What I did when time stood still

What I did when time stood still

Remarkably, I’d spent four days working on it, but if you’d told me it had been anywhere between four days and four months, I could have believed you. I’d become so immersed in my work and without the usual daily rhythms dictated by a busy family life, eating when I was hungry rather than at defined intervals, and sleeping only when my body demanded, time became mercifully muted and irrelevant. In retrospect, I know there must have been a deeper part of my subconscious that was keeping me on track to finish my work before my partner and daughter returned home. Not because I wanted to surprise them with the finished piece or impress them with my artistic talents. No, this was purely an introspective endeavour, necessary for my own sanity and one which I needed to see through to completion. A kind of cathartic pursuit, if you like.

Despite looking forward to a long stretch of time alone, as the weekend approached, I felt so overwhelmed with possibilities for things to do, I couldn’t decide which to choose for fear of opting for something I would later deem a waste of precious time. And when I imply that I had many choices, I’m not suggesting that any of them were particularly exciting, such as a riotous, alcohol fuelled weekend away with my girlfriends, or a skydive or the like. It was more the case of deciding which simple pleasure would be the most nourishing. Should I catch up on the book I’d received on Christmas Eve for our tradition of Jolalbokaflod, occupy myself by whipping up some new recipes I’d long been meaning to try or simply while away the hours playing my beloved cello. I knew I didn’t have it in me to do all these things, so I needed to choose carefully.

Ari and Freyja set off early that Friday morning. I helped Ari load up the car, ready for their weekend trip to visit family in Reykjavik, while Freyja buzzed with excitement running back and forth from the house collecting more and more toys to stuff into her backpack. When they were ready to go, I handed Ari his flask of coffee, planted a kiss atop Freyja’s titian curls and waved them goodbye, watching them snake their way down the hill until they were out of sight. Once I returned indoors, I was struck by the emptiness. I had a suspicion that Freyja had packed into that little backpack of hers, all the vitality contained within the walls of our home. It took both myself and the house a moment to adjust to the void created by the departure of these two spirited beings. But sure enough, by a process of diffusion, the Ari and Freyja shaped vacuum was replaced by a new energy, albeit one that I couldn’t help but notice vibrated at a different frequency.

I reminded myself that relaxation was of the essence, so I set myself up for binge watching a TV series that had been recommended to me. I poured myself a tea, a bitter blend of moss and birch that my mother lovingly insisted I try and settled on the sofa fully intending to spend the best part of the day in situ. I persisted through the first episode but when it failed to capture my attention, I began to feel restless. Thinking of Ari having to endure four days of his parent’s bickering, from which I’d been spared on this occasion, left me feeling shamefully self-indulgent. I decided that a better use of my time might be to attempt a few chores, so I traipsed into the kitchen, guiltily poured the tea concoction down the sink and continued through the front door, along the path and into the garage. Drifting among the flotsam of once useful items, potentially useful items and those that fitted neither category, I spied a box of gardening tools. I heaved them free of the debris and lugged them into the garden.

Despite a perfectly clear sky, outside I was met with a cool morning breeze. Undeterred, I positioned myself at the farthest point of the garden, with the intention of working my way along the flower bed that bordered the garden path, leading back to the front door. I kneeled down on the cool earth and set about pulling out the tufts of grass that had made themselves at home beneath the lofty lupins, who shared with me their delicate scent each time I brushed against them. It wasn’t long though before my body scolded me for overexerting myself, and my weariness ushered me, like a stern teacher, back in the direction of the house. As I made my way along the path, the wind picked up, causing the lupins on either side to thrash about urgently, like paparazzi jostling for an interview as I cautiously trod the red carpet. I could almost hear them demanding that I share my story and explain why this once vivacious woman was fading into obscurity.

I decided that I should rest upon the swing seat that was situated on the front porch but when I reached it I found it was already occupied by Frode, our adored cat. I gently tapped his hind legs and without looking up, he tucked them into himself ever so slightly, allowing just enough room for me to share his seat. I felt absurdly privileged and couldn’t help but smile at his audacity. We sat there together for a while, Frode and I, the gentle movement of the swing seat lulling me into the deepest state of relaxation I had felt for a long time. I closed my eyes and tilted my face toward the sun, soaking in its warmth for several minutes until I became acutely aware of an engulfing darkness. I assumed it must have been due to a cloud obscuring the sun but when I opened my eyes I was faced with a most unfathomable sight. A large, pulsating, black cloud appeared to be heading straight for me. Then, a split second later, it changed its direction, heading north toward the city of Akureyri. Just as I started to breathe a sigh of relief, the ominous cloud made a rush at me again and that’s when I noticed it wasn’t a singular entity after all, but in fact thousands of birds in formation. I was witnessing a murmuration. A phenomenon I had only ever heard about. I watched in awe as the birds created their swirling patterns in the sky, wishing I could join them in their aerial dance. And just as quickly as they had appeared to me, they were gone. It was such a fleeting vision I wondered if I had imagined it. I looked to Frode to see if he shared with me this feeling of wonderment, but his expression gave nothing away. He looked entirely unfazed. Regardless of whether or not I had conjured up this sight, my body fizzed with a long-forgotten energy. The fog had lifted from my brain and my mind felt joyously lucid again. I knew instantly what I needed to do. I headed straight back into the house, gathered my paints and brushes, found the largest canvas I could and hauled them all through into the dinning room. And it was here that I would spend the next few days engrossed in bringing this vision to life.

Looking back, I remember working with a certain kind of urgency. I had always been fastidious in my approach to artistic endeavours – never forgetting to put lids back on the paints and painstakingly cleaning my brushes at the end of the day, but over the course of the weekend I had adopted a much more haphazard approach. In my haste to get my vision onto canvas before it faded from memory, I had left spillages unattended, and tubes of paints and jars of murky water accumulated on the table. I relished the sense of timelessness afforded by a lack of routine and the endless summer sun. It allowed me to fully devote myself to my creation. Though, I do recall that on one occasion the illusion was threatened by the haunting call of the common loon, signalling the lateness of the hour and the elapsing of time. I managed to dismiss this notion from my thoughts and suppose that if I had stopped to really think about it, I would have joined him in his mournful cry for the passing of another day. I continued in this blissful, focused state, stopping for food or naps only when I felt like it, right up until I heard the familiar sound of our car pulling into the driveway, shaking me out of my reverie. ‘What time is is?’ I muttered to myself, looking around for something that would anchor me to the present.

I was sorry for the alarm I must have caused them when they entered the house. Their shock was palpable. Freyja approached me cautiously for a hug, her big, blue eyes searching mine for a glimmer of reassurance. I saw Ari hesitate for a moment, drinking in the sight before him – the table strewn with art supplies, the unwashed dishes in the sink and then me, in the same clothes I had been wearing when they had left for Reykjavik, now splattered with paint and my hair, a chaotic tangle.

‘You look…er…well? he ventured. I laughed. ‘No, I mean it,’ he said with more certainty. ‘You have some colour back in your face.’

‘Yes, I think it’s the paint,’ I said, pointing to my paint-smeared cheeks. He smiled and pulled me closer to get a better look at me.

“Well, yes, partly that but there’s something else. You seem to have a glow about you. A vibrancy. It’s obviously done you some good to have a little rest from the two of us,’ he concluded.

‘Let me show you what I’ve be up to.’ I said.

‘Wait, let me guess. I get the feeling it’s something to do with painting,’ he teased.

‘That’s what I love about you, Ari. Always so astute!’

And then I lifted the painting up from its position on the table to reveal my work - a swirling, flowing pattern made up of a myriad dots in a palette of deep blues and black upon a contrasting backdrop of pale blues, whites and greys.

‘Infinity!’ chimed Freyja with gusto, as though she had worked out the answer to difficult question.

‘Infinity?’ I probed.

“Yes, a number eight lying on its side is the symbol for infinity’. she insisted. And my clever girl was right. The murmuration of birds that I had painted had formed a sort of figure of eight and infinity was indeed an apt description for the essence of what I felt when I observed the murmuration a few days earlier in the garden.

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Ari. 'We need to find somewhere to hang it’.

I sit here now before my painting, which has taken pride of place on our sitting room wall, with a sense of deep gratitude. The awe inducing experience of witnessing the murmuration of birds and the opportunity to express this feeling through my art has been a balm for my quailing heart. Although my prognosis can’t be changed, my attitude towards my time left can be and I fully intend to worry less about the passing of time but rather cherish each moment as it happens. As I look up at my painting, I feel a comfort in my certainty that the three of us will always soar together like birds in formation.