The Swedish government issued a statement encouraging everyone to take a walk in the sun for at least 15 minutes, preferably for an hour. Which explains why the sidewalks are so packed, no matter which backstreet I take. So I go toward the edges of the island, where I can step right onto the frozen lakes. There is a perfectly wonderful trail all the way around Kungsholmen, but I take the river for the same reason that many others do - because why the hell not? Why walk on land when you can walk on water?
Several people have stopped in the middle of the river, turned around and lifted their face toward the sun. On land, I notice the same activity happening in every patch of direct light. Human faces titled up, eyes closed, tapped into an ancient ritual it seems.
Though Sweden claims to be secular, it is clear who the God of this nation is.
Watching them nestle into a ray of sun as if it were a bottle of whiskey that is still several hours away from being empty, I remove my hat. I would like to drink too. To feel a warmth rush through my head and seep down into my chest. However, the sun is not as warm as I’d hoped. There is a strong wind that no one else seems to notice, and today’s high is only -8, I believe. Not that I mind the cold. Not when I can walk into the city center on top of a frozen river. And later tonight, I will walk the opposite way on this save river beneath a ceiling of stars.
Its been five months since I entered this new world, and I still stagger through most moments, whether its this, or working in the royal library amidst a book collection that towers four stories above me and dates back to the 16th century, boarding a ferry to get to an afternoon meeting, nudging my way through a crowded cafe and into a chair between several middle-aged women ordering cappuccinos and two young men finishing off their plates of herring - just the ordinary affairs of life to most people here, but they oftentimes go beyond my imagination.
Right now, I am on my way to Swedish language class. Its an intense course for the brave-hearted, they told me, though my heart is fine. Its my brain that suffers. It feels like a big bowl of porridge after each class, but thankfully I have great classmates to help remedy this. We walk from the university to a local café, order a strong coffee or drink, talk about where we came from- Denmark, Turkey, Scotland, the Philippines, China, Poland- why we’re here in Sweden, what we think and wish for, because moving to a foreign country and rubbing against different perspectives and ways of being will change you quicker than the time it takes for you to realize that you are being altered, forever. Suddenly your past is altered too, so that you sit there cross-legged, holding your glass of wine and a new piece of your past: a piece of yourself that you just discovered but can no longer possess.
When our drinks are gone and our brains have reestablished themselves, we go our separate ways out of the café, and I discover that this new world suddenly makes more sense. I understand the conversations around me. Understand the little girl when she asks for directions, and the older gentleman who curses the winter as I help him to his feet because he has slipped on the ice. Understand what’s in my basket at the supermarket - down to each ingredient. Yet, still, I understand very little. In time, in time…
In time you need to learn to love the ebb just like the flow.
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