This summer I went walking. A bit like Forest Gump, but slower. One foot in front of the other, day in, day out, until you almost automatically arrive at your destination, which then turns out not to be your destination. After walking almost 700 km, Trondheim was a disappointment and I slowly began to understand that the path was both the road and the destination. I did not want to arrive at all and the last five days I had already felt the melancholy. This wandering existence was apparently not endless, while that conviction had constantly prevailed: never again anything other than spending my days like this. One foot in front of the other, again and again.

And now I am back home and I have to try to embrace my other life. I had hardly taken into account the consequences of this journey in advance. I had prepared myself extensively for the Olavspad through Gudbrandsdalen, from Oslo to Nidaros, which is now called Trondheim. A hyperfocus on my backpack, stuff, shoes, the right socks, towels and water filter. All the weights in Excel, I trained with my tent on my back, tested my raincoat and looked forward to lmy flight to Oslo. Not for a second had I thought about what would happen afterwards.

Now I am back in my room and I suffer from a serious form of homesickness and I try to discern what for exactly. I don’t get much further than aspects. The nature, of course. Always outside. Bodywork, but this time for real. Constant surprises, because every mountain top and every forest edge hide something unknown. The simplicity of a piece of bread and a tin of fish. A monastic rhythm that determines for me how the day shall go, again and again. My body that hurts and therefore lives. Washing myself in an icy river. The realisation that time and distance work differently when you walk. Rocks that were there before a human ever walked on two legs. Fluff from a flower that is also on its way to an unknown destination. Raspberries that are never finished, red currants that smile at me, wild strawberries that I pick for dessert. Water from a rock where I fill my bottle. Hours alone in a forest with only the sound of my own shoes on the path. Reaching a mountain top, sweating and finding out that it wasn’t the top yet. Getting up at 5 am and walking at 6, often cold, alone, but so quiet that you didn’t know it was possible.

Alone, but never lonely. And perhaps that’s my feeling of homesickness. That feeling, that realisation that I am part of a reality that far exceeds my awareness or understanding. All my senses participated, increasingly open, increasingly emphatic. Tears because of the floating fluff, stirred by the visible approach of autumn in faded buds and deep happiness on a tree stump by a babbling brook. I live like never before and am happy. Really happy.

An innumerable number of roads, paths, swamps, rivers, forests, mountains, waterfalls, villages, huts, anthills, clouds and plateaus I encountered alone, but I was never lonely.

“ I’m quite tired. I think I’ll go home now,” said Forest Gump. But where is home?