I was born and raised in a small village nestled among the gentle hills of the Crete Senesi, which were once the seabed of a primordial ocean. During the Pliocene epoch, around 4-5 million years ago, these lands were submerged under a warm and shallow sea. The traces of that ancient past are still visible: the badlands resemble underwater canyons, the biancane evoke fossilized sandbanks, and the marine clays preserve memories of creatures now extinct, such as whales and mollusks.
Incredible but true, I grew up walking on the seabed of a vanished ocean, which millennia have transformed into soft hills covered with golden wheat fields and vineyards that produce fine grapes.
Today, the Crete Senesi tell the poetry of that remote geological past, shaped by erosion and time, becoming an open window into natural history. Living in these places means immersing oneself in an ongoing dialogue between land and sea, between antiquity and modernity.
For some years now, my life has embarked on a new journey: I live in Vesterålen, on the island of Hadseløya, in Northern Norway. Here, the landscape is another miracle of nature, with fjords embracing the ocean and towering mountains that seem to challenge the sky. It feels as though I’ve gone from living on the memory of a marine seabed to walking among the peaks of a newly emerged world.
An ideal transition "from below to above," over the waters.
When I look at the seawater lapping the shores of this island, with its shimmering reflections, I don’t just see a body of water. It feels like observing a boundary line: the one that separates what is below — my origins — from what is above — my present and my future. It’s as if I’m living on a middle line, much like this island itself, which lies on an ideal middle line between the lofty Vesterålen to the north and the magnificent Lofoten to the south. Both share a unique feature: their proximity to the Arctic Circle, which itself is a symbolic boundary, a line between what lies "below" and what reaches even higher toward the icy lands.
My gaze turns each day to the fjord that runs through and separates Hadsel Island from the surrounding archipelago. It collides with a wall of peaks—sometimes green, sometimes snow-covered, depending on the season. These peaks evoke different emotions shaped by my love for this place. At times, they feel like a boundary, marking a separation from my past life, the world I once knew, and the hills of my homeland. Other times, the peaks rise like arrows, pointing unmistakably toward the cardinal direction to my origins.
Years ago, when I arrived in Melbu, the small village where I now live, I was struck not only by the geographical distance but also by the cultural divide I had stepped into. It was both fascinating and challenging to navigate. Over time, however, I came to realize that despite the wildness of the landscape and the remoteness of the location, the proud and active community here rekindled my connection to my core values. They made this distant place feel much closer to the idea of home. Gradually, I emerged from the feeling of being a stranger, an outsider, to discover that this vastly different environment and its untamed nature had become a familiar and welcoming home to me. From “below to above” again.
It is particularly fascinating to observe how the landforms of this island, once the summit of a mountain in distant geological epochs, now serve as a habitat for animals that seem to carry echoes of their ancient origins.
The cold, blue waters of the ocean have become the new home for majestic marine animals such as whales, orcas, and seals. With their playful splashes and antics, they seem to celebrate their newfound territorial domain. Along the oceanfront shores, seagulls cry out as if recalling their past identity tied to these waters. Meanwhile, further inland, as one ascends the uninhabited mountains, moose move mysteriously through the forest, seemingly unaware of the valley that once stretched beneath this mountain.
In such a visionary world, silent yet regal sea eagles soaring high above feels inevitable. They stand as vigilant guardians of this extraordinary landscape, with their gaze perhaps capable of connecting with mine and crossing peaks to reach lands far beyond—lands that trace my distant birthplace.
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