I deleted my blog.
I deleted six years of blogging.
I deleted over 300 entries.
I let go.
It took a lot of time. As I removed the posts, individually, I drank nettle and fennel thea, and let my eyes rest on the crisp white surface on the world outside these old windows. Chop wood. Fetch water.
Do what needs to be done.
If I learned anything in the forest it is this: do what needs to be done.
Even when you´re scared or have doubts or don´t really know what needs to be done, just push through, work hard with your hands, my hands where dancing over the keyboard, it was nice.
Kind of like chopping the head of a chicken. Definitive. Necessary.
I also deleted my facebook account but I´m still on instagram
It took me a lot of time to finally realize that what had once been liberating and creative had now become a cannonball tied to my wrist. Being stuck in a story. Tied to autofiction/creative fiction, the genre that has no ENDING.
See, stories cannot be like that. They need to have a beginning and an ending, you need to finish the chapters and close the book. Not because you´re constantly “reinventing yourself” (read: as if thats a bad thing) but because you CHANGE.
Everything changes all of the time. That´s the second most important think I learned in the forest.
The written word fixates. This is the power of it. But as I have lived like this I have become more and more flexible – at the same time more clear, robust, there, than ever.
How to transcribe that?
How to transmit it?
It´s so contradictory.
You know this, you´ve seen how I´ve gradually written less and less in this space- and more and more in my secret, hidden manuscript, well tugged in between my many essays and projects on this computer. I´ve written over 400 pages on nature and spirituality, norse mythology and, well, um, me. I still believe in the power of the written word and in the importance of having a voice, using it, I just also believe that some stories are not linear and cannot be told in such a fashion (even when you try) and some stories are more like a carrier bag of acorns (i.e ursula le guins carrier bag theory on fiction) and my carrier bag has been full, I needed to empty it.
“Tell the same story again and again until you understand it” the ghost said but I think I understand it now.
That´s the why.
A couple of nights ago it was the dark moon, then the thinnest, most fragile new moon.
I was sitting on a big iceage old rock in the darkness, gazing over the moonlit landscape, I was there with a friend, we were just there to observe.
To sit still on a large rock.
That´s where I´ll be.
But you know, I know you know, you whom have followed me for all these years and have witnessed – that I love you and that I am very grateful, so grateful!
We have buildt trust and a little bit of community, strangers connecting is really one of the most powerful things on earth. For your reading pleasure I give you this. These are the lines along which I am thinking currently: this is well written and interesting.
I also, as always, recommend that you read some Ben Hewitt. He is very down to earth in his writing style. Down to earth is good.
Also if you read german or know anybody who does I recommend my book about our first year in the forest.
You can also buy it in danish of course.
I recommend it because I´m proud of it. It took me some years to tell the story, then understand the story, then to be proud of it. If anything I have come to realize that stories takes time.
And in order to tell them properly you need to sit quitely on large rocks, sometimes for a little longer than you anticipated and sometimes you have to let go if you want to hold on.