Hemmeligheten er: Du er alltid her.
(elske, sanse, dele, danse)
Sårbarhet, mot og kjærlighet: stillhuman.no og Senter for bevisst fødsel (kommer snart)
Bli den råeste prestasjonen av ditt ytterste potensiale! NÅ!
I dag vil jeg si noe om prestasjon. Prestasjon er svært viktig. Prestasjon er grunnstammen i vår solide samfunnskontrakt. Prestasjon er nøkkelen til suksess, veien mot seier og suverenitet. Det er avgjørende at vi alle presterer vårt ytterste, fra fødsel til grav, fra morgen til kveld og aller helst på natten også. Prestasjon! Kom igjen! Du er rå! Kråker er forresten sinnsykt gode til å prestere! Fra kjøkkenvinduet mitt så jeg akkurat en kråke ta den helt ut, prestere helt ut på kanten av hva den trodde den kunne. Jeg hadde en pose med tomflasker stående, og som alle erfarne kråker vet, kan poser inneholde svært mye bra. Kråka tok tak i posen, dro den med seg flerfoldige meter og begynte å spre tomflaskene ut over veien for å få oversikt. Som den ansvarlige naboen og medborgeren jeg er, avbrøt jeg på dette tidspunktet kråka. Ingen biler måtte stoppe under innspillingen av denne historien. Men hvem vet hva kråka ville gjort, hadde jeg latt den fortsette?
Kråker er i grunn innmari spennende dyr. Visste du for eksempel at de har den største hjernen i forhold til kroppen av alle fugler? Akkurat nå sitter kråka og kråkevennen hans utenfor kjøkkenvinduet mitt. De ser misfornøyde ut. Kanskje tenker de på posen, kanskje prøver de å klekke en plan. De kan nemlig det, kråker, planlegge og konspirere. De kan til og med kjenne igjen et menneske fra et annet menneske. Muligens er det lurt for meg å gå ut bakveien etterpå. Eller sette ut posen med tomflaskene igjen.
Ja, ja. Kråker, du. Dette var jammen en hyggelig start på dagen!
I en epost fra barnehagen kunne jeg i dag lese at de hadde oppdaget mark. Mark, ja sånn mark som bor i rompa og som kommer ut på natten for å legge egg. Fy faen! Æsj! Jeg kan være med på influensa og oppkast og bæsjebleier, men mark? Det er ingen som har forberedt meg på det, ingen varselplakater eller skolekampanjer, jeg har ikke lest om det i avisen eller hørt noen snakke om det på bussen. Æsj! Mark! Den er til og med ekstremt smittsom, tenk på det! Hvis ikke jeg passer meg intenst så kommer jeg også til å ha ekle, små, hvite og grusomme mark inni rævva. Hvem kan jeg stemme på for å få slutt på det? Noen, jeg driter i hvem, men noen bør gå i seg selv og ta seg helt sykt kraftig sammen!
Heldigvis finnes det et reseptfritt middel som gjør at vi svært raskt kan bli kvitt udyrene. Det er jo vidunderlig, og jeg er glad for at hverken sønnene mine eller jeg selv må gå rundt i lengre tid med hybelboere nedentil. Jeg har nok med meg selv, kan du si.
Men her er den da, virkeligheten, hver dag. Igjen og igjen gir livet oss muligheten til å ta den innover oss, og la oss berøre. Føle noe. Leve. Og nesten like ofte løper vi til apoteket eller vinmonopolet eller Netflix eller kjøleskapet for å slippe unna. Eller vi blir sinte, legger skylden på andre og tenker nøye igjennom moral og rettferdighet.
Virkeligheten er stygg og skitten og skrukkete. Grumsete og gjørmete. Slimete, ekkel og svært, svært smertefull. Jeg skjønner godt at vi har utviklet geniale strategier for å komme oss vekk fra den, jeg bruker mange av dem selv.
Samtidig, skritt for skritt, pust for pust, blir det viktigere og viktigere for meg å møte den. Å romme den, se den inn i øynene, hvordan den nå enn ser ut i dag. Mark! Romfolk! Angst! Politikere! Hodepine! Uro!
Men også tilstedeværelse! Kjærlighet! Øyne! Skaperglede! Kaffe!
Before going to bed, my boys and I went for a short walk down to the sea. We wanted to fish for some crabs, but as it was late we ended up simply sitting by the shore, one kid on each knee. We watched a huge seagull take off, with his lazy wings. A sailboat was gently lifted up and down by the waves. Elia wondered how it would be to sleep in one of those, on the sea, wondered if I had ever done it. Up and down, I explained. Up and down. A perfect way to fall asleep.
I love the sea, I love the waves. They make such a perfect picture of life itself. The cyclical nature of life, of living and being, drawn in the sand by salt water.
Let go, but don’t forget to also let come. The sea never forgets. It gives and receives with ease, maybe even with grace. My grandmother, growing up in a fisherman’s village in the north, once saw her father haul dead bodies up on the beach. She couldn’t have been more than nine, that’s when he passed away, too. As they always say up there, the sea gives and the sea takes.
I like to think that I breathe with the sea. That there’s an ocean within me, sometimes stormy, sometimes calm. Inhale. Swim. Exhale.
The sea in me is the sea in you.
The beauty of it is the movement, the omnipresent change. It always does. So do we. Yet the sea is always the sea. So are we.
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.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?