The other horizon

There is a small island with round rocky shores facing the waters between Sweden and the Baltic—an eastern outpost of the Scandinavian peninsula, where land finally gives way to the sea.

Two hundred years ago, it was much smaller, divided into two or three small parts. A few thousand years ago, it did not exist at all—it was the seabed.

But when the great ice sheet gave way and retreated fifteen thousand years ago, releasing its oppressive weight, the earth's crust began to rise, allowing the land to increase again slowly. The sea receded. Rocks, shoals, islets and skerries soon emerged from the water and gradually merged to form islands with bays and straits.

No volcanoes, earthquakes, or violent forces have done this, just a quiet, persistent and slow inhalation as the earth's crust stretched gratefully when the ice released its grip and left the land free. Land elevation is still ongoing today. The islands continue to grow, becoming solid land while new small islets and skerries appear further out. Vegetation takes root; first, it is grass and moss, then trees – pines and spruces, small and crooked because they have had to crouch under the sea winds throughout their lives.

It is now a vast archipelago, considered by many to be one of the most beautiful environments in the world. Round, soft cliffs, dramatic cliff ledges with precipices, islands with low vegetation and in between, bays, straits and open sea in an irresistible mix.

So here is a small island in the area known as Roslagen. You have to take a boat to get there. There are no cars or roads, just paths and cliffs to walk on or sit down on. Gaze out to the sea in silence, letting your thoughts wander towards the horizon.

It is a contemplative place—a sanctuary—made for finding peace and letting your soul catch its breath. Let your thoughts wander towards the magical line where the sea meets the sky, where the earth curves away and allows the straight line of your gaze to continue into eternity. It invites reflection—the world is finite; the sky is not.

Here, fantasy and reality meet—boundaries are blurred. Everything merges as the sun slowly sinks in the northwest, and the day slowly transitions into the eternal twilight of the Nordic summer night. The sea settles down; long, round waves roll slowly towards the rocky shores. The wind dies down and gently brushes your cheek, setting a few strands of hair in motion.

Then we are no longer just individuals — we become something more — thoughts become free souls in a room where we can unite in a community beyond the physical.

This was such a magical evening. You and I were together, talking sometimes or sitting quietly in silence.

We sat high up on a cliff ledge overlooking the sea. We had found the perfect spot: a gently rounded rock shaped almost like a sofa, made for sitting on. It was as if nature had deliberately created a place to enjoy the view.

A seagull was diving from a small rock near the beach. Occasionally, it would return with a small fish in its beak, quickly swallowing it. There was no time to waste — seagulls have no qualms about stealing food from each other's beaks. The competition is fierce.

We saw the boats far out there, ships heading towards the horizon, visible for a moment before disappearing behind the edge.

Surely the Earth must be round?

With my gaze turned outwards, I wondered: “What is so special about the horizon, really?” I directed the question to you. “Why do I get this strange feeling when I look out over the sea and see no other land on the other side? When the sea seems to disappear behind the crest, out into eternity. Do you feel that too?”

You pondered on it a long time before answering, with your gaze directed outward: “Yes, that's probably it — eternity. It's something special — it is.”

I continued tentatively, thinking: “Maybe it's the promise of something distant? Something that exists out there somewhere — something that isn't here and now, but beyond and later. It pulls at you...”

“Mm,” you hummed. “A room for longing — something else. When the here and now feels too crowded. Too confined...”

“Yes, the sea breathes freedom.”

We fell silent again. It was as if the place demanded it. A few words, a brief exchange, then silence, all while the twilight deepened. The red remnants of the sunset faded, allowing the shimmering blue twilight to take over. It was getting late.

“It's so strange, really,” I continued after a long silence. “I was born in a small forest village, a few wooden houses surrounded by coniferous forest and scattered fields. I went on my family's walks in the forest from the beginning. My big brother was there. But I never learned to like the forest. It never became mine. Why was that?”

I saw how your gaze wandered from the sea towards the land, where the silhouette of the island's sparse, low forest of archipelago pines stood out dimly behind us.

“Why do we become who we are?” you said. “You can never tell, can you? It's impossible to predict. At the end of the day, we are who we are. I suppose some of our personalities are there from the start, while other things shape us along the way.”

“That's true, of course. My brother became a man of the forest. He, just like me, was born and raised in the forest. He became friends with the forest. He feels at home there. But I don’t.”

“Sure,” you said. “You may be brothers, but you're also individuals. That's just the way it is.”

“True. Maybe there's no need to look for explanations. We just become who we are.”

“But it is beautiful here,” you said.

I sighed with pleasure. “I feel good here. But the forest closes in on me. It's oppressive. The sea opens up — sets me free. Let me breathe.”

As I said this, a sudden evening breeze swept across the water, rippling the surface before reaching us. It cooled our cheeks and made our hair flutter lightly. It was pleasantly cool, not cold.

“You found this place,” you said gently. “You learned to love it. That's wonderful, son. You found your way.”

“Yes, Dad,” I nodded. “I've loved this place since I first came here. This environment.”

Then, as the summer night fell into dusk, I looked out over the sea for a long time. When the breeze had died down and the sea had become calm again, I turned back and looked at the round, smooth rock where you used to sit. It was empty now, the stone was bare, but you still sat there for me.

“What were your thoughts, Dad?” I wondered to myself. “Back then, when we sat here philosophising about life and the horizon. You were getting on in years. Did you see a different kind of horizon approaching, or did you see yourself approaching it? Did it scare you? No one knows what's out there — or if there is anything out there at all.”

I let my gaze rest on your empty seat for a long time before looking out again.

“Now you have set sail. Now you know.”

I got up slowly and looked one last time at the now diffuse line between the sea and the sky before turning around to go back to the cottage and my bed for the night.

“One day, maybe we'll meet out there,” I said. “Out there, beyond the other horizon.”