Archive of ‘Life’ category

Glimpses of a Story

Snow Queen • artist- Christian Birmingham

Snow Queen • artist- Christian Birmingham

The evening had fallen, draping itself in blue and white, the trees frosted over with newly fallen snow, a touch of ice at the edge of spring. She gazed out into the dying day, seeing a dim light fading just beyond the mountains. She sighed, dreamily hugging her knees in her ivory gown, feeling the cold of the window pane as she rested her head against it. It felt as though the long stillness of winter was passing into spring, but the light was shy, and pale, unsure of herself, – a white lady at the edge of the world, gazing longingly in, afraid to come closer. And yet everyone looked for her, any sign of her in the air, the ground, the budding trees. She did not know how much she was wanted.

But slowly she would know herself better. And her step would grow surer, her dress changing to pale green, and then violet as she sprinkled wild seeds and flowers from her hands. A soft wind would blow, her laughter warm and golden, releasing the streams, the ice-covered lake, and river. The birds would return, once more filling the world with song. 



I feel a bit like the winter outside my window, hovering just before the first touch of spring. There’s an ache in it, even though the snow that fell last night brightens something in me, makes me feel white clad and shiny on the inside.

I lit candles last night and started writing in the beautiful book I received for Christmas, with the golden cover. I’m still figuring out my new story. It keeps slipping from me when I try to grasp it. It needs a plot, an ending, but all that comes to me are little moments like the one above. So I write what comes, and hopefully, it will lead me somewhere.

My book is out on amazon. I’d love for you to check it out, and share it with someone you think might like it. Thank you!

I hope you’re dreaming beautiful dreams for the new week. 

Songs of the Past



I want to share tender heart songs from the past. Songs that was once my life, that I still carry inside of me, but that I want to let go of, to be carried away by the wind into the open air, finally touched by the sky, the sun. I don’t want to forget, but instead, bring life to old feelings that I hid from the world, to not hurt myself and others. I was afraid to take up space, to speak of what happened. Even glimpses of what I had gone through seemed to release a great wave, a shadow that felt too big, too uncomfortable to share. An elephant in a small room.

But it’s like walking among trees, thinking of winter in spring. Seeing the frost-touched the ground, that will soon be full of flowers. Noticing that there are shapes in the ice, like roses, that grabs your heart. And you kneel down to touch them, winter flowers among the dead grass.

I feel I’m doing the same inside of me, going through memories, pain and shadow. Gathering moments of beauty among them. I’m looking at the tapestry of my past, seeing the colors, the threads of gold that gleam the brightest, but also the darkness, the gray and red and black. I look at it all, knowing I’ll find stars in the night.

Living with Grief

I understand now that my grief will always be part of me, that I’ll always love and miss my family. Still, what I want is to walk deeper into my pain, and no longer hide from my feelings. Let them make me stronger, help me appreciate life more fully, all the little joys that it brings. I think sorrow can be turned into beauty, into strength. 

I never truly digested what happened, all the losses that tore me apart. I put a time limit on my healing, and then stuffed everything away into a tight hard knot inside of me, that swelled and hurt until I could no longer ignore it.

But I also feel that things happened as they were supposed to. I moved away, found love with my husband in California, and when I had grown stronger, and gathered new lessons, new life experiences, the Goddess whispered it was time to return to Norway, and face my past.

Writing has been a huge gift, one that I did not have before. It’s like I’m slowly unraveling old feelings, word by word.

Outside my Window

I see a patch of blue sky, white clouds swirling above dark trees. There is a slight wind today, and softness to the air that makes me step outside my door, taking deep breaths, feeling an ache, a longing for spring. I know the sun, the light will return once more as it always does. For now, I watch the gray, overcast sky, with glimpses of gold in between, drops of snow sometimes falling, the wind coming and going. The birch trees are smiling at me, waving their bare, dark branches, whispering of beauty yet to unfold. 



Gentle February

Arthur Hughes - forget me not

Arthur Hughes – forget me not

I want to start my day writing, in this mystical time between worlds, between light and dark. I’m making my tea, and the sky is a pale steel-gray, the pine forest dark, like a black wall, like a mountain.

I woke up early and sat for a moment in silence, prayed a little. The night, the early morning speaks to me clearly, like a crystal stream singing, without the noise of the road, of people talking and shouting.

I went for a walk with my husband yesterday, along the raging river. The sky kept breaking open, letting through rain, or hail, sometimes sunlight. The road was bare, sometimes icy, the trees silent, without the wind to move them, to make them speak. I sense February is teaching me patience. I want to rush forward towards spring, for it can hurt to see the world so dull and without color, without light. It hurts to know that warmer weather is still months away and that there will still be many days of slush, of cold biting air. 

But February is full of gentle hope. It feels like a white blanket of snow, with the sun coming through above me, whispering of the beginning of spring, a step towards lighter days, of the first flowers coming soon, soon.

It’s also a time to dig in, use the last of the darkness, when it’s still deep and stays late, shows up early. It’s still a time to move slowly, to rest, to follow the cycles of the moon and sun, and watch the world slowly transform once again.

Moments Before Christmas

Artodyssey- Christian Schloe

I need to be quiet now because all words have left me. I reach for them, but they do not come, or they do come, but then leave me all too soon, and I can’t finish what I’ve started. I have many posts now in my draft folder; half created. Maybe I’ll share them later, when I can look at them again, listen to what they’re saying, what I felt then. Below is a post from a moment at a cafe. Being away from home make it easier for me to write. 

At a Cafe

I want to be on the outside of things, during this Christmas time. Watch from the edges, from the window of my favorite cafe. I look at people walking on the street below, so many now, just before the holidays, doing the last bit of shopping, talking, some holding hands. I’m too tired to shop. I avoid the stores, their pull on me, what they want from me. I need to do things quietly, slowly, turn things over in my hands. I don’t want to buy things in a rush, so I allow myself not to. 

I picked up my dress today, the one that I had found second hand, too big, that I took to the tailor. It felt like a waterfall, soft, flowing to my ankles. I wanted something that reminded me of the night sky, of magic. I wanted this dress, even though I had to travel all the way to the city to have it fitted, and back again to pick it up. But at least, then I had an excuse to go to a cafe, to eat chocolate and sip my tea slowly, watching people, taking in that special feeling of Christmas approaching.  

I watch the world darkening now, gray turning into blue, enjoying the lights and stars drawn between white buildings. 

I still feel a bit of anxiety around Christmas, to make it nice, to not be disappointed in it, because it’s not the same, will never be the same, as it is for all of us, never quite as it was when we were kids. 

But it’s ok. It really is. I remind myself of this. And again I want to step back and gather something in my heart, that light I’m always looking for, that inspires me more than anything else. I want music and candles in the dark. I want the cold nights and early evenings. I want the scent of spice and special food only made on Christmas Eve. 

And I want a quiet secret to hold in my heart, between the Goddess and me, and my Heavenly Father. I want to sit between them both and lean into their love, find a way to relax, because I feel so anxious and in need to control things, to make them a certain way. But I’m tired of all that. I want to curl up someplace inside of myself and rest. 

I used to feel so sad when Christmas was over when all those little lights were taken down. But now I have something to look forward to, – for when I can go deeper into my writing, find some quiet and peace to reflect. It gives me joy and focus, and I’m grateful. It is my gift to myself.

Wishing everyone a beautiful Christmas and Solstice. 

Winter Rose



I found her among the trees in the winter forest, remembering to look because I was hurting inside, if only a little bit, but enough to reach for her once more.

I stood in the first snowfall, hearing that deep silence that only comes when the world is painted white. I followed a single snowflake with my eyes, the way I used to do as a child, watching it flutter down down, until it was lost among all the others. 

I’m looking out the window now, into a darkening world, turning slowly blue.

I wish for the winter rose, to carry her with me through Advent, into Christmas, to remember her most of all. I get lost in the world, and then I get tired and retreat into myself, remembering her. I want to be soft and quiet then, looking out at the falling snow, the world silver and white, the lake like frosted glass.

I want to go deep within myself, close my eyes and rest. I feel thin, stretched, with little energy to write, wanting to curl up with a good book, poetry. Letting the words fill me, drip into an empty well, like snowflakes in the night.

Darkness Sprung into Light

The last leaf Mermaid by Victor Nizovtsev

The last leaf Mermaid by Victor Nizovtsev

She saw a pale white flower, blossoming out of the darkness, leaving a trail of light on the water, pointing to the horizon, to her new life. 

She picked it up, holding it in her hands, carefully, tenderly, a fragile thing of snow white petals, glittering faintly. She put it to her heart, knowing it was also inside of her; darkness sprung into light.


The sun is out, and I feel my spirit responding, brightening to the white light in the trees, the field pale, withering away during the cold nights though there is no snow yet. But I’m waiting for it, seeing it approaching from a distance, seeing the top of the mountain dusted white in the morning. 

I curl up in my sleep and have to leave the oven on at night though I don’t like it. I’d rather leave my window open, if I could, letting in the night air, feeling it brush against me as I lay awake, looking at a pale light in my window, from the waxing moon. 

I’m writing a little every morning, in the black hours before dawn. I have more courage then, and more strength to just sit until the words begin to flow. I’m wondering what it means to have a courageous heart, a heart that’s honest, pure, as inspired by the song below.

Always Searching

Waterbaby - William Samuel Henry Llewellyn

Waterbaby – William Samuel Henry Llewellyn

Sometimes I feel cracked and weathered, like a well gone dry. And I look for books, for words to drink from, for stories that will sing to me. I feel I’m always digging to find them, always searching, searching.

I found this. Do you have any books you’d like recommend? 

Afternoon Walk

I went for a walk in the afternoon light. There was no snow, but I could still tell it was the winter sun, white and cold. I felt I was walking and gathering words, under the blue sky, among the trees, dead leaves, and yellow grass. I saw the black lake, so deep now, inching towards the trees. 

I sat down among the birches, in a place new to me, and saw their stems gray and bearded, old, weathered branches reaching towards the sky. I could see the sun between them, making the grass gleam in front of me. A thread of light went from it to me, going across the road, the water, all the way to where it was setting over the mountains.

I took my shoes off, gasping at how cold the ground was, but it felt so good to keep my feet there, if only for a moment. I always feel like I’m somehow floating above everything, above the world, not quite in myself, in my body like a friend once said. Maybe I’m writing my way back to myself.

First Light

francois fressinier

Francois Fressinier

I like to sit in the darkness, by candlelight, watching the black morning outside my window, seeing cars driving by, the day starting. I sit in silence, working on my book, burning incense, praying. 

I want to stand in the doorway, in that moment of breaking, of first light touching the sky, cold air wrapped around me. 

I want to walk softly, letting nothing touch me save the voice of the Goddess, whispering to her, hearing her whisper back. There is something about the early morning that makes me want to be quiet and still within myself; that makes the words come, as though the calm of night still lingers, the stars having left some of their magic behind. 

I read once about a man wanting to be careful so that the morning did not break like glass around him. That stayed with me because I feel it too. I don’t want to rush or be brash. I don’t even want to speak. I just want to sit and watch the sky brightening, perhaps quietly make breakfast, breathing in its sweetness. See a dark forest outside my window, fields now green and yellow, grass dying away, no more flowers, the world left naked. 

Fire and Ice

Edouard Bisson (1856-1939) French.

Edouard Bisson (1856-1939) French.

I’m doing Nanowrimo these days, so it’s a little harder to find words for my blog. But here is something I wrote a little while ago, that I at first wasn’t sure I wanted to share. I think I overthink things. 


I feel my life is starting over, like I’m being reborn, rewritten. I write this, unsure if I should be posting it because I’m afraid I’m making things up. But is is what I’m feeling right now. It is what it is.

I watch the birds play among the birch tree leaves, in a dazzle of sunlight, the grass silver and white behind them. It’s such a beautiful day, one that can take your breath if you stare into it for long, the sweetness of summer still lingering even in the breath of winter. Fire and ice mixing, the nights dark, a black cloak with white flowers, shining stars in the depth of space.

I love this time. Love the leaves falling like drops of gold, like rain, like fire dying away to darkness, to the cold chill of night.

And I feel myself dying and rising, breaking apart and being put together. I feel my old life dying away, and I want to cut the thread holding me to it, want to let it go and whisper thanks for what it gave me. Sometimes I feel old, like I’ve walked through a deep night, and so many things have happened, even with my life covered in ice, even when I couldn’t bare to look at myself, when I waited for something to happen, for me to remember who I truly was.

I feel old and aged, but it’s a weight I’m carrying, and I want to let it go. But it’s etched into me with fire, pain and ice, and so I face the darkness of this season, feeling some relief, like I can rest and slowly let go, and hopefully be reborn in spring. To feel joy at the return of warmth and light, and be different then, taking my first step onto a new path, one no longer burdened by the past. No longer cracked open, weathered and dry, but new, full of spring grass and colored flowers.

I dream of this. I feel this. And like I said, I’m not sure it’s true. It’s something I whisper to the night, and sense now as I look out the window, at brilliant sunshine and snow white frost. I feel the darkness closing it, stealing the sun. I try to let go of worry as the shadows fall longer, the days growing shorter, knowing it’s what I want now, even as I feel a slight fear, of change, of the unknown. Wondering how I will tackle the long winter when everything is hard and icy, my freedom restricted, the forest paths hidden by snow.

I saw a woman with white hair and kind blue eyes. And I felt I wanted to be her, to be soft and calm, and to sit by the water, sunlight playing among the waves. I want to age into wisdom, into kindness courage and strength.

Colors in the Sky

Painting is silent poetry.- Henry Ryland

Painting is silent poetry.- Henry Ryland

Light through my window, a gentle morning, warm with swirls of colors, pink and blue and white. The wind moving through the great pine, the lake dancing in blue waves, making me want to twirl outside, under an open sky, breathing deeply.

A little bit of warmth makes me think of spring, but I know autumn is here, has been here for a long time and is now leaning towards winter. Snow has already reached the high mountains. But there is a soft glow to everything today, the light tinged with orange, the sky shifting, dancing, changing, turning from sun to rain to wind, and circling back again. I look towards the mountain and see how the clouds have gathered there, dark and grey, and full of rain. Days like this makes me want to let go and run, dart through the forest like a deer in flight, racing away from winter, spring in my steps.

I’m sharing a piece of music with you. I like the sound of crows, which I seem to hear more and more of these days. They’re the sound of magic, of the dark season.

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