l'or de mon passé

Since I can't write, I will quote and steal for a while. For all Francophiles out there, here are the words to a wonderful song.


Je voudrais oublier le temps
Pour un soupir, pour un instant
Une parenthèse après la course
Et partir où mon cœur me pousse

Je voudrais retrouver mes traces
Où est ma vie, ou est ma place
Et garder l’or de mon passé
Au chaud dans mon jardin secret

Je voudrais passer l’océan, croiser le vol d’un goéland
Penser à tout ce que j’ai vu ou bien aller vers l’inconnu
Je voudrais décrocher la lune, je voudrais même sauver la Terre
Mais avant tout, je voudrais parler à mon père
Parler à mon père

Je voudrais choisir un bateau
Pas le plus grand ni le plus beau
Je le remplirais des images
Et des parfums de mes voyages

Je voudrais freiner pour m’assoir
Trouver au creux de ma mémoire
Des voix de ceux qui m’ont appris
Qu’il n’y a pas de rêve interdit

Je voudrais trouver les couleurs, des tableaux que j’ai dans le cœur
De ce décor aux lignes pures, où je vous voie et me rassure
Je voudrais décrocher la lune, je voudrais même sauver la Terre,
Mais avant tout, je voudrais parler à mon père
Je voudrais parler à mon père

Je voudrais partir avec toi
Je voudrais rêver avec toi
Toujours chercher l’inaccessible
Toujours espérer l’impossible
Je voudrais décrocher la lune,
Et pourquoi pas sauver la Terre,
Mais avant tout, je voudrais parler à mon père
Parler à mon père


(Céline Dion: Parler A Mon Père)

gardens, aioli and other things I don't write about

There are so many beautiful things I want to write about.

The way the evening sun falls across the garden right now. The whispering sound of birch logs burning in the fireplace. The fragrance of woodsmoke and a summer garden. The quiet peace between the trees, heavy and soothing as a warm blanket.

And more: The feeling of freedom last night as I cycled home through empty streets, a little drunk and a little in love with life. The smile on a new friend's face as we shared a bowl of baked potato wedges in aioli. The warmth of the sun as I drank coffee on my own in a quiet courtyard. The joy of painting my nails with chartreuse varnish. Receiving a phone call from my mother, thirty feet away, who wants to wish me a good day. Solitude and the meaningful looks between friends. Little details, colourful and funny.

But I don't write about all this. Because everyone is clamouring for attention and I would hate to be one of them. Because I'm tired of seeing written words falling flat.

the planet needs

“The planet does not need more successful people. The planet desperately needs more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers and lovers of all kind.”

(Dalai Lama)

pine resin day

Bare feet, smell of pine resin, hot sun and nettle burns.

The sound of wind in tall grass, a chain saw cutting through fresh wood. Pine branches scratching skin, coffee breaks with sugary donuts. Trees falling. A woolly poodle being carried to safety. An old woman, a young man and two people who are halfway, gathering up loose branches and pushing wheelbarrows.

Hot  skin, tepid water thirstily drunk, a delicious rest in cool moss.

background music

“You know, one of the tragedies of real life is that there is no background music.” - Annie Proulx

(Except that now there is, everywhere. And sometimes that is a tragedy. But I know what Annie meant.)

hot town, summer in the city

We wander slowly.

In fragrant parks where lilacs bloom. Along deserted back streets where seagulls attack us to protect their chicks. Past children who play a noisy game called "What Time Is It, Uncle Wolf?" To the beach, where we linger to play in the shallow water. On the busy seafront path, past the even busier icecream kiosk.

In the cool morning air, when the world feels new and promising as we buy strawberries at the fish market. In the heat of the afternoon, when the shade is delicious under linden and maple trees. At midnight, when the sky is still white and pink and we can pretend the human race has left the earth to swallows, hares, dogwalkers and poets.

It's my favourite season and I have the best of companions - a poodle.

no matter what mayhem

“I also believe that introversion is my greatest strength. I have such a strong inner life that I’m never bored and only occasionally lonely. No matter what mayhem is happening around me, I know I can always turn inward.”

(Susan Cain: Quiet. The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking)

the elders who loved me

How I remember them:

My grandfather, the farmer with a thousand stories and a love of open fields, had a pear tree in his garden with the tiniest and sweetest of pears. He once opened the door on his birthday to find that a capercaillie had wandered up on the porch and pecked on the door. He also taught me to play with matches.

My other grandfather, the farmer who had grown up poor, married above his station, fought in the war and knew how to make shoes, dressed in brown trousers with suspenders and sat in a rocking chair.

My grandmother, who had said goodbye to many emigrant brothers, studied English, knitted and went on guided trips. She always packed a sandwich lunch for me when I was going away.

My other grandmother, who during the war had run a farm (despite allergies) and raised children on her own, crocheted the most intricate blankets and doilies until rheumatism stopped her. She sat on her bed all day long, gave me sweets and listened when I played on her old pump organ.

What they all had in common: Love and a generous spirit. They are all gone, and I miss them all.

not so fantastic beasts and where to find them

I have whistled at a rosefinch, chased a seagull, been chased by mosquitoes, cooed at a baby hare and knocked down a wasp's nest. Not bad for a day by the seaside.

monthly report by the queen of denim

The month of May ...

There were weeks in the city: Hammering out thousands of subtitle two-liners, walking barefoot to the kitchen to make bitter coffee. I pulled down the blinds,visualized blindness and was blinded by a hot sun. In the office, I ruled the world of denim and wool - reconciling Swedish fashion dreams with Turkish deadline facts and putting a tea stain on a merino sweater. I got myself nerdy-cool glasses.

There was too much work. But there were also walks on the seaside path in hot weather, icecream with my icecream friend. There were parties on a balcony overlooking the bay, fueled by strawberry cider or pinot gris. I would have liked to drink wine and discuss God, world literature and the mysteries of science. Instead, we drank wine and discussed sex. Some of us sang along to the music - When you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong ... and sweet like a chic-a-cherry cola. That was OK too, because we laughed a lot and I declared myself as being "made of cobweb and birdsong". Other visitors gave me mango sweets in exchange for suspicious pills, or promised me boat trips.

There were weekends by the seaside: sun and sweet air, a hundred swans. An old lady who had to be watched over and occasionally fought with. A laptop full of jobs. Peace in my leaning ivory tower.

nice day for an autopsy

I happily ditched work and biked through sunny streets on a beautiful spring morning to attend an autopsy at the hospital.

Sometimes I suspect my curiosity is becoming a little too morbid.

a man's neck

“The line of a man’s neck can change your life. The way he digs in his pockets for change can make your heart groan and hands grow cold. How he touches your elbow or the button that is not closed on the cuff of his shirt are demons he’s loosed without ever knowing it. They own us immediately. He was a thoroughly compelling man. I wanted to rise to the occasion of his presence in my life and become something more than I’d previously thought myself capable of.”

(Jonathan Carroll: A Child Across the Sky)

some merpeople don't exist

"Sit like The Little Mermaid!"

Our pilates teacher is giving us instructions. "Imagine that you're mermaids, with your tail spread out like so. Mermaids and ... what do you call men with fish tails?"

Our little group of women and a couple of men goes quiet for a second as everyone ponders this. Then somebody says, in the voice of a patiently admonishing teacher, "Men like that don't exist."

I find this funny on many levels. But maybe I'm just trying to laugh myself out of a desperately painful body position.

on violets and swans

Violets are blue and sprinkled all over the lawn.

Swans are as plentiful as rocks and look the same as they slumber in shallow waters.

The year's at the spring and the spring is chaotic, jubilant, excessive.

My temper was red-hot with fury and is now sinking into a lime-green pool of peace.

what the wind does

I spent hours sitting by the sea today. After a day with no wind, I finally heard the west wind arriving across the sea.

It confused me for a bit, that a wind could just arrive so suddenly. But then I thought, "I have been indoors too long. This is what the wind does."

This summer, I will be outdoors with the birds.

a merrier world

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song over hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world." - J.R.R. Tolkien

you and me and the road to Hook Head

You have no idea how much it means to me - to be driving around the back roads of Waterford and Wexford with you on sunny, windy April days.

Avoiding potholes, looking for the first spring flowers, taking the ferry across the wide river Suir. Stopping for a baguette lunch in sleepy villages, seeking treasure on marvellous beaches at low tide. Asking for directions to Tintern Abbey. Rating garden gnomes for their ugliness, cooing over newborn lambs.

Wrapping scarves around our necks against the cold, putting on sunglasses and feeling the hope of spring. Looking for the devil at the eerie Loftus Hall. Almost getting swept out to sea by the wild waves around Hook Head lighthouse. Feeling at home in a country that is not our own.

All this, while asking each other the deepest questions in life.

walk on water, win this fight

I walk along a windy, endless beach of smooth sand, seashells and pretty pebbles. With me is one of my closest friends, not seen for years. We are less than an hour into our happy reunion and there is a slight tension between us - are we still close, has she changed, have I changed?

We watch surfers and playing dogs as she tells me of her plans to kill herself before her birthday next week. It seems so wrong, more than ever against the wild beauty of the beach in the sunshine, the tide just starting to come in.

When the April wind gets too cold we sit down in a café that is warm from sunlight, steaming coffee and the exuberance of families celebrating a sunny spring day. We drink hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows and talk in low voices about possible reasons for living.

It's completely absurd, but I have never felt so intensely alive.

choose to call it an epic

“Celebration when your plan is working? Anyone can do that. But when you realize that the story of your life could be told a thousand different ways, that you could tell it over and over as a tragedy, but you choose to call it an epic, that’s when you start to learn what celebration is. When what you see in front of you is so far outside of what you dreamed, but you have the belief, the boldness, the courage to call it beautiful instead of calling it wrong, that’s celebration.”

(Shauna Niequist)

when everybody sings at night

This is a time of boat trailers rattling by on my cobblestoned street.

This is a time when it's impossible to sleep because the nights are too white and because everyone sings: drunk men in the streets, partying neighbours, the birds, yourself.

It's a time for t-shirts and sunscreen, and for wool cardigans and thick socks. For the mad Walpurgis night. For cold picknicks on foreign strawberries and homemade mead with raisins. For lounging on beaches where the sun is hot, ice floes are melting on the water and sea smoke sends chilly vapours to the shore.

It's a time for dust in the city and mud in the country.