Category: Life stories

I remove my pyjamas. Loose-fitting pants, sturdy socks, a sports shirt, and running shoes on. Off I go.

Rasteby is nothing special; if there were more than ten houses in total, I’d be surprised. There’s only one road, so I choose to go left. I run along the road, the left side, so the cars see me coming and I don’t have any cars behind me. A long road, with the mountains on the left, covered with deciduous forest, a cliff about twenty meters high on the right, and then the sea, bright blue today, just like your eyes, my Love.

I run and try to estimate three kilometers as accurately as possible, so I’ll cover six kilometers in total. For days, I’ve felt my senses running at full speed. The left side of the road, I look at the mountain ridge, the woods, and then hear some bells.

Further on, three sheep are standing higher up on the cliff, eating the tough grass. They remind me of waking up on a mountainside in Ireland, crawling out of the tent, and hearing bleating sheep eating grass, a little further up the mountain from our tent.

After the sheep, a sharp left turn that I can’t see into, but as I round the bend, the world opens up again. In the distance, a headland extending into the sea, a rise in the road. I decide this is my final destination for today and run.

It’s warm, about sixteen degrees, which is really warm for here. The wind is coming from the sea and is fresh, a steady northerly wind. The last kilometre and a half pass smoothly by, and at the top of the hill in the road, I start stretching. I have to muster up the courage to run back, my feet heavy. Why? A little mental pressure, and my legs start moving. Off I go.

A few bushes block my view of the sea, but once past them an expanse of blue engulfs my vision, I feel the force of what I see in my gut like a punch. Just as blue as yours.

I swallow and look ahead, hoping it will fade. On the verge, I see first yellow, then white, and then purple flowers, and I think of those stems between your fingers as you carefully snap them to transfer the flowers to your braid or a spot in your clothes.

My chin trembles, and I suddenly long for my mother’s soft, warm sweaters to hide in.

On the left side of the road, in the tall grass, a moose raises its head as I run past, trying with all my might to control myself. A great tit follows me for a few meters, and I think of how you can look at a bird with amazement, wonder, and love, the way I’ve seen you do so often.

A rabbit or a hare sprints across the road, and then it’s enough. My feet slow, my breathing catches and quickens. Hands shake, my vision blurs. Okay, it’s time. First with my left leg, then my right, I step over the guardrail onto the shoulder and sit down, cross-legged. My gaze is upon the sea, the mountains and forests on the other side. Not a cloud in the sky, and the sun is bright.

I try to find something in my view that doesn’t remind me of you, but all I find are beautiful flowers in all sorts of colors, tiny ones with purple petals and a white center. Yellow, light blue… yes, light blue. Every shade of green imaginable, and stones all over the beach. Then I focus my eyes on the sea stretching out before me, three colors, shades, feelings of blue. All three as bright as your irises.

My resistance breaks, and I cry. I hug myself and sway slightly. The flood of memories, images, smells, and colors crashes over me, and I’m defenseless.

My eyes search, see everything, every stimulus hits my retina. I see you in everything, I recognize you in all the beauty around me.

Heaven and earth, sea and forest, the flowers to my left and right, and the stones at my feet.

I see the whole world through your eyes, because you taught me to see the world anew. As you see the world, your world.

So all I have to do is conquer the world.

It’s July 3, 2012, and I’m traveling back home to Norway. I’ve left the Netherlands behind. All around me is chaos: the rhythm of footsteps, carts, suitcases banging against the floor, conveyor belts, and countless televisions displaying flight information. Oslo Gardermoen, the international airport. I’ll be staying here tonight to continue my journey north tomorrow. I’ve hidden my luggage in a quiet spot behind a row of offices that are closed due to the time of day. I unpack my sleeping bag and set up a sleeping area. My bags are between me and the railing, an anti-theft measure. I repack everything I don’t need, and armed with a towel and a toothbrush, I head to the restrooms on the opposite side of the airport’s second floor.

I empty my bladder into the urinal on the wall, wash my hands, then my face, and start brushing my teeth. While I’m brushing, I wander around a bit, and a man comes in. His demeanor speaks volumes, but I see more. The way his skin shines with an oily sheen, his disheveled hair, his careless dress, and above all, the melancholy deep in his azure eyes. An alcoholic, drunk, of course.

I always feel a connection with “the alcoholic.” I don’t judge them too strongly, and I approach them as if nothing is out of the ordinary. So I greet the man, and he greets me. He relieves himself behind closed doors and then comes to wash his hands in the sink next to me, looks at me, and asks where I’m from. A brief introductory conversation follows in English. He’s from Finland and is a tinsmith, a dying profession. Handiwork at great heights, sometimes in the construction and finishing of roofs. A not-so-well-paid job, but good enough to make a living. Especially now that his skills are becoming scarce, which means higher wages.

He asks me where I live, where I’m going, and what I want to do in the future. I tell him about my work in Norway and my farewell to the Netherlands. I also tell him about my dream of having my own business. A place where people in need of peace, tranquility, perhaps some help, or even therapy can go. Where they can work with their hands, with wood, stone, earth, and water, retreat, and reconnect with the world and themselves.

A silence falls, and the man looks at me with that melancholy in his eyes. His demeanor and behavior change from jovial drunk to wounded animal. In the village where he comes from, many people are addicted to alcohol, and a lot of aggression, too, he tells me. With a grim expression, clearly expressing anger and disgust, he tells me about how he, too, was beaten by his father at home. The drunken Finn takes my hand and squeezes it firmly. He looks me straight in the eye, and the melancholy, anger, and disgust suddenly vanish. The passion in his irises radiates a life force normally hidden behind that melancholic aura. He praises me with his words, praises my dream, and tells me I should do everything I can to make it happen. That I’m a good person and that he wishes me everything in the world.

Finally, he adds, “I’m just like my father, but I don’t do it.”