Having Been, Now Coming

Revisiting my first conscious awakening as a young woman in the Norwegian wild

The author as a 23 year old in Bergen, Norway in search of herself

We sometimes refer to “awakening” like it is a single event. In my experience, there is an initial catalyst, a cresting of realization that forces you into the murky waters of your inner world, followed by a continuous unfolding. Written at the tender age of 23, this is my story of waking up to the self-destructive undercurrents that had been pulling and drowning me in my early life and the promise I made to myself going forward. Reading it again, some 20 years later, reminds me of my true purpose and who I always intended myself to be, as well as the tremendous healing power of nature.

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I hiked in a skirt; I wasn’t planning on going far. Once the gondola carried me to the top of Mount Fløyen, my guide book said it was “a delightful 40-minute walk back to town.” As the car swayed up the mountain, I looked at the city below and planned the coming hours of the day. I could stroll down the mountain, then spend the afternoon walking through the narrow streets of Bergen, Norway and perhaps visit a museum or two. It sounded like a good plan, but one that was destined to be broken.

At the top, there was a lookout station filled with tourists like myself taking pictures of the historical port city. While down in town, I had pressed my nose to the tenement walls lapped by years of ocean winds, and breathed in the smell of years gone by. I had spent days in museums and 12^th century churches trying to place myself in the distant Norwegian past.

Who would I have been? A Nordic priestess? A Viking warrior maiden? A farmer? As the waves rolled on to the shifting shore, would I have dreamt of other times? Of a better life?

But from Fløyen’s top, history dissolved and “old” lost its meaning. Those recurring questions vanished from my mind as the mountain air hit my nose and brought my attention back to my twenty-three year old American body, as it stood planted on the stone set between the ocean and the hills.

After a British lady in the brightest red shorts I have ever seen snapped my picture for me, I turned towards the hills stretching farther and farther away from town. There was a crossroads. To my left, a sign pointed the way toward the city center. Straight in front of me was a path leading into the hilly woodlands. Some tourists headed down the paved trail toward town, while others waited in line to ride the gondola down. Nobody took the path, but for me, there was no turning back. The energy of the hills circled my body and led me in.

As I wound through the woods and over the rocky hills, my amazement grew. Beds of lush green moss covered the forest floor and the smell of the pines energized my every cell.

My body felt pulled to the earth, craving to be absorbed like a lost child in her mother’s arms.

Every leaf, every berry, every molecule of oxygen was so perfect. I felt my heart and body cracking open and I cried. At that instant I wanted nothing more than to heal the separation between my flesh and the earth’s, my tears and the rushing rivers.

I cried for the years of drinking and memories lost. I cried for all my adolescent screaming and running away, for the times I just laid down because it was easier that way, and for all the innocent and vicious lies. I cried for the anxiety-ridden years spent ranting in delirious and senseless poetry, for scratching my legs and pulling at my hair. I cried out all the medication fed to me by bullshit therapists that treated me more like a case study than a girl who was afraid of everything. I cried for all the times I wished I would change.

The moss squished underneath my feet and did not let me go. I thought I might melt into the earth, becoming one with the Norwegian terrain. That was a happy thought. I imagined my dirty blond dreadlocked hair meshing with the fallen branches and stray grasses and my arms and legs becoming strong roots penetrating the ancient rock. I laughed out loud with tears in my eyes saying the first words that formed in my mind, “We are held, dear blossom, we are held - cupped by rich watery hands.” And I began to cry again, but the tears sprang from a place beyond my sorrow.

As I connected with the nature around me, drawing strength from her timeless beauty, I felt the scarred, bruised, and dead tissues in my body come back to life, making me whole again.

Onward I walked, past lichen-covered rocks glowing electric green, past meadows softly announcing their presence in subtle pinks, purples, and various shades of delicious green. I even passed a herd of wandering white sheep. I have to admit that when I first saw them approaching, my feet stopped abruptly. The city side of my mind jumped in and asked for reassurance. “Sheep are friendly, right?” I was surprised that I even had to ask that question, but how many times did a kid from the Boston suburbs come in contact with free-roaming sheep? Not too many. All of a sudden I loved Norway even more.

As the hours passed, my water supply dwindled and my feet began to hurt. I had been walking with such an open heart, talking to the sky above me like I hadn’t done in years, that I didn’t notice time or footsteps. I realized it was a long way back to the youth hostel, much longer than the anticipated “delightful 40-minute walk.” Still, I didn’t want to turn around. I decided that to make it out with some hydration left in my cells, I would walk another twenty minutes, and then head back.

About ten minutes in, I rounded a corner and again stopped dead in my tracks. A clear blue mountain lake shone before me. The sun glistened off the surface in a way that looked magical, as if some mythical creature might call that water home. I dipped in my hand. Then I wanted to feel the cold water on my feet. I took off my shoes and waded in. I looked around, threw off my skirt, my shirt, and my underwear and dove in. All remaining concerns dissolved as my head broke the calm surface and I was invigorated and filled, yet again, with total joy. As I popped my head out of the water, I gazed at the mountains and trees towering around me. I was home.

I took a couple of sips of the crisp water and sat on the rocks to dry.

How free I felt sitting under the light blue sky with all of my skin exposed!

How calm I was as I moved my arms and legs through the welcoming water!

How renewed I was standing as a naked woman alone amongst the rocks and trees!

As the water dripped from my breasts and struck the ground, I began to appreciate my past for leading me to where I was and who I had become.

However, I realized that to move forward in my life, I needed to leave the past behind.

I said goodbye to the lake and started the walk back to town. The miles ahead of me gave me time to reflect upon my trip thus far.

My trip began almost two weeks before I arrived in Bergen. With only my backpack holding one shirt, a pair of shorts, a sweatshirt, my camera, journal, and some socks and underwear, I boarded a plane in Denver, Colorado and arrived twelve hours later in Helsinki, Finland, a place I once called home. It was the first time I had returned to the country since I had moved back to the United States two years before.

For a year and a half, I shaped a new existence for myself in the foreign land. I attended language school a couple of times a week, slowly learning the intricacies and tricks of the Finnish language, though never really learning enough to feel included in city society. I finally got a job cooking in a nice Italian restaurant. I made friends and sang with a local rock band. I brought home a German shepherd puppy from a farm near the Russian border whom I named Calista. She was my salvation through the rough times that followed.

I made a big mistake when I was nineteen; I got married.

I was once a bride walking down an aisle made of an Afghani rug, strangling stolen flowers in my shaky hands. I knew I wasn’t very sure of my decision to wed as my feet touched the rug, but I kept walking slowly towards my fiancé and the priest, unable to drop my pathetic flowers and run. The marriage was supposed to be primarily for citizenship reasons, so I could live in Finland with fewer hassles, but in retrospect, I would have rather filed for a work permit than a divorce.

My husband’s name was Juhani, but when he moved to the United States from Finland as a five-year-old child, his mother changed it to John. I met him on the dusty streets of Tucson, Arizona while I was doing some post-high school traveling. He said hello as I walked down the main drag with my army surplus backpack, and we left the city together.

One afternoon, a little over a year after we met, we were sitting in a park in Austin, Texas. Suddenly, he put down his can of beer and grabbed my hand. In light of some dramatic circumstances haunting him in the US, he asked if I would to move to Finland with him. We had already been all over the US, including Alaska, sometimes hitchhiking, sometimes riding freight trains, sometimes walking. So, after all that, I was game. Also, after all that, I thought we would settle down in Finland in a little apartment, work, and build what my parents had taught me was a “real” life.

Transitioning from a relatively care-free nomadic lifestyle to a more structured one was easy for me. For John, who had traveled for close to ten years, it was overwhelmingly difficult. He frequently arrived late to his construction job or failed to show up at all. Sometimes, my dog and I were alone in the apartment for days waiting to hear from him, as he drank with friends and wandered around the city. Meanwhile, his boss would call and ask me where my husband was. I embarrassingly admitted that I simply didn’t know.

My declining marriage dramatically altered my experience in Finland.

I became antisocial and bitter, often sitting alone in front of the TV drinking cheap wine and punching pillows.

The neighbors complained about the violent crying and hateful exclamations shooting out my window. Not only was I growing to hate my husband, but everyone with blond hair and blue eyes who spoke the language I couldn’t very well understand. For months I went back and forth between leaving and trying to work it out. Finally, I packed my bags, grabbed my dog, and spat on the ground as I left the country.

Being back in the United States softened my view and I longed to return to Finland under more favorable circumstances. I felt badly that I had left my band and friends with such a sudden farewell. I felt even worse that I hadn’t been very nice towards the end. It was like I hadn’t been myself for most of the time I was there and it bothered me to be remembered as someone I didn’t think I was. I wanted to make amends with my Finnish past, tie up loose ends, and experience the country without a troubled mind.

I was nervous to go alone though. I could handle Finland, but I planned on visiting other countries as well. My friend, Ty, who was already in Europe traveling, agreed to come and meet me in Finland and accompany me on the rest of the trip. True to plan, he turned up in Finland and we had a good time. We went to an outdoor music festival that many of my friends were playing. A number of them told me that I seemed happier, healthier, and more balanced. To a certain degree, they were right; I had grown.

However, one morning, after a wild night of drinking, I woke up in a puddle of cold mud, unsure of how I had landed there. My confidence in my presumed growth and maturity dwindled; I was still stuck in my old patterns of irresponsibility, excess, and childish behavior. Endless reels of never-changing scenes from my rebellious adolescence played in my mind. Coming to Finland and reconciling with my friends was helpful and nice, but I had a long way to go before I could truly call myself a grown woman.

Fortunately, I saw my time in Scandinavia as a perfect opportunity to do some real rearranging and refiguring about how I lived.

I was at a crossroads where I could turn around and remain wild, head-always-screaming Carolyn or I could transcend the boundary of my old patterns and grow into my true self.

I was ready to really grow; I was ready to rejoin the life force after so many years of running away. But I needed to be alone and I needed nature.

As I said goodbye to Ty and boarded the ferry to Sweden alone, I felt liberated. A sense of impending adventure washed over me as the ferry left the port and I drifted towards Sweden. I had ridden the ferry from Helsinki to Stockholm a couple of times before, but this trip was different. I sat on the deck watching the sun set and waiting for the darkness that never really comes during the summer in those northern lands. Shades of the vanishing day - pinks, oranges, blues and grays - lingered across the arching sky. I drew out my journal and, for the first time since I had arrived in Scandinavia, I wrote. “There is a gateway in everything,” I began, as I passed under the pale stars.

I did not spend much time in Sweden, having been there a number of times before while playing with my band. Rather, I spent a few hours wandering through alleys in Gamla Stan, the oldest district in Stockholm, and then boarded the overnight train to Oslo.

Norway called me. I had always been fascinated with that country; to travel there was to travel back in time a little bit and connect with what once was. In Norway, nature still rules the landscape with its jagged and rugged mountains, crystal clear water, and clean, crisp air. The hectic pace and violence of American life that fueled my anxiety is to a large degree not found. A relaxed simplicity and common sense seems born into everyone. Yet, there is something extreme about Norway that excites my spirit. I love the glaciers and arctic tundra, the dramatic fjords and thundering falls. I love the long summer days and brief displays of winter sun.

It took me a few hours to again reach Bergen’s city center. My feet hurt and I was hungry and thirsty, but I felt full of life and awareness, like I was on the right path, like the moments I had been waiting for had finally arrived. I delighted in the fact that I did not have to ask anyone what he or she wanted to do or spend my time doing things I had little interest in. Sitting down on a park bench, I took out my travel guide and decided on where to go next. I wasn’t ready to leave Norway and now wondered if I’d ever be. My outward travels seemed to be mimicking my inner journey.

I chose to go deeper and deeper into myself and nature and farther and farther north.

The next morning, I walked once more through the old tenement buildings of Bergen and boarded the first of a series of trains. When I wasn’t sleeping, I stared out the window at the beautiful countryside trying to clear my mind and settle my soul. I felt a sense of pride in being alone. All the time I would have spent making small talk and compromising about where to go, I spent reading, writing, and wondering.

I pondered all kinds of things: how my childhood affected my life, how I could overcome my insecurities, and who I really was. I felt strong, grounded, and receptive, independent and energized. My walk through the woods the day before had loosened me from the ropes of the past and erased the chants of regret and blame that were bound to my brain and hindering my development. The experience encouraged me to keep going on my journey of self-discovery.

There was one thing that stuck out in my mind as something that I needed to do. I had always been afraid to sleep alone outside. Now was the time to confront and overcome that fear. There have been many things that I was afraid to do, like jump out of airplanes or swim in the ocean. But this fear was symbolic for me. It encompassed fear of the darkness, fear of the unknown, fear of being a woman alone in her most vulnerable state. The fear left me feeling childish and helpless, which ravaged my nerves.

I always imagined myself to be a strong and fearless woman, a modern-day Amazon warrior, despite my petite frame. But whenever I headed into the woods alone, particularly after dark, I called my projected identity into question. And that made me feel weak, which made me depressed.

After a couple of stops along the way, including a wonderful jaunt through the Sognefjord, I arrived in Andalsnes, in central Norway. I sat on a dock facing the gorgeous mountains and waited for the bus to Geiranger. A few men approached me as I waited. Since I had gone solo, it seemed that I was a source of intrigue, an anomaly, to the men that crossed my path. They all asked if I was alone and when I replied that I was, I usually received some fatherly advice to be careful and to find a nice young man to accompany me. Either that or they inched closer to me, changing the look in their eyes. In either case, I told them I wished to be alone and to please leave. The first time I asked nicely, the second time I was no longer asking.

Andalsnes - https://www.korttidsleie.net/l/guest-post-trip-to-andalsnes/

It was a cloudy day. I hoped it wouldn’t rain, since I had chosen that night to sleep outside. The bus ride from Andalsnes to Geiranger was amazing. We hugged the edge of the mountainside, as the road twisted and turned through the dramatic mountains and valleys. We also stopped at a glacier, which I found truly remarkable. I wore a t-shirt and shorts standing on ice that had been frozen for who knows how many years. But this time, it wasn’t the past that intrigued me, but the present moment. I dumped out the tap water in my canteen and replaced it with the water trickling from the ice.

Drops began to fall from the sky while I was on the bus, but by the time I reached Geiranger, it was only partly cloudy. The ground, however, was fairly wet. It was really important to me to sleep outside that night. For some reason, it had to be that night, but my nerves and the weather told me to wait. My guidebook said there was a hostel in the small town of 300 people. I began walking up the hill towards it when a man stopped me.

“Are you going to the hostel?” he asked in English with a strong Norwegian accent.

I replied that I was.

“Well, the owner broke her leg and closed the hostel for the season. So, I’m afraid it is not open.”

There was only one other hotel in the town, but I couldn’t afford a room. At that point in the trip I could barely afford to eat, let alone stay in a nice place intended for the more well-to-do travelers visiting the fjords. It looked like I was camping after all.

Camping is somewhat difficult without a tent when it has just rained. But I still had a few hours of daylight, so I walked to a couple of spots, but they were all too exposed, as much of the land around town had been cleared for farmland, or for someone’s private property. Down the road a little way, I saw a cluster of trees a relatively short distance from the road. In the middle of the trees there was a small clearing. The soil was wet, but to my amazement, there was a wooden pallet leaning against a tree.

With this gift, I felt more confident and came up with a plan to make my stay more comfortable. I stashed my backpack in a bush and went back into town. The grocery store was still open. I selected a nice looking girl to ask for help, and I asked her if they had any large boxes and large plastic bags. She looked rather confused, but offered me both the boxes and the bags.

With my knife, I cut the cardboard into big squares and sliced the bags down the side. I covered the wooden pallet with cardboard and plastic, creating a small platform. I thought about trying to rig up a rain cover with the remaining plastic, but I didn’t have quite enough to make it effective and besides, I wanted to see the stars.

When I had set up my camp for the night, I sat on my platform and looked around. I was surrounded by birch trees, and beyond that, by rocky and pine-laden mountains. A waterfall churned in the distance and a Scandinavian chill washed through the air. I watched some ponies feed and gallop through the fields, as the day’s light slowly disappeared from the sky. I put on all my clothes and sat inside my sleeping bag.

I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t scared, but an electric panic raced through my veins. Beside the platform, I had made a small pile of rocks that would be easy to grab, should I need a weapon against human or animal. In my hand I clutched my knife. I told myself that I was being ridiculous, that surely there was nothing lurking in these bushes and trees.

But no matter how much I told myself that I had nothing to fear, the anxiety crept in and my ears were attuned to every sound of the night.

To make matters worse, a large stray cow kept wandering to the edge of my little clearing and letting out loud moos. Every time I drifted into dreamland, I was startled by a booming moo a few feet from my body. Every time, she sent me, knife and all, jumping out of my sleeping bag and into attack mode. She did this to me about five times before she finally headed back to wherever she called home.

Believing the cow to be gone for the night, I fell into a deep sleep. Only a couple of hours passed, however, before I awoke to the sound of something rustling in the woods behind me. Unable to see what was making the noise, I slowly and quietly slipped on my boots, grabbed and unfolded my knife, which had fallen out of my sleeping hand, and moved in the direction of the noise.

My heart beat loudly, as my eyes tried to adjust to the darkness. I took a couple of deep breaths and listened. I heard branches and twigs snapping and leaves rustling. In what direction it moved, I could not tell. But I told myself that whatever or whoever it was, I could handle it. I would not run and hide or even scream, but rather face whatever hid in the darkness; I would be brave and honor the intuitional voice that told me not to be afraid. I called out, “Hey!” in a sharp voice. The noises stopped and I held my breath. Then, out of the trees walked two big and beautiful brown horses.

I let out a sigh of relief and awe, as I watched the horses trot away. I got into my sleeping bag once more, feeling proud of myself, but also feeling angry.

It angered me that American society had taken peace of mind, trust, and security from me, that a night in the fjords listening to the soft rush of a nearby waterfall and gazing at the clear sky was corrupted with fear.

I wondered how much of my fear was justified and how much was instilled. I thought back to feminist meetings I attended during high school where the leaders told the group of young women that rapists are behind every corner and lurking in every parking lot and that to be a woman was to be at war. “We have so much to be afraid of,” they said.

As I lay under the stars, drifting into sleep, I imagined those women telling me I was crazy for being alone. I recalled the advice of male passersby warning me to be careful and to watch myself. I remembered the times in my life when I couldn’t even close my eyes in my own bed. Then, I thought of the horses walking through the woods. Putting down my knife, I laughed out loud and exclaimed, “This horse of my spirit will not be saddled!”

I made a promise to myself: this life will be lived without fear.

The fresh smell of a countryside morning and the sun filtering through the canopy of leaves above woke me. After the incident with the horses, I slept soundly for six more hours until mid morning. Slowly, I unzipped my sleeping bag and stretched my arms and legs. My platform held up remarkably well and kept me completely dry. As my ears rediscovered the waterfall, I let out a peaceful sigh. Not only had I made it through the night, but I felt totally refreshed and recharged.

I walked into town and bought a cup of coffee and a sweet roll from the grocery store. The sky was perfectly clear - a beautiful and vibrant blue. The ferry that would take me through the stunning Geirangerfjord blew its whistle and began to welcome passengers.

“Just one,” I told the ticket man, as I boarded the ferry to the rest of my life.