Julie\'s Nordic Island

Ice drips in the winter sun

The ice dripped in the winter sun. It was the first day when the light had been intense enough to cause dripping in the sunlight. To hear it was an extraordinary wakeup call. The cycle was happening again as it always does, always will (or so we think).

I imagined that on my summer island, the bees were waking up to cleaning time. Few know that they start in February in the winter sun, long before any of us become aware of buzzing, pollen or flowers. They remove the bodies of their colleagues, who have not managed the coldest days, and the debris that does not belong in the pristine environment of the hive. The jars from last year’s harvest are lined up on my counter – so many of them – and I wonder whether this is fair. Did I really need it all? It is a question we small-time beekeepers rarely ask ourselves. The objective, as for all producers, is to get as much as possible. Yet, in these times of meager resources on earth, we should think again. What did it take for industry to produce the sugary fluid I gave to the bees before the winter after I took most of their honey? What would it have taken to leave them enough of their own to manage the season?

Away from the microcosm of my island, out in the big world, we humans are causing change to happen at breakneck speed. The number of humans on earth, the resources we crave to sustain ourselves and our collective ambition for an existence that cannot hold us all are unprecedented. We know it, since we hear it every day in the daily onslaught of bytes that are so many we are beginning to become immune to them. We hope that technology will help us knit it all together, somehow make it work, yet that alone will never be enough.

A friend of mine writes to me from India, a place where poverty and explosive growth exist uneasily, side by side. How can what I do on my serene islands in Sweden be of any consequence to the enormity of what is happening in his world? He speaks of a new consciousness rising sporadically in the part of the world I live in, and I find my answer there. Yes, of course, we should eat less meat, recycle our plastic and use public transport more. Yet, each of these small initiatives is only sporadic if it isn’t tied to something greater: that is a common consciousness about the way that all life is similar, relies on the same principles of birth, death, renewal and the most delicate of balances.

For many years, I watched and wrote about the smallest things I saw happening on a small Nordic island in the wilderness. Some thought I had become a hermit. In fact, there was no moment in life in which I had reached out to the world more directly than during these years. In the prism of the bees cleaning for the spring and the ice dripping in the winter sun, I saw the world for the very first time as it really was:  something I was a part of but didn’t govern; something that was mine but not mine; a place where I had the responsibility to make the consciousness of one grow.

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For any of you interested in the above, I cannot recommend more watching the filming and photography of  Yann Arthus-Bertrand (http://www.yannarthusbertrand.org/). These have just been shown on Kunskapskanalen in Sweden and you can enjoy his heart-rending images of the world from a helicopter online.

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Learn more about Julie Lindahl’s prize-winning new book, “Rose in the Sand,” a memoir of a decade lived on a Swedish island. Order it now from amazon.com, amazon.co.uk , Author House, authorhouse.co.uk and many other online bookstores. Learn more about Julie’s other books and activities at www.julielindahl.com.

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The light gleamed golden on the windows of the palace. It was one of those magical sunny days in late January in Drottningholm Park when even those who disliked the cold felt compelled to come out, walk and observe nature’s graceful transition into the spring winter. Anyone who has lived close to nature in the North knows that four seasons are just a commercial imposition. The Sami eight seem more accurate in this part of the world, particularly where the phases within each season are distinct and worthy of their own seasonal names. Thus, the spring winter.

Everywhere in the snow there were signs of people taking  advantage of the opportunities. The hills were engraved with the grooves from children’s sleds, and the flat farmlands behind were criss-crossed by ski tracks and horses’ hooves. An Iceland horse bearing a rider tölted past us, and we wondered what physiological dynamic allows for these horses to move in this mechanical manner. The pools in the lake near the shore indicated where the ice had been tested for the skating weeks ahead. It still wasn’t ready, but soon the ice too would be grooved with the markings of human recreation.

The temptation to make use of this time of walking to think ahead or about the past is very great. The human mind is extremely talented at living in every other moment than in the present (oh, how I miss Lucy the dog who was an expert at this!). My husband and I have been training and, interestingly, we find that very often this way of being results in silence. Since we have been together (happily) for fifteen years, silence doesn’t scare us much. It isn’t a sign of anything except silence. Both of us have made it a resolution to appreciate life more this year, and we concluded that achieving this means living more in the present, and therefore probably more silence.

We took a break from our walking and observation of tracks to sit in the very same place that the renowned architect Ralph Erskine sat, apparently every day, overlooking extensive fields of grazing horses. Today they were out, strapped into horse blankets getting their vitamin D and cursing the thick layer of snow that had developed over the albeit dry grass. I could easily understand why Erskine came to sit here everyday. Of course it was a good place to reflect and plan, but the greatest insight lay in discovering its value as a place for silence and stillness. We smiled in the sunlight and that in itself was wonderful.

As someone who is embroiled in a book project which involves extensive research and writing about the past, I sometimes wonder whether I am being a hypocrite. Am I like everyone else who preaches mindfulness while twiddling their thumbs about things that are not happening right now? Or perhaps the question is: Does striving to be satisfied in the present mean giving up thoughts about past and future (similar to giving up anything that might be addictive)?

Just as these thoughts were becoming all too tangled to pursue, it struck me that the most important thing about experiencing the present is the experience of the undeniable truth. Yes, the horses looked beautiful in the fields in the sunshine, but careful observation suggested that they were a little frustrated with standing in the cold. The truth is a complex picture, never just one way or the other. This lesson is a very important one to take with us whenever we look backwards or forwards.

As we walked back towards the palace, it struck me that the debate about Queen Silvia’s father had been infected by people who wanted to see things one way or the other. The picture is far more complex than that. Perhaps both the media and the court would be helped by a little meditation on the nature of the present.

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Wondering what to give a friend or loved one this New Year? Learn more about Julie Lindahl’s prize-winning new book, “Rose in the Sand,” a memoir of a decade lived on a Swedish island. Order it now from amazon.com, amazon.co.uk , Author House, authorhouse.co.uk and many other online bookstores. Other books by Julie Lindahl available are: Letters from the Island (listen also to Julie’s podcasts from this site) and On My Swedish Island: Discovering the Secrets of Scandinavian Well-being.

Julie Lindahl is the founder of Stories for Society, a non-profit organization dedicated to learning and communication through storytelling.

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A Winter Fugue

The snow flakes fell ever so softly in the last light of a Sunday afternoon as a Bach fugue played. The smell of hot coffee and the slow falling of the light flakes through the cold winter air played into one another so perfectly that it hurt.

Our boots were at the door with the snow melting onto the floor in dirty puddles. The front doors of Swedish homes at this time of year are always spotted with tiny pools of melted snow and the chaos of slightly damp gloves and hats. Although I’d tried to remove it days ago, still mixed into the winter disorder of our front hallway was the soft, white fur of Lucy the dog. I suspected that the fine wisps would be with us forever in the crevices and rugs of this house, even though she’d left us for The Rainbow Bridge some days ago (see my last blog entry and the lovely poem someone  posted in response to it).

Out on this wintry afternoon, my husband and I had watched the dogs eagerly chasing and retrieving sticks that their masters had thrown for them to retrieve up on the hill. An eager, young flat coat ran straight towards me, jumped up with its tail whipping back and forth at a frenetic pace as though to say “cheer up,” and licked my hands. The reprimand from its master was quick to follow, but I shook my head to indicate it was alright, her dog had made the right instinctive judgment. I was a former master in need of canine attention.

As I walk around the neighborhood these days feeling as though I am lacking an arm or a leg, the canines that spot me realize they have a job to do. There is no end to their affection when they greet me, and their masters are often embarassed. Just as I am on my way to explain that they do this because they can see the gaping wound of loss which I bear after the passing of Lucy the dog, their masters pull them back. If only we could fully appreciate the undisguised empathy of these creatures, which wear their hearts on their sleeves.

Out in the garage the Christmas tree lies on its side, ready to be transported away to the dump. It is nearly bare, some of the remaining needles blended with Lucy’s fur in the crevices of the house. Even the removal of the Christmas tree was hard this year. When I decorated it, I did so with Lucy curled up on her bed next to me in the candlelight. Now in the cold, unrelenting light of the new year they were both gone.

As I sip my coffee, I notice a curious thing happening in the garden. Two small birds have found an opening in the pond and are cleaning their wings in the water. As they shake out the water and the dirt, and chirp at one another, I can hear that something new is on its way. The loss of winter will soon be taken over by growth and abundance. Empty spaces and branches will be filled. At my window sill, the fuschia that dislikes the winter has begun to sprout light green leaves. It knows that the light has turned.

The snow falls in flakes, it is cold outside and Lucy the dog is gone. With a heavy heart, I place my faith in the twittering birds at the pond and in the fuschia with the new sprouts. One wishes to dwell in the past when loss occurs, but nature will not allow it and there are good reasons for this.  Today there is undoubtedly more light than there was yesterday, because this is simply the way of all things.

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Wondering what to give a friend or loved one this New Year? Learn more about Julie Lindahl’s prize-winning new book, “Rose in the Sand,” a memoir of a decade lived on a Swedish island. Order it now from amazon.com, amazon.co.uk , Author House, authorhouse.co.uk and many other online bookstores. Other books by Julie Lindahl available are: Letters from the Island (listen also to Julie’s podcasts from this site) and On My Swedish Island: Discovering the Secrets of Scandinavian Well-being.

Julie Lindahl is the founder of Stories for Society, a non-profit organization dedicated to learning and communication through storytelling.

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Calling my attention to the important things I would otherwise miss.

2012 kicked off with a stark little lesson of life: all things will pass. Driving up to the mountains near the Norwegian border before New Year’s Eve, I learned from the kind veterinarian that Lucy the dog would not make it through 2012 with me. In fact, we have a few more precious days left. For those of you who have been following this blog and/or my other writings, you are aware that this beautiful creature that looks more like an advertisement for Save the Seals than a dog, has been a constant companion in walking and writing. Lucy has called my attention to things that otherwise would pass me by: a squirrel that has just clambered up a tree; a cat that has run across the street; the great mysteries that lie hidden under piles of fallen leaves.

Up here at my mountain hut this New Year, Lucy and I are taking the last of our walks in the snow together. She looks like a chequerboard, with great patches of fur shaved off here and there, after an operation that could not save her.  It would seem responsible to keep her covered with so much bare skin exposed, but what is life worth if you cannot even have a refreshing morning roll in the snow? She takes each step more slowly than she used to, and I am always ahead of her these days. Still, at times she smells the exhilaration of the mountains in the air and charges into the great piles of snow on the sides of the cross-country tracks. Life and walking with Lucy in the snow this early 2012 seems like the most precious of elixirs: each small drop to be relished in moments one strives, against reality, to expand into an eternity.

Dogs have very deep souls, says my 100-year-old grandmother. “Looking into their eyes is like looking into a deep sea of feeling and intensity.” Of late, Lucy has made increasing efforts to meet my gaze. When she was younger, there was so much else for her to be interested in, and then there was the submission factor. To stare straight into your master’s eyes is an act of defiance for a dog. Lucy was rarely defiant. Up here at our mountain house, as she senses that her life is coming to a close, she seeks out my eyes. In the finality of life we are all equals. I put down my tiresome books and newspapers, and meet her gaze. Her eyes are two black spots in a white face, and now they fasten onto me like magnets. Her head cocks as she reads my thoughts. I hope that she can feel their caress upon her heart.

In sympathy with Lucy, I have contracted some sort of curable disease which a simple packet of pills will cure. Lucy’s ears are pricked up as I head off to the doctor’s office in the neighboring town. She wants to follow me – knows that I am not well. Once the car has pulled out, she sits waiting in the patch of thin snow (as opposed to the thick and unruly snow everywhere else) that the cover of the car has left in our driveway. Despite the discomfort, she waits there for two hours until I return with my tablets. She is overjoyed to see me. I would share my tablets with her, if I thought they might help.

I’ve already asked Lucy to meet me once I catch up with her at the Pearly Gates. I can see her jumping up at them, barking at St. Peter, or whoever it is that guards that gate, to let me through. My husband thinks that I am insane when I talk in this way, but that is alright. Thinking of Lucy as an angel in heaven, with fluffy white wings that match the color of her fur, isn’t something I am ashamed of. Each of us has to find ways of coping with the finality of life, and thinking of walking with my faithful hound in the clouds, both of us winged and this time looking down upon the squirrels in the trees, seems a pleasant way to do so. Beyond that, I have made a pledge to Lucy that in 2012 I will do whatever I can to enjoy this short and precious thing we call life. I hope you’ll join me in this important mission.

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Wondering what to give a friend or loved one this New Year? Learn more about Julie Lindahl’s prize-winning new book, “Rose in the Sand,” a memoir of a decade lived on a Swedish island. Order it now from amazon.com, amazon.co.uk , Author House, authorhouse.co.uk and many other online bookstores. Other books by Julie Lindahl available are: Letters from the Island (listen also to Julie’s podcasts from this site) and On My Swedish Island: Discovering the Secrets of Scandinavian Well-being.

Julie Lindahl is the founder of Stories for Society, a non-profit organization dedicated to learning and communication through storytelling.

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Merry Christmas

As Lucy the dog and I hit the beaten path today the air smelled a damp December morning. The snow that had lured us into thinking that we would be having a white Christmas was now in small ice clumps in patches on the road. It could have been any regular day in December, except for the fact that I knew it was Christmas Eve, and there is no getting away from the morning feeling special on this day.

Lucy sniffed in the air as we passed under the apple trees. She sensed some of the unpicked fruit of autumn, festive and red, up in the highest branches. It was as though nature herself had decorated the trees for Christmas. In a delicate pot at the entrance to one of the homes, ivy intertwined with tiny Christmas lights caught my attention. It seemed to me the most beautiful of man-made decorations in the neighborhood. Someone had obviously seen the beauty in a tiny object that most overlooked, with all of the more grandiose decorations around. It seemed so unpretentious and meek, yet was that fine seed grain amid all of the chaff that lifted the dignity of the neighborhood.

The absence of people on the streets gave room for reflection upon the meetings of the previous day. People I hadn’t seen in ages, although we all lived in the same area, seemed to be around every corner at the supermarket. One particular friend of mine stood facing the Christmas hams in puzzlement. Which one to choose? Everything seemed to be piled onto the shelves in such overabundance, that the mind had to work very hard to sort. Perhaps that is why people seemed to feel they had less time each year at Christmas. Commercial choices, while temporarily exhilarating, depleted time.

I tapped my old friend on the shoulder, at which she turned, and gave me the most unexpected long and heartfelt hug. It seemed at that moment that we had decided to push away all of the rest – the chaos and excess of the season – and to draw into a concentrated moment what Christmas meant between people. We remembered the elves’ workshop she had run for the children in our community when our children were small. There were no limits to what could be created there. We also remembered the summers out in our canoes and promised to find time to spend in them together with our families when the ice lifted and the islands once again became accessible by boat.

As the clocks tick on (yes, I still have clocks that tick in my house),  it is time to turn my attention to a mother’s duty to create the soul of the family festivities at Christmas. In our liberated times, I am sure many would argue this should no longer be a woman’s duty. However, the truth is that more often than not it is and, I would argue, we should see it as part of our power. If there is something that the Nobel Peace Prize Committee reminded women of this year, it is to believe in the value of our capacity to open our arms and cradle society, however we do that.

Dear friends and faithful readers, this is wishing you and yours peace and joy.

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Wondering what to give a friend or loved one this holiday season? Learn more about Julie Lindahl’s prize-winning new book, “Rose in the Sand,” a memoir of a decade lived on a Swedish island. Order it now from amazon.com, amazon.co.uk , Author House, authorhouse.co.uk and many other online bookstores. Other books by Julie Lindahl available are: Letters from the Island (listen also to Julie’s podcasts from this site) and On My Swedish Island: Discovering the Secrets of Scandinavian Well-being.

Julie Lindahl is the founder of Stories for Society, a non-profit organization dedicated to learning and communication through storytelling.

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Waiting and longing...

This morning it rained on the boxes of Christmas decorations waiting to be unpacked outside the front door. The newspaper ran a headline about the dangers that global changes in weather pose to our health. What about the dangers they pose to Christmas? I need snow to make sense of Santa Claus, reindeer, and wool mittens and socks hanging from the mantlepiece.

Yet, we’ve had these years before. The greyness of November just seems to get even more grey and muddy, until your eyes begin to wonder whether there are in fact any other shades in the color spectrum. The rain and the puddles soak us in annual greyness up to that point when the snow provides a release and brings in a new time. We are still in waiting, but, despite the headlines, there is the faith it will come.

Today is the first of Advent and already in every dutiful Swedish window a candelabra shines those small, magical spots of light behind the curtains. The wreaths that the school children sell door-to-door in order to raise money for their school trips are hung at almost every entrance, including ours.

Inside, saffron cakes, ginger bread cookies and spiced red wine shift the aroma of our interiors. Just to make sure that no one forgets, the cashier at the supermarket checkout always asks whether you have remembered to purchase your saffron. Why saffron in Sweden at Christmas? It certainly isn’t a local product. The answer is that we need saffron from Persia to make our food bright.

Outside the palace, a giant tree illuminates the grey traffic congestion with hope. In those lights there is the promise of space and, above all, time, that comes with the break at Christmas. Just now it seems that there is more to do than ever. The demands of the holiday season place a heavy extra layer on top of already heavy schedules. Yet, in the light there is the promise of doing nothing but watching the snow fall peacefully from the window sill on Christmas morning.

As we move towards the darkest day, our eyes open later, shut earlier and our working days are cut short by the sounds and entertainments of Christmas. We resist hibernating with the bears, but, to some extent, nature forces us into a semi-hibernation whatever we do. I look through the candelabra out the window and long for the snow to cover the wilted plants. I know that it is in the longing of November that this time of year has its greatest value. Longing is hope, and hope is light.

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Wondering what to give a friend or loved one for Christmas? Learn more about Julie Lindahl’s prize-winning new book, “Rose in the Sand,” a memoir of a decade lived on a Swedish island. Order it now from amazon.com, amazon.co.uk , Author House, authorhouse.co.uk and many other online bookstores. Other books by Julie Lindahl available are: Letters from the Island (listen also to Julie’s podcasts from this site) and On My Swedish Island: Discovering the Secrets of Scandinavian Well-being.

Julie Lindahl is chairperson at Stories for Society, a non-profit organization dedicated to learning and communication through storytelling.

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