Calling Greenland’s ancient Arctic spirit

Sila — a single word in Kalaallisut, yet it carries the weight of worlds.
It speaks of the weather that sculpts our landscapes,
the consciousness that stirs quietly within us,
and the thoughts that drift, gather, and dissolve like ice across a wide and endless ocean.

Sila is the memories of our ancestors,
carried in the wind that rushes through the fjords.
It lives in the snow that once covered their footsteps,
and in the long, patient silence where they stood —
watching the horizon, listening.
Through generations, we have learned to listen too —
not just for weather,
but for wisdom.

To me, Sila is more than a word.
It is the breath beneath all things —
a quiet, unseen thread that weaves its way through each step of this journey.
It is life itself:
fleeting and eternal,
outward and inward,
storm and stillness.

These photographs are fragments of that journey —
moments caught in light and silence,
echoes of Sila made visible.

I see the land as a canvas of contrasts,
not unlike the mind that tries to understand it.
It speaks — not with words, but with presence —
reminding me of how unpredictable life is,
how nothing is ever as simple as it appears.

Like a spectacular view,
there are entire microworlds unfolding all at once —
layers of motion, stillness, emotion, and change,
all coexisting in quiet communication.

And in those still moments,
I’m reminded of a different kind of solitude —
the kind that lingers even in a crowd full of people.
Because here, in our small communities,
we may seem close in distance,
but it can feel as though we’re separated by more than mountains or ice.

There are cracks in the surface
of what, from the outside, might look like a perfect picture.
They reveal the contrasts within our society —
the neglected apartment blocks and the spectacular homes,
standing side by side
like an unintentional art piece built from imbalance.

Some homes rest proudly with their ocean views and wooden decks.
Others barely hold out the cold.
From a distance, it seems like we live together —
but often, we live apart.

The old ways of gathering,
of sharing stories in person,
are fading.
In their place, glowing screens flicker in the dark,
and a quiet ache of disconnection lingers beneath the surface.

And still, through all of this,
Sila remains — steady, watching, remembering us.
It roots us to something older, something whole.

But even Sila is shifting.
The ice no longer tells time the way it used to.
Where the sea once froze solid,
there are now weeks of waiting — and uncertainty.
The changing Sila doesn’t just shift the weather —
it shifts us.
Hunters change their routes,
stories bend and adapt,
and so do we —
with resilience, yes,
but also with grief.

Silence has always been a part of us.
It’s how we process.
How we endure.
But silence can grow heavy —
like clouds too full to snow.

In close-knit communities,
we see each other every day —
but we don’t always see what each of us is carrying.
Sila reminds me that even the storm must be set free.

It’s the raging wind that clears the air,
the sudden downpour that reveals all that was unsaid.
Because energy never disappears —
it only transforms, shifting shape, changing hands.

Sila is the hush of a late summer night,
just before the storm lashes the bare earth,
newly exposed after months beneath the weight of snow and last year’s dust.
It is the heat that brings life rising again,
and the cold that, in a single breath, takes it all away.

And finally —
Sila is in me.
I am Sila.
With all my layers, my unpredictability,
my perfect imperfection.
Beautiful. Raw.

I am a landscape of emotions and lived experience,
guiding me through the ever-changing seasons of this journey —
this life.

The path is not always clear.
And yes, I tend to lose my way.
But it is the light that brings me back —
sometimes a different light than I expected.
But one that leads all the same.

That is the quiet strength of Sila:
it always knows the way forward.
Even when we do not.