The Luminist is a reader-supported publication that illuminates the pain, the pleasure, and the paradox on the path to technicolor living. Subscribe below to receive posts about how loss teaches us to get the most out of life (along with silly gifs) in your inbox every Saturday.
I made it, dear reader.
To celebrate, we’re keeping the post short and sweet this week. And next week we’ll be back to our regular schedule.
These are some of the things I’ve learned while walking St Olav’s Way, in no particular order:
Hard days are more often due to expectations than difficulty of the task at hand.
Some metrics are better left unmeasured.
There’s a simple yet fulfilling satisfaction in making and stripping your bed each day.
The journey has reconnected me with the feeling of being a kid: Having the open, exploratory attitude of a kid. Feeling wonder and awe. Being weightless — without identities or responsibilities. It’s made me recognize I can build my life going forward with those qualities, even though I am well past my kid prime.
Allowing yourself to adapt requires letting go of the way you wish things were instead.
You can be both humbled by what you have accomplished and proud of yourself.
You can be ready for something to be over but also profoundly sad that it’s coming to a close.
I am now afraid of the sound of cowbells.
Crossing the misty border between Sweden and Norway on foot, out in the wilderness, will be one of the top 10 experiences of my life.
I carry Mike. He’s weightless. He’s integrated into who I am. This journey has not turned out to be an excavation of Mike or of loss. Rather a confirmation of how embedded he is in my life and my heart.
Tack sa mycket for traveling along with me! (That’s “thank you very much” in Swedish.)
Thanks for sharing this journey of both body and heart with all of us. I've been toying with the idea of a walking pilgrimage for several years and haven't yet made the commitment. Your story inspires me to believe I will know when the time is right.
This is beautiful and a great gift today. "I carry Mike. He’s weightless. He’s integrated into who I am. This journey has not turned out to be an excavation of Mike or of loss. Rather a confirmation of how embedded he is in my life and my heart." How lovely - and how comforting for those of us learning from you! Today is the 2nd anniversary of Tom's death. And I'm learning that he is indeed embedded in my heart, and the work and weight of the journey is shifting a bit. Your words have given me hope on this hard day. Thank you!