The Cold

In Iceland, waking up in the middle of the night isn’t exactly the annoyance it is in your own bed. Unless it’s because you have to piss, then it totally still is. But every time I woke up in the middle of the night, a niggling hope of seeing the Northern Lights crept in and I had to peek. Just in case. Even the obnoxious snorer, the last night in the hostel room sleeping sixteen, didn’t annoy me. That night was the best chance, after all. He gave me more excuses of looking out the window.

I never saw the Northern Lights. But that doesn’t mean I’ll never see them—especially when I’m already strongly considering impulse booking a ticket for next March. I thought I’d be more upset about it, considering it’s what I wanted most out of a trip to Iceland.

Instead, Iceland gave me…what, to be honest, I’m not sure what Iceland gave me just yet. But whatever it was, it was desperately needed.

I was telling Mom the other night that a coworker said, “It made me emotional to see you living your best life. You looked so happy.” Mom’s response? “Same.”

I received so many comments on photos, texts, or messages saying something similar. “You look so happy.”

And, to be honest, I felt it.

Now here I am, still trying to figure out how to blog about it. How to explain it. How to explain what I felt while I was there. How I feel now.

Mostly more about how I feel now.

It’s so hard to settle into this life where I work 42 weekends a year. It’s so hard to settle into this life where I’m not constantly moving. Where I’m not constantly exploring. Discovering. Where I’m not looking happy. Being happy.

It’s so hard to focus on the mundane between the trips. It’s so hard to focus on the normal. It just doesn’t feel like me. It doesn’t let me feel like me. I don’t have the same energy walking for eight hours in the same room selling lotion as I do walking 14 miles through the countryside. Or 21 miles through a foreign city. Or even three miles on a trail by my house.

I know about the responsibilities of life. I don’t shirk them. I show up. I commit. I give my all. But I was reminded of who I actually am when I’m doing what makes me feel so damn alive.

So I go to work. I do my job to the excellence my parents instilled me with. But the last three days, all I’ve done is think. “How can I get my life to always be that me?”

And I don’t know. I used to think Italy. I used to think Spain. Iceland is trying to tell me it’s the answer. I know it’s not…but I had to go back to Italy and Spain to learn that. So I like making the same mistakes. Especially when it comes to travel.

I want to stand under a waterfall without a care. I want to be that person and write a book. Maybe that’s where I am.

I don’t know. But I used to write poems about wanting to escape the heat when I was in high school. Now I can’t stop thinking about the cold.