birthday boy

Today is April 27, which means I am now the mother to a two-year-old. "Time is fly", as a dear friend of mine once pointed out. Max is counting to ten and pronouncing the Swedish alphabet better then I. Learning to ride a bicycle and loving listening to music and dancing with me. Yesterday we were dancing around the living room, him bouncing in my arms singing a Swedish folk children's song, and the sorrow came up unbidden. Soon there would be a time when the last thing in the world that he would want will be to dance with me. So I need to get a lot of dancing in.

Happy Birthday, Max!

dark thoughts

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

/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)

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

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

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

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

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

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.