I expected Antarctica to feel like an achievement. Another far place reached, another line on the map. Instead it felt like being gently put back in my place. The ice does not care that you came a long way. It has been doing its slow work for millions of years and it will keep doing it long after every one of our deadlines is forgotten. Standing there, very small and very warm-blooded, I understood that most of my hurry is invented.
There is no sound down there except the ones the continent chooses to make. A glacier cracking somewhere out of sight. Penguins arguing about nothing. Water against the zodiac. After a few days the silence stops feeling empty and starts feeling like the most honest company you have ever kept. It asks you nothing and it sells you nothing, and against it you can finally hear which of your ambitions are actually yours.
The things that matter, the people, the work, the horses, the writing, none of them ever asked me to rush. I came home quieter. I am trying to protect that quiet. The film from this journey is The White Continent, and it is the closest I can bring you to that silence without putting you on the ship.