Åsmund Seip

Jeg

Wed, 15 May 2013 18:12:36 +0200

Havet bryter overflaten

Det er det hav gjør

Havsalt, ikke nå

men hele tiden

Omniscience

Mon, 13 May 2013 22:15:08 +0200

Who are you, she said.

I don’t know, I said.

That doesn’t compute, she said.

I know, I said.

You should get yourself together, she said.

No, I said.

(Photo: Birgitta Hollander)

A good heart will find you, just be ready then

Tue, 09 Apr 2013 21:27:21 +0200

The first time I heard Lisa Hannigan sing, was the first time I took Birgitta to a concert. She was so young. I was so young. Berlin was new to both of us, we were all new to eachother. Damien Rice was playing, but it’s Lisa Hannigan I remember, she was shining, she still is. We still are.

Then there’s Glen Hansard. I’ve never seen him live. But it feels like I have. It feels like I know him better than most of my friends, and, better yet, it feels like he knows me.

And what do you know, the two of them playing together, in my number one reason for going to Paris: Shakespeare and Company. Beautiful music, surrounded by books and people. Life at its best. It is good. And it is true.

Til kjærligheten

Sat, 09 Mar 2013 21:55:12 +0100

Man kan si at det er like verdifullt å være menneske som å være arbeidstaker, men det er det ikke. For meg handler ikke dette om likestilling. Ikke om barn, kvinner, menn, ikke om pensjonspoeng og heller ikke om politikk. For meg handler dette om det å være menneske i et land og i et system som ikke handler om å være menneske.

Siden jeg først leste Inga-Marte Thorkildsens utspill i Aftenposten på fredag har jeg vært sint. Ikke på barne- og likestillingsministeren selv, men på følelsen av å være malt inne i et hjørne, på følelsen av avmakt og hjelpeløshet. Hun sier at det ikke er like verdifullt å gå hjemme med barn som å jobbe. Jeg forstår hva hun mener med det, og at hun i en gitt kontekst har helt rett. Og det er det jeg blir sint av. At det finnes en kontekst – at vi har skapt en kontekst – hvor det ikke er like verdifullt å gå hjemme med barn som å jobbe.

Følelsen av hjelpeløshet har vært der lenge, den har gnaget og gnisset, blitt sterkere hvert fjerde år, men også gjemt seg godt bort mellom alt jeg tror jeg må bevise for å være verdt noe. Jeg kan godt synes noe om kontantstøtte og pensjon og makt og status, jeg kan godt si at det er så mye jeg er uenig i, så mye jeg føler ikke stemmer, så mange prinsipper og lover og byråkratiske irrganger jeg tror er unaturlige. Men det jeg vil si noe om er denne konteksten, denne helheten av et system som i det hele tatt muliggjør deltidsdebatten, den vil jeg si noe om.

Det er ikke slik at jeg er uenig i systemet, i politikken og måten vi former samfunnet vårt på. Det er slik at jeg opplever at den nesten ikke har noen verdens ting med meg å gjøre. Hvis jeg forsøker å være ærlig, helt nede fra magen og hjertet, da opplever jeg ikke at Norge har noe med meg å gjøre. Det gir ingen mening. Og hva skal jeg med et barne- og familiedepartement, en politikk, et system, et land som ikke gir meg noe mening?

Ja, jeg blir sint fordi jeg er uenig. Fordi jeg finner verdi i å gå hjemme med barn, ta vare på gamle og syke, tenke tanker som ikke kan måles, stå opp om morgenen, drikke en kopp kaffe. Jeg finner verdi i å sitte helt stille og kjenne pusten gå inn og ut, uten at jeg behøver å gjøre noe for å få det til. Jeg finner verdi i å ha tid til å lytte til barna mine når de spør, og sammen gå ut på leting etter svar.

Ja, jeg blir sint fordi jeg føler avmakt og hjelpeløshet. Fordi det føles som en nær umulig oppgave å beskrive hva jeg mener, presist nok. For det handler jo ikke om deltidsdebatten. Den er bare ett av mange eksempler på en gammel historie. Historien om det gamle systemet, historien om hvordan verden så ut da vi trodde at makt, jobb, status og penger var viktige. Den gangen vi ikke helt turte å se hverandre inn i øynene.

Og så er det ikke bare sinne jeg føler. Jeg føler også entusiasme og raushet og inspirasjon. Jeg føler en enorm kraft fra alle de menneskene, i Norge og i verden, som allerede skaper en ny historie, en ny politikk, en ny måte å bygge samfunn på. De som gir, de som tar sjansen på å gjøre det magen og hjertet sier er riktig, de som ser barna og hverandre inn i øynene. De som vet at vi slett ikke er hjelpeløse.

Jeg drømmer om en politikk, et samfunn og et land som bygges på og av kjærlighet og medmenneskelighet. Et samfunn som føles naturlig, som har plass for alle mennesker med alle sine forskjellige behov. Ikke fordi det er regulert inn – fordi det er en selvfølge.

Hjelpeløsheten finnes bare innenfor en gitt kontekst. Og jeg tror det som trengs er å skape en ny. En ny kontekst, og en ny historie. Jeg vet heldigvis ikke nøyaktig hvordan, men jeg vet at det er dit jeg skal. Til kjærligheten.

[Foto: Instagram/evabutterfly5]

Life in Death

Mon, 21 Jan 2013 15:57:18 +0100

The greatest thing with winter is to look at all that is dead, lifeless, naked, and to know, and to feel your body connecting deeply, instinctively, with hidden life, with the massive forces of pure and raw and real life power waiting underneath and inside, waiting patiently, because it knows and feels that all things come just as much as all things go.

Thank you.

Sun, 23 Dec 2012 21:14:27 +0100

The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon…
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

By Oriah © Mountain Dreaming,
from the book The Invitation
published by HarperONE, San Francisco,
1999 All rights reserved

I'm not leaving

Sun, 16 Dec 2012 23:38:00 +0100

Day 145.

“You know, I won’t feel at home for real before I reach the other side” she said. “It’s a scary thing to say” I thought, but I didn’t say it. It’s like a fragile package, to be handled with care, this side up, but then you miss what’s on the flip side.

The other flip side, I miss it, too, sometimes. Other times I just don’t recognize one side from the other, don’t see the difference.

My first born child came to life only a couple of days after my grandmother passed away. He was born in the winter, his fourth birthday is in fact just around the corner. The darkest time of the year. Full of light. The morning after he came, all three of us woke up in the hospital, lucky enough to have our own room, with a window, with a view. Not that we needed any, but the window, as I remember it, covered the entire wall and made the graveyard outside come so close. There we were, that crispy clear winter morning, and as the sun crawled up I watched a bunch of magpies play around in the treetops. The magpies, the birds my grandmother cherished so dearly, and she was there, as was there no difference, no sides, no life, and even less a death. I don’t know. My son just came to life, yet he was never not here. It was like meeting an old friend. My grandmother had just passed away, yet she never left. She never left.

The other flip side, I miss it, too, I think. I long for it, my heart sometimes aches for it. Other times my heart is simply filled up from it, from both sides, from no sides, from all sides.

❦

(Thank you, Anna!)
(Photo: Flickr/CreativeCommons/Red Junasun)

100 Days of Love

Mon, 10 Dec 2012 14:40:00 +0100

Day 144.

After some weeks of nervously biting my nails, I feel proud and humble and ravishingly excited - - my book is here! With the most fantastic photos from my friend, the photographer Camilla Jensen, 100 Days of Love is my very first book, a real book, a beauty printed on awesome and forest friendly paper. What started an early morning in May, as shivering movements over my Mac’s keyboard, as informal efforts of spilling of my heart out on this blog, can now be read in bed and on the toilet, it can be scribbled in and even get dog ears. It is frightening and marvelous. I love it.

I think it’s too early to say much about what it means. There’s two things I’d like to mention though, two things I tried to speak about on the amazing launch party we had last Thursday. Here they are:

1. Following my heart and doing what I love is the most kick-ass ground-shaking feeling there is!

2. We’re out of excuses. A vast landscape of different platforms, free and open, ready to use. New ways of funding, distributing, marketing and producing are emerging, sometimes free, often open, always available for good content. And most importantly— People! People are great and endlessly supportive! From friends and family to community and people you’ve never met - they’re all there waiting to help and support and cheer, once you stick your neck and your heart out. I feel endlessly grateful after these last weeks—grateful, and eager to kick more ass and shake more ground.

What I know it means is this:
Following our hearts and doing what we love is possible.

The book is available for sale here: www.asmundseip.com/book
and you can have a sneak peak at some pages here.

Here, there and Banana Village

Fri, 09 Nov 2012 21:13:45 +0100

Day 143.

Every night when I put Lean to bed, he tells me the only thing I think we can know for certain. “I am here”, he says. “I am here”.

(I’m leaving for Banana Village in Morocco this weekend, where I’ll be the co-host and coach of Soulfood & Food for the Soul—seven lush, mindful and creative days, in collaboration with the always inspiring Camilla Jensen. My book 100 Days of Love, featuring the most beautiful pictures from the same Camilla, was sent to print today, and first thing when I’m back from Africa is to set up an online shop for it. But for now, I’ll be blissfully offline for the coming week, taking a deep, deep breath before returning to a cold winter with warm projects and encounters.)

I wish you a deep, deep breath, filled of awareness that you are here.

(Photo: Hanne B. Nystrøm)

Lullaby

Thu, 08 Nov 2012 22:17:38 +0100

Day 142.

Leonard Cohen was here four years ago or so. Four years ago or so, Lean wasn’t here at all, and Elia was inside the most beautiful belly known to man. We were there, the three of us, the four of us. We were all there, just in different ways. And Leonard Cohen was there, and if my memory doesn’t cheat on me there was a light drizzle in the air, quite fitting actually. Leonard Cohen sang his songs the way he’s always done it. That’s just a guess, of course, I’d never seen Leonard Cohen perform live before, but this night was special, there was a light drizzle in the air. And I remember singing along, I remember singing for my boys, who probably won’t ever get to see Leonard Cohen perform live, but yet they did, and we sang for them, Leonard and I. We sang for them.

(Photo: Flickr/CreativeCommons/krossbow)

What is Social Innovation?

Tue, 06 Nov 2012 21:30:11 +0100

Day 141.

During an inspiring meeting in an inspiring café, an inspiring woman asked me an inspiring question. She asked:

What is Social Innovation?

And it made me think:

Yes, what is Social Innovation?

And it was kind of funny, because we were there in the inspiring café, basically discussing how to communicate and engage people in often complex matters, like social innovation often is, without boring or scaring people off. I love terms like social innovation and social entrepreneurship and (let me think, what else) disruption and new economy, I use them all the time and it’s part of what I do, it’s my work. But I also use them because they sound important and they make me look special. Sounding important and looking special is well enough, but is it social innovation?

A couple of years ago, I was on the phone with my now deceased grandfather. I’ve written about him before, he spent over 90 years on the same, small farm as I grew up on. I had quit my graphic design business and was full on in a new start up, stumbling out into the fields of social innovation. On the phone, I tried to explain to my grandfather what I was doing, and why. He was a smart guy, allright, but happily, he lived far away from any buzzword. I remember it so well, how he listened patiently to my efforts, how he allowed the silence to be there when I was done. He wasn’t making a point with his silence, it was just a part of how he talked. Then he said:

Yes… Doing good things for other people is a good thing.

The stuff that owns us

Mon, 05 Nov 2012 21:11:06 +0100

Day 140.

I spent the weekend with my parents, who have arrived safely at their new home, at least while looking for their next. We talked a lot about stuff and things and stuff again, all the things we carry with us, all the stuff we think we need. My family is not exactly, if I dare say, minimalistic. I’ve been raised to take care of things, which is well enough, but perhaps not up to the point where I scream at my kids when they brake a glass. It’s just a glass, what the fuck. Scarcity is in my blood, I grew up with so many stories of poverty, hunger and a different life, a different time.

It happens that I find myself eating chocolate, lots of it, almost as fast as I can. Completely unaware of my own behavior, I wolf it down like a 5-year old in cookie jar heaven. When I come to realize what I’m doing, I’m left with a sickening feeling of shame and guilt.

And so eventually I have the possibility to inherit lots of stuff. Old stuff, tables and spinning wheels and books and lamps and what do I know from 3-4-5 generations back. Some things are truly nice, like my grandfather’s watch, I love it, I want to wear it. Other things are there simply because nobody’s ever asked why.

Why do we keep the things we keep? Writing about this feels like treading water, like 101 years of heaviness. It feels like the sticky stuffy fear of not having enough, of never getting enough, like the fear of not making it. It feels like something I don’t want to keep.

And if I’m not entirely mistaken, the only real option is this:
Let the fuck go.

Strange consequences

Sun, 04 Nov 2012 20:22:23 +0100

Day 139.

Osho was many things. To me, he sometimes serves as inspiration, sometimes I feel deeply touched by him, and other times I find him outright annoying. I’ll give him one thing though — he is a shiny example of taking life damn seriously while not taking life so damn seriously.

If you find a saint who has no sense of humour, then he is not a saint at all.

(Photo: Flickr/CreativeCommons/pieton-cosmic)

Who are you when you're falling backwards?

Sat, 03 Nov 2012 20:19:25 +0100

Day 138.

The rain is coming down and the spirit is on its way up. After a long, brainstormy walk I have a moment by myself before taking the boys to their grandparents.

My writing took a new turn yesterday, as a Norwegian text of mine was published on a friend’s blog. It feels good and frightening to express myself in my native language. Frightening because I feel naked, good because it’s an opportunity to express my self in more “authentic and precise” ways, as a commenter suggested.

I can see how I’m sometimes using English as a mask to hide behind, but at the same time it feels like allowing different parts of my personality (soul) to become visible. Who am I when I write English? Who am I when I speak German?

I love the picture of letting myself fall backwards. Falling backwards into myself. Understanding the importance of letting go is a lot to ask from a head, but that’s excactly what my soul is asking, again and again. Let go and let the truth of who I am emerge through every moment I’m here, through every language and stumbling human expression, let go, let go and let the soul dance through me.

Seeing what's underneath

Fri, 02 Nov 2012 21:18:58 +0100

Day 137.

So many thoughts and ideas and projects and possibilities and openings and movement, so much mindblowingly exciting stuff, so much goodness and so many incredible people! I might be narrow minded, and if I am, goodness gracious me is it a great thing to be.

Treating each other with dignity is as simple as honouring what’s underneath our individual masks. (Chris Morris)

I was looking at a friend the other day, seeing him talk and do his things like friends do, and there was this brief moment when I looked at him and all his things just disappeared in front of my eyes, and there was this beautiful human being left, this human artwork, millions of years of evolution concentrated in that very moment, yet unquestionably him and no other, and I recognized him like never before, the humanbeingness in him, the him behind the him, and it was almost too much, an overwhelming feeling of love.

A monk's vow

Tue, 30 Oct 2012 06:49:53 +0100

Day 136.

How do monks really do it? The first week I understand. Even the first month. But then?

Commitment is a scary thing for me. I could blame it on my star sign, my seeking nature, but it doesn’t quite cut it. It’s not the explanation I care about, it’s the feeling, the feeling of commitment. How does it feel like to be a monk? After a month? A year? Ten?

I have small children, and even if at times it’s hard to admit, it is a chosen commitment. I love it, and it’s killing me, and I love it. I love those little creatures to bits, I am their father and I will be their father every day, hopefully for the rest of my life. Every day!

It makes me feel two things:

1. A dark hole opens up and I fall and I fall, screaming, the more I panic the further I fall, it’s cold and wet and I’m in a cave and it’s tight and there’s spiders and snakes and the walls are coming closer.

2. Determination. Meaning, deep meaning. I feel peace, I am here, plain and simply here. There’s nothing I have to do, nothing I have to become. There’s two beautiful, so beautiful little humans who only ask that I am here. I am here.

Doing beautiful

Mon, 29 Oct 2012 07:29:43 +0100

Day 135.

How often don’t we think we need to be faster and better and stronger, while everything life asks from us is beauty? Do what you do, but feel it.

In the deeply experienced doing hides the beautiful being.

Feel it, my friend, feel the misunderstandings and the expectations, feel the average Monday morning, the rain. Feel the coffee and the inspiration, feel your heart beating, the dance of your eyelids, the start of a new week!

Drive.

Sat, 27 Oct 2012 20:18:42 +0200

Day 134.

Yes, I know, political correctness and such, but I just love to drive my car. Oh, what a delight to turn the key around! Not that it even gets close to a macho growl, we’re talking Japanese plastic fantastic, but it doesn’t matter. It has four wheels and an engine and I can drive it anytime I want!

Alone, screaming as loud as I can. With both kids in the back, the girl of my life in the front, filled coffee mugs and a long day of driving. A roadtrip, yes, a roadtrip with someone interesting, stopping for lunch, conversations growing deeper as the distance from everything else is growing larger. And alone, again, with electronic music or Tom Waits or maybe opera or simply in silence. Think, or not think, but drive and drive.

Ah, what a relief that we have cars. I want green cars, sustainable cars, cars you can eat when you’re done with them. A friend of mine allegedly owns a Fisker Karma, I hope he reads this and invites me for a drive. I won’t even try to eat it!

So many cars, so less time. So many possibilities, even for this post. I’m thinking I need a moralistic ending, but, pardon my french, screw that. I just love to drive. That’s all.

Singing beginning

Thu, 25 Oct 2012 07:29:51 +0200

Day 133.

Restless days, filled of creative explosions and determined action, followed by moments of excruciating doubt and judgement, tornadoes of shame and guilt and whatnot, and then quiet.

Quiet.

It happens that I think I should be somebody else. A Buddhist monk, for instance, that’s a somebody it sometimes would have been nice to be. Then, other times, like right now for instance, it’s very clear to me that I am in fact nobody else, and neither should I be. It may come as a surprise at times, but I am not a Buddhist monk, no matter how much I try.

I am here.

And right now I am here in my kitchen, listening to the sound of my two year old slowly waking up. He often stays put in his bed for a while, singing some songs.

Can you imagine that?
No hurry, no need for change, no excruciating doubts.
Just a little boy, singing songs about a sleeping bear.
That’s it.

Chance and the incredible you

Mon, 22 Oct 2012 09:04:22 +0200

Day 132, Berlin.

You. Yes, you. Have you ever thought about chance? About coincidences and luck? Do you know the statistical probability for you being here in the first place? For your parents to meet at the time they met, for them to forgive eachother after the rough argument, for your grandparents, your great grandparents and all those who came before to not only meet, but fall in love and have great sex (let’s at least hope it was great — a bit awkward, I know, but hey!)?

Watching the stars can fill you with wonder, but try closing your eyes for a second. For a moment, just consider the incredible unlikeliness of you being here, right now. Consider the unimaginable chain of events that have taken place, the series of meetings and kisses and disappointments and ecstasies and the whole array of human emotions over time, consider the waterdrop reflecting the universe, consider you reflecting everything. For a second or two, close your eyes with me, and try to get in touch with the feelings in your body, with how it feels like to be you, right here. You are here. It may be luck, it may be coincidence and chance — the reasons why you are here may be many and complex — but one thing seems pretty clear; You are here.

How does it feel like to be here?
How does it feel like to be you?