COUNTING MY BLESSINGS

We have passed the vernal equinox. That's a milestone on my mental calendar as well. Now the dawn is tip toeing at half past six, and dusk bluely changing the world at half nineish.
Our pre-Easter morning paper reading at the post breakfast table is bathed in sun.


Today I drew the word "delight" at the end of our qi-gong lesson.
Iiijk. I could not avoid thinking of an Agatha Christie novel built over a poem:
"Some are born to sweet delight,
some are born to endless night."

For one week now I have been concentrating on "Healing". Believe it or not, but it has worked. I've also been very much focusing on its positive content, and brightened up my inner self.

Today I plunged right down. Fell again and hurt my knee.
Got bad, bad news about a dear friend having severely spread cancer.
An aunt of my husband died this morning. My brother in law was hospitalized two days ago. My father is much in pain and we're having trouble finding the right treatment. Gunnar is only getting worse with his allergies.
I simply thought this "delight" must be a hostile, angry joke.

That proved to be so very wrong..
Our friend got a major work insurance payback, and could buy expensive medicine from abroad. We were celebrating with two other couples Saturday evening, and were having a great time together.
I had a healing appointment Thursday and came up with no pain at all in my damaged knee.
My father is miraculously recovering and my mother has been in a much better mood as well. Spring and garden work has done wonders to her depression and exhaustion.
I have been out on two spring walks, one on the beach and one up a mountain peak. The sun is shining, today the temperature was 12 Celsius +degrees.
Daughter Serina has gotten her red "russ"outfit, which means she will be celebrating for to months that she has completed thirteen years of primary school at the highest level. That is an achievement she can be proud of, and so are we, her parents.
Spring has definitely arrived these last days. The birds have returned from their winter vacation in Egypt, the daffodils, snow bells and crocus are blossoming even by the salty seaside.
I have spread cow manure in our garden and Gunnar has done some major tidying up. Today we had the first coffee on the terrace enjoyment. That is early here in the best west.
This afternoon we went to our secret place and harvested the first allium ursinum, wild garlic, wonderful, tasty herb, which has been growing here since the vikings dominated the area.
My brother in law is home from the hospital, nothing serious, just wrong medication, (which could have cost him his life, though.)
My niece made a successful piano concert for her exams at the music conservatory.
Tomorrow we'll have Gunnar's very best quality aunt for dinner. I'm so looking forward to meeting her.
Life is delightful for true in this best of all possible worlds.

Our windows have been cleaned to honour the revealing sun.
Four versions of Cohen's Hallelujah are playing non stop, while I'm trying to compose a heartfelt dinner and coffee meal for auntie Lilly.

I've decided to rank The "Baffled" king David an equal number one to St. Peter.

Only tiny, little wish: Two tickets for the Bob Dylan concert at Wembly in April.(Hint, hint).

Soon we'll be headed for the Sauda mountains .
I'm looking forward to that indeed.
I am delighted.

HEALING

It's easiest to believe in healing, when all other options have failed.
The words are not mine, but an old missionary's, Marie Monsen.
We have doctors and free medicare, free hospital treatment. We need not worry about health insurance. Everybody's got a right to help.
Then it happens that one gets one of those chronic illnesses, like my severe osteoporosis.
I've been on medical treatment for seven years, but my skeleton is still transparent.
My backbones, wrist, rib, elbow and ankles have been broken.
So, when I today trod over on my right ancle and fell on the street, whom did I call??
First God. And - I managed to get home on my own. Then I sent an sms to my best friend and asked for remote healing.
I will not do more for the moment.
St. Paul says, " When I'm weak, then I am strong." (2 Cor. 12. 10)
Since "healing" was the word I drew at end of the one our qi-gong training today, I'll give it a week, I think.

ODE TO JOY

Girls should love their fathers, and possibly also be closest bonded to them.

Mothers, me included, have this never ending bad habit mixture of anxiety, grooming and life-educating their daughters.

There's one thing though, that mothers and daughters understand better than any father.
That's the sober,infinite joy of shopping.

My daughter and I have shared unforgettable moments, or more likely hours, peeking, negotiating and making some excellent deals in auctions, street-markets, flee-markets and bazaars home and abroad.


Flirting, chit-chatting, and, wow, the victorious feeling of making a really big scoop leaving all our savings to the laughing salesman.

The funny thing though, we have been nicely treated at Harrods as well as in the bazaars of emperor Julian in Istanbul, even if we did not buy
much at the first place.


We are often frequenting local flee -markets for charity organisations.
That way we are able to make super bargains for a good cause.
I don't quite know if the Lord agrees to that. But there's also the aspect of recycling. And that is needed in our spend and throw away town.

I felt like a million dollars, spending a few dimes at the Salvation Army's second hand shop, wearing Prada, Gucci and YSL...
Only yesterday Serina found a perfect fit, tailor made, black dress and a gold purse to go with it. I waved my brand new, black Versace jeans over my head as we returned from our nesting tour.

GERD-LIV VALLA RYGGBRUKKET

Hun som vet at sommernatta aldri blir helt svart.


Hun som har kjent den aldri sviktende, blå evigheten,

og har plukket blomster, som ikke kan kjøpes ute i havgapet.

Hun som henter krefter i stein og jord,
og har vært ett med elementene,kan ikke "trues av tårer til hvil."

Det har lenge vært kjent herskerteknikk på norske arbeidsplasser at fagtillitsvalgte som hadde bein i nesa ble forsøkt sparket oppover av arbeidsgiver.
Utrolig mange har latt seg korrumpere. Det er noe uimotståelig smigrende i det å bli tilbudt en jobb man egentlig ikke er kvalifisert for.
Gerd-Liv Valla lot seg verken true eller kue. Tvertimot, pingla Stoltenberg ble tvunget i kne når det gjalt sykelønnsordningen.
Norges mektigste kvinne, kalte VG henne, før de systematisk tok alle midler i bruk for å knekke henne.
De brukte Norges mektigste menn og media, og så Yssen da, klysa fra det inkarnerte Oslo 3 miljøet. Hun har vel ikke engang en fjern anelse om hvordan sykelønn staves, bagler-damen, med dominante "quisling" gener.
Jeg ekles ved synet og enda mer ved de utspekulert forræderske metoder hun har tatt i bruk.
"For støtt der normenn lyt væra med/ der Norigs merket skal hoggast ned," sa Sivle om hennes like.

Nå gjenstår det å se hvor mange dager det tar før nye velferdsordninger er rasert for fattigfolk.
"Fra dem som intet har, skal det tas, det de tror seg å eie," sa - ikke Marx,- men Jesus.

19

My baby girl is now 19.
Last year as a teenager.
Last year living at home.
She wished breakfast in bed, real champagne and American doughnuts.
The start of 24 hours of celebration.
My best birthday since I was five, she said.

WEB OF LIFE

Being is belonging. Either you are part of a web, or caught in one.
In my nightmares I am nothing, but a helpless prisoner.
I pray to God that my worst dreams prove to be just that.
The tiny weaver making such an intricate pattern.
So strong and captive, and yet so fragile.
Just like life itself.
So hard to mend when a thread is broken.

Norwegian spiders have no poison in them.
They just keep on making these wonderful works of art to survive.

HAUGESUNDS AVIS

Nyhet 1: Forsythiaen blomstrer på bar kvist.
Nyhet 2: Småfuglene har hatt en rimelig god vinter.

Vår gamle lokale blekke har de to siste ukene overgått seg selv i hemningsløs vannglass storming.
Et utbrukt og musikalsk tannløst lokalt "band" har sparket sangeren sin. Det er andre gang så har skjedd.
At det skal kvalifisere til tolv dobbeltsidige oppslag, kvalmer meg.
Det er til de grader uinteressant, utgått på dato og ute av fokus at jeg rødmer av skam.
Går det virkelig an å ha en så enorm navle at en by med så mange store problem, (narkotika, ran, vold, alkoholmisbruk, forsømte barn og gamle, veivandaler, pedofilsaker, mord, nedkjørt pskyiatri, you name it, we've got it) - er blind for alt dette og serverer oss Vamp sine trivielle - og mulig uetiske - småklynk til frokostbordet i mega format.
Jeg akter ikke å betale for å lese "dårligere enn Se og Hør" journalistikk i lokalmonopolet vårt.
Jeg vil ha pengene tilbake eller erstatning for bortkastet tid og miljøforsøpling.

JA TIL STATSKIRKE

Landet vårt har sekstenhundre statseide kirker. De er en unik kulturarv, som ikke bør regnes om til forgjengelig mynt.
I Haugesund har vi tre særmerkte kirker som står og forfaller til fordel for et miserabelt synkende skip av et kontorlandskap med klatrevegg.
I en tid da barn daglig fraktes gjennom flere bygdelag for å dyrke sin spesielle hobby, der skolene sentraliseres som aldri før, og man er nødt til å bruke bil for å handle tre liter melk, brød og pølser, så skal altså særmerkte kirker stå ubrukt fordi noen maktkåte ignoranter skal ha klatrevegg i nabolaget.
Fei dem ut. Bruk de mange målene med ledig kapasitet til barnhager, og la våre kirkeskatter i fred.
Skulle så galt skje at stat og kirke skiller lag, bør staten selvfølgelig ikke selge, men leie ut kirker til det de er vigslet for.
Leien bør dekke drift og vedlikehold.
Jeg tror alle de, som nå i skjul har posisjonert seg til å bli storhåvmestere, da klokelig vil takke nei.

EMIL MOHRS SYKELØNNSORDNING

Noen dyr vil alltid være mer like enn andre.
Slik som overlegen på vårt lokale sykehus. Han har, og bruker all makt han kan og litt til.
Nylig sendte han hjem en dame på 92 år, med flere smertefulle bekken brudd.
"Hun er ferdigbehandlet hos oss. Hennes datter i Bergen bør ta seg fri fra jobb og komme til Haugesund for å pleie sin gamle mor. Det er et familieansvar å ta vare på de gamle. Jeg har avtale med min arbeidsgiver om at jeg kan ta fri et år, om jeg skulle få bruk for det."--Sånn noenlunde korrekt etter HA.
Tror noen at hans hjelpepleiere får samme tilbudet??

GERD-LIV VALLA

Hvis VG og de andre altfor villige medmobberne av alle kalibre nå klarer å knekke Gerd-Liv Valla, skal det bli interessant å se hvor mange døgn eller timer det tar før sykelønnsordningen er blitt rasert.

I LIFT UP MY EYES TO THE HILLS

There are times when I, bewildered, don't know where to turn or what to do.
All possible options seem to be tried, without satisfying result.
This has been one of those frustrating weeks in limbo.
I was about to make one last phone call, as my eyes fell upon the calendar standing on the kitchen table. One of those with a Bible verse for every day.
This very Thursday the quote was from Isiah 30,15:
"In repentance and rest is your salvation,
in quietness and trust is your strength."
I'll have to rely on those words. I wouldn't dare not to.
Guess I have a bit of growing up to do.

BEWILDERED

Three ducklings in the hurricane.
Out on the roaring sea, boats going under.
Ashore houses are being lifted from their foundation.
Roofs flying through the air like huge condors.
In times like these it's not easy keeping the aim in sight.
Or clinging on to the belief, that every hair is numbered,
like every grain of sand.
Yet there is no other reasonable alternative.

THE THIRTEENTH FAIRY

Midst in the infinite wonder of motherhood, she sat quietly in the dusk nursery, humming and rocking her firstborn to sleep.
A sudden chill filled the air, as a blur figure materialised beside the mother. Bending over the cradle, she, of a sudden, revealed herself as the thirteenth fairy.
In a cracking, but distinct voice, sounding like an unforgiving curse of the doomed she proclaimed:

"May the baby give you as much sorrow, anger and despair as you yourself have caused."
The innocent, newborn infant opened its blue eyes, and chased all evil away.
For awhile.
The mother was left in eternal fear.
The spell had cunningly been engraved in her heart,
ensured to haunt her for the rest of her life.
Until she one day realised:
"But I never was really bad. I've never willfully harmed anyone. That label was deliberately put upon me by someone, trying to hide her own hatred and defeat.
I am free.
My fragile treasure is saved!"

MY WILL, THY WILL, WHOSE WILL?

This picture of my father was taken Jan. 27th 2007

Very often, as I stumble along, so much wanting to do the good things, the right and obvious necessary deeds, I find my self stopped, trapped and haltered with "no particular place to go."

I stand bewildered before the Lord with all my whys.

Taking care of and comforting the helpless must be right, isn't that so?

"I was sick and you did not look after me?" He said.

That's just what I want to do and I am so vigorously hindered.

I am confused and hurt and helplessly scared.

Should I not honour and nurse my ill father?

He, who has been nothing but good to me all these years.

Whom I have loved and cherished since I was a child.

He who has carried me, patiently taught me and picked me up whenever I fell.
I need an answer and I need it fast.

Just a few years ago my father sat truly by my side, while I had broken both wrist and ankle, and was diagnosed with osteoporosis.

BE A BROTHER

I've worked with people all my life, since eighteen actually.
During discussions I've kept repeating, "People need people."
Whether it meant keeping mentally retarded in single flats, with no common areas, elderly living alone in their homes forgotten by family and with no friends left or the lonely kids in school, somehow not accepted by their classmates, (as if that possibly could be the lonely kids' fault). Nobody chooses solitude without having been severely hurt.

My friend Ole is a Benedictine monk in the Netherlands. I'm in closer contact with him than most of my friends in Norway. I even stayed in the monastery for a week. There was friendship and genuine care between the "brothers" and towards the guests.
They live by this rule to greet and embrace every stranger as if they were meeting Christ.
Of course there will be problems in a monastery as well as everywhere else in this world, but they can always be dealt with because of their fundamental, indisputable rules.
It would not be a bad idea if other churches , not to speak of our Civil Service institutions picked up some of old St. Benedict's wisdom.
One even might get tempted to try it in one's own family...

MOTHER's DAY

In Norway Mother's Day is celebrated on the second Sunday of February. The cynics say that this is just another day for the merchants to make more money. How wrong they are. My first and only child was born more than eighteen years ago. I became a mother at the age of thirty eight. I never actually missed being a mother. My life was filled with children and grown ups needing my strength, care and affection. The day I became pregnant my hole life was turned upside down. Focus shifted from me to her, serious decisions to be made, about my job, my civil status, housing, - every aspect of my presence was changed from me to us.
When I talk about my life, it's always before and after Serina was born.
In my mind it seems like yesterday I saw her beautiful blue eyes for the first time.
Now we are frightfully counting month till she has to leave home for further studies.
The Elder called children "The Loans of God". They knew how fast time went by.
Now I'm about to experience exactly the same.
This year my daughter proclaimed, "Mother I have only bought you gifts to be eaten." As if that was only. She served me a most delicious breakfast in bed, consisting of all my favourites including fresh, aromatic strawberries. Light music on the radio and company of the world's best child, the meal lasted for three hours.
Then her father and I went for a slow Sunday walk while she prepared dinner.
After resting while the washing up was done, I woke up to coffee and warm, homemade waffles. I prefer waffles to any other bakery, and daughter Serina is well aware of that.
In the evening we watched an English feel-good movie, while enjoying nuts and chocolate mix.
One of the major days in my life.

PENTECOSTAL PARADISE 1960

My intentions with this blog were to talk straight from the heart about all my worry and anger of subjects, local and global.
Instead I find myself entirely happy and blessed, with no midwinter blues at all.
I got to borrow stacks of old slides from my uncle. Husband Gunnar projected them into my PC via mysterious ways with lots of skills and hours spent.
I got some of the most valuable moments from my childhood
replayed.


When grown-ups forget themselves to pass on immortal life to coming generations, that's when heaven touches earth.
My uncle Leif worked, yes, worked hard indeed, every Sunday for thirty years to spread the good gospel news to children of all social backgrounds and needs.

He had more than 100 pupils in his class. He knew them all by name and gave each a feeling of being special.

The "Christmas Tree Parties" at Salem are still a peak in my life. With a small bottle of soda water and three kinds of cookies in a paper bag we had a ball.

Our parents were ordinary people, trying to make a life for their families after a tough depression and five years of war.

Yet they did not hesitate to buy us guitars to be part of the "Junior Band". Sven and Betty gave one day a week to teach us our first chords. The giggling girl playing the instrument without keeping attention is of course me. There was room for naughty girls as well.

Nils had this unique place by the fjord. An old hut also housing a rowingboat. A shore for bathing and plenty of room for playing all kinds of games for the young and old.

The celebrating of Midsummer, St. Hans in Norwegian, gathered people from all beliefs or none believers as well.
There was no threshold at all.

Import of cars was limited in those post war times. Two of my uncles lent their buses for free, and thus provided transport for everyone on the narrow, curvy "Dollar Road".

No barbecue, no fancy food. Sandwiches and juice tasted wonderful, sitting on an old plaid on the grass.

There was laughter, songs, games, bathing.
The pastor would hold a brief sermon, and there was no end to the variety of self entertainment till the sun went down.

Looking at all the familiar faces I feel comforted.

Some became nurses, drunkards, sailors, managing directors, whores, doctors, musicians, teachers, factory workers, writers, politicians, housewives, engineers, fishermen. Scattered from Dubai to Seattle, the Polar Ice to Australia.

Most of the adults in the pictures are dead by now, promoted to heaven, as the "Salvation Armists" would say.

No one will ever forget the spirit of genuine care and devotion given us in those golden days of our childhood.

Or my uncle's challenge to "stand up like Daniel", and the promise that HE would never leave us or let us down.

So far my uncle's been right.

Hallelujah, I think.

FOR JUSTIN'S WIFE

Life with Tinkerbell.

Daughter Serina was on a tour to France with a ten-sing choir four years ago. They had of course to visit Euro Disney outside Paris. She did not meet Tinkerbell in "person", as elves are small and elusive creatures, but she managed to take a photo of her favourite as she was leading the final parade in the evening.
She and a friend even bought Tinkerbell magic sticks,- and it's still working.

At the age of eighteen Serina joined the drama group of the choir. They got to create their own roles in the play. Her friend at the picture was a prime ministeresse, Serina flew around in her green outfit ..as Tinkerbell. Quite amusing, actually.

The author of Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie, ordered and paid for this statue of Peter Pan and his friends and had it placed in Kensington Garden, London.

Serina is embracing the statue at her seventeenth birthday.

I learnt to know Tinkerbell as I was sitting on my father's knee while he read the stories of evil captain Hook, Peter Pan and the naughty-sweet Tinkerbell. I even got a picture of her on my bedpost.
Serina always goes deeper into the material. She has read her Barrie book, bought the film, (or made us buy it) and sought out the places where to find her. (Mind you, she acts in this way whatever her interests may be. We had to go to Oxford and visit Christ College where a Harry Potter movie was partly made.)

About her fascination with Tinkerbell she says:"She's tiny, but so tough and determined. The fairy's size prevents her from holding more than one feeling at a time. But she sticks to and acts to that feeling."

I am thrilled by my daughter's ability to be engaged in music, literature or whatever she stumbles upon. Her way of giving it life and love.

There are people who only believe what they can see.

And there are those chosen few, who can see what they believe in.

GRANT ME PATIENCE, BUT HURRY

I'm a sucker for happy endings. I prefer feel-good series on TV.

I love the Christmas Gospel, the Son of God born as an innocent child with angles singing and wise men bringing gifts.

The fulfillment of God's salvation plan, crucifixion, a tortured man forsaken by his friends, family, even by God, who sent him...It's too tough, really. I'm not a huge Easter fan and would make a lousy Catholic. Even though there was a happy ending on Easter Sunday...

Even though I wear a cross around my neck as a symbol of my belief.

I feel so devastated when things go wrong in my life. I keep putting so much effort in getting things right.

Then I fail. Others fail too.

I can't take it. I need a happy ending.

Or at least an ending.

I simply cannot allow bad attitudes keep on being passed on for generations.

Guess I need to call upon my favourite, Saint Peter, for help, at least to make me a better person, and to heal open wounds.

RESPECT

My father had a brain hemorrhage some years ago. He's now 86, and dependent on help from nurses, who come to his home five times a day. They are underpaid, not well educated and always in a hurry.
If my father is talking to me on the phone or hasn't finished eating his dessert, he has to stop at once. "Move, hurry, straighten up," they're shouting, not unlike an army sergeant to his hopeless recruits.
We all feel humiliated by the way my father is belittled.
He is not senile, he is not used to being bossed around. He is and has always been a very polite, gentle...and wise person.
He never was much of a talker, that is, if he did not have anything of importance to say or tell.
Chatting or smalltalk was never his style.
Now he needs more time to formulate his thoughts. That makes the nurses believe he's not so bright anymore.
My husband has always been on the same wavelength as my father. They have never stopped to like or respect one another.
Today my father took a long look at my husband's jogging suit.
"Nike", he read. "Nike of Samothrace," he added.
Gunnar looked the words up in the encyclopedia, and they both had a nice talk about the goddess of victory, whose artful elaborated statue is displayed in France.
At the end of the day;
we became somewhat wiser, renewed our somewhat blur knowledge of the Greek Antique, and my father regained some of his self respect.