Day 9 (Friday 9th December 2016)
In addition to being able to make people and organisations see things in a different way and to draw inspiration, Simon is a devoted family man. He lives with his wife and two children close to Henry VIII's former palace to the west of London. He is well-read and interested in and knowledgable about films. He cares about the world and the environment. I suppose he can best be described as a wonderful polymath who remains observant and curious. He and I both share an interest in polar exploration. If you want to know more about him and his thoughts, I urge you read his blog: Murmuration or else follow him on Twitter, his handle is @SimonHeath1.
I went back to the Arctic again three years later. And there, among the wolves,
the hares and the musk oxen,
I found my heart on the tundra.
But, returning south once more, a piece of it stayed behind. I swore I’d return. But I never did. Ever since, I’ve felt the hollow sensation of its absence. I had dreamed about the Arctic since I read about the exploits of the early explorers as a wee boy.
I never dreamt it would claim a part of me so profoundly. So profoundly that many experiences since have felt a trifle hollow. This missing part of me isn’t filled by the whisky of which I’m so fond. Or by going up mountains to ski. It’s where I am when I’m not here. On a train, but not here. In an office, but not here. In the canyons of the city, I’m most often there and not here.
 |
| 9 months after being appointed Manager of Leicester City (the UK football club, who were seen as underdogs, having narrowly avoided relegation the previous season), Claudio Ranieri led the Foxes (as the club are known) to win the Premier League title. The win has been described by football experts as the most improbable win in sporting history. The Foxes were at odds of 5,000/1 at the start of last season (worse odds than Elvis being found alive, which were 2,000/1) |
We have reached the end of the week and I am sure you will agree with me that the blogs so far have been stunning - we have read about love, loss, legacies and lessons. Today's post maintains the high standard that has been set before. It is written by my friend, the ever-insightful Simon Heath. Simon describes himself as a "pragmatic idealist". He took advantage of a redundancy opportunity to leave conventional corporate life, having been Head of Operations and Global Workplace Strategy for a global commercial real estate business, and having earned his spurs in financial services. He is now a consulting artist. Using his considerable artistic talents, combined with his genuine understanding of business and the world of work, he produces illustrations that help communicate and make messages stick.
**************************************
Melancholia on Ice
The 6th of August 1987 was the day before my 16th birthday. I had spent the previous night in a small 2-man tent on a patch of fine white sand at the bottom of a tumble of moraine at the side of an as-yet unnamed glacier.
From the entrance to my tent I could look out across the
ice-flecked waters of Raudfjorden and to the left the open Arctic Ocean and
over the horizon, some 500 miles away, the Pole. After a hurried breakfast we
climbed the glacier to the ice-field beyond. Our destination, a previous
unclimbed peak, lay off in the distance. This early in the morning the ice was
still firm and we made swift progress. As we prepared for the final push our
team leader turned to me and offered me the chance to lead. And so I did. A
first ascent. Heart-pounding, I turned full circle. At that height, the
ice-fields of north-western Svalbard stretched as far as the eye could see.
From that height the only way was down.
From the highs of polar exploration the only way was down. Down to the more prosaic concerns of teenage life. I didn’t bring my heart back with me. I’d left it in the Arctic.
The 6th of August 1987 was the day before my 16th birthday. I had spent the previous night in a small 2-man tent on a patch of fine white sand at the bottom of a tumble of moraine at the side of an as-yet unnamed glacier.
 |
Glacier at Raudfjorden |
From that height the only way was down.
From the highs of polar exploration the only way was down. Down to the more prosaic concerns of teenage life. I didn’t bring my heart back with me. I’d left it in the Arctic.
I went back to the Arctic again three years later. And there, among the wolves,
 |
| wolves chasing muck-oxen |
the hares and the musk oxen,
 |
| Arctic hare |
I found my heart on the tundra.
But, returning south once more, a piece of it stayed behind. I swore I’d return. But I never did. Ever since, I’ve felt the hollow sensation of its absence. I had dreamed about the Arctic since I read about the exploits of the early explorers as a wee boy.
 |
| Shackleton (left) at Ocean Camp 1915 |
I never dreamt it would claim a part of me so profoundly. So profoundly that many experiences since have felt a trifle hollow. This missing part of me isn’t filled by the whisky of which I’m so fond. Or by going up mountains to ski. It’s where I am when I’m not here. On a train, but not here. In an office, but not here. In the canyons of the city, I’m most often there and not here.
The Arctic I saw is long gone. Cruise ships now visit the
fjord where I first lost my heart. The tourists return more reliably than the
sea ice. And gone with the ice are the seals. And with them, the bears.
The boy
is gone too and I don’t know how to go back.
 |
| Svalbard polar bear photo by Mike Reyfman |
 |
| Simon in the Arctic |
No comments:
Post a Comment