meals with what he called an understatement of my « immense power ». He thanked me for making certain that he always had enough to eat; for sharing a gift of nourishment, kindness and love with him.
Moments earlier we sat side by side in the dining room, eating fish cooked on an open fire in the pit up the hill with the last of the stewed corn and rice that I had made for the previous night’s dinner. I realized that my portion of fish was twice the size of what I could eat or that I needed. I said to Andrew « I wish I had thought to offer you half of my fish before I started eating », knowing that I could not finish it all and didn’t want it to go to waste. He responded « It isn’t too late. » I lifted half of the large filet, transferring it to his plate. « Are you sure? » he asked. I nodded yes and he thanked me. When I cut a second brownie in half and offered the remainder to him he refused insisting that I enjoy it. « But I won’t eat it, » I said. So he did.
An amazing experience of human interaction on Sørværet was how in a very short span of time we, those of us staying together in isolation from the world, came to express deep care for one another. Linda was very concerned about me when she learned that I had slipped on the ice and fallen near my cabin, despite having been very careful with my steps. « Are you okay? » she asked. And I was, having fallen on my cushy bottom in a safe landing. I was fine but did not risk travelling farther down the steps to the restroom in the darkness, the frost glistening like diamond dust in the moonlight on the wooden steps leading downward to other cabins, the restrooms and sauna.
The next morning, I adapted to walking on the stairs by wearing my fleece-lined crocheted slippers over two pairs of socks. The texture provided traction and prevented my slipping on the ice. Wearing them allowed me the freedom to safely climb and descend the wooden decks and stairs around the property. What would have been oak or cypress roots rising out of the ground where I am from in Louisiana was stone on this island, bare or lichen covered stone. I realized that my fall could have been worse, much worse if I had fallen and hit stone outcroppings or broken a bone. I had come prepared as directed for cold, wind and rain - but not for ice. Upon return to my cabin, I either left my slippers outside in the freezing temperatures or hung them up inside overnight to dry.
The restrooms and shower were always very clean during my stay. Other guests enjoyed the sauna followed by a dip in the Norwegian Sea. The cabins were tidy as well, floors and stools covered with wool rugs and sheepskins; the single electric wall heater provided more than enough warmth, making the space extremely cozy. I often had to open my windows slightly in the night to regulate the interior temperature.
Less than 100 square feet, I made my tiny space my own. Now with the hours before 9AM spent in my cabin, I figured out how to work from my loft bed, which provided greater surface area than the writing desk below. The cold icy decks were no option for working outside this time of year and at times my room was too small for me. So I cooked and spent as much time as I could during the day in the rooms with walls of glass facing the sea.
At night I watched as Orion, Taurus, Venus, Jupiter and the moon crossed the sky - those nights when the Aurora Borealis receded from competition with the stars for my attention.
I slept well and dreamt vividly under the stars far north in the Arctic Circle. The same stars and sky, remind me here in United States, that I live under a watchful eye and am connected to a grander universe.