Hemmeligheten er: Du er alltid her.
(elske, sanse, dele, danse)
Sårbarhet, mot og kjærlighet: stillhuman.no og Senter for bevisst fødsel (kommer snart)
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.
Do you ever get lost and found while looking at the sea? Dreaming yourself into the waves, the moving patterns, the coming and going?
This is like it, only different. This is the place we’re walking on every day. This is the root chakra of the world, the incredible power underneath every surface. Watch it, then close your eyes and watch it again.
Do you have a dream? If the answer is no, get out of your cave and start smelling the flowers. On the other hand, if you do have a dream, there’s something I think you should know. It’s not a big thing really, just a small sentence. Three words, only. They sound great when whispered. But shouting them out loud feels like painting with Technicolor:
Nothing is impossible.
Enter Tom Sachs. Tom really likes space, as in outer space. I would guess one of his dreams is to go to space. To the Moon. To Mars. Although not everything takes the shape one might imagine, or expect, Tom Sachs is a newly discovered living proof that nothing is impossible. Do you dream of Mars? Then go there!
I want to tell a little story about my grandfather. His name was Herlaug, a rather peculiar name for a Norwegian man, as it by most people is perceived as a name belonging to a woman. I don’t think Herlaug was ever perceived as such himself. Yet because of his name he was never called for military duty, a consequence his parents most likely did not see coming when they baptized him, but one my grandfather always seemed to appreciate.
Herlaug was born in the same house as I grew up in myself. A small house on a small farm in a small village in a small country, my childhood was full of stories from back then, from all the life lived before me. Every rock, every tree, every whispering summer night had its own story to it, its own meaning and its own purpose. Stories of struggle, hardship and breaking ground by hand. Stories of finding a way, stories of having to find a way.
And stories of joy, when you found your way.
There’s one story I remember in particular. Not because of the many details or the intrinsic drama. Simply because it gave me a certain perspective. I was a kid with dreams, I always dreamt of the great world out there and the seven seas and Africa and Australia and New York and everything that could be done and explored and experienced. I moved away when I was 16, out, out into the world. I met my beautiful girlfriend in Brisbane. I have yet to see Africa, but as I was in New York for the first time a couple of years ago, in a business meeting in a posh club on Manhattan, the furthest one could possibly come from the house and the farm, I told a story about my grandfather, about Herlaug.
The first time my grandfather ever left his village, he was 17. At 17, he went to the nearest town, some 40 kilometers away. Up until then, all he knew from the world outside his pocket was what he could read in whichever book he could come across. And there I was, on Manhattan, and my grandfather was there with me. I stood there with him, and a little bit for him.
My grandfather passed away this February, 94 years old. He first suffered from a stroke, in his home on the farm, then spent 11 days falling asleep.
Back in New York, I called him from Barnes and Noble on Union Square, to share it all with him. I’m not sure he could fully comprehend what I was saying. But I could feel in my heart he was proud of me. The distance between Velfjord and Manhattan was gone, and any idea of preference, of achievement, of better than or greater when, simply gone. Love is all there is, and morfar, my dear friend, I thank you. I am so proud of you too.