Six Months of Inaction.

Processing a creative joy unlike any other.

While pumping non-potable water from our snowmelter into storage tanks in the middle of Antarctica’s Ross Ice Shelf, my phone received a ping from a group chat: “Has it been six months?!”

Turns out, half a year later, I still don’t feel like I have anything to say that can fully encompass our Arctic Circle expedition. How do you summarize a life-changing experience? How do you explain that a few people with whom you’ve spent only 2.5 weeks somehow became some of your closest friends on this spinning planet? How do you share photos on social media in a way that makes strangers burst from overwhelming environmental awe? How do you describe that the most majestic and at-risk landscape you’ve ever witnessed sometimes fell completely out of mind when compared to the human experience of having thirty skilled artists cheering you on in your own creative endeavors? How do you communicate rock and ice in a way that shoots through bone and vibrates souls? How do you explain that baking a cake on a tall ship changed who you are?

Amie McNee (@inspiredtowrite) stopped me mid-scroll with chaotic black Sharpie on creased paper that read “quit hoarding your art”.

I remembered that when I was trying to learn more about the Arctic Circle residency — searching in the annals of artists’ blogs, perusing way back through aged Instagram posts, and looking for articles that might share some wisdom — I felt frustrated that there wasn’t more information available. I remember thinking with self-righteous perspective, “if I got this residency, I would share so much more about it.”

Yet here I am, now understanding that for all there is to say about such an opportunity, there are infinite moments that can’t be touched.

Belly-aching laughter over 4am whiskey.

Green-screen bodysuits taped to the wall to block out the endless sun.

A Zodiak boat filled with people helping you film and photograph your artistic dreams as they come to life in real time.

Sitting in the most comforting silence with a dozen other people all working equally hard to not make a sound in exchange for one glorious hour of fully appreciating the place you’re sharing.

A deeply personal story over a spilled glass of red wine.

“Beauty times three.”

The self-doubt of wondering if your art is entirely ridiculous and the the communal bewilderment of hearing that every person you admire in that moment is wondering the same thing about their own.

Listening to a vulnerably-read article written about that day’s afternoon hike and feeling it deeply resonate.

Late-night whispers between the top and bottom bunk.

The exhilarating pursuit of ignoring everything in your life other than what exists at that very moment on one small sailing vessel in one enormous Arctic Ocean.

One of the many things I didn’t read about beforehand was anything about the crushing come-down that I could expect after our sailing expedition ended and we all left Svalbard. The stress of what to do with this perspective-shattering creative push. The endless desire to return to a few select moments with a few select people.

I’ve spent the last half a year beating myself up for not finishing this journey, for not sharing the work, for not documenting and writing and speaking and exploding outwards with every piece of it. But I don’t think I’m hoarding stories, art, cake, or experiences. I’m realizing that I’m unsure of how to give them the attention, gravity, and sheer glory they deserve.

I oscillate between reminding myself not to be too precious, to “just put it out there”, and reassuring myself that these Arctic stories will still be there when the time is right to let them out — releasing them back into this big world where they started.

My face erupts with a smile every time I remember that dozens of other people are quite literally in the same boat. Living is a creative joy.