Arctic Dreaming

…and a story of embracing kryptonite…

Oh hello, September, you gorgeous minx…

Yes, as I may have mentioned here once or twice, I’m one of those weirdos who, generally by the end of June, is already done with summer and eager to throw my arms around autumn, one eye already winking lovingly at winter.

Turns out there’s a condition that explains people like me: it’s called summer seasonal affective disorder. SAD, but for us winter lovers. I guess that would be SSAD. We get an extra S because we’re sspecial.

Other than occasional dramatic hailstorms (which I love but apparently people who own things like cars and roofs don’t appreciate), summer is just too much for me. Too much unearned sweat, harsh light, wildfires, smoke, smog, dehydration, scorching dry-oven-heat or humidity (both awful), and this gawd-awful societal pressure that dictates we’re all supposed to fill every moment with sunscreen-and-bug-spray-coated activity, despite the fact that my energy reserves are melted and pooling listless somewhere at my feet.

This year, in an effort to sidestep the whining voices in my own head incessantly confirming my state of useless-as-Clark-Kent-chained-to-kryptonite, I found strange solace in meditations of ice.

A few books I’ve recently devoured, am reading now, and next up on my list

It started by accident when, one afternoon, I wandered (virtually) into trekking the Perito Moreno Glacier on the elliptical in my gym. Out of the blue — in this case the cerulean blue of melt-water oozing like icy blood from a glacier — an unexpected burst of energy powered my workout. Bursts of energy don’t happen to me in summer. Suitably distracted by the aesthetic allure of the cool-toned visuals, I traversed the (virtual) glacier trail and earned my best time yet. Hypnotized by the amethyst reflected in the clouds, a compulsion to paint the swoon-worthy scene took hold and I snapped a reference photo of my new favorite virtual trail.

A few evenings later I painted, watching soft hues of cobalt, charcoal and violet mingle in the wet texture of my cold-press paper giving shape to a glacier. A sense of peace beneath my breastbone mingled with an undefinable urgency. How could one scene contain so much exquisite beauty alongside such imperiled vulnerability? How could it be that humans are unwilling to do what it takes to curb emissions, preserving scenes like this which around the globe hold enough water to wipe out so many coastal cities?

My little watercolor was followed by a series of random events. The kind that seem like dots on an adventure map only with the benefit of hindsight.

A little book called Glaciers caught my eye in a LitHub email. I forgot about it until I happened upon the tiny novella tucked in the shelves two days later while bookstore browsing before a screening of Barbie. I devoured every page the next morning over coffee and longed for more.

Days later I read it was pub day for a memoir called The Quickening by Elizabeth Rush — a tale of her time aboard an science vessel in Antarctica while pondering motherhood. It sounded so perfect I dropped everything and ran (like, actually trotted which is a very big deal for me in summer) to my local bookstore. Barely a few pages in, something started to shift and cleave like the calving edge of one of the glaciers about which I was reading.

That Sunday night, my ice-interest bending towards obsession, I popped some corn, poured a nitro coffee stout and queued up the 2019 Richard Linklater film Where’d You Go Bernadette? Near the end, when when a bedraggled Kate Blanchet wakes aboard a ship in the Weddell Sea¹ to see the ice for the first time, the montage of glaciers and floating bergs sent my body into a series of heaving sobs so powerful I was forced to pause the movie, catch my breath, back up and watch the montage two more times before I could fully see it through tear-swollen eyes.

What on earth just happened?

I grabbed my phone to process emotion in the most digital-era fashion: I posted a story on instagram:

“I paired a movie tonight with my current reading obsession… and BAWLED my eyes out the second she arrived at the ice. WHAT am I to do with this information?! Can I get a grant to go write about & paint Antarctica?”

My initial instagram story at center, flanked by photos of the subsequent progression of my Antarctic obsession

I was just informed enough to know how completely ridiculous this question was, nevertheless I went to bed and dreamt of lilac-shadowed clouds and apricot skies over seas heavy with pancake ice and strangely-shaped chunks of glacier.

Monday afternoon, my 24-hour story still pulsing out a weirdly specific desire from my instagram profile, I sat sweltering on the 10 bus en route to a photo shoot. I opened the app and, seeking cool relief, typed “Antarctica” into the search bar. Little squares of ice filled my screen and when I opened the very first slide I had to blink repeatedly in utter disbelief that what I was seeing was real. There, in direct response to the weirdly specific question now throbbing inside my heart, were the words:

“Polar STEAM is now accepting application for the 2024-2025 Antarctic Artists & Writers program.”

I laughed out loud.

And then came the goosebumps.

Like, full body chills. The kind you have to physically shake from somewhere in your abdomen all the way out your tingling scalp and fingertips.

I kept staring at the image while butterflies — the species that flutters most furiously at the outset of a life-changing adventure — rapidly discovered a super-highway in my belly.

After a few minutes of heart-racing clicks and eager phone-based research, I learned that the deadline for the grant application was in two days. I digested this information with a shot of panicked urgency followed by a wave of resolute peace: I don’t want to rush this so… I have a year to dream up a proposal and prepare an application for one of “up to four” highly coveted spots.

STEAM, in the program name, is STEM (science, technology, engineering, mathematics) with the addition of Art. How wonderful is that??

It has been less than two weeks since stumbling on this personal invitation from the universe. Already a proof-of-concept project is percolating with increasing clarity. Furious notes, research and sketches are happening. The funders of this grant want artists to think outside the box and the project I’m imagining into existence is all that, drawing upon every aspect of my background, training and life experience in one, cohesive artistic exploration. It even grounds itself in the mission I’ve defined for this space, not knowing what I originally intended to do with it: to inspire curiosity and wonder in service of activating empathy and action around climate.

It’s as though I’ve been preparing for this my whole life.

The coincidences and signs from the universe have kept hitting with increasing intensity even since I started writing this draft. I’ve discovered random small-world connections in wildly unexpected places. New layers of meaning are drifting from dreams into real project potential.

The past two weeks have been a powerful reminder that when we claim our desire with specificity and move in that direction, we can better spot meaningful opportunity when it presents itself.

In other words, the universe is full of magic when we open ourselves up to seeing it.

So it would seem that the point of sharing this story with you today is three-fold:

1. To keep this channel of desire open and see where it goes — the project is morphing daily and opening up to include other avenues to continue the work independent of one particular grant (that just feels wise!)

2. To hold myself accountable, out loud (please ask about this project or share your experiences — with Arctic travels or with dreaming big — in the comments or chat, today or in the future!)

3. As an invitation to you, dear reader, to embrace your kryptonite — it may have something to show you. And then put the dreams you discover out there — the weirder and more specific the better! You never know what wildly unexpected creative breakthroughs are waiting in the wings of your own life’s stage…

(and 4: be careful what you wish for or you may one day end up googling how a life-long flat-lander will fare on an ice-breaker vessel crossing the Drake Passage,² known as one of the planet’s most treacherous ocean-crossings on the planet.

Until next time… keep dreaming and leaving those Good Footprints, my friends!

1. Technically not the Weddell Sea as the shooting location, for obvious logistical reasons, was not the Antarctic Peninsula, but Greenland. Which is also stunning and on my bucket list. I’ll have a future post about the environmental impact of traveling to places like these.

2. The Drake Passage is the uninterrupted passage of water between the southern tip of South America and the Antarctic Peninsula, where the Atlantic, Pacific and Southern Oceans all collide. When asked if it was safe to cross, a captain for Nat Geo Expeditions said, “the short answer is ‘yes,’” and went on to explain navigational tools ships now use to time passage between the worst of storms. I also saw something about waves often “topping 40 feet.” Yikes.