Feathers to feathers, air to air

I’ve had a very strange morning. It didn’t start out very strange. Well, that’s not entirely true. For one, I slept less than my boyfriend, and got up BEFORE my room-mate! Both of these things are very uncommon for me. To explain why I got up so early, I need to back up a little.

Of late, I’ve started getting aches and pains and a bunch of disturbingly crackling and popping noises in my knees, hip, back, shoulders and neck. It got worse with time so I went to the doctor. The doctor sadly didn’t say that all I need is good love, instead she claimed that if I simply started exercising more all of these problems would go away. Apparently if you experience joint-problems, running, biking and swimming is going to help, because the more stress you put on them, the better. Oh the logic. Anyway, even though I’m not entirely convinced the exercise will solve all these problems, I figured it also wouldn’t really hurt. (I wasn’t entirely correct there either, since my knees feel a little worse for the wear now, but according to the good doctor I should be getting better so I’m going to keep doing this for a while.)

So I got a membership card that covers all of the public swimming-pools in the Stockholm area, a swimsuit that doesn’t look completely indecent and went on my merry way to become healthier. I signed up three days ago and I’ve swum every day since. I love swimming, the water is calming, the motion is tiring but also relaxing and there is just something so tranquil and euphoric about floating, half weightless, in those blue waters. All I really need now is to find a time when the pool isn’t teeming with people. I’d prefer a bit more privacy and a bit more space to swim around in.

That’s why I went this morning. Saturdays they have an hour and a half, women only. So I figured that a) there would be less people there (I was wrong) and b) at least someone wouldn’t be gawking at me as I was trying to fix my joint-problem. 7:30 sharp I dragged myself hastily out of bed, had a quick shower, a bowl of yoghurt with honey and a glass of orange-juice. I checked my mail, glanced over the facebook updates and headed out the door. I was a little behind schedule, and in my hurry I almost missed it.

One step ahead of me up the sets of stairs between our apartment buildings and the little pathway leading down to the subway there was a bird. A tiny bird, lying perfectly still on the step, almost invisible in its grey and brown against the stone of the steps. I froze. The bird didn’t move, but its eyes appeared to narrow just a little. I thought for a moment. What to do? The bird might already be dead, but if it wasn’t, could I save it? I was running late for my swim. I stuck the cigarette in my mouth and walked past the bird. I stopped five steps later, cursing under my breath. I have this problem where if there is someone in need, human or animal of other kind, or even a half-dying plant, I need to help them to the best of my abilities. I couldn’t just let the bird lie there if it could still be saved.

So back to the apartment I ran, found a plastic bottle-cap and filled it with liquid honey and lukewarm water, got some breadcrumbs from the cupboard above the fridge and then headed back out, carefully and slowly so as not to spill any of the honey-water. In my head the little bird first stared at the cap to determine whether I was trying to poison it or not, then drank from it, slowly regaining health and strength until it’d fly away. I reached the steps. My little feathered protegé was lying in an awkward position, head against the ground, and I just knew. In the three or so minutes it had taken me to get the water and bread from my place and return, the little fellow had died. I was devastated, and a little grossed out. In one last, futile attempt, I put the cap down next to its head and spread the crumbs around it. I knew the bird was dead but if there was any hope, I wasn’t going to take my chances.

I went swimming and on my return the little one was still lying there. Confused as to what to do I tried calling the sup, but it being a Saturday he was of course not in his office. I then called my boyfriend, despairing over what to do. I knew I should really put it in a plastic bag and just dispose of it in the trash but I really didn’t want the little guy to go that way. No-one should ever have to be put in the trash. So after some mental dialogue, I threaded some bags over my hand and dug out a big bird-feather that Selon had dragged home one day on one of his little adventures. Back at the steps for the fourth time today, I looked, and the bird wasn’t lying next to the cap anymore. For a second, I thought someone had moved it, maybe buried it as I intended to, but then I saw him lying to the side of the steps. Like someone had just kicked him out of the way.

I gingerly picked him up with my makeshift lab-gloves and carried him off to some secluded location. I was amazed at how very light he was. I grew up on a farm so on occasion I’ve had to move dead mice from the traps, and they are heavy buggers, but this little bird weighed next to nothing, and it made me even more sad somehow. After a few minutes of walking, I saw a rocky elevation in the forest next to the road. What better place to bury a bird than high up? I climbed it, drenching my flats in the process, and put the little one down on a tuft of grass in the middle of the rise. Then I placed the big bird-feather over him. “I hope you had a good life” I told him, looking at the tiny eye, still wondering if it was going to come back to life at any minute, and then walked off.

It’s strange how something so very random, something that should be of no concern to us, can move us so very deeply, and make such a strong impression. I felt horrible over that second where I almost walked away without even trying to save this little bird, and then I went out of my way to make sure it would have the best bird-funeral in history. If it wasn’t for my joints I’d never have gone to the doctor, and then in turn I would probably not have picked up swimming, and if I hadn’t I would not have stepped outside today, or if I had, maybe at a later time, when I would not have seen the little brown and grey feather-ball against the brown leaves and slush next to the steps where someone kicked it out of the way. So the little bird is gone, but his presence did not go unnoticed, for in his memory lie some breadcrumbs on the stone-steps, next to a bubble-gum pink bottle-cap filled with honey-water.


In Motion

You know those days when you feel the need to write a blog-post simply because you haven’t in such a long time, and it doesn’t seem fair to keep your very small number of followers waiting any longer? This is one of those days. I don’t have any idea what this post is going to be about. It’ll have to be one of those famous rambles of mine. About nothing and everything. It might turn out all right in the end. But I doubt it.

Today signifies the beginning of the New Year for a very large number of the world’s population. It’s the Year of the Dragon in the Chinese horoscope. Incidentally, I happen to be a dragon-born. Yup, full-blown scales, fire-breathing, sheep eating and all that stuff. According to the Chinese, this is going to be an absolutely awesome year for me and my likes, especially in the career department. Dragon’s stand for luck, power, daring, they are guardians and protectors but also conquerors and warriors. Known for their giant ego’s, radiant charisma, vivacious and impulsive personalities and traits of that nature, I think just as much bad as good can be said for my reptilian pals and myself.

So far I’ve come across a ridiculous number of predictions for the upcoming year. On the one hand the stock-market should go up in the U.S and down everywhere else, there will be an abundance of natural disasters and lots of disruptions on the political and military front, with uprisings and protests and conflict between world-leaders. On the other, it is supposed to be a lucky year, one where you should proceed with caution but follow your gut-feel, where you should heed the advice of others yet make your own way. Basically, whatever you do this year, there is no way to tell if that is going to be the wise plan of action or not.

I do my best to live my life from tiny moment to tiny moment nowadays. For a very, very long time I’ve been stuck in the Then. The Then is a place where I have a career, where I have found a spot on earth that feels like home to me, when I have travelled all the places I want to go, know 4 languages, have been signed for a record-company, am a loving mother of 2 and sexy wife of 1 and still do my utmost to share all the good things in my life with the ones I love and the ones who need it the most. This Then that I have made up is such an awesome place that the me now wants to be there instead of here, and somewhere along the road the anticipation for the Then managed to kill off any of the enjoyment I could have felt in the present, and replaced it with impatience and a looming sense of failure. (The latter which is probably pretty much on the mark. Still trying to find a foundation which will cover that huge L on my forehead.)

Some part of my brain just forgot that even though some lucky people get all those things, they tend to get them in time, not right away. Certainly not at 23. Once I caught myself bashing my poor present with great stories of my made up future so many times, I realised it had to stop. Funnily enough, my school-work this past semester was very much all on the theme of choices, reality-check, wanting to be some place other than where you are and things of that nature. Writing a short paper on this topic, I came across a poem by one of my all-time favourite Swedish poets, someone whose poetry I have loved since a very early age indeed, and as a cryptic word of advice for the upcoming year, I have translated it for you, and will share it for you in these following lines. Because I discovered that as soon as you decide that the present is good enough for you, it becomes a lot more awesome. Enjoy, my dears!

In motion by Karin Boye, translated by me.

“The sated day, to me, never comes first.
The best day is a day of thirst.

Yes there’s a point and meaning to our road –
but it’s the way that makes it worth the load.

The best goal is to live from night to night,
where bread is shared in haste by warming light.

In places where you only stay so long,
the sleep is safe, the dream is full of song.

Rise up, rise up! A new day is at bay.
Unending is our adventurous way.”

Finding your way back to Neverland.

I’m reading yet another Bach book. This one so far appears to be about how he reconnected to his childhood from memories that he hadn’t as much suppressed as ignored, and what he learnt from them. It got me thinking about my memories. Because I realised in the hallway the other day just why I hated winter-clothes so much as a child. I always used to think it was because of the fuss of getting everything on and off, how wet it would be after coming inside, how you had to wear layer upon layer and get so overheated and drenched through despite its water-resistant qualities.

But as I struggled out of my thick jacket and practical boots yesterday morning, it struck me. It is because winter-clothes are so very restraining. A protective bubble of cloth and stuffing between you and the world, numbing your senses and perception. I was a summer-kid, running barefoot any place I could and often times places I shouldn’t, loving the feel of grass under my back as I gazed up into the endless blue. Or a fall-child, the wind tapering my clothes against me and ruffling my hair as I went in search for branches and pretty leaves in the crisp air. The heavy boots of winter, so very practical, shield your feet from the ground, making it impossible to quite grasp where you’re treading, and the thick coats, long scarves and downy jackets do their best to keep everything out, even sound.

Yet the memories of many a childhood winter are fond ones, where the snow was always thick on the ground and the cocoa warming in front of the fire-place. I find it strange, that so many of the few memories we have from childhood are extraordinary ones; traumatic ones, happy and exciting ones, dark and gloomy with a sense of forbearing. Why is it that we filter out all the regular, “unimportant” memories, as if there’s nothing to learn from a regular, everyday situation? Do we do this now too, though we’re not as aware of it? And what could we learn from our earliest errors, could we remember them?

Up to a certain age, life is like a flight of stairs. You can move up or down, side to side, pass people or fall behind, you can stop in the middle and ponder, always a rail nearby to hold on to should the going get tough. But very soon, we stop considering these choices, stop considering the wonder of just remaining in the moment and watching as everyone else zigzags by, and only take the escalators. Here the movement becomes much more restrained; you have to decide whether you want to go up or down, usually you just stick to the right-hand side, unless you’re in a hurry and walk past people on the left-hand side, and even then there might be someone blocking your way. Go further still and we just take the elevator. No choice here. Up or down, you can’t pass people if you want to, and moving side to side is not going to make any difference, except people might give you strange looks. Why do we limit ourselves so much, decide that there is only one path for us and then stick to that path, unable to move back to the good old manual stairway of choice?

The pressure to make a choice goes further and further down into the younger ages. Even at 20, if you haven’t decided what you want to do with your life yet and if you haven’t gotten some place, you consider yourself a failure and a disappointment. But the only person you are letting down is yourself, and why make a choice early on in life that you either stick with for the rest of it, unhappy that you made the wrong one, or ditch after a few years, starting from square one and considering those past years a waste of your time? How can we waste time when it’s an abstract concept, and why do we let ourselves be governed by it in just about everything?

Something that has occurred to me so very often is how we relate to our childhood years. We look at it as through cracked and smeared mirrors, far off, hazy, impossible to interpret. We look at it through grown-up eyes and judge the actions we took, the ones we didn’t and on top of it all, rewrite the way events happened to our own liking. But why judge the actions of a child, someone with far less experience than you, and so a much poorer judgement? Is it possible that the child you were would look at who you are today and judge what they see? This distorted view of events and reality distances us from our pasts to the point of detachment. We simply do not feel like that was us. How often do we not hear the phrase “I was a different person then” or “I was just a kid”? There’s nothing “just” about being a “kid”, that five-year-old or nine-year-old was just as much you as you are today. Yet we don’t even see ourselves as them, and all of a sudden our childhood becomes a movie, we ourselves the actors and our current, grown-up state the spectators.

So is it so wrong to look at that child through their own eyes, as we were, and say “that was me at ten years of age” or “that was me on my sixth birthday” instead of “back when I was a kid” as if the child you were and the person you are now are in no way the same? Are we scared that that inner child,  if we let it loose, will be judged by other “grown-ups” as immature, naive, strange, unintelligent, instead of what it truly is; someone who sees the world not as they ought to, but for what it is to them, and acts accordingly? I say take off the grown-up, practical, shielding winter-clothes of your soul, and let the summer-child have a romp across the lawn every once in a while. You might enjoy it.

Something old, something new…

The New Year is coming along at rapid speed. This past week or so has, as I mentioned in my previous post, been a very busy one. We had my room-mate’s parents over on the 22nd, I went to my oldest brother’s fiancée’s parents for the 24th and then my grandmother’s just yesterday. It has been a time of little more than cooking, knitting, eating, talking and charades for me, and though I am sad to see it over, I rejoice at the calm and quiet of an empty flat, the only noises the fans from my over-grown laptop and the complaining mews from Saga, the female one of my cats, as she tries to whine her way into my bedroom on her never-ending quest to destroy everything I own.

Lots of people feel the need to make New Year’s resolutions. If you are such a person, here’s the blog-post for you, written by another blogger who seems to have it more or less down to the essentials. I however, feel no need to make a resolution at 12 am on the 1st of January. I’m the sort of person who makes resolutions when the need comes up, and then rarely keep them, especially if it’s just a promise to myself that concerns no-one but me. And sure it is a nice tradition, and it might be what some people need to get them motivated, but then you can get motivated by anything and champagne and the kiss at midnight are nice traditions too, but a hug and some alcohol-free alternative works.

To me, the curious thing about New Year’s is the date we celebrate on. It’s not midwinter, which would have made sense, since the light starts returning on that very day, nor is it the spring equinox, which would have made sense because it’s the beginning of spring itself, and a time when the night and the day are just as long, and what better season to celebrate the start of the year than spring, when everything is coming back to life and bursting into bloom? Also, New Year’s is right on top of Christmas, and do we really need two celebrations right on top of each other like that?

But that is how we work. We’ve ordered our society after dates that we can count instead of seasons as they change, and right now, that might be just as well, since the global warming is slowly blurring the edges between the seasons, so who knows if we’ll have winter or fall in 10, 20 years from now? Maybe the only way to keep track of the seasons will be by the calendar and the length of the day. Maybe the giving time, and abstract concept, as much importance as we do, is of importance in itself. We have created the system and now our actions is making it a crucial necessity. Just as with birthdays, New Year is a birthday of time itself, and though there is no telling how old time is by any other measure, we celebrate the amount of time it’s been measured by us.

But just as with years, the age of humans has little to do with numbers, and everything to do with experience and development. I’m sure we’ve all met someone who appears to be beyond their years, or as in the case of a certain family member of mine, several years below hers. So the time that has passed in our lives has next to nothing to do with who we are or who we become, only our actions and what we have seen and lived can shape who we are. So forget about your years, or the age of time itself, and focus on what is happening in the world right now, in this age that we live and in our own lives. With this post I wish you all a happy New Year – though I have little faith in such measurement -, and leave you with the words of an old wizard from a well-known book and better known movie still; “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”


First off I would like to apologize to anyone that still reads this blog. My latest absence has been inexcusable. I haven’t even been particularly busy! But you know when you keep looking at your page and you just can’t muster the will, the energy, the guts to write another post? That’s where I’ve been. Also, there has been more of a social life in my current situation than I’ve had in a while. Excuses aside, here’s another post. I’m going to talk about that magical, mystical “it” and the difference places in which it appears.

The One

Maybe you are in love, maybe you have been, maybe you will be soon. But did it occur to you that with love, past the attraction and all the logical reasons why you like someone, there’s that “it”? That “love at first sight” factor, which many discard as mere attraction, or a desperate need to find a soul-mate? I have a firm, deep-seeded belief that there is an “it” that makes some people stand out more to us than most. And it’s not just with romantic love. Sometimes you see a stranger at the platform waiting for the train, or in the grocery store, or on the dance-floor. It doesn’t matter where, even if you see this person out of the corner of your eye, you get a tingly, strange sensation that tells you there is something special about this person. Something that draws you to them, that makes you want to get to know them, that makes getting to know them a little easier, almost like it’s natural that you should. I am a firm believer in this kind of “it”, it’s happened to me a few times. If you get a chance to talk to the “it” people, it usually results in good friends, great relationships or just a very exhilarating conversation that leaves you blown away for the rest of the day.

The Artist

Some of them just have “it”. You might be looking at some disgusting modernistic painting that you would usually hate to the point of using it as a makeshift litter-box for your cats, or giving it away to your dearest enemy, but in this particular case you find yourself liking it. You don’t know why. The painting is garish, disturbing, clumsy, and yet there’s something about it which appeals to you. Or maybe you turned on the radio in the car on your way to work and caught yourself bouncing around on the seat to some new, technoish beat that you’d rather die before admitting, even to yourself, that you like it. But there you have it. Some artwork just has “it”, usually because the creator does. There are some patterns too deeply ingrained into our ancient brain-systems to even comprehend. But for some reason certain things just appeal to us, and we can’t stop them from doing so any more than you can stop the rain from falling on your newly straightened hair. We will often refer to these songs or works of arts as “guilty pleasures” – if we even mention liking them around someone – but what is wrong with liking something because it’s considered too popular, too tacky, too wrong in some way or other? Chances are you can’t help liking it, because to you, it has the “it” factor.

The Moment

Time being an object can certainly be debatable. I still consider time to be the fourth dimension. If we can move along a timeline, it stands to reason that there is such a thing. Without time everything would be at a standstill. At absolute zero even time freezes. So for me, a certain moment can be a thing all of its own. Moments are very complex though. Consider the myriad of things that you experience in a single moment; your surroundings with their objects, sounds, smells, the light, the temperature, then the people around you, if they are talking, what are they talking about, how does that make you feel, what are you sitting on, or standing on, or lying on for that matter, whatever you were thinking about, tasting, the music you hear… there will be moments where you get filled up by such a strange sensation, like you couldn’t be more alive, like you are bursting with pain, joy, energy, all at once, and like you want to stay there always. To me, that is an “it” moment. I treasure them and stow them away in my head. For the hard times.

Defining the It

I would like to know if you can do that for me. Because maybe you are of the persuasion that the “it” is merely a combination of several different factors, and the “it” doesn’t actually exist. But for me, sometimes the reason you feel something can’t be explained. Try as I may, I believe that there are “it”s out there, and that there will be many more, and that there is something that sets them aside from just being happy, or just getting along with someone, or just liking something for… well, whatever reason you may want to come up with. But then tell me if you think I’m wrong, and explain the “it” to me, if you’d be so kind. Or maybe you’d like to share an “it”-moment, or talk about when you met an “it”-person? I’d love to hear about it.

The Four Seasons

No, I’m not writing about the Vivaldi composition. Well,  I could link it to you for sure, but that’s not really the theme here. I would have to do a lot more research to be able to write an entire blogpost about that. What I meant to say is, the seasons are a’changing now. In Sweden at least, summer has with certainty and determination taken the giant step into fall, with all things, good and bad, in tow. So without further ado, I present to you, a little something about what I think about when I think about the Four Seasons.



I feel that spring brings out the child in us all. Yes, we become wild and crazy to break free from a long and hard winter, but in a soft and kind way. Everything seems brighter, softer yet with more contrast. The colours are vibrant yet natural, gentle enough that they won’t scare a doe or frighten a hare that peaks through the greenery. For me as a child, spring always meant Easter with all its joys. Egg-hunts, egg-eating, egg-boiling, egg-painting, egg-cracking. Chocolate and candy in giant colourful papier-mache containers. Decorations galore. Sour herring on hard-bread with gräddfil. And more eggs. Oh the special sort of magic there was for me in that early morning, sneaking around the house in the hope to catch the Easter Bunny on his busy route. In later years once I started losing faith, the honour of egg-hider sometimes fell on my skinny shoulders. But I think what I looked forward to the very most with spring was the flowers. I have always, and probably will always, love, live, breathe for flowers. To be able to make that first wraith and place on my head in a playful attempt at some long forgotten youthful goddess was for me an insurmountable joy.


Ah the warmth. The long days, the light almost tangible, certainly tangible when it turns into a solid sunburn on your bare skin. For me as a child, summer started off as a hazy blur of splashing around in the kiddy-pool or the ocean, then wild-strawberries threaded onto grass-straws, then the smell of benzine at gas-stations as we stopped for ice-cream. As soon as I got past the toddler stadium it was about fighting the imaginary enemies that me and my siblings saw in the tall weeds, a fallen tree turned into a fort, we’d hide amongst stacks of fire-wood with nuts and dried fruits that we’d stolen from the kitchen… but better still were summers as I got just a little older. Then I started seeing the magic in all. I could see the little fairies as they darted in the twilight-shadows, the tress whispering in the mild breeze, the special words and spells you could bind on a midsummer-night. Summer-rain was something truly special and fine, something to be enjoyed fully in silence, just accepting the lukewarm downpour. Thunder, oh the thunder and lightning! I would run outside so I could feel the mighty rumbles all the better, my worried parents calling after me. Oh the thunder-storm on a hot summer afternoon, followed by that fresh flowery scent that rises out of the very earth itself when glistening with the blessed summer-rain steams itself onwards into starry night.


This season is what made me start writing this blogpost. I’m feeling it rising verily in my blood as we speak. I’ve always been a child of the fall you see 🙂 When I said that the sort of wildness you feel in spring is a childish and sweet one, I meant compared to the one you feel in the fall. Autumn brings about something heavy and dark, and urge to live and breathe while there’s still red in the leaves, before the ground freezes. Fall to me is hunt, gather, search, taste, see… crisp cold apples right of the branch stinging your teeth, that unique rustle of just fallen leaves underfoot, that special bite that the crazed wind brings to your cheeks… How can anyone explain just the way they feel when they see a Rowan ripe with berries in the evening-suns fire-rays? It’s a secret of ancient times, something that was spoken of so long ago we can’t quite understand the mystery now. Fall is my favourite season for that very reason. It’s wild, ripe, strong, fearless yet desperate, warm yet ruthless. It lets us feel what we feel, and if we feel nothing it makes us.


Mmmmmm. It instantly makes me think of that special, snuggly, well-earned feeling you get when you’ve been out playing in the snow for hours and get inside to a roaring fire and a cup of hot chocolate. Do you think that is only a cliché and the stuff of stories? Because that was a whole lot of my winters growing up. That and struggling out of the drenched, stuffy winter-clothes. That and getting a face-full of snow. That and getting colds and aches and not being able to go outside. But despite all the hardships of winter, the special sense of calm that it brings us when all of nature falls asleep in a long and slow dream of spring, that special sense makes it all worth it to me. And then there’s Christmas. To some it is just a commercial trick to lure people into spending their money on worthless knacks and stress themselves into heart-attacks. But for me Christmas was stuffing little Santa’s helpers and angels into every available corner of the house, rolling out the Christmas-linens of every flat surface, decorating the ridiculously prickly fern-tree that my dad and older brothers had brought in from the forest nearby and then sitting back to wait for 12am to roll around, when the ham would be done cooking in the oven and we’d get to sneak some hot slices with mustard before bedtime. And when my dad read aloud to us from Susan Cooper’s “Dark is Rising” as we spread the butter thickly on the Welsh Bara Brith and felt the cold wind try to force its way through the floor as we sat wide-eyed on lambskin rugs well into the dark hours… winter just couldn’t get better. And probably never will.



So which season is your favourite, if you have one? Why do you love or hate the seasons? What’s a really good seasonal memory that you’d like to share?


Is that a real word? Hmmm. I think so. Overindulgence. Yup, spell-check doesn’t say no. Ok. So that’s what this post is about. Randomly.


Addiction for instance. I find the one leads to the other. You have to, at some point or some level, be addicted to something in order to then overindulge in it. Or just be really good at it, and get carried away, and overindulge. It’s like when you catch a whiff of something amazing so you keep sniffing until you get sick from it. Overindulging in a scent. Or get a feeling and just keep feeling it because it’s so good, until you get exhausted. So I don’t think overindulgence is only food and drink and drugs and such, I think it can exist on many planes. Even freedom or a hot bath can be good causes for such behaviour, and can lead to the dangerous effects of overindulgence.

Because whenever I get too much of something good I find that I either get; a hangover, a sore throat, a way bloated and stuffed feeling, pain all over, exhaustion etc. So when they say you can never get too much of a good thing, they’re lying, and don’t listen to them. Whoever they are.

Things I have overindulged in of late;

  • Alcohol (and mixing the drinks too, which is so much worse)
  • Smoking
  • Not eating
  • Love
  • Guilt
  • Sun
  • Thoughts
  • Flowers
  • Lack of sleep
  • Killing time
  • Worrying
  • Reading
  • Blogs

Wait a second blogs isn’t a word? How about blog’s? Blogs’? Bloggs? WTF! I’m doing something that doesn’t exist! That is so awesome! Like levitating or being invisible or something!

Anyways, overindulging can be depriving yourself of things too, (like eating or sleep) because then you are overindulging  in the lack of something. If that makes any sense at all.

Things I would like to be overindulging in right now;

  • Relaxation
  • Alone-time
  • Roller coasters
  • Fireworks
  • Italian food
  • Stars
  • Cleaning
  • Sleep


I have this crazy tendency to only be able to exist on one end of the spectrum at the one time. Either I have a lot of something or nothing at all. I like extremes, and I do not enjoy staying in the middle of the road. Though sometimes extremes can be really unhealthy. But I don’t care because we only live once.

I apologize for how weird this post looks and how random and ranty and irate it is. And short, too. Now what do you like to overindulge in/what are you currently overindulging in in your life?

Of bad weather and how to make it good.

For 3 days now, St. John’s, NL – where I currently reside – has been covered in a thick layer of fog. To many people this has been depressing. Even to me on the third day. But sometimes fog can be the most wonderful thing. So can snow, rain, thunder… so this post, I dedicate to the good sides of bad weather.



Fog can be very depressing, dreary, heavy, boring… or, you can think about how mystical and quiet it is. The first night of this 3-day fog I went out for a cigarette on my front porch at 3 in the morning. I had a large cup of jasmine-tea with me and as I sat down, I noticed that right across the road from where I live, a street light had captured the glimmering droplets on a tree in its glow, transforming it into a miracle of sparkles. On top of that, the fog surrounding the tree turned the light into solid beams. It literally looked like the tree itself was glowing. So I just sat there in the silence, enveloped by fog as it mixed with smoke and steam and watched this glorious sight right across the street. It was a very tranquil and magical moment. So next time you go “yuck, it’s all foggy out and my hair will get damp and…” just stop for a second and think about how calm and soothing everything gets when it’s covered in a thick blanket of fog.


Ever since I was a kid, running out into a heavy shower of warm summer-rain was one of the best feelings in the world. Just standing there and freely allowing this natural shower to drench you instead of running and hiding under a roof as soon as there’s a chance of getting wet. There are so many different kinds of rain. There’s the “menacingly beating on the roof you really don’t want to go out side right now” kind of rain. The “softly falling around the house you probably want to take a nap” kind. Or the “I’m light and warm, why don’t you come outside and take a walk?” So many more different kinds. And just think about that wonderful fresh feeling in the air and earth when a heavy rain has just stopped falling, as if everything got washed and clean and all the tension has left the air. Last but not least, we mustn’t forget puddles. If you didn’t with glee run around and splash as hard as you could in the biggest of puddles at least once or twice as a kid, go get some rubber-boots right now and try it. Seriously.


I don’t really think I need to say much about snow for people to think of the positive qualities of this weather. From those first tiny flakes that make you go “oh my god it’s snowing! it’s snowing!” to that heavy snowfall that shuts down schools and work, it can bring us joy in so many ways. Snowball fights, snowmen, snow-angels, snow-forts… or just that wonderful cozy moment in front of a fireplace/tv with a cup of hot beverage of choice when the snow is soundlessly covering your house and making you feel cuddled. Though my favorite snow moment is when you’re out walking and slowly this snowfall starts building up until they are gigantic fluffy flakes that cover your clothes and the world around you as they in a slow and stately manner float towards the ground. Just that sight, as the big flakes coat everything around them in such an un-intrusive way. I love it.


When I was young, I used to think I could talk to the wind and it would understand me. (I still do sometimes but then I’m weird so…). I had made up this little language. And there was this one song that I would sing over and over as the wind crashed through the trees overhead;

  • Vaja nujubrava, of farand of rashag of ess. (travel great wind, over land and sea and search)
  • Ess ogonom em limonogo, lefa, lekara, leijong. (search for the voice of the water, air, fire and stone)
  • Vaja nujubrava, of farand of rashag of ess. (travel great wind, over land and sea and search)

Yes, I was only 8, and yes I was a weird kid. Anyways, I always had this special relationship to the wind, like we were friends or something. And when it blew in different ways it would mean different things. Winds are playful, they can be mighty and destructive or gentle and sweet. Kind of like a 5-year-old with a lot more power than any 5-year-old should have. But next time the wind blows, think about the way it feels and sounds, and what it might mean.

Thunder and Lightning.

I saved this for last. Because as much as I love the above mentioned weathers, this one… is just so awesome! Mighty crashing, booming sounds on top of blinding flashes of light! How can anything be more awe-inspiring, and make you feel as insignificant yet great, as lightning? I remember well many summers when I would run outside as soon as I heard that distant rumble, to catch it at its peak and feel it roaring around me, through the grass under my feet. My parents would yell at me to come back inside. I was never scared, only fascinated and overjoyed. The chances of getting struck are after all not that super big, unless you’re standing in the middle of a field with a copper-rod on your head.  But the sensation of all that deep wave of sound rolling over and into you after flash upon flash of lightning… it can’t be matched by anything else.