undertaken

dark thoughts

2012-02-03T07:08:00.002+01:00

In a turmoil of grief, anger, disillusionment, confusion, fear, and despondency. And not poetically nor artistically interpreted. I am... raw. I keep asking questions I know the answer for, and questions I will never know the answer for. Questions I should not ask, or maybe I should? By faith the future is hopeful but I dread the great darkness huddling there. I have seen the dark with the lies and hate and gnashing teeth and how it chews up and spits out the sweet and the good and the loving. Am I faithless and unbelieving? Is it in my weakness that He is made strong? Or is it purely unbelief that leaves me flailing and mourning?

Christmas trees

2011-12-09T06:34:00.001+01:00

It's 6:37 on a chilly December morning and I can hear the logging machines working away in the distance. They've been a constant growl and hum in the background for two weeks and I have been afraid to walk in that direction and see what beautiful part of our neighborhood they've stripped. What is the sudden fixation with logging out my favourite places to walk?

On the note of cutting down trees, I have been thinking about where we can go find and cut the perfect little pine tree for our teeny-tiny living room. That kind of tree-cutting is okay, I guess. What a hypocrite I am!

goodbye, beautiful trees

2011-09-30T23:00:00.001+02:00

Returned to Sweden after a month away, to rather intense autumn sunshine, blowing leaves finding their way through the house -- stuck on our socks and clinging to our hair -- and that certain smell of fall. I'd thought I'd miss it, but that was stupid of me because the rain doesn't usually start for a few more weeks yet. The season for writing is coming -- I have ideas up my sleeve and a storyboard already started.

We returned to our life here in this little village, seemingly dropping out of fifth gear into second or first. From fast-food on every corner to one tiny corner store in the whole village. I have taken a "relaxed" approach to jet-lag, and it's afforded me the ability to half finish a decently extensive biography on Dietrich Bonhoeffer, which I am thoroughly enjoying and wanting to recommend to certain friends.

There was an unpleasant aspect to our return, something that I had not anticipated and shocked me, although I am not really a tree-hugger type (although since moving to Sweden I certainly recycle significantly more than I ever have and was unnerved at what gets thrown away in Canada.) Max and I went for a walk up a path we often take and as I pushed him up the hill we enjoyed the sunshine and smells and the general autumnal aura (lame-sounding but true -- I have a brain-itch right now that keeps running the word "autumnal" over and over.) As we crested the hill and turned the corner where the small road curves north, I finally looked up into the distance and was so shocked I gasped. Someone and something had clear-cut a large chunk of the forest and left one of it's most beautiful spots -- where the road starts sloping down and there's nothing but fir and pine on the hillside and thick bright-green moss and stones on the ground and it's quiet and cool and dark). Now thanks to Berg's forestry company, it's a lumpy, scarred, nearly-bald hill, roots and stumps and fir branches left piled and wasted, and the smell of freshly cut timber overpowering. I was stunned and angry. It was the first time I have really understood the emotion behind the people who chain themselves to trees and do rather silly things in protection of the forest. I felt so sad walking up to this great, barren, desecrated scape that used to feel like a sanctuary. I wanted to write Berg's a nasty and childish note on their pile of money that smelled like fir. I didn't, of course, probably some young man with a family running the machinery. But I felt sad, and a tad betrayed, although that is ridiculous, but how could this happen while I was gone? I don't think I will want to walk up there again for awhile.

she's back

2011-08-12T23:40:00.001+02:00

Is it possible that the last I have felt the creative energy to write was spring? Spring! Summer! And still, by the calendar, yet summer, but the night chill, damp, and falling leaves say an early fall is here and summer is nearly forgotten. How is it possible that time can move so quickly? Only yesterday I was dreaming my dreams of the garden future, and watching Max take his first curious steps out-of-doors. Now, he is running (his funny baby-run) to pick up half-rotten fallen apples and happily declare them to be "pear!" My writing energy was simply replaced by the desire to be outside as much as weather allowed. That, and although we have an excellent, large, functional "new" corner desk/cupboard, it has all the warmth, welcome, and appeal of working in a giant cardboard box. A box with a chair, both of which are ergonomic travesties. Are blogs made for blogging? Yes. They are. Are they also meant for sitting, unfermented but getting old by the moment, hardly read and rarely visited? Yes, that too.

So now as I am already staring somewhat despondently down that dark hole of Swedish autumn-winter, the writing desire returns. Ah, finally tapping into that famed Swedish artistic despondency!

2011-04-12T07:20:00.000+02:00

The mornings are coming earlier. Bird chatter infiltrate my dreams long before six. (I think it became part of the dream, but I can't be certain.) Awake now for some moments of solitude, hoping it bolsters patience and sense of capability for the rest of the day.

Thinking of the lyrics of a Faunts song.

"It's time to find out how far this loyalty will take me."

(Loyalty, responsibility, obedience, love.)

hoped for

2011-03-30T07:24:00.001+02:00

A 6:30 orange-pink sunrise paired with down time before the day begins. I am thinking about the days in June where the sun rises before five and sets well after eleven, and even then it's never really dark. Late-winter-early spring seems to me more about anticipation than anything. People say things like, "I am longing for spring," and "oh, how nice with the sunshine!" (It's more emphatic and joyous in Swedish.)

My anticipation factor is through the roof, at the moment. I can barely make myself stay indoors to get important things don, like food and house chores. I have a million plans and I will be lucky to see ten come to reality, but my inspiration notebook is filling quickly and the ideas aren't evaporating.

Things I am anticipating this spring:

Garden planting. Corn must be seeded inside in the next few weeks. New raised garden plot (and what will be a pumpkin patch) must be build and laid. That nasty red ant hill must be moved. New plum tree holes dug and prepared. Amongst other things.

Spring high teas. The first one is set in early April. I am unapologetically skipping completely the Swedish coffee, partly as a non-sensical personal 'take that' for all the times I have yearned for someone to offer a real cup of tea. Planning for: sandwiches (cucumber and alfalfa, egg and herb, chicken and curry) lemon squares with meringue, scones with mock Devonshire and jam, lemonade and honey.

Guests. My mom and dad visiting Sweden (again! bless them) around Max's first birthday. My cousin visiting around the beginning of summer.

Trips. Weekend in Stockholm in May, with my parents and Max. Our hotel is on the water in the centre, and a short walk from the old town. I have been looking forward to it since we booked it for a song and a dance in February.

Birthdays. Max is turning one year old in April. I am looking forward to making and eating my first "pancake cake", after a classic Swedish children's book in which the two main characters layer Swedish crepe-style pancakes, whipped cream, jam and fruit into a delicious stack. (Hm, this makes it appear as though Max's birthday is only about my selfish anticipation of good food!)

This anticipation list could go on for a long time. Briefly, a few more? Apple blossoms (with the hopes of delivering a branch to an elderly friend who doesn't get out much.) Picnics and visits to my favourite country cafe. Drying the laundry out-of-doors. No more fire building or telling Max to stop eating the firewood. And spontaneously meeting neighbors and friends on walks or in the gardens.

late winter afternoon

2011-03-18T17:54:00.001+01:00

Sitting at a kitchen table spread with: papers with notes and scribbles from a writing project, opened bills, exterior house paint samples, Bibles and other books, credit card, dirty paper towel from Max's last face-wipe, water glasses, telephone, overflowing fruit bowl, pens, scarf, and a letter from the Swedish transportation department notifying me that I am now eligible for driving övningskör (learner driver).

As I have sat here, reading and typing, Martin has progressively fed Max a mash of fish and vegetables, then smörgåsrån with liver paste, followed by banana. He sits in his blue plastic high chair and awkwardly (yet capably, for a ten-month-old) operates a spoon with both left and right hand, dashing it into both bowl and plate and growing angry if we dare presume to remove either tool from his grasp.

His first words are distinctly Swedish. It's still a bit strange to me. Titta. Look. And when handed food, tack tack. Thanks thanks. It's stranger still that the previously incomprehensible sounds of Swedish have become comprehensible words and meanings. The strangest yet is hearing and understanding Norwegian on television.

Thinking on these things and sitting here on a late winter's afternoon, warmed by the cozy chaos of family life, insulated from the fresh, heavy dump of snow we received this morning. (The snow ruined my hopes for pruning and wood cutting work, and building that raised bed for my pumpkins. But it also afforded a short snow-ball fight while Max was sleeping.)

Now for eating left-overs scrounged from the fridge and lying on the living room carpet for baby wrestling.

sweet sun

2011-03-09T07:30:00.001+01:00

Shocking that a month has passed since my last post. If nothing is happening here, assuredly much is happening elsewhere. Those days have been filled with that stuff of life that seems hardly mentionable here. Things like working long hours, suffering through tooth ache and root canal, and stomach flu around the whole family.

Then there are things that are probably more mentionable, like Max beginning to walk. I have never watched a human being learn to walk before. It's totally fascinating and wonderful. I can't help but cheer.

The winter "cabin fever" that seemed to be pulling me under is subsiding with the glorious return of the sun. In just a couple short months we've gone from the notorious dark Swedish winter to the famed Swedish sunlight, the dawn beginning earlier than six, and the evenings filled with light. It's 7:26 a.m. and that glorious golden globe is beaming it's orangish pink light right in the kitchen window, while I am thinking about gardening and what seeds I will order online today.

Planning for this year so far: Several kinds of onions, garlic, potatoes, carrots, beans, peas, lettuces, corn, pumpkins, herbs aplenty and hoping that we can get ourselves together to plant two plum trees.

Must do more reading and I hear Max a-calling.

readings

2011-02-07T07:56:00.001+01:00

Recently finished reading The Discipline of Spiritual Discernment, by Canadian writer Tim Challies. Good enough in many ways that I wanted to reread it immediately after finishing. I initially picked it up and wanted to read it because I liked the idea of talking about spiritual discernment as a discipline and not as a randomly imparted and somewhat nebulous (read: spooky) "gift". Shortly into it I realized I was one of the people with wrong thinking on the subject, which Challies points out early on. (To clarify, as I read, my naive reasons for picking up the book in the first place were both justified and exposed as ignorant.)

An excellent and straightforward book that challenged me in numerous areas, and laid out thoughts on some very foundational matters in which I had wrong thinking. (In some ways this was a surprise to me, that I was errant and immature in some of the matters he discusses. In some ways not.) As he describes the way many Christians think and act within our culture, I see how much a product I am of my generation. And not very often "thinking Christianly".

"We live in an age where too many who profess to be Christian rarely consider their spiritual maturity -- an age when many consider spiritual immaturity a mark of authenticity, and when people associate doubt with humility and assurance with pride. Far too many people consider sound theology the mark of a person who is argumentative and proud."

I definitely relate to this 'generation' of Christians who, although I say at the outset that I believe in teaching and growing Christians from the Word, that I generally emotionally separate myself from those who would go on about "sound theology" and emotionally attach myself to those who would associate doubt and unbelief with humility.

But I wasn't intending to write long on the matter -- suffice to say I would recommend the book. You can read more from Tim Challies (he's a prolific blogger) at www.challies.com.

heavens

2011-01-31T13:41:00.000+01:00

Ask Max for a kiss, and he'll open his mouth and stick his little tongue out as if tentatively tasting an ice cream or other delight. He'll lean his perfectly shaped, downy little head towards yours and gently press his sweet face into yours. He never closes his mouth and you always end up a bit slobbery, but it makes me want to cry and laugh and be speechless with overwhelming emotion.

the work of the heart

2011-01-20T08:32:00.000+01:00

I can't help but think of Ecclesiastes, somehow. Not directly but more the feeling that none of these daily efforts matter if my heart's not in the working. Or does it? Does "going through the motion" still mean I am faithful to my responsibilities and commitments, and therefore obedient, and isn't there joy in submission?

I am not so old but old enough. Is it one of life's great lessons -- that final understanding what true striving constitutes? Where things and adventures aren't just rolling off in front of you and distractions don't suffice? Seeing the truth and reality of how actions and words and workings of the heart change can ruin someone or build him, embolden or crush, help him grow or leave him in wasteful sedation. The workings of your heart can alter someone terribly and make him give up hope -- make him ambivalent. And it can bring vibrancy, contagious joy (the joy I mean that understands pain) and goodness. It can bring intimate and enviable friendships, long and good marriages, stable and loving children.

A real work of the heart requires more than simply putting one foot in front of the other. But how can the work -- the transformation -- begin without those steps taken out of love and duty and responsibility and a desire to fulfill my commitment, my promise?

people

2011-01-10T16:16:00.002+01:00

Ironically I don't have time to further expand on the below excerpt.

"Before the motorcar existed, people travelled on foot and at a speed of 5-15 kph. We function best at that speed. Our perceptive and reactive capabilities enable us to avoid collisions with other people and obastacles. If, contrary to all expectations, an accident should occur, the consequent injuries will not be very serious.

In today's society we travel at much higher speeds. The time we have to detect others, interpret information, and take decisions is very much shorter. If we make a mistake and an accident occurs resulting in a dead stop, we get hurt."

Körkortsboken, in English

fog

2011-01-05T09:16:00.004+01:00

/for now we see in a mirror dimly/

(we can't see our true selves)

(the picture's never really clear: foggy, distorted)

/but then face to face/

(as a man speaks to a friend)

/now i know in part/

(it's in some way a relief: not expected to know more)

/but then i shall know fully/

(sweet assurance: i have only sampled the feast)

(when it's hard to swallow: clumpy, dry, strange: it's only a foretaste)

/even as i have been fully known/

(i cannot see, yet i'm seen)

(my vision is weak but

we've been needing glasses since the dawn of time)

/i corinthians 13:12/

jul (tre)

2010-12-22T11:18:00.002+01:00

Last night we had a most surreal experience. Late in the evening (after the practical things taken care of -- supper leftovers put away, fire stoked, baby changed and fed and put to bed in a neighbors care) Martin and I headed a few kilometers to a friend's farm, who lives high on a bluff surrounded by forest, in a former summer home built by a wealthy and long-dead Swedish noble. Our purpose: Christmas tree hunting.

All over Sweden right now (northern Europe, really) it's cold. Last night about -20 and a full moon. The sky was a deep silver-blue and with thigh-deep snow on the ground it was so bright we could walk on our Christmas tree hunt without the aid of flashlight. In places where the moon shone through the open spaces it was as bright and huge as a celestial street lamp. In the moonlight the deciduous trees (covered in thick hoar frost) were a million tiny glittering crystals. (I promise I am not poetically exaggerating.) The fir and pine trees, covered with so much snow their limbs were bent parallel with their trunks, were wreathed in great tubes and gobs and mounds of snow. They ended up appearing to be giant soft-serve ice cream cones rather than trees.

It was so beautiful and other-worldly I couldn't concentrate on where we were going and kept walking off our trail into the deep snow, filling the tops of my boots and jeans and laughing like a kid. If there was something to restore the magical wonder of Christmas it was that tree hunt.

We found our small pine not too far off the trail, dug it out of the snow, cut it and stuffed it the back of our Toyota. We brought it home and Martin left it standing in the washroom to warm up and drop the ice and snow.

The magic of the night returned instantly this morning when I walked into the bathroom to find it filled with the scent of pine and our little tree standing awkwardly in the bathtub.

sweet goodness

2010-11-22T11:25:00.006+01:00

I just wrote a new post this morning, then was so tempted and revived by some photos from the "wine district" of south-central British Columbia, Canada and therefore couldn't resist posting again. It helps that they are photos from a wonderfully good friend whom I miss dearly.

Go look for yourself.

Grape Harvest

things of yesterday and now

2010-11-22T09:06:00.003+01:00

Little squeaking patting noises as Max pursues this morning entertainment of hitting his small chubby hands on the door of the dishwasher.

A Polish man in pitch-dark of the moonless November evening, selling his sketches door-to-door in confused and broken Swedish. His sketching case patched with tape. His dripping umbrella folded haphazardly. The sight of it touched me. I bought a portrait of a small sleeping boy he said was his nephew, curled up with a cat.

Sitting at our kitchen table (the clock edging towards "the indecent hours") eating spicy fries baked with cheddar cheese, black pepper, and green onions, dipped in sour cream or homemade honey mustard, and talking about love.

The comforting feeling of achievement when I walk in our bedroom to see the rather large cupboard-desk that I yesterday disassembled in the wet and cold, hauled inside, and reassembled before Martin returned home.

Indulging in (basking, really) the absolutely overstated "superwoman" compliment from my kind husband.

A conversation with my mom, loving and wise, who willing got out of bed to talk when I called too late. How blessed am I to enjoy a friendship (and receive advice from) with someone who has known me since birth, loves me unconditionally, has lived a life of experience and grace, and freely shares her thoughts without expectations, demands or condescension. Awfully sad how often people waste their years not hearing the wisdom of experience from people around them; taking their proximity or relationship for granted, only realizing what they've missed when it's out of reach. (This is a reminder to self not to do so!)

Expectations of my pursuits of the day: things that give absurd pleasure like reorganizing, painting, designing and writing, and drinking that first cup of hot black tea swirling with cream (or condensed milk, even better) and honey. I love tea absurdly much.

Planning a tea. I bake scones, provide the butter and the cream and the tea, and each guest brings at least one jar of jam or compote or marmalade. Oh, delicious!

nutter

2010-11-15T13:38:00.002+01:00

Starting to feel crazy. Yes. Actually crazy. Wondering about "cabin fever". Exhibiting symptoms.

Cabin fever

An idiomatic term for extreme irritability, emotional instability, and restlessness from living in isolation or a confined indoor area for long periods of time.

Symptoms include restlessness, irritability, irrational frustration with everyday objects, forgetfulness, laughter, excessive sleeping, distrust of anyone they are with, and an urge to go outside even in the rain, snow or dark.

of elves and men

2010-11-08T12:23:00.007+01:00

Several recent conversations fused together, provoking thought and prose on forests and plains.

Forest is fantasy: red-topped mushrooms crouching under fir and fern, footpaths leading away up piney slopes and thick beds of moss coating stone and fallen branch. Her scents are powerful. Subtle, too. Smells of green and clean. Smells still and wet. Forest is mystery. Secrecy. Creatures and things hidden behind trunk and beneath knoll. Faraway rustlings and mutterings, snappings and scrapings. Wood nymphs, trolls and dwarves. Dim, black: under fir and towering pine, even the hilltops sheltered, surrounded. Secure, ensconced. Forest is she: her deep, dark moods pulling you to some unforeseeable destination. She is wild imagination and a hundred years of quiet, predictable growth.

Grassland is eternal heavens and unending horizon, straight and unbroken, the way bearing neither too far left nor too far right. Prairie is always he: solid, stark, open, strong-tempered and generous. He has no subtleties. He gives up everything in a wide, sweeping panorama: all his blue, blue sky, his rich, black earth, his bent and stubbled trees, his grasses, the hunting hawk and prowling fox and creeping critters. It's heart-land: honest in unpredictability, in harshness. The killing snowstorm, the drowning thundershower, the long dry spells. The ferocious wind that tears down from the north and lances the skin. He loves tough: reddens the neck of the soil-toiler. He heartens the appetite and puts you to work. And never deprives of a sunrise and a sunset, an ocean of land edged in light.

To say one is more beautiful -- he or she -- is folly. Just plain silliness. It's the taste of salt or sugar. The feel of wood or of air. Both good and created.

chuckle

2010-10-27T13:46:00.003+02:00

I picked up a book recently that said:

Children laugh an average of about 150 times per day, while adults laugh about 10 times.

I have no idea where they dug up this information and at the moment I am too lazy to check for myself, however, I tend to think it's fairly true. Max laughs quite often, often at "nothing". I am somewhat of a "laughing individual", and yet still I feel pressed to find joy and abandon in everyday life. Having a little laugher around will be good for me. Hopefully he will rub off.

i have tears in my ears

2010-10-18T21:03:00.004+02:00

Butter tart squares cooling on the counter and birch logs glowing in the fireplace. Baby asleep -- for now. I begin my vigil, waiting and wondering when -- hoping "if" -- he will wake up. His poor little internal clock is way off. After three nights of wee-hours playtime with Max, I decide to stay up, dressed, armed with snacks, TV shows, computer, and book, instead of dragging my poor bones repeatedly from bed.

Last night in these wee hours Max and I went for a walk, him bundled in his sleeping bag against the chilly air. It was "true" dark, forest dark, with little light pollution, stars standing crisp and cold on gently curved night sky. I pushed Max over our frosted driveway and felt overwhelmed by the greatness above me. Seeing the curve of the earth and 70-foot pines bending towards the rich blue-black -- as if a photo taken with a fish eye for NG. Except that no lens could replicate it, with the crunch of stones, and the smell of damp leaves and wood smoke.

The return here from Calgary left me emotionally and physically drained. Getting on the airplane to come to Sweden, my feet and stomach felt leaden. I haven't felt so torn before, so half in one place and half in another. I have been entirely naive about what it means to live half a world away from people you love, and yet, I could not change it even if I could go back. Before living here I didn't even really know Martin. And knowing him better --understanding his background and family life and what helped to shape his way of thinking -- that's only one of many good things of being here. But making your mother cry is awful.

During our visit my mom and I found ourselves at the worn kitchen table, eating bits of leftover Thanksgiving dinner and talking about the heaviness of our hearts. I feel particularly close to my family. We are good friends and enjoy hanging out. And yet there were times when it felt like the emotions were pulling me under, choking out my ability to live in the moment. I talked about this, and my mom talked about her struggles with understanding God's intentions for us all. Her words, "life is a series of gains and losses," reminded me of the way the write of Ecclesiastes sounded. We sat there, with the midmorning sun pouring in, and wept. In the midst of my tears I started laughing. I was helpless to stop it when I realized we were crying with bowls of what we call "sunshine salad" in front of us. Two big softies cryin' in our sunshine salad.

Dealing with this emotional rollercoaster brought me around to thinking of the "problem of pain" disproving the existence of a loving God. But I like the way one writer put it, calling the greater question the "problem of pleasure". Without the pain, the lack, the abstinence that results in great anticipation instead of instant gratification, would these anticipated things be as joyful, as lovely?

It's a thorny question at two a.m. when I am physically and emotionally spent. Baby is finally asleep, I hope, and I am wishing for a dreamless sleep myself.

something real

2010-09-04T07:37:00.006+02:00

This morning we awoke to find the windows wetted and frosted half-way up. The sun is bravely attempting to burn through both cloud and pine -- a hopeful start for the day.

Max awoke at 6:30 am, and lying almost comatose beside him on the couch I thought about:

meaningfulness

Thought about how much energy I expend on the

meaningless

When energy and thought, emotion and ability could be summoned/mustered/corralled into something intentional, concrete.

So for the next time I sit to write, it will be about people and places I love; ways of being that inspire me, people that plow through the everyday normalcy of life in small western Canadian cities, or pockmarked and shell-riddled Bosnian villages, or the south Sudanese wilderness. People like Gudeta, Michal, Angelika, Dr. Daniel Madit Thon Duop, Rob Jones. Oh the list is wonderfully long. How have I been so blessed in my short life to meet so many wonderful people? Where shall I begin?

fool proof?

2010-08-25T20:52:00.007+02:00

One of the gifts we received when Max was born is a hand/foot print frame thingy, in which you are supposed to be able to make 3-D prints of your baby's feet and hands. It looked complicated and messy and I haven't mustered the energy to open it until today.

It was raining this afternoon (all day, in fact) and I finally pulled the gift down and opened it up. In the midst of sachets of clay and jell and instructions in twenty different languages, my eyes fell to the front cover of one of the booklets. I laughed in disbelief. A hand giving a thumbs up, with the phrase "100% failure proof."

Absolutely. One hundred percent. They can guarantee it. Even an idiot cannot fail! There is something disturbing and refreshing about it. I can't put my finger on it, but it appealed to me and at the same time disgusted me. How many things in life are 100 percent failure proof? Can't think of many. Or any?

We'll see how the footprints turn out.

2010-08-20T23:48:00.002+02:00

Restless nights full of dark, violent dreams. Easily shaken off in the morning, but they come scraping and hobbling back. They catch me in the shadowed places between the streetlights, where the trees grow so tightly together they form a wall of branches and trunks. I can't help but look backwards over my shoulder as I walk, thinking of how I would protect my child from harm. Shake my head. Stop. Stupid overactive imagination.

sugar

2010-08-09T15:07:00.015+02:00

Sweet (and good) things of summer:

Blueberry icecream.

Watching Max pull hair.

Wonderful friends visiting.

Belly laughs.

Honest conversation.

Painting doors and windows red.

Summer cuddles with Max.

My first medium-rare burger.

Visiting two of Sweden's archipelagos.

Strawberries, milk, and coffee.

Beach sand like icing sugar between toes.

Takeaway Thai on a balcony overlooking the Baltic sea at sunset.

"Homemade" strawberry rhubarb icecream.

Road trips with Martin and Max. East coast, west coast, three different islands.

Babies in their diapers.

Sweltering hot summer days.

Two non-swimmers (one Canadian and one Swedish) taking an evening dip in the lake.

Spending time with family.

Suntanning on the rocky shores of the west coast.

Continued learnings on the charcoal grill.

Completing projects around the house.

Martin, the "waspbuster", protecting his wife and son.

Spending time with Martin's parents.

Discovered places: old coffee houses, historical farms, tiny B&Bs and a beautiful gardens tucked away in a small island village.

Friend's handmade gifts: beautiful, sweet things for Max.

The (sometimes surprising) thoughtfulness of people on my birthday.

Strawberry torte on my 28th birthday -- layered shortcake with whipped cream, vanilla custard, and loaded with locally grown strawberries.

little one

2010-07-23T18:37:00.004+02:00

Each day holds a thousand profound moments, all of them cheapened by description.

(I once thought that parents talked about children because their world had so imperceptibly narrowed that it was the only thing they could talk about. In a sense that still holds. My world has narrowed. Beautifully. Perfectly.)

I am moved to tears when I turn from some distraction and find his dark blue eyes looking intently at my face. As if he's waiting for me to see him. When he sees me see him, his own face lights in the purest, gummiest grin. I sit, overcome, thinking -- I am wasting my time on the pathetic and temporal when before me is eternity.

midsommar igen

2010-07-03T22:23:00.004+02:00

Another Midsummer passed. The lupin and oak leaves drying brown on the maypoles. A hazy heat has overtaken early July, and I find myself wanting to retreat into the coolness of the forest more than finding a patch of beachsand at the lake. Poor little Max doesn't take to the heat so well, sweating in his little diaper while trying to sleep under the trees.

Tonight was a perfect summer night; grilling with Martin's parents on the cool grass -- steak, potato salad, greens picked from our garden with dill and lemon. Rhubarb lemonade and watermelon slices. Then perfectly ripened local strawberries, cream and coffee. We decided to take the "long" route home from Myresjö -- following small roads through old growth forests with mossed, gnarly oaks (my favourites), past small farms carved out of rocky, forested hills, small lakes, and numerous old homes and summer cottages.

It was the kind of drive that got us "lost" after two or three turns. Windows down, summer air smelling of farm, wildflowers and deep woods untouched by sunshine. Winding dirt roads branching off here and there. Just picking whichever "feels" best. We passed an old man on his putt-putt moped, dressed in tourist shorts and puffing on a cigar. Enjoying an evening drive through the oaks. Later, after innumerable turns and random choices, we passed him again on a different road. He had finished his cigar.

It's the kind of evening that makes me feel unburdened. Refreshed, purified somehow. The wind in my hair and the baby asleep in the backseat as we pass the spot Martin proposed to me five years ago. Life. Is good.

little king

2010-06-03T14:37:00.002+02:00

June is upon us and it's as if I time-warped through May. Suddenly I have a baby gulping and giggling behind me -- in some way, I wonder how he came to be there, making his baby noises. But I was there for all of it, so I do know. I didn't have the dreaded drama that has been built up in my mind for years, the awful 20-something hours of labour that my poor mother experienced. I feel rather "lucky" in that sense. Just under five hours and then the real work began, so to speak.

Little Max Thure Michael Aspegren now rules our house. His two middle names are from his father's grandfather (Thure) and mother's great-grandfather (Michael). He is putting us through trials that we never imagined, and this unspeakable, intense joy that comes with those trials as a blessing and encouragement. It's a total trip.

Even now he demands that his mamma cease her silly typing and attend to his needs. And with a few cries promising a full-blown episode, I submit. Sweet little 54 centimeter dictator is he.

the secret garden

2010-04-26T10:48:00.002+02:00

On the weekend Martin and I spent a sunny Saturday morning at a "loppis", which is the Swedish word for a secondhand sale that can vary from a shop setting to closing down the town centre and everyone bringing out their goods to sell. In this case it was at a neighbor's home, which is a bit unusual, but as they are moving there was lots of goodies to be had.

We scored some fun things and good deals, and best of all was the stack of English children's books we brought home. Definitely not the usual finds. Amoungst the books were quite a few children's classics, including Swiss Family Robinson, Charlotte's Web, The Wizard of Oz, Stuart Little, and best of all, The Secret Garden.

I devoured The Secret Garden on Sunday and early Monday morning, finished the last two chapters over fresh bread, butter, honey, and coffee loaded with cream and sugar. What a treat of a morning! What a wonderful book and I will be reading it several times a year for the rest of my life. It is mostly set in the English spring, and to be able to go outside afterwards and work in my own garden with only the birds and bumblebees and sunshine for company was such pleasure! The daffodils are poking their heads up and crocus' and snowdrops and "vitsippor" are blooming in colors that just tease the winter blues right out of you. (If it's even possible to have them with the coming of spring!)

I have never enjoyed spring so much as I have since moving to this little place, watching and tending and labouring in the dirt and grass, and seeing God's "Magic" stir and bloom. I want to build my own stone wall and secret garden, but that may have to wait. For now, I can content myself with delight and imagination, and reread that wonderful book when my own inspiration runs dry.

rocking chairs and stone hedges

2010-04-19T07:25:00.007+02:00

Monday, 7:31 a.m. The spring sunshine is already warming the front rooms of the house and I awoke to the singing of birds again. I have a million plans of how to spend the morning, but what is feasible? Digging up soil for transplanted raspberries maybe unfitting labour for a woman who is now two days overdue. (Wouldn't be a major except for Småland's incredibly rocky soil -- digging usually means building a stone cairn beside your flower or vegetable garden.) The bathroom also needs to be cleaned, but that would be a terrible waste of a beautiful spring morning.

Had a really relaxed and enjoyable weekend filled with things that I love. We had Martin's parents for dinner Friday -- the coziness of spending relaxed time with family over the dinner table and my mom's recipe for lasagna. Martin and I managed to squeeze in some secondhand shopping on Saturday, finding a beautiful, well-constructed, unique rocking chair that has a certain character, even amongst beautiful Swedish rocking chairs. Baby Asparagus will hopefully enjoy being rocked to sleep in it.

Sunday we took a drive to the neighboring village of Skirö, enjoying the hilltop fields and fantastic display of human effort, the classic Småland stone wall. I have said it before but these walls, although picturesque and amazing to behold, are symbols of a nation's sufferings. The sheer magnitude of clearing fields of these massive stones, hauling them, and constructing them into kilometer-long, meter-wide and high walls seems unbelievable. There is no doubt that Swedish farmers were/are amongst the hardiest and most determined in the world.

Our ultimate destination was a cafe and boutique, set off in the "boonies" and run by a bosomy, warm woman who I want to be hugged by. She bakes in her kitchen set off the little shop, and brought us tea and raspberry soda, with soft nut torte and lemon cake. A really lovely way to spend the afternoon.

Sunday night we watched a moving and sobering film set in Rwanda in the 1990's, Shooting Dogs. This is one worth watching, not exploiting the brutality and violence people suffered, but still depicting it's horror. It tells the story of a faithful priest, and reflects the profound and inexplicable love of God in an unimaginable situation. It was filmed in Rwanda in the places it portrays and involved of many survivors of the genocide. Wikipedia: Shooting Dogs

Now, 8:01, and my breakfast-hunger is becoming urgent. What will be brought about this week? I was saying to Martin the other night that each day feels as though we are on the cusp of historical change -- our lives will be unimaginably altered with the birth of our child. And yet, every day is like that. The significance usually escapes me -- how each action and word is driving us on a course of change and the inability to go backwards.

long way from the heart

2010-04-06T18:10:00.002+02:00

An unusual last five days in our house. Easter weekend consisted of Martin taking ill on Friday and staying ill until Monday. It's pretty rare that he gets sick and although we squeezed some enjoyment out of the Easter holiday it was generally very crappy for him. We did make it out to (finally) see Avatar in 3D one night, although it was probably unwise as he was worse for wear afterwards.

I got to thinking over the time of his sickness, observing my general abilities as chief nurse and bottle washer. I honestly hope that my sense of compassion and tenderness increase, because I really have to work at it! Of course, when I am sick, I want my mommy and I want to be cared for with the most tenderest affection, waited on hand-and-foot. When someone else is sick my inner voice gets going, I veer towards irritation and frustration, and just want to wave a magic get-better wand. I have the greatest respect for a good nurse.

There are times where someone will hurt themselves and all I can think is, "oh, suck it up!" My dad had a classic line when we had relatively minor injuries: "It's a long ways from your heart." It's actually a pretty good line when you break it down. I will definitely be using it when appropriate. I can't stand mollycoddling or babying. It's good to be able to hurt yourself and get up and try again. But I certainly hope that, as with many things that develop in a person with parenthood, that my tenderness and kindness as a nurse increases.

crocodile tears

2010-03-24T06:04:00.003+01:00

I've tried to avoid regaling people with constant references to pregnancy and parenthood. I think it's a bit boring. And I don't want to be one of those folks who have a child and suddenly are completely absorbed into that child -- personality and all. I told Martin this week that I really, truly, honestly don't want to be a mother who talks about her child in such rapturous detail that everyone's eyes glaze over. (If I do that in the future, please, someone correct me in love!)

However, it is rather a big deal. No stomach-pun intended. "Nine months" is a short period of time, with all sorts of things that I've never experienced -- never even imagined -- and then comes baby Asparagus.

Overall, things have been pretty easy and "normal" for me. But there are things unavoidable and a whole new range of emotions is one of them. Now Martin would insist that I am a "softie" -- and sure, I have my sentimental sides -- but recently I have caught myself in tears at the most unbelievable things. So for the sake of confession and possibly a laugh, here is an incomplete list of things that can make a pregnant chick cry.

Para Olympic sledge hockey
Olympic mogul skiing
News footage of a deadly avalanche
Sound of Music
A reno project
An emergency baby delivery show
Super Nanny
Swedish "parenting" class
Church
Daytime television (including Ghost Whisperer. Gack.)
Thwarted plans

I guess that's embarrassing enough. In some ways it's rather freeing, too. Perhaps my tears were before trapped in some deep, repressed place and now I am just free to be a "sensitive woman". I should also write as a caveat that Martin is not miserable -- really -- he swears it hasn't "been that bad." More amusing than anything.

park it

2010-03-17T14:53:00.005+01:00

A cutely amusing commercial Martin found on our desktop, with neither of us knowing how it got there. It pushed the humour button regardless. Martin and I have had some funny instances with parallel parking, especially since living in the countryside. When we get into the "big city" (actually a rather smallish city of around 100,000) the parallel parking fun begins. Funny how marriages are proven on the most unlikely of battlefields.

the land of nod

2010-03-14T18:57:00.003+01:00

This morning finished rereading East of Eden. I put it down with a sigh of relief and contentment, and went to blow my nose. I couldn't help but cry a little at the end. (Okay, I also cried a little throughout the book, too -- I am blaming it on my "emotions" these days. That and what wonderful characters John Steinbeck creates.)

This is a book I will come back to again as it only gets better each time, one of the yearly indulgent re-reads I do, like the Chronicles of Narnia (which incidentally, I hope to try reading in Swedish this year.)

This time I marked little thoughts and parts of the book's dialogue. Although the snippets rarely have the same impact taken out of their context and emotion at the time of reading, they are worth sharing:

"You are one of those rare people who can separate your observation from your preconception. You see what it is, where most people see what they expect."

(I really want to be one of these rarities. But how do I know what I expect to see and how it colours my observation? In reference to race and nationality it's a little clearer to me, but it's worth thinking over in depth.)

"You can't make a race horse out of a pig."
"No, but you can make a very fast pig."

(What more is there to say? I love the earthiness: a complex truth broken down to simple language.)

"An unbelieved truth can hurt a man much more than a lie. It takes great courage to back truth unacceptable to our times. There is a punishment for it, and usually it's crucifixion. I haven't the courage for that."

(I wish for the courage on a daily basis. I suppose the way we choose to live our lives is a fraction of backing truth unacceptable to our times. But too often I find myself hedging with carefully worded sentences or slimy political correctness when possibly the most refreshing and freeing thing would be that unacceptable truth.)

to love

2010-03-06T07:17:00.004+01:00

Lovely things that delight me:

Letter writing at the kitchen window, with fresh bread, real butter, winter sunshine and a perfectly hot cup of tea.
A new shag carpet under bare toes.
A well-designed, well-constructed laundry rack.
The early morning pale just as the sun rises: a white-blue morning sky with a hint of gray at the edges. The same as my husband's winter-morning eyes.
A letter in the mailbox, and a surprise package from a generous friend.
A tidy house, neatly made beds, the smell of clean, warmed by a good fire and sunshine.
A walk that truly felt as though Father Christmas had come to break the spell of the White Witch: the earth spitting up melting snow, the trees shedding their great snowy weight with mighty showers and thuds and plops, narrowly missing faces and heads, the birds singing madly.
Long friendship reconstructed over tea cups and table.
A firm handshake and conversations in a second language.
Gentle assurance from the one I love.
Thoughtfulness and generousity at unexpected moments.
Things lent, things borrowed.
Food cooked, food shared.
Gift-giving and prayer-praying.
A neighbour who looks out his window and cares what transpires there.
The softness of a two-week old baby.
A willing, attentive ear.
Spontaneity, a warm welcome, "fredags mös", good conversation.
Unexpected invitations.
Sweet sincerity.
The wonder, humor, and intimacy of a first pregnancy.
"Face-to-face" conversations on Skype.
A friend with whom I can be honest and vulnerable.
Waking up from a horror-dream.
Things that are lime-green.

culture mash

2010-02-24T15:39:00.003+01:00

My train of thought is often down the rail of culture and character. Most often my Swedish class is the trigger for these contemplations.

My Swedish course is filled with people from all over the world, with the majority of students being refugees from Somalia and Iraq. (In 2009 Somalians comprised the largest group of refugees to Sweden, outnumbering Iraqis.) My current class is a mix of students from China, Thailand, Slovenia, Palestine, Iraq, Somalia, Ghana, Germany and Egypt (and possibly more that I haven't yet identified). We range from those who never learned to read or write in our mother tongues to those that attended university in a second language, usually English. All of us slogging our way through the difficult grammar and seemingly-impossible intonation of Swedish.

The reasons why we are in this government-run Swedish course varies. Most, like me, are recent immigrants and need to learn Swedish in order to integrate. Others have been working for some time, and having lost their jobs in the recent downturn, enroll themselves in Swedish courses to receive social assistance as a student. Others still seem to be not doing much of anything, rather driving nice cars and using flashy mobiles, arrogantly popping in and out of class as they will, snotting at the teacher and sniffing at homework.

Each day is a new lesson in the relationship of culture and character. (I know there is a deep philosophical thought that I am skating over here -- whether human morality can exist without the reality of a just God. But for the moment I am simply interested in how our cultures can define our rights and our wrongs.)

"Were it possible that a human creature could grow up to manhood in some solitary place without any communication with his own species. He could no more think of his character, of the propriety or demerit of his own sentiments and conduct, of the beauty and deformity of his own mind, than the beauty of his own face... Bring him into society, and he is immediately provided the mirror which he wanted before". (Adam Smith, A Theory of Moral Sentiments)

It's especially fun when you've been looking in a Canadian mirror and suddenly you find yourself peering awkwardly into, say, an Iraqi mirror. In that mirror I believe I must look rather cold, distant, especially quiet and a little bit strange. I think they might find me selfish and possessive of my classwork, as I rarely "share" answers or work together with other students unless told to do so, believing that the best way to learn is to do the work. (This isn't particularly "moral" but still my reflection in their mirror.)

Cheating and lying -- black, white or gray? Depends who you ask. Professed religious beliefs seem to play no part in this area. For at least one culture in my class, cheating (or "helping") is perfectly acceptable and very common. I asked a friend if this is common in universities in her home country and yes, absolutely, of course. During a recent exam, another male student called me over and demanded that I sit next to him and "help" him with his answers. I refused and found another seat. He said later to me that he knew I might not help him because I was "American" and we don't "help" other students. Another exam found me desperately trying to shield my answers on all sides from at least three students who were avidly, and without shame, trying to read my papers.

Lying? It's rather a normal day in class to have students baldly and calmly lying to the instructor, whether regarding homework, missed class time, or absences. Somehow this would seem normal in a high school setting (although I am not sure why) but in a classroom of adults it's rather sickening. But, regardless of even the most devout of students, it's no big deal, even just another kind of humor.

We do have fun in our class. For example, if you disagree with someone, feel free to raise your voice. Perfectly acceptable (and commonly used) method of disagreement among my female classmates is a yelling match. (Always hard to tell who wins those ones.) Deadly gossip is another: literally. (One woman telling others that a fellow female student was involved in a murder in her home country and had paid a human smuggler to bring her to Sweden.)

But I also receive handshakes, kisses and hugs (the likes of which are rare in Swedish culture) and the women take an avid interest in my pregnancy, in children, and family. They talk about the female anatomy with humor and without self-conscious hang-ups, and a little body fat is nothing to sniff at. The laughter is without language barriers as we all meet on the limited plane of Swedish. There is a mutual understanding in the natural ignorance and frustration of being an immigrant and "intruder" in a small and tightly defined culture.

Just for the fun of it, totally random, cheeky humor with a "Swedish"- German-English twist: "Swedish" German English

cabbage baby

2010-02-13T08:05:00.005+01:00

For whatever reason, I am not good at keeping track of where I am at in my pregnancy. Knowing I have an appointment with my midwife this week, I just used my "favorite" online due-date calculator. This particular calculator, while accurate, really cracks me up. This week, for example, I am 30 weeks pregnant and "my baby is the size of a head of cabbage". Other times it was "the size of a large bell pepper," or the worst, "the size of a large chicken breast." As Swedes say -- "va?" Could we not find something a little more human to connect it to? A chicken breast is the best we can do?

Now we are raising my own little cabbage head, so we have begun the rather daunting search for "things we need", such as baby car seat, stroller, and a larger laundry rack. It's a whole new, confusing world -- a new kind of Western excess that I haven't been exposed to before. A million contraptions, do-dads, gizmos and luxuries. We have come across a jetted baby spa, (in Canada) and a red pleather children's armchair (Sweden.) You can shop at "Retro Baby" or "Hip Baby" or even "cool baby".

There is every temptation to trap parents into dolling themselves up into eco-friendly (except the diapers, of course) yuppy parents. We bought a baby car seat last weekend, and I jokingly asked Martin if we were going to turn into "those people" (quite of few of them milling around in the store.) No, no, we are not. Phew.

Thankfully we live in the "countryside", where things are a just a little simpler. Not too many yuppies zipping around our neighborhood. I can't recall even seeing a Baby Bjorn. (I only learned what these things were about five months ago.) There's no noticeable social culture of having a new $1,500 CDN stroller, or the brand-name baby clothes. People are a little more practical, a little more earthy.

But maybe we'll buy into some of these crazy products. Why not buy a helmet for your child, so you can send them off to play without fearing they may konk their head? They even make them with little Mickey Mouse ears. At least, I think that is what they are. (Check out the website.) Or what about a prenatal education system? Electronics that you strap on your belly and expose your child to noises mimicking, for example, a mother's heartbeat. Or a fur changing pad?

Personally, I think a faux fur changing pad sounds very practical. An animal-friendly twist on Viking baby care.

the "greater good"?

2010-01-30T08:03:00.009+01:00

We had a friend over for dinner last night -- a hearty meal and interesting conversation on a cold, wintry evening. (The snow is well past my knees now and local stores are having difficulty keeping ski equipment stocked.)

Our guest brought up recent reports and Swedish journalist investigations into aspects of the United Nations conduct in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. There are numerous horrible reports coming out of that area, this one focussed on the remarkably high percentage of U.N. soldiers stationed there admitting to having been with a prostitute. The stories of these women are quite tragic. Our friend told us of one 14-year-old girl who had, sadly, a not-uncommon tale. She was attacked and raped by three men, who also "damaged" her with a knife. Her "recovery" has now left her with the option of prostitution to provide for herself and her young child.

These awful things -- along with mass murders and tortures of civilians by U.N.-sanctioned Congolese soldiers, misappropriation of arms and supplies, and more -- are taking place under the "watchful" eye of the U.N., and by responsibility, the world. Now, it seems, opinions are against the U.N. continuing what is currently their largest peacekeeping operation, but have recently extended their stay by another five months.

I read an editorial this morning from the Los Angeles Times which posed the question:

"Can the U.N. help the government overcome rebels who torture and kill civilians without assisting, even inadvertently, Congolese soldiers who are allegedly engaged in similar human rights abuses?"

This is only one question of a thousand. It's hard to not take a cynical stance towards the U.N. and their role in countries like the Congo. And yet, when inaction results in terrible tragedy, as in the case of the Congo's neighbor Rwanda, the U.N. is blamed with howls of protest.

It's difficult to even form an opinion, much less "do something". Looking at an individual issue it's simple to determine right or wrong but the further you back up things become gray: complicated, with expressions tossed about like "necessary evil" or "greater good".

Congo at Crossroads

U.N. Peacekeepers Failing to Stem Illegal Trade...

As I am writing, lyrics of a song from Waterdeep come to mind. There is hope for the hopeless. There is justice. There is clarity in confusion. Assurance of things unseen.

"He will comfort all that's hardened / change the deserts into gardens / and we all will see His face. He will come. He will come. He will soften all the starkness / break the chambers of our darkness / and we'll all be overwhelmed."

why was i complaining?

2010-01-16T08:09:00.005+01:00

Spend five to ten minutes reading news coming out of Haiti. The scale of the disaster is overwhelming. Left without government, without hospitals, medical care, enough doctors, food, shelter, bodies rotting in the streets, the president sleeping at the airport.

Anyone interested in giving financially here are links to two reputable organizations working in Haiti at the moment: Samaritan's Purse and Compassion Canada. Both are reputable, experienced organizations with solid financial accountability. The Canadian government has committed to matching donations up to $100,000.

For an idea of the scale, a BBC report: Haiti: No medical care, no doctors, no government

winter vanilla strawberry pie

2010-01-08T12:49:00.003+01:00

An exquisite winter day. The sun is shining, telling us (without looking at the temperature) that it is cold today. In fact (because I did look) it's around -20, which is unusual here. The trees I see from where I am sitting -- birch, spruce, pine, cherry, oak, jasmine -- all laden with as much snow as the branches can balance. Snow drifts off in clumps and showers as it becomes too much to bear. With the low-hanging winter sun behind, the blue sky is filled with sparkling confetti. Our rather long driveway is shoveled, and a fire smoking and popping in the living room -- although the charm of the open fireplace has rather worn off and become more of a necessity than a convenience.

I am contemplating making some kind of comfort food. Cheesecake? Lemon loaf or raisin bread? Something spicy and meaty? My devious side prompts me towards raisin bread, knowing Martin hates cooked raisins (poison) and I could have it all to myself. What a nice little wife I am. But I am eating for two, people insist. (Why is it that so many people say that? I can't recall ever saying such a thing to someone, but I am hearing quite often, despite the fact that I am eating rather normal portion sizes and have no real cravings.)

Speaking of food, Martin has introduced me to something so yummy, so fragrant, crunchy, and gooey it's almost tragic to say "McDonald's" after. A piping-hot vanilla strawberry pie from McDonald's, fresh from the deepfryer and smelling like donut heaven. (Why am I feeling like I sound like Homer?) And, since I am pregnant and can supposedly use it to excuse all kinds of excess and eccentricities, I will go further. I admit with only a tiny cringe of shame -- I like McDonald's. I like salty french fries, cheeseburgers, Big Macs, and hot fudge sundaes. I love Egg McMuffins and deepfried hashbrowns. And because it all tastes virtually the same as it ever did, familiarity is the most divine flavour of all. This isn't because I am pregnant, either. Martin can attest to it. It mostly happened after moving to Sweden. If there is a sure way to cheer me up it's the suggestion, "Want to go to McDonald's?"

Now I have spilled a deep-fried, dark 'secret' on the most pure and sunny winter day. Delicious.

foghorn leghorn

2009-12-29T09:02:00.006+01:00

On Christmas Eve (Julafton) the state-owned STV channel runs a compilation of classic cartoons. Every year at three p.m. you can catch snippets of classics like Ferdinand the Bull.

I have always loved Ferdinand, how he likes to sit and "smell the flowers". I was interested to read further about it recently. Adapted from a book by Munro Leaf, it was created in 1938 and was Oscar-awarded. The 1936 book itself I find most interesting -- it was viewed by many as "pacifist" and while banned in many places by the "right", received favor from the "left".

If you've never seen this eight-minute cartoon -- Ferdinand the Bull.

Another favourite of mine -- my dad can do a great impression -- is Foghorn Leghorn (1946-1963). As I watch it now I find it amusing that the character voices sound like middle-aged men who've enjoyed one too many whiskies/cigarettes. (That's not the reason my dad does a great impression, however.)

Foghorn Leghorn

Now all I have to manage is to actually watch a Christmas SVT cartoon special from beginning to end.

nor doth he sleep

2009-12-24T07:43:00.006+01:00

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The Carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;
‘For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!’

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!’

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Christmas questions

2009-12-18T22:34:00.006+01:00

It's easy to get trapped in melancholy around Christmas time. I find it challenging here at times; things are based in the same western European Christian tradition that we have North Americanized, and yet so different that it's hard to "feel" Christmas at times.

A friend asked me tonight if I was sad that I wasn't going to be in Canada for Christmas. I answered truthfully that I have avoided thinking about it. What's the point? But the longer I stumbled through my answer the more I felt that painful paper-cut slice of missing my family.

I have this reoccurring thought lately. It will be the second year in who-knows-how-long that my sister and I haven't watched the film White Christmas together. (Admittedly we fast-forward just a few parts -- the romantic fire-side duet being one) but mostly we love that movie and watch it every year.

I have seen clips popping up here and there and decided to cheat -- indulging in just a couple of our favorite dance scenes. Then I found another version, with Run DMC, and just couldn't resist.

The Original

With Run DMC track

clap trap, indeed

2009-12-07T07:52:00.010+01:00

It should go without saying that people should be highly critical and always thoughtful when ingesting news.

The state of media makes more difficult for people to even want to stay current -- the downward spiral of the quality and consistency of online/independent journalism, and then the huddling of big media under powerful corporate umbrellas. Often the quality and integrity of journalism in general these days is questionable -- the laziness and the urgency to post online is blatantly obvious, even in simple spelling and grammatical mistakes.

Then along comes an article -- so vague, so unexplored, so lazy -- it's totally refreshing to the reader, who doesn't have to think very hard at all about what kinds of insane things are going on backstage.

A female and male journalist team from Canada and Australia, kidnapped last year in Somalia, are freed this year with the paying of a ransom, hiring of British mercenaries (in the following article called a "British company") and before leaving Mogadishu, a meeting with the president of Somalia himself, who is full of ridiculous, inane comments that are hilarious. Read an example...

Hostages, mercenaries, ransoms, corruption, politics...

I am sorry for the harsh things these two journalists endured -- although they (I assume) would have known the risk for foreigners in Somalia. But the media generated from it is pretty much the worst kind of crap -- soft, boring and lazy -- turning a potentially explosive story into a mushy, short feature story. Localized articles coming out of Australia and Canada contradict one another in basic facts -- for example, who paid the ransom. I could go on. But read for yourself.

stereotype santa

2009-11-30T16:51:00.006+01:00

There are some things that just get a person excited for Christmas. This is one of them.

2009 Santa world games in Sweden

This makes me (more than ever) want to get on with planning a trip to northern Sweden and Norway -- see the mountains and fjords, nature reserves, maybe even some caribou. If we were rich we'd stay in the ice hotel, unfortunately that will be an unfulfilled silly wish of mine.

Maybe I will start training for the Santa world games 2010.

how to scratch an itch?

2009-11-24T11:48:00.006+01:00

Weird dormant jet lag surfaced last night after almost a week; awake from 12 a.m. to 4 a.m., dreaming up all kinds of schemes, planting gardens in my mind.

Something I have noted about our neighborhood. For all the gardening going on, very little food is grown. Even the local market in the square I am unsure of -- farm-fresh looking foods mixed in with oranges from Spain and kiwis from New Zealand. I know our soil isn't the best -- shallow, sandy, stony -- but people produce beautiful flower gardens each year. Last spring I spent so many hours digging and fixing and starting I ran out of energy to till up the ground for the actual vegetable garden. I will not be deterred this spring, even if I have to pay someone to dig for me, seeing that by mid-April I will be 40 weeks pregnant and a whale of a woman.

Last night I was considering greenhouse and chicken coop, but that just going too far too early. Start with the veggies. Check out National Geographic's fun little online guide for tips for house and home. Knowing how energy and resources are wasted on food production makes you want to get your greenhouse and winter lettuce growing immediately. And about that chicken coop!

Read: The Green Guide

whale bones

2009-10-20T11:31:00.002+02:00

I am waiting for my chicken noodle soup to heat and trying to avoid thinking of the rumbling grumbling hunger in my belly. Munching on crackers to take the edge off. Sitting on our hideously uncomfortable kitchen chair--Ikea computer desk combination and twisting constantly to stretch away lower back pain. A fine Tuesday midday!

Since summer I have been swept up and driven by things out of my control. Just now I am starting to feel as if I have set down somewhere solid and feeling more "together" and capable. But with things as they are: new things, primal things, emotional things, strange things, maternal things, when I cannot help this strange ancient transformation, when one moment I feel insane and the next so practical.

Now I try to absorb Swedish and prepare for a trip to Calgary next week. I drink tea that leaves a skim on my teeth and contemplate the rich smells of fall -- farm, leaves, wet, and woodsmoke. Listen to music and think about homemade soup.

smelly goodness

2009-09-12T07:16:00.002+02:00

Was walking to catch the bus yesterday morning, a surprising chilly morning. With all the delicious smells in the air -- earth, forest, fern, wet and wood smoke-- I got to thinking about this particular sense. I wonder if smells are as sharp and tangible to others? I can't think of another sense that can transport me so quickly through time, to a particular person, or give such raw, childish joy.

I did grow up "smelling things": my family could identify the owner of an article of clothing left behind at our house simply by smelling it. "Oh, this jacket belongs to that family." Strange, but very practical skill. Even today people's homes carry an identifiable smell that, if I have known them for some time, I recognize. Even if they have moved to a new country, they still smell the same! (But, when I married and we had our own place, my brother pointed out that I no longer smelled like a Busenius, but that we now had our own "Aspegren" smell.)

The smell of nasturtiums always makes me think of crouching over my mom's flower bed as a child, diligently picking orange blossoms. Rice pudding and fresh bread, of my mom. The wet forest smell that comes here in Holsbybrunn always transports me to the hidden jewel of the British Columbia leg of the Trans-Canada Highway, The Enchanted Forest. Without fail that wet forest makes me think, "enchanted forest." The scented skin of a plum or an apple, freshly picked, I associate with my grandfather. Cut grass of summer evenings going to bed too early while my parents finished up the yard work. The first tinges of wood smoke in the air always make me think of Bosnia and El Salvador and cooking fires. Comfort clothing softener instantly reminds of the deliciousness of Martin's smell when we were dating. (He still smells good, for the record, but different.)

I suppose it can be like this for most people, the richness of smell, but it seems we've forgotten how to breathe deeply and slowly. Something about being adults and busy and such, maybe we forget to enjoy breathing.

the olden days

2009-09-07T08:46:00.003+02:00

Recently my neighbors took me out to an "old church day" in the neighboring village, Alseda. Alseda is a small collection of old houses, a tea house, classic white-washed stone church, and farms, cut straight through the middle by the two-lane highway that has grown uncomfortably busy with DHL trucks and longhauls coming from the east coast. The church, a beautiful bright-white structure built in the 1700s, (so newish, relatively speaking) has green wooden pews and the most incredible acoustics. One can whisper on the far side of the dome, and another can hear that whisper bouncing up and dropping down like a ghost's or something from a psychotic episode. The all-seeing eye is painted in gold about the alter.

On this particular day, people were coming to church by horse and buggy, just as in the old days. Most of the folks driving buggies and wagons were as old as the contraptions they steered. Gaunt, bowed men in frock coats and bowlers, ladies in skirts and veiled hats. Most of the wagons had rubber tires, and they slowed traffic to a jam on the highway before they pulled into the church stable yard.

The yard was full of nostalgia. A regiment of the Swedish mounted calvary rode in, and everyone was busy unsaddling horses and unhitching wagons and getting the horses settled in the stable. The stable itself, my neighbor estimated, was about 200 years old, and entertaining to watch people do as others had done hundreds of years before.

The church bells began pealing before all the unsaddling and rubbing down was finished, everyone rushing to leave the horses stamping in their stalls and find a seat before the droning, calming voice of the Lutheran priest began. A very interesting morning.

happiness: a choice that requires effort at all times

2009-08-27T15:14:00.005+02:00

Some things to love:

The smell of the skin of a plum, just ripened. A small child's hand in yours. August sunshine accompanied by a cool autumn breeze. Warm homemade bread and honey. The warmth of a down comforter and a quilt on top of that. The fragrance of apple season and the deliciousness of sniffing an apple ripening on the tree, then picking it, and biting into it. Pulling weeds. The warmth of touch from someone who loves you -- or simply cares how you are doing at that moment. The crispy skin of oven roasted chicken.

Garden potatoes boiled in their skins with butter and herbs. A husband's chest to cry on. Working in the sunshine. A mother's voice. Strawberries and cream icecream, with no unrecognizable ingredients. "Honey chewing gum" -- fresh honey still in the honeycomb. Eating straight out of the garden. A letter from a friend. Serving another in anticipation of his or her delight. Telling the truth. Putting yourself out on a limb. Short fingernails.

Stamps that don't have to be licked. A house full of colour. The smell of fresh laundry. Sleeping outside in the afternoon. Someone looking into your eyes, asking "How. Are. You?" Jumping off a dock into a cold, cold lake. A friend to confess your heart to. A job well done. Herbs straight from the garden. Being read like an open book. Understanding another language. Homemade applesauce. Transplanting perennials. Mango-scented body wash. The soft keys of an old piano. A feel-good book. Singing a spontaneous song with someone you love.

party girl

2009-08-15T23:28:00.002+02:00

Tonight I went to a party. Martin was out of town refereeing a innebandy tournament. So I was going alone, and he would arrive later. It was raining and I was riding a bicycle. I was laughing.

Already unfashionably late. Going alone to party of Swedes where I may know (2) people. Riding our old Norwegian-made bicycle, with a seat and a bar so high I have to stretch to reach the pedals and if I slip (raining and I chose to wear loafers) I may never bear children. I have a house plant (the housewarming gift) flying in a plastic bag from the right handle bar, a bag of chips over my shoulder, and a plastic container of French onion dip strapped to the book rack behind me. Racing in the rain on thin tires, through the forest, trying to figure the best way through the village to reduce my lateness.

I started out grumpy -- going to a party alone without Martin on a bicycle in the rain. Then it just got -- funny. Then, enjoyable. One more moment in my funny little village life.

murder most delicious

2009-08-12T15:01:00.004+02:00

Our neighbor is pushing his sputtering choking lawnmower up and down the lawn. He's racing a pressing rain squall, the trees are bending under the wind and dark clouds pinch out the sun. The horse at the end of the garden responds to it with his own vocal raucous.

I can't believe it myself, but I sanctioned and oversaw the cutting down of a large old cherry tree in our yard last night. It was majestic, gray-barked and lichened, but it leaned in a intimate way toward our house, right over the kitchen, and pushed out the growth of the aspens beside it. And cherry trees make such a mess. Molting in the spring, dropping dark, purple-exploding cherries in the summer, and leaves in the fall. The tree is tall, so old and big, that we can't even harvest it's fruit before it splatters on our deck or heads or wherever. So, the cherry tree had to die. Isn't this the power of our lordship over nature? We can grow and kill it as we please. And so the cherry tree is now cherry wood, and after been sawn and chopped and split and dried, will heat our house one winter.

And we harvested the last of the cherries, so ripe and soft that they turned the eaters mouth purple-black, staining teeth, tongue, and lips. Martin was so happy to have the tree cut down and eat the cherries, his mouth an up-turned, purple-lipped grin, he looked the Joker, gloating over some mayhem and mischief.

from this to that

2009-08-01T10:08:00.003+02:00

This morning the sunshine was streaming in the east windows, heating my cereal milk as I ate, beckoning to come and make the most of a summer day. We are back in our tranquil little blue house after five days in Prague, Czech Republic.

The pulse of a city is at the same appealing and repelling -- after a bit in the countryside the thrum and vibrancy of a dense human population is drawing. It's music, sirens, murmurings and thumpings, the art, magnificent architecture, and appetites for all kinds of food. People watching. Subway riding. Shop perusing. Accompanied by the sharp smack of sewage stench, broken human beings, twisted and blatant sexual "entertainment", dismal dirty corners filled with garbage and poorly executed graffiti.

My ears have become accustomed to the thick silence of little Holsbybrunn, but at moments it almost feels as if I am going crazy -- the loudest thing the ringing in my ears. But the screech and howl of Communist-era trains shooting by one another was almost too much to bear. (Martin covered his ears, but he's lived sanscity longer than I.) All possible windows of the train were down to combat the stifling July heat and the pervading, rank smell of urine.

We spent four days in the city and one day traveling about 35 kilometers outside of Prague to a smaller village and 14th century castle built by a former Czech king and Roman emperor. We walked up into the surrounding hills and nature reserve to find "little America", a 100 metre canyon with a lake at it's bottom. We passed by large poppy fields with their blue-gray-green bulbs and crumbling cement and wood houses of the bygone peasantry. Fields of yellow grain and shiny-leafed corn.

But the city life -- Czech pub food, gorgeous clothes, spires and steeples of 1,000 years of art and design, river boats, pink/blue/orange flats, warm cobblestone and beautiful light polution, has it's appeal for a few days.

avoidance techniques

2009-07-09T08:10:00.003+02:00

I should be cleaning the house. My parents and grandmother arrive tomorrow and there are still beds to be made, floors to be done, etc. etc. Not that it really matters. They won't see how clean everything is but will just be glad to be here. But by instinct or by tutelage, I need it to be clean. That's what you do for guests. And who wants to sleep in a place with dirty floors and dead flies on the windowsills? ( I make our house sound filthy, but really, we get a lot of dead bugs on the window sills because people don't use screens here. The doors and windows are hinged on the outside, and open out, so screens are impossible.) (This also makes it quite comical opening doors, for along time I always pulled the wrong way, even in my own house.)

But I am putting it off and sitting here, typing in kitchen, looking out at the dull, drab sky and wondering what the weather will be like when my parents are here. This is my grandmother's first and maybe last trip-of-a-lifetime, and the weather needs to be good. At least a little good.

Our freezer is full of delicious vanilla buns (a sweetbread pastry made with vanilla, butter and sprinkled with crunchy sugar) and yogurt bread (all thanks to my super-woman mother-in-law!) Martin and I will be sleeping in our little guest-cottage which will be fun. Sleeping in your own garden can offer a new perspective.

We will have a full schedule: a trip to Cracow, Poland, an antiques road-trip, family dinners, a trip to the east coast to see the famous Baltic beaches and the royal summer house, shopping, berry picking, and any other number of things depending on what energy we have left. We also just need to relax and be together, drink tea and catch up on one year apart. It will be impossibly short, and it will crush me to say goodbye. Life is so short. Bittersweet. But I will savour the sweetness for every moment, and try to have a child's mentality and forget the impending goodbye. They will be here for my birthday, after all, so what more can I ask?

heredity

2009-07-05T07:24:00.003+02:00

1 : the sum of the qualities and potentialities genetically derived from one's ancestors

2 : the transmission of traits from ancestor to descendant through the molecular mechanism lying primarily in the DNA or RNA of the genes

It's been steamy hot, high temperatures and high per cent humidity. I dressed to go out to work one morning in the garden. In a short while of pulling weeds and turning earth I was sticky sweaty and irritable with the flies that left the horse barn to come and fly about my face. I returned to the house to dig up the shorts I found in the "throw away pile" (when people throw away good useful clothes because they can't jam them into their suitcases).

Marching out of the house to do weed battle once again, I had an amusing realization. I have turned into my mother.

Not so much physically -- the Busenius side (my father's) is by far dominant in that regard -- though when we are together there would be no doubt we are mother and daughter. For the likeness I am referring to, a "transmission of trait", seems quite nebulous.

I'll explain.

As I was walking towards the flower beds, I laughed aloud as if someone placed a mirror before me. I could see my mother in the garden working: Running shoes (you can't heft a spade properly with sandals), socks, shorts, tank top. Muscular legs, bug-bitten (with a slight allergic reaction to each bite), broad straight shoulders with a slight hunch at the back of the neck (this goes back to my grandmother). Dirty hands (I can't recall her working with gloves) and a deep, almost effortless summer tan. Strong of back, strong of will. She is a workhorse, and there's no insult in saying that because I am, too. She keeps a beautiful garden and neglects the houseplants. (My houseplants are often brown at the edges, although I can't claim the years of hard work she's put into her garden.)

Martin said recently that I had a "farmer tan", a working tan, I guess, that leaves various tank-top lines, belly and upper thighs pale, white, or at least shades lighter than the shoulders, forearms, face and knees. I am ashamed to admit, when I was young, I was a bit embarrassed about my mom's working tan. We lived in the "California of Canada" (I say this oozing sarcasm and irony) where it was body beautiful all summer. I didn't realize as a child that real people didn't have perfect bikini tans, because real people have to work and raise children and do things besides lay in the sand or drive around in a speedboat. I just remember being slightly embarrassed that my mom's tan ended where her gardening shorts did. Now I look back with admiration that she didn't bow to the preening facade of others, and was simply her natural self. This I guess I take after, too. I haven't worn much makeup, or any, really, in years.

Now I guess I start to sound full of that opposite kind of vanity--looking down on the vain. I am describing what went through my mind as I was walking down to resume weeding.

I began to think of other things of heredity or family culture. My brother and I use the word "interesting" as a variable tool of conversation. "Interesting" (you are stupid) "interesting" (that's really interesting) "interesting" (I am actually not listening to you) "interesting" (I am bored)... the list goes on. As a family we have violent tendencies, not cruel but sometimes brutal. We laugh in the same explosive raucousness, doubling over if we really get going. We are strong, able, athletic, with that thick softening that can belie toughness. My brother, sister, and I are throwbacks to our Slavic roots -- born blond, dark-eyed, darker-skinned.

Now this probably quite boring, I realize. But having spent a year apart from blood family these things come up clearer and with more importance -- more draw, maybe the desire for connection. My trip to Bosnia in the spring made me think of these things, too, being surrounded by people that looked like my brothers. I guess it's always easier to see who you are like when you aren't with them.

a good, good end

2009-06-30T06:52:00.005+02:00

It's morning and I debated staying in bed to avoid the inevitable: an empty house. Not that I don't enjoy being alone, but today, the first day my brother wasn't around after a month, seemed so painfully quiet and sad. I did get up, and push aside thoughts with laundry and cleaning, but... I seem to get headaches when I stuff emotions or stress. Quite severe headaches, which I find interesting. A physical rebellion against an unhealthy practice of emotion-stuffing... It seems today even Sweden is mourning his departure -- after over a week of solid 20-30 degree days and sunshine, the clouds cover and the insects come out to feast.

I suppose most siblings love one another, more or less, in that inexplicable relationship of siblinghood. Jordan and I must be on the more side, because even after a month of hanging about one another almost every waking minute, I wasn't ready to say goodbye. (It's possible he was but I didn't ask.) As we've worked together on the deck, relaxed, conversed, cooked and laughed often, I have felt the burden of time, marching continually towards the goodbye at the Nassjö train station. This goodbye -- moreso than the last, when we were heading off to Sweden with the future before us -- felt so... permanent. A spoonful of the medicine I chose to drink, inevitable goodbyes. I thought about culture shock, I thought about homesickness and missing family and friends, I thought about long distances and expensive travel, but I never thought of how it will be to say goodbye again and again, with a finality of not knowing when we will see one another, that life will continue on different parts of the world separately.

But how grateful am I to share life together for a month. To see my familial ties and shared characteristics in a new way. Even to simply physically look like someone! Having him here was some moments like having a host of others here as well. His strong Slavic features so like mine, his stand-up hair like Uncle Tim's, the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles, so like our mother. How he spoke and gave instructions so like our father. And in all of that he is completely his own, which is wonderful and fascinating. How we carry the traits of our parents and grandparents and remain completely individual is really quite remarkable.

I have thought of my mother in the past weeks, how grieved she was to say goodbye the last, in the sterile airport hallway, as we wept before the voyeurism of other travelers queuing for security. I had the youthful naivete of adventure and future to buoy me. She knew something deeper, more significant was taking place than I had yet to understand and am just now realizing...

Things can't simply be undone or redone as we fancy. And we know this, but live subconsciously as it's possible, that if I should need to reverse my decision to move and return to the good of things as they once were, I could. (But not sacrificing the good of things as they are now, or lessons learned, or treasures appreciated.)

In the last weeks I came to a moment of clarity. All the change and uncertainty we experience, not just beginning uncertainty, getting all you thought you dreamt of, but end uncertainty; the hopelessness of the weakness, limitation, and shortness of human life, getting old, getting poor, getting lonely, disappointed or heartbroken. In that, the only consistent goodness, the only unchangingness is God. Always the same in character and in relationship. Not impeded by time or distance. Always the I am. I am past, I am future, I am present. This is hope and solace.

midsummer, mullets and midges

2009-06-24T21:50:00.002+02:00

It's 10 p.m. and the evening has cooled and paled, the sky the gray-blue color it stays all night. Midsummer in Sweden is close to magical -- for me, anyways. Short, never-dark nights. Four a.m. sunrises. A racket of birds, smaller ones shrieking and dive-bombing a crow skulking about their nest. Wild lupine everywhere, purple and pink mostly. Green -- rich, bright, bold or dark -- so much lush growth the air is thick and fragrant with it in the morning.

Not everything is perfect mid-summer. The biting midges are horrible little things, near-invisible as they saw into you and leave red welts. My brother has 60 such welts on one leg. I watched him count them. You can feel them on you but are helpless to fight them off, as they are so small they sneak under clothing and under hair lines. Jordan said: "For such small things they are heavy walkers." I laughed.

We spent the eve of midsummer in traditional fashion. With family, attended the midsummer celebration and dancing around a pole and wreaths of wild flowers and forest greens. Ate delicious "classic midsummer" torte of cake, custard, cream and whole strawberries, an offering of my mother-in-law Lisbeth.

The evening of mid-summer I won't quickly forget. A rain storm passed, Martin, Jordan, two German friends and I arrived at the edge of a lake -- fog at its edges, still and silent until we arrive. We build a good, hot fire, drank hot chocolate and sent off a considerable amount of fireworks. (Jordan had a near miss with a rather large firework, unstable and ill-fired, turned 180 and torpedoed him directly in the leg. He jumped and ran as we shouted in fear; all's well that ends well. His leg is still attached.)

Past midnight we psyched each other up to go for a swim. Admittedly I didn't swim much, the cold was shocking but moreso in the dimness and calmness I could only think of swimming with the 10+ kilo pike we were fishing for the week before. Those double rows of teeth and I thought of them paddling for the ladder on the dock.

After midsummer I gave Martin his first haircut. My first time cutting someone's hair. Our marriage withstood the pressure, thank goodness. I gave him a bit of a mullet, I think. And I like it. Maybe its my red-neck roots showing through.

a knot of cool damp hair

2009-06-18T22:37:00.002+02:00

Overlooking a twilight garden on the eve of Swedish midsummer. Listening to my brother sing and play Ben Harper's waiting on angels, wondering how he got so darn good in just a year. The bun of wet hair, fresh from the shower, soaks the back of my t-shirt and I think of my father saying "my back is cold -- it's damp". I hate a cold back. I mowed the lawn tonight and the smell of fresh-cut grass was too appealing. I threw the bathroom window open and showered with the coolness of evening air, overlooking my handiwork. Grateful and amazed with this place; here I can shower with a wide open window and not a soul about. It's the same feeling as when I am hanging our laundry to dry, bras and panties and boxers, looking over to see my neighbors' skivvies blowing in the breeze and I love this place.

burst forth

2009-06-12T11:37:00.008+02:00

It's becoming humorous -- almost -- how sporadically I post. My conclusion is that although I enjoy writing I have never, ever been diligent with writing in journals. If I ever have written in a journal, when I go back to read the few entries I managed, I am mildly embarrassed.

It's a Friday on a week of rain, rain, rain, following a previous week of rain. In the not-raining moments, my brother and I, (Jordan is here for the month of June) have managed to dig and pour concrete pilings for a deck we are planning to build. We have the wood purchased and a plan in place, so as the rain stops we are ready to rock. It's going to be a beaut of a deck once finished.

Jordan has been here for just about two weeks now, and at times I feel like a kid on summer holidays, kicking back with "nothing to do". The first day he was here was unseasonably hot, and we walked through the forest to a nearby lake to scope fishing spots, then to the river in our village, where we sat on the little dock with our feet in the water. We watched for surfacing trout and my joy was unspeakable... He is sleeping in our "new" little guesthouse -- a one-room cedar-lined cottage in our back garden. We bought it and had it craned from it's former location to our place (quite the drama in our quiet little village), and worked like the Dickens to get it painted and spruced up for habitation. It's simple -- it will have electricity, but no running water -- but it's an extra room and a cute, fun little place to use in the summer. All are welcome, and we will gladly give you our bedroom and move out to the guesthouse if you prefer to sleep nearer the toilet. Although if you are a dude feel free to tinkle out back by the barn. We are country folk now, after all.

With the passing of spring to early summer school ended. It was difficult to say goodbye to friends and good to start a new chapter. The school environment was too closed for me, too cloistered. It's difficult to explain in a short way. It was a good and helpful thing to do my first year in Sweden, and was a safe cushion on which to bounce when struggling with language and loneliness and other things. Looking back I can also see God's intention to drive me to a place where I would see him and myself in a eye-opening way. I also did meet some wonderful people. Many have returned to their homes now. Although few will live close to me, some will only be as far as a short plane ride to Germany, and that gives me comfort.

These days, I am enjoying spending time with my brother, then in July my parents and grandma will visit for two weeks. We will be going for a few days to Kracow, Poland. (My great-grandmother was born in Poland, and my Dad is our in-house WWII expert, so visiting Auschwitz will be gripping.) We are staying in a hostel which I hope will be an interesting, fun adventure. (I don't know how many people cart their visiting grandmothers off to unknown hostels, but hey!)

After my parents leave, which I can't bear to think of, Martin and I are going to go to Prague for a short getaway together. It's one of my "dream" cities meaning there are only a couple of cities in the world I actually desire to go to. Prague being one. St. Petersburg being the other. (And if I was lucky enough to visit some dear friends -- Seoul, Korea. Hyon Joo and Jihae; it's been too long.)

The rain has stopped and the trees are drip-dripping. Possible we can get some work done today. Although it's good be sitting inside with my brother, drinking tea, reading and discussing the six months of National Geographics my mom packed in his suitcase.

And the forest smells unbelievably delicious after rain.

He is good, all the time.

(zdravo) hello

2009-04-07T07:40:00.012+02:00

With my Western mindset, grown in an age of multiculturalism and professed tolerance of all religions and ethnicities, it was a new experience to be in a European community of only one ethnicity and religion.

Gorazde, a small city in eastern Bosnia, is almost completely Bosniak (Bosnian Muslim). A five minute drive up the highway, you pass a Serbian Orthodox graveyard, and you are in "new Gorazde", a Serbian Orthodox community. Sometimes (but not always) you could determine what kind of community you were in by the graveyards -- elaborate, flower-and-candle festooned black marble Orthodox graveyards, and simple, white pointed spires in a Muslim graveyard. It is a tragedy that in some way graveyards are a visible definition of Bosnian cultural boundaries.

There was little I could find to read about Gorazde before visiting the area, but once there I learned that the region and community has a past written in war and hatred, and that it's past irreparably shapes what Gorazde is to this moment. The following explanations are over simple, and probably stupid to someone who really knows Bosnian history, but as it's impossible to explain Bosnia today without explaining Bosnia of 15 years ago, I will do my best.

Before the war of the 1990s, eastern Bosnia was religious and ethnically mixed. Farmers and city dwellers, Serb and Bosniak, lived beside each other in the religious no-man's-land of Communist Yugoslavia. Upon the collapse of that system, and the beginnings of war (I won't even try to explain all the evil politics behind it) Serbian forces began a systematic "cleansing" of eastern Bosnia, forcing Bosniaks out of their homes and either killing them or pushing them towards central Bosnia, where they attempted to reach UN-designated "safe" zones. Gorazde was one of these "safe zones", the only zone that did not fall to Serbian forces during the war.

The result is that Gorazde literally became an island of refuge, filled with Bosniak refugees. Today, in a sense, those lines are still drawn -- Gorazde is almost purely Bosniak and the surrounding area almost purely Serbian. (A strange paradox is that foreign Islamic nations like Saudi Arabia and Iran are putting money into Bosnia and building large new mosques, the spires of which can been seeing shining even in Serbian towns.)

Passing from one town to the other, you don't have to imagine the drawn lines of war. On one side of the line men who were part of the Serbian army are called death-deserving murderers, on the other honoured war heroes. In between is a space of a few kilometres.

Better than my editorializing on this difference is a chilling illustration of two infamous bridges. One bridge is an ancient UNESCO world heritage bridge in the town of Visegrad, about 35 kilometres down river from Gorazde. The other is the concrete and steel walking bridge joining the two sides of Gorazde, which sits in a mountain valley.

One, beautiful and ancient, with a chilling, bloody history. The other, chipped and graffiti-covered, a tragic necessity and refuge.

Gorazde Bridge

The bridge spans the heart of Gorazde, linking two sides of the community over the broad Drina river. On one side many essential services; the only public hospital, schools, grocery stores. On the other, stores and many homes. During the war Serbian forces beseized Gorazde on the surrounding mountain tops. They laid landmines in the hills, set up outposts and gun turrets, made forays into the city, they cut off food supplies and roads in or out, but never fully occupied the city. They did, however, control the city in a way that made the UN safe zone far from safe. From the surrounding hills and outposts, soldiers and snipers would shoot at homes and people, at random and seemingly for sport. You could be shot and killed walking to the grocery store or school, and no age or sex exempted you. People were shot and killed collecting water or trying to eke food from their gardens, walking to school or scurrying from house to house. The results was people who lived buried in their houses, gardening at night, venturing out only as neccessary.

A favoured target area was the bridge over the Drina, where people were completely exposed. So constructed under the steel belly of the bridge was a small cable and wood suspension bridge, tucked up underneath so far that an adult must duck his or her head at each steel girder. On this bridge our host family mother, Amila, and her husband, Fikret, made their way to school and work, huddled over, racing across, fearing the crack of a sniper shot at any moment.

The walking bridge still hangs there today, limp and unused, the wooden slats unsafe to cross. Amila and Fikret tell their 10-year-old son Almin about the war, the bridge, and it's terrors. But I can see that the bridge holds some kind of mystery for Almin, a young boy raised on Grand Theft Auto and military computer games. Thankfully he never experienced the horror of the war just a few short years before he was born.

Visegrad Bridge

About thirty-five kilometres upriver stands another bridge, spanning another valley in the town of Visegrad. This one is stone construction, built long ago by the occupying Ottoman Empire. It is a thing of ancient man-made beauty; it's stone arches spanning the emerald green Drina. It is also the site of the murder of thousands of Bosniaks. Ethnic cleansing took place here on a scale unbelievable. Serbian soldiers and local militia men would come to a Bosniak home and tell them they had 10 minutes to leave or they would be killed. The stories are unimaginable, as one dear elderly grandmother shared with me and our leader Michal over sweet coffee and cake.

Many women and children were sent fleeing through the formidable mountains back towards Gorazde. Hundreds of people were locked up in homes and the houses set on fire. Others shot point-blank on their doorsteps. Thousands of men and boys were separated from their families and murdered. This grandmother told us how men were taken to the centre of the bridge, forced to stand or kneel on the parapet, while the murderer crossed himself in the name of the *father, son, and holy spirit* and slit the persons throat, then throwing them from the bridge.

Above the Visegrad bridge, set back little way up on a hill, sits an Orthodox church, it's black cross on the steeple clearly visible from the bridge, it's windows providing a clear view of the horror and tragedy done here by people in the name of religion and/or ethnicity.

These are the lines drawn. The bridges that represent not union but suffering. Evil, clothed in religion, ruining lives and dividing communities. The war remains fresh, the wounds seeping. The next generation (younger than myself, even) are more objective, searching for better answers, less fundamental in their faith, but still the lines remain.

hvala

2009-04-06T08:32:00.008+02:00

"Hvala" is Bosnian for "thank you". This word I used most frequently in this coffee-drinking, hospitality-based social culture. for some reason when the Bosnian words I did know escaped me, I reverted to Swedish. I received some odd looks when I spoke a bit of Swedish before realizing what I was doing.

There are many questions to answer. And what is the simplest way, I do not know. But as a wise team-mate of mine said, it's best to start at the beginning. So I will post some of the basics about the city of Gorazde, (pictured) and then maybe some more personal stuff later on.

Bosnia is being effected by the economic crisis, much like the rest of the world, but with greater severity. Roughly half of the country is employed, leaving the other half to find other means of income. The majority of those unemployed receive a small amount of pension from the government, whether it be from a past job or reconciliation for losses in the war. However, even the pension system within Bosnia is failing, as the government is fighting corruption and bankruptcy. But the people try as best as they can to live with what they get.

The city of Gorazde faces about 75 per cent unemployment and almost every family we met had at least one member of the family receiving a small pension.

Most, if not all, people blame the hard times they are now facing on the war in the 1990’s. The former Yugoslavia was a prosperous nation for its people -- they lived a good life with job security, "peace", food, nice homes, maybe as most Europeans. Now they live in a world trapped between the high living costs of Europe and the desolation and poverty brought on by war -- the evidence of which is still everywhere you look.

Many of the families we met said it was difficult cope with the enormous atrocities of war and how it was a daily struggle just to hope for something better. Often, hope is placed in their children’s lives, with hope for a better future.

As things are, in Bosnia religion and ethnicity go hand in hand. If you are Croatian, by default, you are Roman Catholic. Serbian: Eastern Orthodox. Bosnian: Muslim. Gorazde is almost completely Bosniak (the term for a Bosnian Muslim).

We worked with one of the only non-governmental organizations left in the city, a place called the Hope Center. They run food distributions, English and adventure camps for kids, education programs and agriculture programs -- pretty much anything they can manage to meet a need. It was through this center that we purchased food to do distributions of food -- flour, sugar, salt, pasta, rice, oil -- to people who were in need.

There is so much more to say. But for now, this is a little picture of where we were... Will post more later.

cold toes, warm other things

2009-01-18T15:10:00.004+01:00

Once again, I have been chastised for writing so little. And I deserve it, for someone who claims to love writing I hardly do enough of it.

When this much time has passed it's hard to extract a clear thought from my brain-scramble. I am starting to like lists more and more, and therefore will begin a random list of thoughts and experiences from the past while.

The Ingrate. Whether it's the change of surrounding, or the breathing space from things that previously saturated my life and thoughts, I feel as though I have the clearest perspective I have had in some time, maybe ever. I am learning things that I wished I already knew. Gratitude. Humility. Self-control. Now if it were possible for me to simply learn something and never again return to ways of old, wouldn't that be wonderful? Not so. It seems I can even learn something and unlearn it in the same thought, having never translated learning to action or obedience.
What Kind of Christian Am I? Swimming my way through a school project and Bibles and books, and realizing more and more I am the sorriest excuse of a Christian there ever was. My reasons for thinking this are many and long for elaborating here, but an illustration could do: Bill Murray, as a neurotic obsessive compulsive in What About Bob?, eventually succeeds in driving his psychiatrist and mentor insane while in "baby step" therapy. I have a billion baby steps ahead of me, and thank God he is a patient, willing, and never-irritable guide. Because I think I would drive myself insane.
Stockholm. Martin and I spent a few days in the Swedish capital, spending our nights in an old hotel of vaulted ceilings and white French doors, the city bustle sneaking in through the old wood. We walked, spent a lot of time talking, some eating, reading, watching, touring, and hardly any shopping. The city seemed filled with more tourists than Swedes -- and in the old town, more rich Russians than anyone. From Holsbybrunn to Stockholm felt like stepping, or falling, on a 50 km/h treadmill from a dead-standstill. It stirred up strange feelings and meaningful conversations, along with sensory overload... The electronic rattle of crosswalks, honking, boom of the bass in nightclubs, the flash of digital billboards, slick, uneven cobblestones, the babble of languages more foreign than Swedish, long nails, fur, and bleach-blond heads, hurrying up to wait, juggling multiple cellphones, mostly manufactured beauty and mostly meaningless contact.
An Ugly Girl? I have been spending some thought on what a healthy Christian worldview means, how I could live a "simpler" life. Also thinking about our collective insecurity in the Western world -- the way we look. I was recently amazed to hear that hair care products is a multi-billion dollar industry. Enough to eliminate the debt of at least a few developing countries. I don't know why I hadn't before considered how much money goes into hair care, but there it was. Interestingly, the average North American woman apparently has at least five unused hair care products sitting around her bathroom. And yet, an overwhelming majority of women are very insecure about their looks. The majority of girls I attend school with this year have admitted their insecurities with their looks. And these would be some of the more solid, mature girls I have met of the 18-25 range. It's so incredibly sad! Here we are, with a faith that a living God created us in his image, with a creed that says "it's the heart that matters," and yet we are insecure! We care about breasts and butts and 'cankles' and grey hair. I am right there in it, and yet it frustrates and befuddles me.
On Loving Your Husband. It's 11 p.m. on a Thursday night, and Martin is bringing cheeseburgers from McDonalds. It's a taste of familiarity I cannot turn down, and I love him for it. For many other things too, and these days, the feelings of love are more present than ever. This is a nice thing, a wonderful thing. It makes me happy. Not only for cheeseburgers, but his sweet face on the pillow, or the gleam in his eye after reffing a good game of innebandy, or that strange weird smile when he is telling me bad news. Definitely enjoying marriage.

jul jul jul

2008-12-15T22:32:00.007+01:00

Officially done the last week of classes and things have slowed way down -- finishing up the last bits of assignments, and the others students are busy cleaning up the dorms in preparation for departure on a three-plus week Christmas break. Me, I can clean my house if I wish. Or not. We have a Christmas banquet and then the school closes until January 12. I am the only student staying in the area for Christmas.

I have no idea what to expect for Christmas. So far everything has been a (most pleasant) surprise. I've experienced my first julbord (traditional Swedish Christmas buffet), my first real month of Advent celebrations, my first Swedish Christmas desserts, and my first Lucia ceremony.

The julbord was an very unique experience. At a mere $60 per person, you dine on cold meats, cheeses, breads, seafood of all varieties (eel, pickled herring, crayfish, and more), potatoes, pork, and of course, meatballs. The only salads were either creamy salads similar to coleslaw, or an olive pasta salad of which I was the only person partaking. We went with Martin's parents and it was an experience I won't forget! (And to those of you who know me well -- no, I did not eat eel or herring or anything that still had eyes in it.)

Advent is observed all across Sweden, by religious and non-religious alike. It is difficult to find a house that does not have Advent "candles" in their windows. (They make a killing selling electric Advent lights.) It's not an exaggeration to say that 95 per cent of the population has one or more adventljusstaken, or julstjärna (Christmas stars) in their house. Our neighbours told us about their friends who bought something like ten adventljusstaken for every window of their new home. This makes every street a beautiful, cheerful reminder of the coming of Christmas, but serves a practical purpose -- warding off the darkness. Dusk comes around 3 p.m. these days, and at times it seems that the sun has barely risen and already it sets. Depression can set in easily, but Martin says I am doing pretty well with the winter, which is encouraging to hear.

But back to Advent and Christmas. All throughout December there have been special performances, Advent singing and at church, fika after every service. (Fika is one of the best Swedish customs of all -- the best translation in English would be "coffee", except it's so much more than that.) Usually fresh bread, butter, cheeses, meats, small sandwiches with tomatoes and cucumbers, and baked goods. Most of the Swedes we know like to bake and I like to enjoy their baking. The most interesting baked good is called, literally translated, Lucia cats, an s-shaped pastry baked with saffron and two raisins. If you haven't had saffron -- it's a rare and extremely expensive spice -- it tastes pretty unique, especially baked in a pastry. People often get small smiles when I have bit into one and ask me what I think of them. Martin's cousin Erik and his girlfriend Malin were the first ones to bring them to our house, and pointed out as I tried them that they have been eating saffron pastries at Christmas since childhood, and although it's normal to them it must be very strange to me. (For the record, they are alright.)

Last weekend was also a weekend of firsts, as I sang for the first time (as an adult) in a Christmas concert and sang part of "Stille Natt" (Silent Night) in Swedish. We sang in a church built in the late 1700's, where the acoustics were absolutely astounding. (There is a point in the church where one can stand and hear, clear as day, a person speaking on the opposite side of the church. I've never experience anything like it.) Concert night saw about 400 - 500 people in the church, and I am SO glad I didn't goof my Swedish!

We also visited a julmarknad (Christmas market) in a nearby town and it was one of the loveliest experiences I've had. Martin bought freshly roasted almonds, (so hot and chewy and delicious I could have died) and we walked around looking shops and stalls in the old town, which was built up in the 1500's.

And last, but most certainly not least, my first Lucia ceremony. This is a ceremony based on the life and martyrdom of a Christian saint named Lucia, who was tortured and killed for the vow of chastity she had made to God. (That's the short version of the story.) The ceremony now falls in December, where a young woman dons a crown of lit candles, accompanied by other children dressed in white, and carries food -- now candy -- and a blessing to people. If you have a hard time imagining what this would look like, check out this video. WARNING: It's a terribly shot video and don't watch past the first 30 seconds. I picked this video because it's the closest to the Lucia I experienced.

So, this Lucia ceremony was extra special, as staff from the school arranged with Martin to come by our house around 6 a.m. Martin didn't share this with me. The clock said about 5:45 a.m. when I awoke to footsteps in our house and singing as one, two, three, four, no, seven people filed into our bedroom singing Santa Lucia and carrying candles. They blessed us, gave us our candy, and filed out again singing, and it was one of the most surreal experiences I have ever had! The crowd included three male staff (two guys in their 20's) and one of the founders of the school who is in his late 60's. Along with his wife, and three other staff women. Now comes the exciting part. Not having been aware of all that was to come, I neglected to put on pajamas the night before! I have never felt so strange, huddled under the covers for fear something might fall out and I would be completely mortified. The two staff guys came over to bless me with their little star wands and I am sure I visibly shrunk under the covers! Check out the photo. You can barely see me and I didn't dare touch the bag of candy they put on me.

There's a little rundown of a bit of Swedish Christmas, and I am interested to see what Swedish Christmas food will be like, and how Martin's family celebrates together. God Jul and Merry Christmas!

snow

2008-12-10T23:40:00.003+01:00

It is an absolute winter wonderland, with an inch of snow lying beautifully on every branch, bush, and twig. Beyond the scrape of my feet on the road it is so utterly still I just listen to my breathing. The sky is a black dome with curving stars and I feel stunned.

All I can think of is me and my relationship to the Creator, because I could not stand in this and think there is anyone or anything but the Creator involved.

wind in these sails

2008-11-25T21:21:00.008+01:00

Yes, yes, blogs are for blogging. Blogs are not necessarily an outlet for all things emotional. Every time I sat down to write, it became such emotional mumbo jumbo I eventually just gave up.

It's been quite a journey for me these past months. It's been a little over five months that we've been here in Sweden, and definitely full of what I have lovingly coined "humps and dumps". Most surprising has been the spiritual wringer-washer experience I have had, which was something I didn't foresee. It's been really, really hard at times, but it's really good too, in that strange inexplicable way these kind of things are.

I am enjoying school these days, having found some like-minded European girls that shower so much love on me daily. It's a daily experience for me to be kissed (quite soundly) by my Russian friend. I had no idea that I would be so grateful for this kind of feminine craziness.

Martin and I took advantage of a few days off recently to take a weekend on the west coast of Sweden. It was a great weekend for both of us -- Christmas shopping, sightseeing, a gorgeous old hotel room, and time alone. One evening we took a walk in the dark along the coast to a historical fortress built on a cliff on the coastline. The fortress was open for us to walk inside, and up on it's walls. It definitely tops my list of things we've done together in Sweden, and as soon as we returned to our beautiful little hotel room, I wrote about it:

An evening walk through quiet, near-deserted cobblestone streets, the moon a white-gray haze behind the night's clouds. Everything is lit in a dim, pale light. The steady, low roar of the waves pounding at the sea-wall. Two fishermen work for herring with five and more fishing poles, illuminated by two lamps that oversee their efforts with yellow light. One reels in two of the tiny fish and slaps them on the stones at his feet. They flap for seconds.

The cold ocean wind rips through our clothes but it's thrilling to be standing on this tiny limb of land, straight out into the dark ocean, where everything is a shade of black or blue, and the Varberg fortress hulking over us, mysterious and ancient in the night. All it's gates are open and the lanterns lit. The mood of the place is wild, lonely, mysterious, chilling. The air is cold, salty, the wind strong. It's just Martin and I in this ancient lump of rock and arched doorways and cobbled paths, and we climb the steep, uneven narrow staircase of the fortress wall to overlook the city of Varberg, the church steeple outlined in the pinkish hue of lights, and when you turn your back to the modern world I feel like maybe the ancients felt in this fortress, standing at the edge of the known world, nostrils thick with seasalt, winding tearing at your clothes, staring out into the overpowering and awing waters.

start stop

2008-10-23T22:57:00.002+02:00

Have started several posts and never completed the train of thought, therefore I shall try anew.

Been back in school for over a month now and I am finding a bit of a groove, I guess. More or less feeling a bit more normal with it. The first few weeks were definitely not great. Or even good. I really never thought I would feel so at-sea, so uncomfortable and stupid. Not like an adult, like a child. I never thought it would be a time of muddled frustration and despair and spiritual confusion. But here we are on the far side of a month and it's getting easier. I am definitely still having my moments where my senses are overloading with the general cacophony that is Bible school, but it's becoming more "normal".

Good thing?

Classes are getting more interesting. Definitely an interesting, challenging, and inspiring week looking at texts that have been taken out of context in many different ways and I felt a bit stunned with the realization of how many things I have (and very well still could be) taken for granted were "truths" when in fact they were Biblical concepts taken out of context. More and more I see the danger of generations of church goers like myself who don't know the Bible (really) and don't even know how to read it (really).

I have been assigned to work on the school's photo site, and regularly post photos of school life on the site. If you want to check it out, here: www.holsby.com.

I am taking Swedish For Immigrants (I love saying that) once a week for two hours, and although I quite enjoy the class, my language ability is coming so S-L-O-W. I feel so stupid about it. But I like my teacher and the other students (all from the Czech Republic) are very good-humored.

And Christmas things have begun to appear here... I can't believe it's already nearing the time to think about Christmas. It seems as though it could still be March and we're still just "thinking" about moving to Sweden. And here we are. Wearing slippers to ward off the chilly damp and figuring out metric and missing my mommy.

fingers, be quiet

2008-10-07T22:35:00.002+02:00

Night comes with a vengeance these days, and with the shortened days the piles of leaves under the trees grow fat. I haven't experienced such a slow, drawn out autumn in years, with the trees turning in stages, first the poplars and the ash, then the birch and maple, and finally the oak, walnut and acorn. I can't stop stopping to enjoy the gorgeousness of the maple, with it's top and edges brilliant red and then gold throughout. I have been slipping out for 'me time' with my camera and trying with all my heart to capture the beauty of fall.

I am repeatedly reminded of previous experiences here: here I am walking to school again, just as the sun is cutting over the treetops and the grass is stiff, sparkling, and gray with frost. The smell of wet leaves taking me back to my childhood in British Columbia. Feeling like I am reliving church youth group -- oh dear. A hallway of the school kitchen that smells like Liberia, weirdly enough.

School is more work than I anticipated -- I have memorization, book reports, short papers, and quite a bit of reading all due in the next two weeks. The memorization is the most daunting, as I don't feel I have exercised that part of my brain at all. Admittedly, I am a bit uninspired, as so far I haven't been able to sink my teeth into something I really loved... A lot of things that I didn't really expect as part of Bible school -- "social style" profiles and such. (Yes, yes I know some of you are laughing.) I just want to study the Bible, and I am not even interested in theories outside of what the Bible directly teaches. (For those that care, an example: the theory of "general revelation" and "specific revelation". It's interesting to think about, but ultimately the Bible does not say what a general or specific revelation is, therefore do I need to know it?) And, the jargon! I really, really, do not want to use jargon. Please, if I come out of this sounding like a pompous arse, will someone tell me?

But it's all a part of the package, and I certainly have enough to think on and work through, even in terms of just the move to Sweden. It will take a long time to adjust, and I have moments where I think will go completely insane. Martin usually hugs me during these moments, and after I have cried on the front of his t-shirt he tells me he loves me. It helps, but to be known is such a lovely thing -- it is to take for granted the gift of being known, until you are unknown.

välkomna till

2008-09-15T19:15:00.005+02:00

you come when it is nearly dark

(I wonder if you are lost)

crunching, crushing up the path

with something in your hands

you scrape and knock and welcome me

singing the way they sing here

speaking in any language

(and I wonder how stupid I sound)

you welcome me and invite me

and I stutter, carefully, feebly

wishing wishing wishing very hard

for some eloquence

you leave the thing in my cold fingertips

with the edges of my mouth in a smile

having spoken stuttered sung

over roses in a white box

every day: every hour

2008-09-12T18:25:00.005+02:00

I am listening to Radiohead and reveling in the fact that we finally have an Internet connection. I can sit at our desk and blissfully type while overlooking the neighbors garden. It feels darn near luxurious.

Martin and I went for a walk yesterday afternoon (down the road, right into the forest, up the steady incline) and came back with muddy shoes, wet feet, and high spirits. The forest was enchanting, part deep and dark, sheltered with old trees and cushioned with moss. Here the bright red-and-white poisonous mushrooms grew large and garish like neon signs, forbidding and completely drawing. If you continue on, over the rotted and slippery foresters "footbridge" and find another slow incline, the forest turns to tall red pines, bare of branches for some 30 feet. Here the blueberries and ferns can grow underfoot. A little further and we come across a living sea of ivy, spread out under the branches of oak and maple, covering every inch of ground in glossy, shining green. Once you step back out onto the road you feel as if you have, quite literally, stepped out into another world. Someone said to me that this area of the world was their "Narnia", and now I can completely understand, only it's not through a wardrobe I step, but through the front door.

We have had many little projects going around the house but I am most grateful to have a snug, black roof over our heads and soon, after we get the weather stripping on, snug winter-ready windows. I am working on "finishing" the baseboards in the living room and kitchen, and Martin and Janne finished some electrical jobs today. We've a stack of firewood (although I think we may need more, judging by our neighbors gargantuan stack of firewood) and the damp chill in the air signifies summer is over and now autumn, then winter. School starts in less than a week, am I ready?

When I have no idea what I am in for, it's hard to say. I guess I will buy some notebooks and sharpen my pencils, so to speak, and be as ready as I will ever be. I am the only married student, the only student living "off campus", and surely one of the oldest students as well, and I wonder whether I can melt in or not.

My fingers are cold and I wonder about turning on the heating element behind the desk, but as many things go here, I don't know how hot it gets and is it safe or a good idea near the printer and electrical cords? etc. etc. I find at times I am really quite useless. I can't read a cellphone instructions or driving directions, faltering in the most basic of Swedish, can't yet really even grocery shop or buy stamps on my own. Maybe it's not that I can't, but that I am afraid to. Pride is the most fearful thing, really, as I feel this emotional barrier against putting myself out to (I think) failure, ridicule, or appearing stupid. I sometimes find the thing I could attempt (a simple sentence or expression) and instead opt to speak in English as, for whatever reason (pride, shame, embarrassment, insecurity, frustration), I can't seem to spit the words out. With time I hope this changes... My Swedish for immigrants class begins next week, and I know I am getting thrown in with people at all levels of Swedish (my level is that of a child of perhaps three).

I am daily in awe of the fact that we've "done it", done the thing we talked about as an "if" and "maybe when", made this move and here we are, living in this beautiful, green, calming place, with toads living under our back step and a washing machine in our bathroom, with rather large spiders and a large old piano, creaking floorboards, white white walls, and mercilessly quick sunsets. Out from under the pressure of work and emotional strain and partially overlapping schedules, away from the blast of sirens and street church, and the brooding boredom of a lonely apartment, I feel inspired to write. It's been sometime since I felt that inspiration, that love. It got flattened out between my plasticky pre-fab desk, jargon, writing on things I neither knew, experienced, touched, tasted, nor smelled. It was flattened as thin and pale as me: strained, sharpened, tired. I can feel it's fulsomeness returning, fattening on what? good bread, rich cheese, delicious clean air and water without chlorine? or calm, long sleeps, a complete dismissing of stress? Whatever it grows on, I want inspiriation to be fat and positively bursting.

ages

2008-08-23T17:36:00.002+02:00

It has been some time since I have thought of writing. I have been occupied with other things: painting, gardening, watching the Olympics (which I have really never done before), shopping, reading, lying in the hammock in our backyard and staring up through the trees to blue sky and sun. It seems in one fell swoop my world has become large and free and unhindered, yet terribly small and sometimes a bit lonely. It's all very normal, I am assured, this up-down crash of longing for home and familiarity, but then I am perfectly content, and that assurance makes me grateful.

I took a few minutes respite in our hammock yesterday, and was startled alert by a sharp, strong knocking that I could feel right through the hammock. I was confused until I looked up and there was a woodpecker, hammering the tree about the hammock. He ( I am almost certain it was a he) had a red cap and red lower chest, and black and white all over. I watched for nearly 10 minutes as he hopped from tree to tree pecking and testing for I do not know what. Just a few minutes watching him and the melancholy I was feeling passed.

The country life is quite delightful, I must say. A little ways up our road and the houses end, and the thick forest cuts to farm fields that must be quite ancient, lined with moss-covered stone fences and dotted with red and white farm buildings. The road officially ends in a clusters of rural homes, but our neighbour assured us that there is a little-travelled road that continues on. I am itching to explore. We definitely need to purchase another bike, as we have an older one for Martin but I need one in order that we can do further exploration on wheels.

blogs are for blogging

2008-08-13T21:44:00.002+02:00

So we do not (and won't for a while) have Internet or phone, because of due process and usual beaurocracy. But it makes life simple and kind of nice in way, living in the countryside feeling a little bit disconnected. We are driving to my parents-in-law (thank-you Janne and Lisbeth!) and using their phone and Internet and indulging in divine baked goods. We are eating way too much brea but I can't stop because it's so good. And cheese! Oh, ost! It's also divine, and much less expensive here. We bought a massive hunk of my favourite German cheese here and it' so tempting in the fridge, all yellow and filled with delicious milkfat.

The sun has treated us this morning, shining on our breakfast table, and the bees are still absolutely loving the lavender growing by our front step. The nights are dark and quiet, and the other night driving home in the rain we came across a red fox, oblivous to the car crossing it's path until Martin stopped and flashed the high beams. The jolted upright, for seconds transfixed in the beam of light, his body and face completely poised. Then, gone. It had a mystical quality to it...a fox in the rain and fog.

We have salamanders and frogs and one big fat toad in our own backyard, which is lovely as I was informed that frogs and toads live in areas were the ecosystems at a natural rythmn. That's nice to think of, my backyard is nature in balance. This week we stacked firewood for our fireplace, and I felt so removed from living in a city of a million people. I haven't stacked firewood since childhood (and I doubt I really helped much then). I remember that my dad was magnificent with a chainsaw, and I wonder how I will be with an axe, not having used one much in the past decade. I would be quite scary with a chainsaw, I don't think Martin would ever let me have one. I might saw something down just for the heck of it.

So, I have blogged, but cannot say when I will blog again. Please come soon, dead Internet provider, because I only like to be disconnected in the woods for so long.

light my fire

2008-07-27T19:53:00.003+02:00

Spent the afternoon at a beautiful lake along with sun-worshipping Swedes, and it was quite enjoyable. It was an excellent way to relax after working in our yard mowing, pulling weeds, and raking in the hot summer weather. There were numerous amusing and interesting things I wanted to write about over the course of the last few days, but didn't find the right moment. Here are some:

Amusing: A young guy driving a huge enclosed tractor through downtown Vetlanda on a busy Saturday afternoon, with his girlfriend riding shotgun in his lap. There is a reason why I call Martin the Swedish redneck.

Amusing: At least six young guys in their twenties packed into a new, jacked up Dodge truck, with their shirts off and Euro techno blaring.

Amusing: Clothing stores advertising end of summer sales with the sign, "Slutspurten".

Interesting: People at the lakes here do not seem so concerned about body image. There are people of all ages, sizes, and shapes in bikinis, seeming pretty confident and relaxed. Not like Kelowna or Penticton, thank goodness. I quite enjoyed myself at the lake, when normally I am very uncomfortable in a bikini. I guess a new bikini also helps.

Amusing: "You're breasts are not soggy." Gee, thanks!

tack

2008-07-24T10:27:00.002+02:00

It's a Thursday morning and not quite the usual Thursday for me. The mid-morning sun feels unusually hot and I feel like a kid out for summer break, with nothing pressing upon me, no demands or exacting schedule, just the sounds of the bees sipping from the flowers outside the window, and in the distance, a chainsaw working in the forest. My senses feel wide awake with the wonder of sounds and smells I am accustomed to being overpowered and drug under by machinesand people. The richness of cedar and pine forest, insects, birds, or the chuckle of a hedgehog rummaging about. We saw a fat little hedgehog in the evening, trundling to the neighbour's yard. I was surprised at how big he was. Easily a foot long.

This morning's breakfast was barely finished when the airline called to tell us our bags would finally arrive this morning. To say we are grateful is an understatement. Although we mostly remained calm throughout, the edges of panic were starting to creep in at the thought of our luggage being rummaged or lost. Where it could have been for nearly five days we do not know.

The jet-lag is starting to edge off, and I am feeling calm and happy. We arrived in time for the strawberries and raspberries, and blueberries are yet to ripen, and this afternoon we are going berry picking. The yard of our home is even more delightful than I imagined, with strawberries, raspberries, currants, apples, and sour cherries. Every Tuesday there is a market in the square of the nearby city of Vetlanda, and I have heard promise of fresh plums to be bought. I feel slightly intoxicated by the beauty of this place, and the opportunity to live here. Standing outside our house last night with the evening sun piercing through the trees, I wondered if people realized what an idyllic place this is.

There is work to be done, of course, the roof to be replaced, and we have yet to begin painting some of the rooms in need of help. Thankfully the task isn't overhwhelming, just a bit of cosmetics and we'll have it looking quite nice.

Now we are just waiting for our bags to arrive, and with them, my paintbrushes. And underwear.

the dam

2008-07-19T00:21:00.003+02:00

The tears have begun and whatever psychological dam I was using to hold them back before now seems to have crumbled. I feel as thought I am partly in an alternate reality where this isn't really happening, and partly feeling the realization of leaving so heavy I can't comprehend it. The thought of not seeing my mom and dad's dear faces and sipping tea around our worn kitchen table, not laughing fits with my brother, or hugging my sister almost chokes me. I have to push those thoughts away because they feel like they could collapse me.

My prayer today is that I can keep it together for my family. I don't want to completely lose it. I have managed to hold myself in check through the process, packing our massive bags ( we bought extra luggage and have about 100 lbs each), running through the checklist, and really, just closing up shop here. The tears come at night, when the wears of the day have set in and I realize I have three, two, one, days left here with my family.

NOw the time has come and we are mostly packed and the sun is shining. I can still drink tea with my parents on the deck and while I am doing it I won't think about leaving, but just enjoying.

nerves

2008-07-10T15:16:00.003+02:00

Woke up before dawn today with my mind whirring with thought after thought. This is what emotional strain and coffee does to me. I finally got up around 6:30 and my parents house is so quiet I can hear the tick-tick of the clock.

I am trying to keep track of all the little things we have to do before we leave next weekend. Banking, money transfers, goodbyes, birthday gifts, and most importantly, spending time with people. Strangely thought, I don't feel stressed, which is a huge blessing. For the most part I am just enjoying each day.

Martin and I were also very blessed this week to get together with the most wonderful family. They are an Ethiopian couple that we got to know through Martin's work, and their five children. When the evening ended, they gathered together and prayed for us and shared their hearts with us, and it was the most incredible experience. I could not stop the tears from pouring as they were so vulnerable with us. It was hard in a way as well, because Martin and I have yearned for relationships with people in Calgary, where we can be ourselves and share our hearts, and here these amazing people were doing just that. I have never felt such a spiritual connection, and it both lifted our hearts and broke us, because it was encouraging and heart-rending.

The weekend coming holds many goodbyes for us, and I hope I can make it through without completely breaking down! I am looking forward to my birthday party and several farewell parties, and they should be mostly fun, with a little sad. At least that's what I am counting on.

got a haircut, but no job

2008-07-03T08:12:00.002+02:00

It's past midnight on Wednesday and I am enjoying one of the (luxuries?) of an unemployed person -- staying up late doing random activities like laundry and watching the absolute stupidity that is the TV show CSI: Miami. I mean, do people really make a living from writing this kind of stuff for TV? I could have a real career ahead of me if I wanted to pander to undereducated simpletons. Anyways, makes me laugh because whenever it comes up that Martin and I don't have television, people regularly ask, "how do you live?!" And that kills me because somehow watching cheap, gossipy, hole-in-the-head TV has somehow come to be classified as "living." I am entirely grateful for the pop culture I haven't subjected myself to by watching the boob tube.

Okay, but enough of the rant. This is my first week officially unemployed, and I am quite happy. We have finally! moved out of our apartment after a very long and tiresome move. I decided I really don't like moving. It's not fun at all. We gave away what seemed like a ton of stuff and we still have a ton left over. We sell our car this week and then that's the last of the major stuff to rid ourselves of.

I am still living in this surreal time-suspended state. It doesn't feel like I am moving away in less than three weeks. I am neither fully excited, sad, or frightened. I am somewhere in between, and I am happy that I can live in the moment and just enjoy each day as it goes. I hate to see the sad look on my mom's face if things come up like deciding who is going to drive us to the airport. She is absolutely heroic in holding back the tears. It's going to rip up my insides to say goodbye, and I can feel that clench in my gut when I think about leaving, but I just want to be happy about the time we have together.

I have had a growing respect for so many people that I have loved and respected all along, but as I go through these emotions and experiences, I admire them all the more. Hyonjoo, Jihae, Drew, Martin -- people that made these huge decisions and faced the unknown and said these difficult goodbyes many times and still will themselves to do it once more. To face a culture"alone", I absolutely respect that. I don't think I could do it.

This weekend we are heading to Waterton with my parents, and we're going horseback riding and other excellent activities which I am excited about. And my birthday is coming up soon so I think there is going to be a steady stream of partying going on in the next while. Yay! The fun part of goodbyes comes first.

sojourner

2008-06-16T21:07:00.004+02:00

Someone recently suggested to me that I blog about the fallout of the decisions that Martin and I are currently making -- or is God making them? -- to move to Sweden. I felt a twinge of shame, knowing that I am the laziest blogger out there and my adoring masses have been dying for even the teeniest update from me. (I hope my sarcasm translated.) Martin put it well when he asked me, "Danielle, what is a blog for?" I responded with one of my infamous dirty looks. (At least, I have discovered that they are quite infamous, my dirty looks.)

At any rate, I was challenged to once again take up the keyboard, amidst the organized chaos that is our lives. I feel like every part of my life is in transit. Our apartment is mostly bare with stacks of boxes, and it seems like most days we are packing or sorting or organizing. I only have seven working days left, and have "passed off" most of my projects -- setting my babies free to be pillaged and dessicated by someone else.

I am hopeful, eager, and scared. My deep-down fear is the thing that I can only imagine and have yet to experience -- leaving my familiar and sinking into a life where I have no background, no language, no experience, no capabilities. I have only an inkling of understanding of what Martin went through when he moved here and wasn't able to find the grocery store. I only hope that I will be able to handle this great challenge with the grace and patience that Martin did here in Canada. Soon my understanding of his experience will be quite complete, which I do look forward to. That mutual understanding is something I want out of this experience, that we can know and read each other on a level deeper than before.

Starting a "new" life -- I haven't done this before. Just 100 lbs of luggage each, and that's what we start with. We are indebted to Martin's family -- finding and giving us furniture, working on our little house preparing for our arrival, and doing a million other things. I spend a lot of time imagining our house and trying to picture what we can do in it -- colors to paint, that sort of thing. I get an inordinate amount of gratification from decorating and painting.

I will be try to be more diligent in blogging about this new journey. We leave Calgary on July 19, just eight days after my 26th birthday. I start school on Sept. 19, and that promises to be a whole other adventure.

To Sweden, then.

energy

2008-03-21T15:43:00.002+01:00

I am inspired this morning for some unknown reason; I woke before the sun had risen and tossed restlessly until getting up. There is energy in my body and my brain is speeding ahead of everything else. I find myself in this state often these days, like my adrenaline is running and I need to find an outlet for it. Today I am casting a glance around our living room thinking about what I can organize or accomplish this morning. It's a beautiful morning, the sun is already blazing and it's the Easter long weekend. The skyscrapers downtown are glowing brightly as they do in the sunrise, and I have already seen one of those irritating yuppy joggers flash by.

Not sure what my racing thoughts are pushing me to do today: organizing something isn't that exciting. I have the urge to work. Not paper-pusher work I normally do, but to break a sweat and accomplish something tangible. (Is this a product of doing a job where so much is intangible? Probably. Humans like to see the results of accomplishment: a ploughed field, a garden growing, a painting painted. I would love to get outside this morning, begin preparing the flower beds for spring, get my hands dirty. It's a wonderful thought to dwell on that soon we will have a place of our own to work and affect with our style and creativity. I love working outside, even mowing the lawn. I have missed that since our landlord decided he didn't want to pay us properly to take care of the building, and we've become complete urbanites while our apartment building has fallen into shambles. Garbage is strewn about, snow isn't shoveled, the yard in disrepair. It's a shame, but a ray of hope for us is the knowledge that soon we won't have to tolerate it!

Guess I should get off my duffer and do something instead of write about it.

blugger

2008-02-08T04:45:00.000+01:00

Desperation is no good. All things wither and fade, or something along those lines. Trying to keep hold of my Mexico tan reminds of how futile it is to hold onto beauty or young age. Normally I don't care too much about skin and creams and such, but I have been slathering on the lotion several times a day in desperate attempt to keep my whole body from peeling off like the Eustace dragon skin in Voyage of the Dawn Treader. And desperation is really quite useless. I feel very lizard-esque.

Seems like I am in a really good spot mentally lately, as if my vacation did wonders. Who knows? All I know is I am coping better with "life". You know -- work hassles, silly people, stress, boredom -- the little stuff isn't getting to me so much. I hardly think about work (or it's drama) once I am hope, I feel cheerier and I have been finding the inspiration to write. I feel as though my creativity is returning, and that's a lovely feeling.

And maybe because we have some secret plans brewing (those who know the secret plans know they are not really secret but just not "public"). They get me nervous and freaked out and energized. They are still just "plans". But suddenly, voila! you have more than a plan.

Now I am just getting plain silly. Anyways... I am trying to occupy myself more. Books, a writing class at the University of Calgary, trying to find a Swedish class that would teach pre-school Swedish to adults. (Not having much luck there -- I have increasing respect for all of the amazing people I know who've learned to speak English.)

PS. As promised, some of my photos of humpback whales in Banderas Bay.

hola

2008-01-31T00:54:00.000+01:00

Allow me to complain about how COLD it is. Calgary has schizophrenic weather even at the best of times, but it's been a bit nuts this week. Martin and I left 30 degree temperatures to return to a steadily dropping needle in Calgary. It has now been -30 for a few days now, and with wind chill (for those who don't live here that's the cold north wind) it was nearly -50! Exclamation!

We managed to undergo a 60 degree temperature change in less that 48 hours. I don't know what it's done to our bodies, but it can't be that healthy. I am slathering on moisterizing lotion to keep my beautiful but fleeting Mexican tan, and fighting off the depression by eating key limes and looking at my photos.

We had no idea how badly we needed a vacation, and Mexico was very good to us. We slept and slept, walked the beach, had some amazing experiences with humpback whales (with photos to prove it), did an awesome rainforest canopy tour with zip lines over 400 feet high and 1,000 feet long. I held and fed a monkey for the first time. We went sea kyaking along a beautiful, remote beach, rode the bus 5 hours to Guadalajara and enjoyed Mexico's second largest city. We didn't shop very much or spend too much time with the elderly Speedo clad tourists, and it was a fantastic holiday.

We both had no idea how much mental freedom we would get from it.

Haven't finished working on my photos from the trip, but watch for some shots of the whales when I do. Amazing experience. And Janne, we have some iguana and snake pictures for you.

snow woman

2007-11-29T02:18:00.001+01:00

It's just about December and already it feels like Christmas is right around the corner. The snow has fallen thickly on this corner of the Prairies, and it's sticking to around -15 C for the last few days.

The driving has been terrible and last week I was inducted into the club of Stupid People Who Cause Accidents. Yes, my very first "real" car accident, insurance claims, tow trucks, and the embaressment of acknowledging to everyone who asks (and everyone does) that I slid down a hill and hit a parked car two blocks from my home. There were many things that I was grateful for (except the fact I was wearing CareBear pajama pants and cowboy boots) and no one was injured. So it's mostly fine, except it'll cost us. The poor little Civic took a big hit. And yes, I know they say "it's not your fault, otherwise they wouldn't call it an accident". But one can't help but feel a wee bit stupid for hitting a parked car. I am driving very cautiously in my sporty red rental car.

But, hey, it makes life a little spicier. Martin ran like the wind (literally) home from work when he heard, and it's a great feeling to know someone has your back and will care for you in a crunch. (No pun intended.)

Looking out my window with a frosty red rental and snowbanked sidewalks, I could handle no winter right now. We've been discussing getting away from winter, and this week we finally made up our minds: In January there will be another white Canadian and one white Swede taking up some real estate on the beach in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. I have never had the desire to go to Mexico, but we wanted to go somewhere and didn't want to spend too much, so Mexico it is. I am stoked about it - finally, a "honeymoon" with Mr. Sweden, our first time travelling together instead of off on our own adventures, and a warm, sub-tropical destination. Oh, yes.

blogs aren't cool anymore

2007-11-15T04:52:00.000+01:00

Someone informed me today that blogging is out. As in, no longer cool. Oh, and that we were all so busy and had so little time that everybody was just Facebooking now. Blogs are on their way out. So I'm concerned. What about my millions of readers out there? Will they stop caring about me because blogging is now so clearly old school?

Okay, so I think only like five people read this blog, and it was never cool to begin with, so there isn't much to wail about. Also, it's only for my own gratification really, so I won't stop writing however uncool it becomes. However, the recent uncoolness of blogs gets me to thinking, which inevitably gets me to writing. . .

The above photos are of a real moment, a sublime moment, sitting on horseback on a wind-whipping hill, Rocky Mountains to the west, blue-brown prairie stretching east as far as the eye can see. They are captures of a good, real day. A day of easy conversations with strangers, good-natured farm dogs, a cowboy, strong prairie sunshine, and red cheeks. A bit of anxiety at trying something new, fear when my horse spooked, belly laughter, fresh air, and the feel of freedom with nature.

And then we come back from the weekend and get back to real life: you know, work, sleep, eat, repeat. And in between we find a little email and Facebook for connection. Maybe a call or a text on our mobiles. Gets me to wondering: are we slowly dipping into an existence where the real world is overcome by the virtual world? What if all the real moments of meaningful conversation and interesting conversations with strangers are supplanted by our virtual lives?

I'm definitely not saying Facebook, mySpace etc. are not real, but a manufactured extension of our daily lives. And what if we continue down this path? How many years ago did we not even have telephones, and already people have decided they are "too busy" to use one? (I won't even begin to mourn letters and the last time I sent one.)

I am not innocent of this. And I think Facebook is a good tool if people can control themselves on it, but it makes me sorry to hear that in such a short time a thing like blogging, which although accused of giving every hack and would-be writer a venue, at least clung still to the written word. And what when Facebook is out? What will be our next reduced, skeletal venue of communication?

It would be cool to learn Morse code.

don't hate sweden

2007-11-03T01:05:00.000+01:00

It's early Friday evening, and the weekend is not starting well. I had a run-in with a dentist, and not only lost but had to pay for the pain, irritation and discomfort she caused me. Dentists are pretty much a .5 step up from con artists. I avoid them if at all possible. Now I have been told my great-grandfather died from septic shock from a toothache. I wouldn't let it go quite that far.

Another profession I sometimes wonder about is family doctors. My poor neighbour had a case of foot fungus (he's an elderly man) and it turned into an very bad infection and the hospital is worried it ate away at the bone of his foot. His family doctor couldn't quite figure out what it was and kept prescribing useless meds. Now the poor old guy has to take meds so strong it clearly states in the info that it can also be used to treated things spread during biowarfare, such as anthrax and the plague. Biowarfare? Huh.

So now I head down to the SEED to help serve supper and my face is all frozen and weird. But I am kinda hopped up on Halloween chocolate bars so it really doesn't matter, I feel okay. It was a good week for a few reasons, one being someone in the US successfully sued the cult leader Phelps and his insane group of brainwashed followers. For a while the man was entertaining in his weirdness but I was so tired of reading of his "Christian" and "church" labelled hate. Plus, he said that God hates Sweden. Now that's just not nice.

isis

2007-10-13T00:54:00.000+02:00

How can one help but wonder which of your dreams holds deeper significance, which reveal your true mind, or which are just pure crap. Really.

Last night I dreamt of Liberia. Only it was a more secure, comfortable Liberia, with a deep blue roiling ocean and thick sandy beaches that dropped - before the water - impossibly like cliffs. I was a tourist. My dad was there. I was leading my fellow travellers (more than just Dad) across the bridge from Monrovia, (not the real bridge or even the real Monrovia) we checked into a hotel, and went to the ocean. I talked self-importantly about "the last time I had been in West Africa", and then dove in. As the bright blue waves tossed me, I realized for the first time I was wearing a life jacket. And I was so ashamed to be the only loser wearing a life jacket, I discard it, even though I feared those steep, thick sandy cliff-beaches, and doubted I could ever make it onto the beach again.

Does this hold any significance? Does it reveal my deepest, darkest nature? Or could it just be that I have been dreaming of beaches as we consider a Central American holiday, and Liberia happened to feature the most beautiful beach I have experienced?

I wonder. Really. I spent hours in a dreamscape West African nation. But I digress. The above is really only rhetorical self-amusement.

I have learned more Swedish words. And effectively rewritten parts of the Oompa Loompa song from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. No, I am not still writing about whacked out dreams. I discovered that the words "sock" and "butt" rhyme in Swedish, AND, how handy, they rhyme with "oompa" and "loompa". I love it, because a silly (favourite) song of mine now has whole new meanings which just a few words incorporated. Of course, it makes just as little sense as it ever did. Still, I began to sing it repeatedly around my niece and nephews, and after they watched the original, English version of the movie two times, boy, were we ever singing the Oompa Loompa song. I loved it. I think they may have, as well.

It made me sad to see our family off to Sweden - especially our niece and nephews because it seems like so much will change in a short time. But it was definitely a fantastic experience to have our family -- my "new" family -- here, to hang out and get to know each other. And there were hardly any fights. Except over the monkey in my car. That monkey (I just called it "dirty monkey" until Evelyn named him a Swedish name I can never remember) caused a fight every time he was in the backseat. Eventually they agreed to hang him from the seatbelt and that seemed agreeable to all parties. Including me and Martin, who was running interference.

Now I just have a silly swinging monkey on the commute to work and it's not nearly as charming as three fun, blonde bundles of energy. Hm. Speaking of energy, I am going to go bust out some whitegirl livingroom hiphop. That should be fun.

therapy

2007-09-26T04:00:00.000+02:00

Well. It's been awhile. I've been chastened. (Thanks, Hyonjoo.) So. Summer barely began and already makes it's retreat. The nights go below zero and it's not yet Thanksgiving and stores are filled with Christmas junk. No wonder we rush from one thing to the next without hardly stopping to enjoy.

So now that I've returned far enough into to the land of the living to want to write, (which is why I didn't post for so long; I couldn't find enough in me to care about writing) I still hardly know where to begin. This has been a season of emotional and psychological torture. And not in a good way. The kind of torture where you are stretched and stretched until you are so thin and hard you feel as if you are that skim of ice on a cube that isn't fully frozen. Or the kind of torture that if one more thing pricks your skin you'll completely lose your mind in violence or maniacal laughter.

Welcome to life! It hardly ever eases up, which is why there is so many of us looking for therapy in whatever form we think. Retreat, denial, substance abuse, creativity, depression, anger. Or whatever. Even cleaning. That kind of therapy. Whatever we find to occupy ourselves to just avoid that thing crushing, pressing, weighing upon us. I did find some therapy. A short, sweet getaway with my lovely friend in the Okanagan, who treated me to photography opportunities in vineyards and walks in perennial gardens, rich food and much-needed friendship. A trip to the Shuswaps to lounge with Martin in a small rubber boat on the still, empty lake, and sunburn my stomach suntanning with my mom. Losing myself for a short moment in the therapy of the Enchanted Forest, laughing at Martin laughing at me. A second anniversary celebration with Martin in the beauty of Glacier-Waterton National Park. Fresh-baked pizza in a tiny resturant and snow on the ground in the morning. Yes. He's good therapy.

I'll just think on these things. I shant be melodramatic with the other darker, deeper moments. I've had therapy!

Tonight I have cleaned and scrubbed our apartment in preparation for some very important visitors. Martin's sister, brother in law and their three children are planning to arrive this weekend. Of course we are excited and I am proud to be able to show them around. (And off, because the kids are so darn cute.) I will practice my pathetically poor Swedish. (Hello, dessert, 12345678910, thank you, monkey, spider, hedgehog, goodnight,goodmorning.) They will think I am completely silly, I am sure.

So here's to Sweden. Makers of sensible and well-built furniture, cars, and men. (Er, man. Love you, sweetie.)

sticky

2007-07-14T01:22:00.000+02:00

The summer heat has arrived and I like the stickiness you get in the crooks of your elbows. Summer sounds are music: an oscillating fan or sprinkler, with that familiar rythmn, a lawnmower, crickets, or if you're lucky, frogs in the evening. Of course, if you live in downtown Calgary during the Stampede, it's mixed with traffic, sirens, and untalented cover bands playing in tent-bars across the river. In a way, summer is so lovely it becomes almost tragic - the coming and going of heat, swimming, birthdays and barbecues, and it feels like it's almost over. Or that it's ending as I write. Obviously it's because I live where I do and winter falls like a gillotine in October.

I am going to do my best to keep in the moment. Eat as much Canadian-grown fresh fruit as possible. Enjoy the stickness, eat homemade popsicles, get dirty feet, make picnics and sleep on blankets in the park. Go on roadtrips whenever I can.

Martin and I are heading to BC for a short getaway in the Shuswaps, and I am so stoked - we are going to stop at the Enchanted Forest on the way back. This is one of the ultimates of reliving my childhood. It's the closest thing to entering into a living Narnia as one could get. Of course, not even possibly as close, but it holds the same sort of pure, childish enchantment. I couldn't be more happy to be heading out somewhere. It's almost as good as running away. Not quite. But almost.

my feets is cold

2007-06-23T07:11:00.000+02:00

The miracle of modern travel has me bounced around rapidly. A weekend drive to the Okanagan for my grandfather's funeral, drive back to Calgary, and 24 hours later I am hopping off a prop plane in northern British Columbia to assist with flood relief and clean up. I have spent quite a bit of time photo-taking, story gathering, helping recruit volunteers to help people clean out their homes. The experience has been intense: visiting people whose house looks perfectly normal from the front, with four feet of stinking river mud in their basement, and every stitch of anything ruined. People throwing away water-logged and ruined family keepsakes and memories in big dumpsters. A stoic old man brushing away the tear running down a wrinkle beside his nose. A guy who fell in a huge sinkhole that opened up right underneath him.

I get to sleep on a creaky single bed in a college dorm room, and am exhausted by 10 p.m. The single bed is luxury, really. It's cold here in Terrace, a stunning location and beautiful surroundings: two converging rivers, lush valley and thick forests, surrounded by blue-black snow-capped mountains. But it's been raining steadily, and for a flip-flop lover, the cold is just too much. I am wishing for the long, sunny days of Alberta . . . I have been in a big learning curve and it's adventuresome being here, and great to be here helping people in real need, but it's not my dream to spend my 25th birthday with cold feet in Terrace. I want a long summer day, a barbecue, Martin and some Stampede fireworks. And maybe a costume birthday party. But we shall see.

At any rate, Terrace has held for me the highlight of my month: going to The Abba Show, Australia's premiere Abba tribute band. It was fantastically funny - especially the part where a guy from the crowd made a "miss grab" at Ana - absolutely hilarious. And the music was actually pretty darn good. I mean, it was Abba after all.

hiatus

2007-05-08T04:28:00.000+02:00

I've keep thinking of things that I am unable to articulate very well - vague, fleeting thought or mostly just feeling. I feel almost a bit, well, dumb. People ask me "how was it" and I feel this blank look spreading over my face. What do you say? No, no lions. Favourite country? Oh, definitely the one crippled by war. Did I get sick? No. Was I scared? No, only this feeling of enormity churning in the gut.

I have done quite a bit of writing since my return, and having returned to situations in my life and work as pathetic as they are infuriating, I find my expressions are quite effectively blocked... I sat down with a Liberian man last week to talk of his homeland, which he escaped in the early 90's, and his kind, anguished face streaked with tears as he talked of family and hometown filled me with word-stopping remorse. The only thing I could do was cry with him.

There are a thousand vibrant images in my head, and I am afraid I will forget. Incredible voices of Liberians mid-hymn, the irresistible natural rhythm the possess, the grace of people who have witnessed, endured, and been victimized by horrors that we watch in films. An underwear-clad girl-child shrinking against heavy rain, still standing the empty road with her little pile of green mangoes, eager to sell even one to the passing vehicle. Hands with mangoes, bananas, roasted ears of corn, and water bottles dripping with condensation, all shoved through the open window of the truck - eager. Beggar boys from Koranic schools, red tomato paste cans under arm, trying to collect enough to avoid physical abuse should they return without money. Sitting in a dark, curtained bedroom on the bed of our host - a Senegalese man - a cultural custom reserved as a gesture of honour and respect for a guest. Jumping strong ocean waves hand-in-hand with a four-year-old. Sipping a steaming glass of incredibly sweet tea in the chill blackness of a desert night. The surprising coolness of a mud-walled home. Kids following you, watching you, teasing and sometimes taunting, everywhere we went. A kid frightened to death of me - running away naked on flying little legs, a backward glance over his shoulder, howling with fear.

I sit here and smile, thinking of the other kids laughing as we watched him blaze a trail of dust across the village to his home.

It was an intense, short experience, and writing is good therapy: eases the fear that too much of these precious things will be lost somewhere between unloading my damp, stinking backpack and giving PowerPoint presentations to a group of professionals in business-casual.

There was a feeling of dread when I left from Canada: picturing myself as the epitome of rich North American, inquisitive, invasive, notebook in hand, pen scribbling, weak, plump, naive. And I was blessed with the grace of people who treated us with respect, understanding, and conversation. I was humbled by the honour with which we were treated. Who was I? We were shown deference and served the best they had. I felt ashamed.

Senegal, a scape of thick sand, sparse trees, and hazy horizons. My perception of Muslim community in Africa was undone and knit in a completely different way, my desire to better understand Islam lit. In Liberia, my own faith was refreshed, witnessing the visible joy on people's faces, despite war, poverty and injustice. There were endless random experiences: A lecture on having children, in French, from a Senegalese pastor, a beer on the roof of a hotel in the afternoon, a car full to the seat-tops with mangoes, fish guts and animal carcasses hanging at roadside. Walking a former five-star hotel - perched at the top of Monrovia with a wide view of sparkling coast and dim-looking free port - inhabited by women, men, children, the elderly, living in abject poverty. The tile pool filled with refuse, laundry hanging behind the diving board, banana peels and excrement on the deck, and a little girl watching us, squatting in a former hotel room, a tiny smile on her mouth.

I return with a renewed and healthy sense of insignificance. That I am still powerless, useless, hopeless without God. That we've corrupted Eden and live in a world full of our intent and little of it what God intended. And we are still inspired, compelled, driven, spirit-filled creatures. We still seek out hope and justice and peace. The things that were intended for us we all desire. I keep thinking these things, and the story deadlines keep blowing by.

i hate your lies

2007-04-09T20:31:00.000+02:00

I should have left work some time ago, butI am tidying up because I like returning to clean living spaces when I come home. Or, the office. Really, I guess work could be considered a "home" - how much time do we spend at work in our lives, anyways? If I liked math I might try to figure it out.

This week has been unbelievable, in the odd, life-throws-curve-balls kind of way. Through strange circumstances I have seen some work relationships crumble before my eyes, and others be built into deeper and beautiful things. I have again witnessed the importance of doing what is right, despite it seeming like the harder road to take, and the crushing results of not choosing to do so. I have thought often about something I do know, but sometimes forget -

poor and foolish choices often wound and destroy others moreso than the chooser.

There is so much freedom in truth! Deceit, or even untruth, is a gnawing beast. Your insides are continually chewed away. Honesty - what release from that inner torment!

So with a completely strange-unhappy-good week behind me, I set my sites on West Africa. We'll be in Senegal for a week, the Liberia. There are all sorts of things I am looking forward to - food distributions with the World Food Program, spending time with children and youth who are being rehabilitated from slavery and abuse during the civil war, agriculture and livestock projects . . . there will be much to pack into a short time.

We go armed with a whole bunch of boy's soccer jerseys and balls, which I look forward to giving away. As I have heard said, for many football is life.

So. Must pack, and help Martin stock the fridge, find a good book to read on the journey, and I will be off. . .

Until May, then.

weird and fun

2007-03-31T05:29:00.000+02:00

Today. One of the most interesting days of late. Quite a bit of scrambling around at work to get work done, and at 5 p.m., the word came down: I am going to West Africa. In two weeks.

It's still sinking in, because although it was talked about, I really didn't have my hopes high that it would happen. And now it's a go, so I can let it sink in and get stoked about it. Only one thing I have to wait for: my comrade in journalism and I are waiting for our visas for Liberia. I think there will be enough time for them to process. I hope. They have our passports anyways, so we aren't going to move too quickly without the visa.

So we will be spending a couple of weeks and a bit in two places: Senegal and Liberia. Doing what we love to do - I, to write; she, to shoot photos.

This is definitely a chance-of-a-lifetime for me. Sent as a journalist to places that have such important stories to tell; with an organization I respect; covering things I believe in. I hope I can pull it off. My boss fought the good fight for me to be considered to go despite my detractors (too young, inexperienced, etc.). It's incredible to have someone fight a battle for you; to tell you straight up, "This is what you do. Go and do it!" He definitely has some heart-felt thanks coming his way.

My arms are pretty sore from the concoction of immunizations, and I am about to drink some crazy vaccine to gird me from e-coli and cholera. Now, there are a gazillion things out there that could make you sick, however, I am all for taking what I can get. I really do not want to repeat El Salvador. (The double exodus, baby.) Although, sometimes it's just inevitable.

I wasn't really thinking about the trip a lot tonight though, as I spent the evening volunteering at the Mustard Seed. Martin was working, although he was really mostly a big-haired phantom for a majority of the night. It was pretty basic - get supper, sweep, mop, give out snacks. I gave away a lot of cookies, and I owe my fellow volunteer Mike - a unique guy who has volunteered for hundreds of years - for informing overlyinquisitive or wanderingeyes, "She's taken, you know." Funny guy. So many great people there. A kind and rather peppy greybeard who exhorted Martin's popularity, heart, and work ethics, which I thought was pretty sweet. Not exactly your homeless-man stereotype.

So it was a weird and fun day. Contrasts and loveliness. One reality juxtapositioned with another. The next few weeks are going to be mad.

ingratiate ::

2007-03-25T05:38:00.000+02:00

unexpected smile and my lip splits
blood bitten back
sit still : still good : still unhappy

a tvdinner saint :
so far from the real thing
evidence of my absolution
: convincing : oh, yes
like freeze-dried steak

sit still : think hard : still taste blood

self-loathing like a shame-hammer
so easy to dislike:
such a little fool :
full of vanity : a fat little balloon

think : she is intelligent. she is quick-witted and wise.
she is funky and careless. want me around.

still the lip bleeds :
ponder: smiling with all this shame :
what nonsense has become my standard ?
rather be the dancing monkey : yes
than a naked human :

my embarrassment : how swiftly
your approval was glorified
and it’s so tragically funny :
you’re just a tvdinner saint : too

desiring to be:
the real thing

before

2007-03-18T06:05:00.000+01:00

There is a picture of a dead man on my wall. He wasn’t an ancient when he passed, nor was his life full. He wasn’t full of wisdom or grace, or possess knowledge beyond his years. He was, in fact, young, impetuous, wild, someone everyone said they knew and hardly anyone knew at all.

The picture I have on my wall is his memorial bulletin. “In loving memory, 1982 -…”

It’s his silhouette, mid-saunter, hands in his pockets, head down. It’s beautiful, serene, contemplative. Whoever took this picture unintentionally captured something him that wasn’t available outside his social façade. It seems to me that it captures an emotion of his death. This emotion was not revealed by the various recollections of friends and acquaintances. To many it seemed he was the sharp –tongued wit of words, the say-anything, do-anything, lack-of-social-restraint comedian.

No one knows for certain the truth of his passing. On a railroad bridge; contemplating life, the sunrise early Sunday morning, contemplating existence… the contemplation will never be factual. Two train operators witness a figure push himself from a sitting, leg-dangling position, off into a freefall. The sun has barely risen and already death. Some speculate it became an accident, up on the bridge for whatever reason, choosing between certain death under the wheels of an iron horse, or possible salvation in the limbs of a tree far below. This guy, always so funny, energetic, seemingly careless of what people thought of him; on a railroad bridge in a grungy prairie town.

His memorial was the most tragic thing I’ve attended. The room was full of people who hardly knew him at all. “He was drunk and ran naked,” “He had nicknames for everyone,” “He was so funny…” There was nothing of anything that lasts. Nothing of any substance. There was nothing but emptiness, and the tragedy of it broke your heart.

The last time I saw him he was his “usual” self, or at least in hindsight, the usual persona I had come to recognize. He was insulting, witty, and was nearly in a fist-fight with my close friend. I don’t think anyone in that room would have imagined where we’d find ourselves a short time later.

I think about him now. I wonder about the afterlife. I remember how I used to be afraid of dying because if I died people might learn the truth about me. They might talk to each other, and find out that I had facades for every occasion. That I was one person here, and another there. That I cheated that person, told that lie, played people and used people. That I was insincere and insecure. That I was shallow and so were they and we never really knew each other.

I am not so fearful of death these days. I have been reconciled. The slate has been cleaned, and so has my act, and I am not afraid of that which lies beneath. And I have learned reality won’t be revealed in a funeral or a memorial gathering for a tragic, too-early death. The only chance others have to know me is when I recognize my facades and reveal myself. When I let my anger show. When I stomach humility and say “forgive me.” When I look you in the eye and tell you the truth. When I’m not cautious of showing love for fear of being rebuked, or worse, shrugged off.

It’s a lifelong struggle, unto death.

slap me and run

2007-03-16T19:13:00.000+01:00

Some loser hit our car last night while I was at a friend's place for dinner. Seemed he or she didn't want to stick around and be responsible for their poor driving, and now I have spent all morning (and probably most of the afternoon) dealing with insurance and police reports and body shops and rental car companies because they (the tool) hit-and-ran.

The principle of it is what annoys me the most: people being selfish and irresponsible. It's a sign of the times, this lack of accountability people have.

But, oh well, it's just money and time lost. It could be a lot worse. And the poor little Civic will get fixed up real good, but it's still pretty annoying.

Hm. I think this is an online gripe session. Not very fun to read. Oh, well, it's my blog!

retreated

2007-03-10T04:12:00.000+01:00

I have reached the weekend - weary, but satisfied. I can barely keep my lids open, but I will attempt to post something coherent.

It's been a long couple of weeks, but things have finished off well with a retreat with my coworkers to the foothills of the Rockies for three days.

My winter blues were burned away with intense March sunshine, beautiful temperatures, and a brisk wind. My face is tight with windburn, and lips chapped, but it's a great feeling. It feels like spring, and I am greatly enjoying it however short-lived the nice weather will be.

The photo is the view from the retreat centre we stayed - a quiet, picturesque, wholesome place. It's focus is on quiet, rest, and spiritual recuperation. I enjoyed spending time thinking, trying not to talk too much, playing piano and guitar in the little chapel, and just taking some deep breaths. It was really, really good. I definitely needed it.

Tomorrow morning I have my volunteer training at the Mustard Seed, which I am looking forward to. It's a must before you can volunteer, and I have been waiting since Christmas to do so. But I think God's timing is good on this one; even if I was able to volunteer before I don't think I would have been capable of it in these last couple months.

I have been bothered by how busy life has been; when it gets to the point where I am sacrificing people and the real things I would like to be doing to the schedule-god. I hate it, and I don't want to be a person like that. I want to stop by and visit my elderly neighbors. I want to write people real letters. I want to finish the painting I said I was going to finish two weeks ago. I want to give my home a top-to-bottom spring cleaning, and learn how to bake bread.

Instead I am rushing to work and to class, eating out too often, not getting enough sleep, and not connecting with people I care about. Do I really have an excuse? Not really. Some circumstance, some choice. But I hate saying "I am so busy". Everybody says that. I think it makes us feel good. I think we say it to excuse our lack of time for people.

So I think I need to say it less. And maybe look chickens in the eye more often.

little things

2007-02-27T03:52:00.000+01:00

On the cusp of an intense week, and I am wishing I could avoid it somehow. Pressing work/class projects and deadlines, followed by a heavy and emotional weekend. The march of time - would that we could slow it!

I have a particular presentation to make that I am dreading. I quite enjoy the class I am taking but I get anxious about the public speaking aspect. This has been a long-held fear of mine. Public speaking. And the other is math. (I really hate math and think I would be a good case study for sufferers of "math anxiety". There truly is such a thing. And I am a pretty good case if there was one. I freeze up if I have to do the most basic of figures around someone, and can only manage the most basic calculations, and sometimes even not then.) But public speaking is something I have successfully avoided most of my life. In high school I openly told teachers I would not do presentations. They could fail me if they liked - I just wouldn't.

Hasn't helped me any, though. Now, I must tackle this thing, because it's begun to hinder me in my job. So I will be making a presentation on the issue of diarrheal disease in the developing world. What a way to start, eh? One of my first public speaking efforts, and I decide to talk about poo. I think it should go over well.

My treat to myself this week is finishing the painting I have been working on, and hanging it in my work space. I have had a bare space just waiting to be filled, but haven't yet found the time to finish it. Now I've told myself this is the week, I will accomplish what I have set out to do, and give myself a new happy painting to look at. (The image included is a working draft of the happy painting I refer to.) This is the last of three happy paintings; they give me a bit of wild colour and mental cheer. A mental health break from white walls and Outlook calendars and never-ending to-do lists.

I am really looking forward to summer. Long nights. Good-smelling breezes carrying through the apartment. Sunday barbeques with Canadian beef. Playing Carcassone on the deck as the sun sets. If I think about it long enough I can almost imagine that it's not -17 degrees and that I have to work in the morning.... Sigh. Does anyone else have the winter blues?

death grip

2007-02-11T21:33:00.000+01:00

It is amazing how death clarifies. Whether you're head-first down the throat of a boa constrictor, or someone you love is facing death, things become crystal clear very quickly. The act of living. Faith. Life after death. Relationships. Love. Not just "love", but a clearer understanding of love as it was intended to be - not for what was done or not done, said or not said - but just love.

My mind has been sharpened by this clarity over the past few days. The reality of never seeing someone again, of where I want to end off, of what I really think and feel when it gets down to it. Where all the insignificant crap falls away like dirty snow kicked off a wheel well. What matters is what I can do now. To: Live. Be alive. Show love.

The clarity is as grieving as it is purging. The heart part of me mourns, not what is passed, but what was missed. The mind part of me is energized to lay aside the unnecessary, what is behind, and think about just Today.

I keep thinking how life - complicated, hectic, stressful, frustrating - can instantly boil down to one thing in the face of death. One person. One relationship. And how you instantly know what's right. You may not know what to say, or do, but at your core you instantly know what really matters.

And am I acting on what matters? Do I live a life acting on truth and on love?

"Then I looked on all the works that my hands had done
And on the labor in which I had toiled;
And indeed all was vanity and grasping for the wind.
There was no profit under the sun."

friday afternoon

2007-02-09T20:34:00.000+01:00

It's been snowing on and off for three days now, and as I suffer with a cold I am starting to get grumpy with winter. Most of the windows in our apartment are old and crappy, and when it gets really cold like this they ice completely up. It's annoying, especially when you are stuffed up and can't breathe, and just want to open a window to get a little fresh air, and you are too weak to open the stupid frozen window.

I shouldn't complain too much; Martin, the kind and gentle one, is out by himself shoveling, leaving me to hang about the apartment on my day off.

It's been intense at work; three major events to plan, on top of all regular work, is a recipe for a stressed and burned out team. It takes effort right now to be nice, stay on top of things, and not run screaming for the hills. I get these moments where all I want to do is to move to the country and become a hippy; work in my garden, live in a haybale house, write a couple of books and eat a lot of organic fruit. That sounds quite lovely.

In the meantime, Martin and I are going to brave the cold to hit up the farmer's market this afternoon, and hopefully watch Shawshank Redemption. And eat some Vietnamese. That sounds like a pretty good Friday afternoon.

best before

2007-01-25T19:44:00.000+01:00

In elementary and middle school, my mom had these 'mental health days" for us, where we would just ditch school with her, and she'd take us shopping or something, just anything to get away from school. I think she knew how much I hated school, the atmosphere, the clinging, inescapable social structure.

Of course, once I entered high school, my own mental health days took the form of many a skipped class - my mental health must have been extremely good, judging by the percentage of days missed when I graduated. (Also says something about the school system, when you can skip like 30 per cent of your classes and still get decent grades.)

Anyways, my point is I think I am going to incorporate mental health days into my life. I don't know how my boss will take it though: "Hi, yeah, I just am feeling a little crazy, things are gettin' to to me at work, so I am just going to stay home, wear nothing but a fuzzy housecoat, eat toasted cheese and crackers, and finish the book I've been working on. . . No, I'm not sick, just a little funky in the head today - need a mental health break."

I don't know how it'll go over, but I still want to do it. Recently I have been trying to avidly address my mental health overall. Been working on a painting, a really big, bright, bold thing to cover as much of my cubicle wall as possible. Started a class, and the learning and meeting new people is really energizing. Been dancing a lot, trying to pack a lunch and eat out less often, and making a concerted effort to learn Swedish. (So as to whisper sweet nothings into my lover's ear - or at least count to 20 and say "good afternoon".)

I think it's helping my brain. I feel less negative these days, although with me you know how long that will last before I find another little puddle to wallow in. I am a natural cynic, but at least these days I am more of a cheerful cynic. And I am really going to figure a way to make mental health days official.

counting to ten - in svenska

2007-01-17T06:13:00.000+01:00

A long, full, unusual Tuesday. Started early, tried to slog through the work before me, and kept having to backtrack. Got frustrated to the point of saying out loud, "This isn't my job!" But, I guess because it was up to me to do, it really was my job. I'm a bit of a complainer.

Tonight was my first night of a course I am taking at the University of Calgary; since I hadn't been in a class setting for a couple years I was a bit nervous. Refreshingly, delightfully, the instructor is cheerful, oddly humorous, quirky person, and I am looking forward to the next few months. The class (very stimulating title: Management Communications: Interpersonal Relations) has a light course load, but makes for a long Tuesday - work: 8 - 5 and class 6 -9. I am stoked to be doing it: I almost forgot how much I love learning.

Everywhere I drove today, I practiced counting in Swedish. I am still very poor at it, but I think I can count to 12 quite lucidly now. I am going to test it on the next Swede I see.

Got home, and being mentally jazzed up and generally energized, I cranked open the door to the winter night air, turned the stereo up just a little too loud, and danced myself into a lather in the living room. A perfect way to end a very adult day: Flailing in the dark living room with a smile on my face, lost in Muse's Black Holes and Revelations. I love being a crazy person. It's so liberating.

I am yet going to attempt to ingest another chapter of That Hideous Strength. Fantastic title, but I am only a couple chapters in. I very much enjoyed elements of the first two books. If anyone was interested I would elaborate but I won't kid myself.

In less than two weeks I will be heading to Missions Fest Vancouver: I have helped organize my work's "presence" there and will be fulfilling my role there as well. Definitely the best part about it is that Martin is flying out as well; he booked some holiday time, and is going to tap into the already-paid-hotel-in-downtown-Vancouver situation, and hang out for the weekend. Which means my weekend just got a heck of a lot lovelier.

Finally...my brain is tiring and I think I can attempt sleep. I am going to go give in a try, anyways.

bluster

2007-01-13T23:17:00.000+01:00

A blustery Saturday afternoon, and I am trying to be as quiet as an over-large church mouse as Martin sleeps off his last night shift of a set of four. Poor guy - comes home tired out from a demanding night and gets pounced on by an eager, and somewhat insistent wife.

Hopefully he gets enough rest and we will be able to enjoy seeing our friends off tonight as they leave next week for a year. Sigh. This easy access to the world may have had a hand in me meeting Martin, however it certainly takes friends and family away from you very easily.

But next week will be a bittersweet week of goodbyes and hellos. My sister returns from Australia after a year. I am both anticipating and bit anxious - I am looking forward to hanging out and getting to know how we've changed over the last year, and not wanting to step on her toes or assume too much about our friendship. The elder sibling always has to watch that "bossy" tendency. Apparently I was quite bossy and possibly a bit mean-spirited as a child, so I must try to remedy this.

I am also trying to remedy this crappy weather with a few photos of El Salvador. It's not really working...

nostalgia

2007-01-04T05:40:00.000+01:00

Well. Christmas is over, the new year upon us, and that brief break from madness is only a memory. I definitely was struck this holiday season by the, well, monotony of it all. And yet, it's not monotonous. We humans are blessed and cursed with short attention spans and even shorter memories. So it will be with gusto next year that I will participate in a similar routine to this year's. Gusto, I say, and possibly a bit of relish in there.

Yes, I love Christmas. And 2006 was a good one. I was able to spend more time with Martin than expected: He got Christmas Eve off, half of Christmas night off, and we were able to help out at the Mustard Seed on Christmas morning. It was relaxed, although getting up at 5:30 a.m. left something to be desired. I handed out Christmas presents, and hung out with the guests. I was impressed with the politeness, thankfulness, and honesty I encountered there. There are a lot of people out there who could learn a thing or two from people who are living on the streets, myself included. It was also very cool to see how Martin is loved and respected by the people he serves there, and how he is exactly where God wants him. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel blessed to be his wife.

So I got to hang out with my husband, which definitely made the holiday. Our friend Rob visited for Christmas, which rocked. He is a funny, outgoing, honest guy, and from every conversation we have I learn something. I had a blast with him, and I don't think I've ever had a better house guest. He cooked a New Year's Eve dinner for seven that was divine.

I was spoiled with books and music, and have been indulging in both over the past couple weeks. Music: Radiohead, Jill Paquette, Muse, Demon Hunter. Books: The Gift of Fear, and Lewis' Cosmic Trilogy. (I am truly not a huge science fiction reader, but I have gotten into this series, because of course, he is a gifted descriptor and tale-weaver.) Receiving books is a reliable, and lovely part of Christmas. As are socks. Both, especially if the are funky socks, are part of my "holiday". As silly as it is, it's true. And I could not lie on my blog. Because we all know that blogs are entirely honest.

Did I mention Martin is taking me to Costa Rica in February? Oh, yes. And now that it's blogged, we all know it's true.

I think the fact that I am tired and sitting here hooded in a duvet blanket is making me ridiculous. And isn't all the more fun to be ridiculous when you can publish it for the world to see if they so choose. Although I am pretty certain a large majority will opt out.

And for anyone who actually made it this far into this nonsense, guess what? Now, you too can have a piece of Martin's mind. It is quite a sexy mind, if I do say so m'self. Your Piece

Friends, I hope you start the new year off on a good foot, and that it's not asleep from sitting too long in an awkward position.

P.S. Drew: Do you recognize the fireplace?