First I am going to say something about me. Then I am going to say something about the climate crisis and how I think we might survive/adres/live through it.
I´m going to say something about me- first- because I think one of the major problems of our time is that we lost the embodied story, we lost the stories that are real, rooted and personal. We mostly have abstract stories now; numbers and nonsense political variations over the theme of, or the story of, “powerlessness”. Blah blah blah.
I think we need stories more than ever, stories about real people, real struggles, real journeys because they can inspire us and make us think outside of the so called box that we currently inhabit. I think we need storytellers more than ever and I think we need elders more than ever but I also think like this; we, you and I, will soon enough become somebodys ancestor, either in bloodline or in spirit. We will be carriers of story whether we like it or not and I want- the deepest longing of my soul is- that these stories will not only be stories of destruction and greed, unbelievable stupidity, ecocide, facism and war- but also a stories of sensitive beings who tried, who did their best… to understand the times they lived through.
Stories about how we protected and guarded the golden inheritance. Passed it on.
Some of our alternative stories, different from the dominant ones, need to survive the coming armageddon, the Ragnarok of our evil empire and so we need to speak.
Here, here, now hear me whisper;
In the old days the storyteller would be an actual person, with a body, and the story would be told in a definite setting, a place. And also; in a definitive time.
I think stories need this. They need; body, place and time.
Small creatures they are, stories, they feed off of body, place, time.
They´re very hungry. Almost starving.
In our world that is not always possible to tell a story from the position of a definitive body, in a definite place and at a defintive time – but we have the internet and so I´m sitting here, with this body, in this place, at this time writing this blogpost, fingers tapping as the storm is violently shaking the trees outside, the sea is roaring, Sigurd is still sleeping, this coffee is getting cold.
I think that´s why bloggers and influencers speak so much about themselves, they are trying to do this; they are trying to situate their story because this is what all good storytellers must do and this is what all good storytellers have always done.
Don´t call it narcisism. Don´t call it ego. Find another word for it.
I think I have insisted on telling the personal story, the real story. I think I have thrown myself, my body, my place and my time into the collective consiousness as much as I possibly could- because I wanted to be a good storyteller, I wanted to be a better ancestor, I wanted to change the stories of powerlessness.
But it almost broke me, I wont lie. It´s taken me some time to heal. I´m weak as fuck and sensitive too, I´m a quivering jellyfish and I´ve been thinking that I shouldn´t do this; speak.
I told myself that I was not made for speaking (up). I´ve told myself that there was something wrong with me because the criticism and the counterattacks hit me spot on and I felt shame. Every time. So much shame.
I´ve told myself that only the strong should speak up. That if one is to speak up one needs to grow a unpenetrable amor.
This time we live in requires that the sensitive also speak up. The weird, the different and the strange ones, the ones standing on the perimeters of accepted society because accepted society must change, the paradigme must change, the dominant stories must change.
“I will not be made into a “success story” with the sole purpose of validating my right to speak!” … I said to myself and then I went quiet in a sort of protest.
That was the time of the lone wolf.
That was the time of wandering about alone, very alone.
That time is coming to an end now. It´s been coming to end for quite some time.
This is was the introduction.
I live here now, by this tree. The tree has the shape of the fehu rune.
We have moved back to the homeland, Denmark, we live on a small island now named “Fejø”
I live in a tiny house, 12 squaremeters, Jeppe currently lives in a camper van, he wants to build his own tiny house in the spring, we want to live in tiny houses next door to each other.
We have moved because of landownership, because of money, we have moved because again and again we were confronted with the fact that we did not own the land we lived, built and worked on.
We own this land.
We only own it because people have read and bought my book.
We only own it because of you.
We own it because we dared to do what a lot of people were interested in and needed more information about.
This is my deepest pride and this is my deepest gratitude.
This is a heartfelt thank you.
Its a small plot of land but it fits our needs since we have come to experience that we dont need a lot. The dominant story tells people that they need a lot, well, they dont, you don´t, you dont need a whole lot to get by.
The land is very fertile. Old appletrees and lots of grapes. Beach property.
My tiny house has the color of foxglove and I am surrounded now by ancient burial mounds and swans, symbol of the valkyries.
These are the wetlands, this is the homeland, the homeland, the sun, the light, the elderberrytrees… all that I know, knew and grew up with.
Sometimes it makes me feel a thousand years old but in the good way…
… but I can´t say that I´m not conflicted about it for I am.
This is a giant leap of faith from my part. I am terrified and I don´t know if I can live without the deep woods, I don´t know if I can live this close to people and I don´t know if I´m ok again with the homeland, oh, this sorrow.
I have finished the raw writing of my next book.
I am desoriented and in a state of in-between. In between stories. In between certainties. I know for sure though- and this is the only thing I know- that everything changes and that one should never become the posterboy of a lifestyle because becoming stuck in a story in the worst thing that can ever happen to a storyteller.
I know that I must always be the one living in between. I have come to think it´s my destiny and I´m trying to make peace with it. I´m sitting here, this is my second cup of coffee and Sigurd is awake now, the storm is still roaring outside, and I´m trying to deal with it.
I think I was raised to always seek out certainty, predictability, but the forest changed me, deeply, and I realize that this state of in-between is probably… permanent.
Until it´s not.
Then I will be certain for a while and then that certainty will fade and die just as the leaves on the trees in autumn. It will probably be spectacular.
I remember when the forest whispered to me; “everything changes and so must you” and there was this cycle of life and death, slime and blood, rot and rosebuds.
I think that certainty is pointless.
We exist in a state of flux and must align ourselves to our surroundings.
This is what I had to say about the climate crisis and how we might survive/adress/live through it.