Hommage to Peter

- Thank you for everything.

That’s how he started to end our phone calls the last years. I used to yell at him, “don’t you dare saying that!” Like he was going to die on me. From me.

I have a very distinct memory from the first time I saw Peter. Not like in meet, but saw. It was my first day of the TV Production Program. He was sitting down at the door, the room filled with students. Tall. Stone faced. Straight back. The head of the entire Journalist Program said “We will treat you like you are at work. We will require the devotion and ambition as will be expected of you in the news room at a news paper, radio- or TV station. Right Peter?” He responded in one word. “Yes”.

I was thinking: who is that man?

Peter was never my teacher. I was set on TV and he was in charge of the Radio Program. That might be why we became such friends and worked so well together.

I am not expressing “such a special friendship”. Because everybody who Peter touched with his life and presens can witness about a special friendship. That’s just how it was. And I can only tell mine and Peter’s story.

Peter was a radio producer at Swedish National Radio. His field was religion, concept of life, reflection. He asked me to contribute to his shows with my writing and my voice. I developed a special format for Peter’s shows. Short texts. With no agenda. Most often open endings. Leaving to the audience to feel and react whiteout me telling them how to.

We set a date for the recordings. As I recall every other week. How can I not remember which weekday it used to be? Was it Mondays? Same place and time. 7 PM. In the radio studio or the little chapel at the school. We never checked in with another in before hand. Totally trusting we would both be there. We were a solid partnership.

Peter and I loved working together. Every moment of our collaboration was pure joy. And over the many years we developed a strong and close relationship. Our perspectives were very similar. We believed life was a serious task. We bothed aspired perfection in work. We were soul mates in the sense that we in that way were different from others. 

We were both used to being criticized for taking everything too seriously. For over working things. “Nobody can tell the difference, cut yourself som slack, lower your bar!” But Peter and I knew that even though people couldn’t tell the difference, they would feel the difference. And what about ourselves as originators, shouldn’t we be respectful to ourselves? The fact that Peter and I together never ever compromised in our art was unsullied bliss.

Peter worked in three places spread all over Sweden and lived in a fourth. His car was to some degree his home. This man, 6,5 feet tall, who was everybody’s mentor and rock, was extremely sensible, even fragile. He put himself under a lot of pressure and was always waiting for being kicked out from his different jobs because of his strong integrity when it came to his work. He never felt safe.

Did we ever just chit chat? I don’t think so. Life and death were real to us. We used to ponder over our funerals. How we wanted them to be. What we would do for each other. Peter wanted me to read one of my texts, Let Life - Låta livet. I told him he’d better die before me, as he would probably not be at my funeral, surely sitting re editing a show he wasn’t entirely happy with.

The last years we didn’t see each other that often. I was going back and forth between Seattle and my little Swedish village. We were both divorced by then and he had a new love in his life. We still worked together, but not as frequently. We talked on the phone, but sometimes only every six months or even less. When we did though, it was as close and inspiring as ever.

But I was worried about him. His life was too intense. He was burning his candle at both ends. And he knew it. Once, on the phone, when I was leaving for Seattle, I ended with saying “Peter, do you understand how much I love you?” He responded, I remember it as a bit shaken, “Maria, you can not just say such a thing!” 

I feel like we were always carrying each other within us. Our phone talks became more rare, and he was was constantly short on time, what he had to say came out intense, and then he started ending with

- Thank you for everything. I hated it. “Stop it, just stop it!”

And then he was gone. It happened March 21 2006. We had just decided on going out for dinner the week after, celebrating my 50 year birthday. But he was gone. I got the message from a friend calling me saying “Maria, are you sitting down? You need to sit down. Peter is dead.”

I was in my big yellow sofa chair in the Honey Chamber. The chair which rocks a bit. The phone on the wall right beside. How many hours had I been sitting in that chair talking to Peter over the years?

Peter collapsed in a meeting at Swedish National Radio in Stockholm. His heart stopped. Maybe that’s how he wanted to go. At the heart of his work. But he was only 57 years old.

This monday it was ten years ago. I still haven’t grieved Peter properly. The year before both my parents passed away. The first years after, I still kind of expected him to call. Sometimes, when I am in the middle of a project, I miss him terribly. Miss that voice reassuring me that I am not done until I love what I have created. And that that’s okay. That’s how it’s supposed to be. For me. 

And I don’t write the kind of texts I used to any more. My life continues to ceaselessly provide experiences that would work so much better as art than real life, but there is no one to receive and cherish them. And they remain inside me, unedited and in too strong colors.

For Peter’s funeral I arranged a bouquet of blue monkshood and white roses. He was the tall monkshood and I was the white flower next to him. And at the memorial I read my poem Let Life - Låta livet, as we had agreed on.

Let Life

Oh so let my life well happen

let it come and let it dare

And with all my mind wide open 

let my body feel the air

Oh so let my life find streets 

which I have never walked before,

where my heart ventures to meet

hands with keys to secret doors

Oh so let my life play joy and

happiness I sense is here

Living dreams, though wild and weak,

now when my soul is breathing near

Oh so let my life well guide me,

- wishing not to interfere -

longing foreign needs to find me,

in my dread and with my fear

Oh so let my life live freely

living strong and out of will

Rather let my life reveal me

than a life that's doubting still

https://soundcloud.com/maria-stolterman/lata-livet

Låta livet

Om jag låter livet hända

här och nu just där jag finns

och med alla sinnen vända

mot den kropp som inte minns

Om jag låter livet vandra

vägar som jag inte går

och min vilja vågar famna

det jag möter det jag får

Om jag låter livet leka

glädje som jag anar här

och bejakar vilda veka

drömmar som jag ber och bär

Om jag låter livet styra

utan att alls gripa in

och jag längtar detta nya

med den rädsla som är min

Om jag låter livet leva

och det lever som det vill

Låt då hellre tanken tveka

än att livet stannar still

https://soundcloud.com/maria-stolterman/lata-livet

Post festum

Somebody asked me, “Maria, do you feel liberated now when you have turned 60?” It was kind of a funny question, and I am not sure I really understood what it was about, but it made me reflect on the subject.

When I woke up on March 14, my actual birthday, the wonderful spring sun was kissing me through my bedroom window. I looked out at my bare winter trees, pondering the fact that this was the day. Kind of waiting for some panic to hit me.

Then I remembered the question. Liberated? In what sense? I let my thoughts and feelings wonder for a bit. And found that… yes!

At 60 you are officially old (I mean for real, every decennium switch is a crises, and you might feel old already at 20) in the eyes of society and in your culture - depending on which culture is yours, of course. Let’s face it, you have passed expiration date on most arenas in life.

And instead of panicking, to my surprise I found that thought liberating! There is nothing to prove any more! What I didn’t achieve, the goals I didn’t reach and all the dreams that didn’t come true I can’t do anything about and that’s history now. I am free!

There is no bitterness here, and of course I can still have dreams. But all those expectations for a fulfilled life connected to the productive phase in life, the phase (and it’s a long one) when you always have to answer the question what you are doing professionally, if you are married, do you have kids etc, that phase is over. I will be under the rader, I am old, and I think I like it! 

The weird thing is, I’ve always felt old. And too old. My first memory of feeling too old was at age 14. It was too late. In that case, and many cases, too old for something I wanted to achieve. Now I am finally officially too old, and everything (nice) happening after this will be unexpected bonuses!

And you know what, I am so sick and tired feeling too old I will refuse to be from now on! I am carrying every age in me, as well as no age, that’s who I am and that’s how I am going to act.

Officially though, I am old, and when you are old you can go eccentric. Oooh, I like that. When I was working at National Swedish Radio, one day we had this little news bit on a study showing how people usually emphasizes their trait of character when they get older. We were sitting at the news desk discussing this, looking in to our futures. I said, “Okay, I wonder how short my skirts will be when I am 65?” “Yes”, my colleague Hans replied, “and how tall boots you will wear.”

I’m just saying…

Celebrating Maria at Maria's!

When I finally was home I felt sad. How is that even possible?

I am turning 60 tomorrow. Amazing numbers. Hard to grasp. I have decided to embrace it though, and why shouldn’t I, I have every reason to! And the best way to do that is a real party. And the best place for a Maria party is Restaurant Maria!

Today is the day after. I am stranded on my couch having a hard time verbalizing my feelings and the events of the event. I guess the one word that would work is amazed. But let’s add overwhelmed. Happy. And incredibly grateful.

26 out of my friends and family had chosen to come celebrate this day with me, having a three-course sit down dinner at Restaurant Maria in Umeå, conducted by the devoted and shamelessly flirtatious owner Sirwan. That’s a good start just there!

My evening though took off with Hawkar, who works for my home care company, picking me up in his Kurdish birthday/wedding decorated car, that’s the first surprise! Pink fabric draped over the hood, flowers at the front and on the mirrors. I laughed my head off and was so moved by this loving gift. And that’s how I arrived at the party, actually wearing a gorgeous fair coat I am hiding at the far back of my closet. In company with my bodyguard.

My guests were a motley collection from all through my life. From my oldest friend Ulrika and my sister who both have been there since I was two, to Hawkar who started working with me in October. They all got to know each other over the chèvre toast, the beef tenderloin, the char, the salmon and finally the cake, specially delivered from the patisserie in Nordmaling where my father was a pastry chef and composed this special cake, Martin’s Special.  

As my fundamental feeling about myself is that I am toxic and I feel sorry for everyone who has to be around me, inviting people to spend time with me is a hard thing for me to do. Add to that, asking them to pay part of their dinner, and the anxiety attack is close.

Imagine my astonishment when Hummerklubben (my friends who gather once a year after Christmas for the famous lobster soup) performed an Acrostic, a piece of art on adjectives describing me, on the letters of my name! And the adjectives were all…nice…and that’s an understatement. My sister and brother in law had written an initiated and fun chronicle of my life in ten verses, which everybody joined in and sang to me. Trouble 2 told the long and entertaining story about my father’s cake, and Trouble 1 and his middle school friend Anders performed for the first time a new song by Trouble 1, Storm Bells, which left everyone, and especially me, breathless.

I couldn’t believe this all happened. It was actually hard to take in.

Then everybody who wanted and was able to danced, I had worked long and hard on the perfect playlist, that is, perfect for my generation. And why, anyway, are the youngsters so lame when it comes to dancing?

At around 2 AM Hawkar and his friend Nihad drove me back home. I had started my day with my back pretty much acute not knowing how I could get through the day. It surely wasn’t a day to be on stage. And here I was, having had the most amazing evening. I was so tired, nearly falling asleep to the beautiful sounds from the Kurdish language, which I don’t understand. Like a lullaby.

But back in the house I suddenly felt sad. And my Post Social Anxiety hit me. Which always happens when I have taken up a lot of space. As on this occasion I was the space, I was the stage, the PSA was severe.

About the sadness, I remembered once hearing a musician talking about the on tour life and the hotel rooms after the concerts. He said, the greater the show had been - the more connection with the audience, the emptier the hotel room was afterwards. The discrepancy became a hole. I think that’s where I ended up in the early morning hours.

Tonight i have landed in a feeling, a picture. A loud shooting stars falling softly on me. It might have something to do with Audrey and Agneta’s beautiful dressing of the table in silver and white. Loud from all the people being there at my night. Falling softly from all the wonderful things they did for me. I am forever grateful.

A healthy Facebook diet

1,5 month ago I had a bad stomach flue. I was totally down-and-out. At one point I slept all day in my bed, like numb. It was a Saturday. Hours passed and I didn’t notice. That’s never happened in my current bedroom where I’ve been since 2006.

This was during the extremely intense final sprint of the documentary I was working on. In the midst of all that I had one day when I couldn’t do anything at all, not even think about the project. It was so bad, Trouble 2 spent 24 hours here taking care of me as I fainted every time I tried getting myself to the bathroom.

So, I had this one day when I could let go of everything. Work and myself. The day after, Sunday, I felt a tiny bit better. Before Trouble 2 left we synchronized our calendars for further work - we had lost a lot of time. I immediately felt my brain go red, the adrenaline rushing through my body, breathing stopped and heart pounding. I realized I was seriously over worked. There was nothing I could do about it though, I had a deadline.

In the evening I took the big step moving over to the couch. It felt like going on a journey. So much information in my living room. Just lying there. To prepare for the Monday coming up I finally put the TV on, watching the news. The sound very low. Pictures flickering. Letting the world in. It wasn’t a good thing.

I would have needed many days in my bed, all numb. But I had a film to produce and finish. Was there anything I could change at all to make my situation less stressful? Yes, I could stay out of Internet.

I am not a big surfer at all, apart from what I need in my profession. I read Seattle Times every day, I check in on Trouble 1’s Instagram and I take my Facebook walks morning and evening. And short strolls in between, waiting for a phone call, a file to down load, a text to arrive, an email to come through, things like that. I have never felt stressed out or affected in a bad way by that. It turned out I was wrong.

The time following the stomach flue I couldn’t even read Seattle Times. The scrolling position of my hand made the adrenalin rush. The opportunity clicking on a link made my brain spin. I realized I had to monitor myself hard to stay on only one thing.

Which is easier said than done when you a producing a film and the client is tapping his fingers, waiting for you.

So, I focused on my work - at least trying thinking one thing at the time - and I stayed out of Facebook. Completely. For three weeks I had no clue what was going on in the world except from what the news was telling me. It was strange. But also a relief.

I’ve never been a friend of the Facebook jargon with the constants smileys and thumbs up, the traveling luggage and the beautiful food, all of us showing only the bright side of ourselves. Often there are no smiles and thumbs up in my life and I feel estranged and lonely watching that happy world out there. It was nice not being the spectator of all that for a while. And what a lot of time I suddenly had on my hands!

Eventually I started to make cautious visits there. I have a tendency of easily feeling invaded (which was very physical when I first joined Facebook), so I needed to go very slow. A short stroll a day. Closing. Taking a deep breath.

Now, 1,5 month later I am most days back to my morning and evening walks. My scrolling is very slow though. I am trying to remember breathing. And I am not interactive. I am not posting status. I am not (in regular) commenting or liking. I am a Peeping Tom. Which makes me feel bad. I’m the old lady hiding behind her window curtains watching her neighbors.

So why am I doing it? Why do I even want to be there? Well, a lot of people doesn’t use email any more and I am afraid I will miss a PM from someone who tries to reach me. And there might happen things in my extended family which I wouldn’t get to know any other way.

So, we’ll see how long this Facebook diet of mine will continue. It feels good though not bursting out in a random “The sun is finally out, how wonderful!” Or going publicly upset about something on TV. Or Donald Trump. I feel like it is a matter of hygiene. Social media hygiene. I feel cleaner. Not crying out my feelings about this and that. And not listening to everyone else doing the same. I actually think it feels a little more grown up.