Holding hands

I remember in the eftermath of 9-11 the hole in my gut in combination with a constantly aching heart. No, I didn't lose anyone I knew, but as an American the collective sorrrow was simply colossal.

I remember in the days following the attacks, as I sat glued by my neighbor's satellite TV, my longing for the good news to finally emerge from the ruins. That they found survivors. Or even better, that what had happened hadn't actually happened.

I waited in vain. It happened then, and it's happened now, in Norway, in quite possibly an even more bestial and horrific manner.

In the 24 hours prior to this latest catastrophe one could hear on the news pleas for help to starving refugees in East Africa. With a few clicks on my computer, I could at least donate some money in the hopes that it might make somewhat of a difference for someone.

But Norway doesn't need our money. The dead have been transported from the island. The perpetrator is in custody. All that's left is the open wound that can't be closed. The chaotic confusion. The twinge of shame everytime one laughs only to recall in the next second the devastation of these events.

I didn't see Prime Minister's Jens Stoltenberg's speech, but I read it online, and I found this quote so moving that I wanted to pass it on:

Om én mann kan vise så mye hat, tenk hvor mye kaerlighed vi alle kan vise sammen.

If one man can show so much hate, imagine how much love we can show together.

If you want to show your support in form of a peaceful, loving manifestation, here's a link where you can join hands with the rest of the world:

http://www.vg.no/nyheter/innenriks/oslobomben/lenke.php?start=208530

Om shanti om.

The only thing we have to fear...

...is fear itself, according to FDR.

And for the time being, fear is kicking my butt. Fear is putting me to shame. Why, you ask?

Take a look at a list of what scares me the most:

* That I'll regret my decisions and/or non-decisions

* That I'll make the wrong choices and fail

* That I won't have enough of what I want (which is significantly different from having enough)

* That I'll look back on my life and realize that I should have known/done better

Today at work, I made two "house-calls". The first was at an affluent home in the nicest of neighborhoods. The interior looked like something from a design magazine spread. Even though the husband had to sit in his wheelchair in the confines of their screened-in porch (nothing that might bring dirt into the home was allowed indoors), they had each other, and I could really empathize with their situation. Despite the beauty of their surroundings, you could cut their bitterness with a knife. Not that I blame them, but it was obvious that their financial priveleges had little bearing on their happiness.

Afterwards, I rushed to my next visit, far into the "boonies" where I fitted a new wheelchair to an elderly man in his nearly empty living room. He lived alone, and I didn't even see a TV in his apartment. Still, he was high in spirits and even though he barely heard what I said, it didn't stop him from cracking jokes. A completely different atmosphere, to say the least.

I have no idea what the second gentelman's secret is. What struck me more than anything was the obvious fact that I should be on my knees every freakin' day thanking fate for my incredible fortune. Listening to the radio as I drive to and from appointments, I am constantly bombarded with news of the misery that exists in biblical proportions elsewhere in the world, hell, even around the corner. Catastrophes and disasters that never even touch me.

So why is fear holding me hostage? Will I ever feel freedom?

Will this bird ever fly out of her open cage?

Ohm is where the heart is.

Still holding back. Still wanting to be in control. Still waiting to receive love before I offer it back. Still wearing a cloak of hypersensitivity.

That was my state of mind as I climbed onto my mat yesterday. I felt more than ever that I needed a new perspective for this practice. Normally, I strive for technical precision as I dig inwardly to analyze and evaluate my experience. But faced with what I was already feeling, it made me wonder if my frustration is more a result of my feeling separate and altogether disconnected with that which is bigger than my ego-self?

Through closed blinds I could see the silhouette of leafy tree branches dancing in the breeze. The sun doesn't hold back its rays. The wind doesn't diminish its energy. Nature is always true to itself. So I decided to seek outside of myself this time and reach out to the power of nature. And it was a wonderful experience.

At the end of my session, I sang three "Ohms". Usually I sing them from my larynx as I make an effort to create a melodious sound. This time, while the sound was much quieter, it came from my heart center, and it was as though its vibration was in perfect harmony with the prana (life-energy) surrounding me.

Act your age, not your shoesize...

However, Prince was probably not addressing Europeans, seeing as my shoesize is a respectable 39 over here.

But this whole idea of dressing my age has been on my mind a lot lately. For one, all of these insane outlet sales has me trying on a zillion different pieces as I reassess my style completely. I'm lucky to have gotten help for the past seven years from my tell-it-like-it-is-shopping-goddess Maria. She's the one who made it clear that I can wear: 1) other colors than black and dark blue 2) printed fabric 3) and not everything has to be worn with jeans.

Looking down at today's at home outfit, blue t-shirt with black combat pants, let's just say I'm still a work in progress.

Another asset that I have is my 12-year-old self-proclaimed fashionite/model-wannabe daughter. When we go to her hip teenybopper stores (I say that in a positive sense), we drool over the same colorful printed t-shirts with cute prints and juvenile sayings. She hands me a Sesame Street shirt because she knows I love the Cookie Monster, and it is adorable, but on her it just looks so right. On me, it just looks so dated.

And this is something I hadn't really considered earlier, even though I'm still not completely over having passed 40. Yesterday I was sitting outside at a sushi restaurant and noticed a mother-daughter couple similar age- and fashionwise to me & L as they were looking in a neighboring store window. The preteen daughter = cute as a button. Fresh looking mom in cool t-shirt and olive colored combat pants = so my style, and yet... The next day I spotted the same t-shirt on a teenage girl and was forced to admit that the t-shirt agreed with her at least 100% more.

Then there's Trinny & Susannah, whom I happen to enjoy watching. I like the fact that they tend to get women to wake up and smell the maturity. I don't need to wake up; all I have to do is try to put on a pair of shorts from last year to realize that the changes are not only coming - they're heeeereee... So maybe I need a pant with a higher waist that chops my trouble area in half. A looser fitting blouse with details around my bust is probably more flattering than fitted tops in stretch-material.

Maybe it's not so much about redefining who I am as it is about removing the taste goggles from a 20-30-something-girl so that I can discover the real 4o-something woman waiting to emerge.

The twinge and dark chocolate

Last night, it hit me. As soon as I stepped out sometime around 9:30 P.M. to pick up my car, the cool freshness of July's summer air hit me, and instantly I felt a twinge of sorrow. You never know what summer in Sweden is going to be like. Certain years you'll have weeks of 85-degree weather. Other years, you're lucky if you wear a bathing suit once. So warm weather is not to be taken to granted.

The same thing goes for sunlight. All winter long I literally ache for the blessed return of 21 hours of daylight. Yet all too soon, the climax is reached, and the days gradually grow shorter. And you feel the twinge again.

The twinge that reminds you that this, too, shall pass. You can't hold onto it. Of course, one could argue that rather than fret over the inevitable, we should embrace the preciousness of summer's healing powers as long as we have them, seeing as how time waits for no one. Naturally, they'd be right.

But there's something to be said about that tender sadness as well, I think. It's what makes me human on a whole. The touch of bitter to that which is sweet. The cleansing release of unshed, cathartic tears behind a Mona-Lisa-like smile.

Isn't that what nostalgia is all about? Looking back, sometimes longning, yet with the knowledge that you can't go back no matter how much you might want to. Even if you could, it could never be the same.

The picture you see is taken from where I am sitting as I write this entry - Scandic Hallandia Hotel in Halmstad, overlooking the Nissan. This is the town where I met my husband 19 years ago. I swam in that very canal my freshman year of college. Tonight I walked by the café where Catarina and I celebrated the completion of our exams with a cappucino and almond cake. And I get all mushy inside.

Remember when we used to eat all of our Halloween candy, except for Mary Jane's and Hershey Dark Chocolate? Today, that 70% bittersweet chocolate is the only kind I'll eat.