Orchestrations of Leśmian are finished. As it often happens, it turned out to be neither as quick nor as simple a task as I had assumed. Nevertheless, it was quite enjoyable. The result at Zielona Góra Philharmonic on September 22nd.

And now, as I mentioned, I’m heading back to the Arctic waters. With two twentieth-century polar explorers, Ejnar Mikkelsen and Iver Iverson, who were stuck in the ice of Greenland for three years. I am following Marcin Wicha, who unearthed their story from the archives and turned it into a drama. Perhaps a dramedy or a tragicomedy.

I have a personal connection to the Arctic regions. I’ve written about it before. But I'll add something more. Exactly eighteen years ago, I left home and set off towards Greenland. I left home in many possible ways. I finished my studies. I became independent from my parents. I actually left my place of residence, packing up all my belongings, without any intention of returning in the foreseeable future. I thought I was finally and irrevocably entering adulthood. And I was right, although the path to actual adulthood turned out to be, as it often happens, neither as quick nor simple, nor as pleasant as I had naively predicted.

The first stage was supposed to be an expedition to Greenland. A big undertaking, the realization of a childhood dream (not mine, I just joined it as a guest), no longer funded by my parents, but by myself, with money earned in various ways (in my case, from my first ever fee for a commissioned composition). It was almost a rite of passage. I set off proud of myself. I was breaking away from the branch. Leaving the Świnoujście port after a month of diligent, hands-on work on my new, temporary home - a yacht, I cried with happiness. I absorbed the light eastern wind, the setting sun, with all my senses, and so on. However, I turned out to be a kid. A crouched, terrified brat sometimes demanding approval and permission just to exist, and other times kicking pathetically. I didn’t reach Greenland. After another month, barely alive, reaching the shores of Iceland, I gave up further adventures. I retreated from the brink of life and death, I might say, although while it was somewhat true, I shouldn’t put it that way. I should rather say that as a result of malnutrition and dehydration and living in constant, not entirely rational fear for my life, I became an unprofitable burden for the rest and for the sake of my own and others’ health and safety, it was better that I made room for the next brave souls. So, towards distant adulthood, I set off weakened and beaten, but a little bit wiser.

I do not have much tenderness towards myself from that period; this stage of maturity is still ahead of me. But eighteen years later, a number not without significance, I am elsewhere. I am heading to the Arctic waters with different equipment. I’m shedding unnecessary ballast myself. I make sure not to take on water. I avoid ice fields. Eighteen years ago, I wrote Fiddler’s Green and White Savannas Never More, a piece with a meaningful title, the full significance of which I will keep to myself, but which I think I have finally matured to understand and actually live. A male choir sang back then. It will sing now too. I had little time then. I have little time now also.