I painted this chair yesterday and I mopped that floor
The chair is the first piece of furniture I ever bought, I call it my “high chair”, I use it to contemplate.
The floor is the first floor I ever layed.
In our first cabin we split solid logs in two layed them down, flat side up. This floor however is store-bought (shitty boards, they wanted to throw them out) the reason and one of the more important lessons when building pioneer-style: Yes. You can! build everything yourself, absolutely but not in ONE SEASON. Can´t be done.
This is my home-position
This is my work-position
(a reader of mine recorded some bits and pieces from a talk show)
This is dinner
(I call it “Pulled cockerel”)
And this is my son Sebastian as he looks the moment he arrives home
Still goofy. Wise eyes.
My daughter will also come home soon.
If you have the time I strongly recommend this (more or less) long read by Rachel Cusk. She writes about adolecense and the hurt you experience as a parent- when your children begin to challenge and redefine the family story (and the simultaneous pride because you know, deep down, that it´s a good thing, you know that the story you so carefully crafted is inadequate)
In a way it´s a good thing with this snowfall- it gave me the time to finish up the work that had to be done on the inside.
Painting the past. Mopping the floor. A chance to carry the child even though he´s getting to big for it. To realize that I have accepted the work and now rest in it. Canning dinner so we can eat well in the busy days to come… soon we will run out like escaping prisoners or wild goats, we will roll out to outside like a tsunami but not just yet.
We need to negotiate the family story. We need to eat pickled herring on rye bread and hunt easter eggs.
The featured image to this post is my doorstep.
Snow. Thaw. Snow.
As I write this: a heavy snowfall on the outside, as if the outside dosn´t want us to go there, as if we are confined to the inside.
I´m writing a book about something spiritual. It´s been a work in process for years. What I love the most in the whole wide world (besides my family) is to sit by this table, drink this writing tea, work on that book- it might be “professional” suicide but I think it´s time we begin to speak about the spiritual, seems as a logical next step. To connect the mopping of floors with larger concepts such as “the meaning of life” for instance. Not to mention how climate change requires us to redefine and negotiate the family story of human kind.
How climeate change demands that we contextualize our existence.
My spirituality revolves around the gods of my ancestors.
The old had a concept called “Fimbul winter”
Fimbul winter is the beginning of the collapse, the end of the world as we know it. A winter that never ends. Bonechilling cold, heartbreakingly dark. Winter, to my ancestors, was a time of working on the inside (family, self- this might be the reason why we Scandinavians are so eery) but it is also a time that needs to end.
It absolutely and most necessarily needs to end.
Doomsday would be a winter that never ends.
The worst possible scenario, the most incomprehensible tragedy, the horror!
So when I wine about the snowfall, when my desperation pours through this screen it´s because I can´t STAND that this winter… does not end.
My neighbour is in Denmark working. When she heard about the snowfall she began to cry.
I can´t believe it´s snowing right now.
Big fat snowflakes.
I´ll continue to report.