A fearless voice. Once again.

Once there was a Swedish Prime Minister, Olof Palme.  No one was indifferent to Olof Palme. He was admired, disliked, maybe even hated. Loved? I don’t know. People were intimidated by him for sure, annoyed. He was perceived as arrogant. Born an aristocrat, practicing social democracy as a politician. I think it was hard to figure him out. He was assassinated on his way to the movies February 28 1986. His case is still not closed.

Sometimes I watch Olof Palme’s old speeches. Or read them. I am always taken by them. Some would say he was courageous. Other that he was undiplomatic. Whatever the opinion, he was outspoken. And he stood by his ideology. In Swedish politics as well as foreign affairs. Listening to him I have often been thinking: oh how I wish there was a politician as Olof Palme in this time and age! What would Sweden have been like if Olof Palme hadn’t been murdered? Also thinking those times must have been different in some sense, and we would never hear that kind of fearless voice again.

But this week the Swedish Foreign Minister Margot Wallström stood up for democracy and human rights. By doing so the Saudi ambassador to Sweden was recalled back home. Margot Wallström was blocked by the Saudis from speaking about democracy and women's rights at a gathering of the Arab League in Cairo. As the next move, the Swedish government decided to scrap an arms deal with Saudi Arabia, bringing to an end a decade-old defense agreement with the kingdom. Yes, it’s been an interesting week.

Interesting too was the reson for the Saudis to block Margot Wallström from speaking at the gathering where she was invited. The Swedish foreign ministry had published the Minister’s planned remarks in Cairo, which made no specific reference to Saudi Arabia, but did urge reform on issues of women's rights.

The Saudi foreign ministry deemed her comments about being barred from speaking "offensive" and "blatant interference in its internal affairs.” In an interview with Swedish media, Margot Wallström had described the punishment for a dissident blogger who was sentenced to 1,000 lashes as “medieval.”

And how did Sweden react to it’s Foreign Minister acting like no Swedish politician has done since the eighties? Well 30 some out of Sweden’s most prominent business leaders acted as one man condemning Margot Wallström’s behavior and the Social Democrat/Green minority government’s decision, meaning it would ruin all business with Saudi and it’s ilk. And the Right followed.

For Swedish politics, has the last weeks political business been a smart move for a weak minority government? I have no idea. Internationally? Well, I am absolutely positive Margot Wallström (who by the way is born and raised two hours north of Umeå, served 10 years within the European Union and was then appointed Special Representative of the Secretary-General (SRSG) on Sexual Violence in Conflict by the UN Secretary-General Ban Ki-Moon) is not thinking smart or not smart. She is acting out of knowledge, experience, belief and conviction. And I find her courageous.

To me, it’s outrages that Sweden is exporting arms to any country. To me it’s outrages that Sweden is even producing arms and air force. An on the paper neutral peace loving country which hasn’t been at war since 1809. There might be some good reason for it, but just the thought of it makes me sick.

I feel encouraged by Margot Wallström. Sweden is a tiny country, and we might just be a little terrier barking. But I feel like there is a backbone in Sweden rising from a faint-hearted posture we have been in for much too long. I hear the voice and breath of Olof Palme, and it gives me hope.

Three ordinary women. Three extraordinary women.

On this important day I want to celebrate three women. I am not painting a picture with the big brush. I am aware of demonstrations, speeches and honoring around the world. Very aware. But then there is the little world. The one close to me. So today I want to celebrate Audrey, Josephine and Janette.

I turned acute on Friday. Which was really annoying since the sun was finally out and Audrey and I had planed to once and for all get the one and only major errand done: buy me a new bra. Every woman on this planet who is trapped in a culture wearing bras knows when the old one is well over time, the need for a new one urgent and the resistance against entering a fitting room taking care of this awful business fills you with such anxiety, you have come to the way of no return. You just have to get it done.

The thing was, I wasn’t that bad when we parked the car in downtown Umeå and Audrey helped me out. It happened on the way to the first fitting room. A snap. In my pelvis. Baby steps. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Audrey says. No it’s not, but a woman has got to do what a woman has got to do. “But we could do it some other day?” No, this is the day, let’s do it.

Audrey’s patience with me in that fitting room... It’s actually kind of blurry to me. 90% focus on the pain, keeping my body standing up, fending shootings off. 10% focus on what I was actually there to do. So it is thanks to my beloved Audrey and a nice lady in the store that I was back at the house later,  exhausted but equipped with not only one bra, but two!

Saturday Josephine came in the morning to get me to the bathroom, and later for breakfast. As she does every morning. Josephine is 23 years old, has two horses, a puppy and a 2,5 year old daughter. Josephine and I share most everything in our lives, and since we see each other every day, we have plenty of occasions to talk. Somehow though, it’s never enough. We are always short of time. And always waiting for that moment when we will have a real good sit down conversation, not just the bits and pieces while she is assisting me with my basic needs.

I was in bad shape yesterday. And the weather! There was this horrible rainstorm so that Josephine couldn’t even take her horses out for exercise. Which was annoying since her little daughter was with grandma over the day, and she was for once off duty. So how to use this day in the best way. “Maria, what do you say, could I come over later for a cup of tea and talk for a while?” Are you kidding me, of course you can!

While the storm eased out Josephine tucked herself and the puppy in under the blanket on my couch. We had our tea. And for hours we told each other what was on our mind. Uninterrupted. No glancing at the watch. Of course we only skimmed the surface on our never ending list of important matters, but those we covered, we covered well. Suddenly it was dinner time and Josephine cocked me her thai chicken dish which she makes for me most very Saturday evening. It was a good day after all.

This morning I woke up in terrible pain. The kind of pain that makes me really scared. Sweat breaking out in fear. Nowhere to hide from it. Josephine helped me with my morning routines. After that, alone with my pain. Then there was a knock on my door. “Hello, it’s Janette, can I come in?” But of course you can!

Janette lives in my village. She is about ten years younger than me and most likely the sweetest person ever. She is also incredibly beautiful. And even taller than I am! Now and then she shows up on an impromptu visit, always bringing something. Today her daughter’s fresh baked very healthy muffins, still warm from the oven.

Janette loves dancing. She knows I do too and she is so sad that I can’t. She wishes for me to rise from my couch, break out from the prison my body has become and just dance. Dance the pain away for ever.  And oh how I wish that too! I love the image, it really feels like that would be a way to heal. But how to get there?

The weekend is over. And so is International Women’s Day. I haven’t been in this much pain since December and it could have been the most terrible weekend. But thanks to Audrey, Josephine and Janette, it wasn’t. Three ordinary women. The extraordinary women.

Is there someone else living here too?/part 2

Okay, so I had a leaking dishwasher (probably) and mysteriously water filled bowls on two shelfs in the cabinet next to it. Not much water on the shelfs and no water what so ever out on the floor. In wait for the plumber Audrey emptied the bowls and we shut off the water feeding the dishwasher. And, of course we didn’t use it.

He came a couple of days later. Looked into the cabinet. Checked the pipes and the tube at the far back. Didn’t find anything wrong with the plumbing. Looked at the wood surrounding. The insulation. Felt it. Sniffed it. No, no signs of water damage. And if there had been, there most certainly would have been water on the floor. 

What?

Audrey and I were instructed to run the machine and see what happened. And off he was. We ran the machine. Before, we put the bowls back to stage the same scenario. Then we ran the machine. And what happened was the plastic pipe connected to the dishwasher outflow was flooding. Lots of water. On the shelfs and out on the floor. Nothing in the bowls! 

So, literary the reversed scene. And also water right down from the plumping at the far back of the cabinet under my kitchen floor. Audrey was quick with a bowl trying to catch some of it, but absolutely, right down under the floor. Like poring a bucket down there.

This did not feel good. Not at all. Really bad. Okay, we had done the troubleshooting and localized the error to the sewer system, but where in the system? Was it ways under the house? Did I have to take out the floors in the kitchen, bathroom and entrance to fix it? And all that water…

The day after the plumber was back. It turned out the water trap in the cabinet connected to the dishwasher was clogged up. Really? Was that the whole thing? Yepp. Can I trust that? I will cut off my right hand if it isn’t. Ok, I hear you…

Then he took a good look into the cabinet. Checked the surrounding wood at the back. The insulation. Felt it. Sniffed it. It was all dry. Bone dry. You can’t be serious? Yepp. But we saw all that water running down there? Well, all I can say is that there is no signs of water damage here.

What?

I just couldn’t let it go. I didn’t feel safe. So I had an inspector from my insurance company come and look, this was Tuesday this week. It was a big man. While he crawled into the cabinet I told him the whole story, and I didn’t leave out the water filled plastic bowls. He checked the wood. The insulation. He touched it. He sniffed it. He measured the humidity with his special measuring instrument. He was thorough. 

Dry. He told me. Everything was bone dry. No signs of water damage. But how is that even possible? Can it be the water has been running through the insulation and is down under my floor, but it’s dried out on the surface? No, I would see that. But there is not a trace of any water what so ever here.

I should be able to let it go now, right? I mean, I have had a plumber and my insurance company saying it’s all good. But where did that water Audrey and I saw go? And those plastic bowls? Neither the plumber or the insurance guy had an explanation to how the water could have gotten into those bowls, especially without the shelfs being more than just wet, and no water running out on the kitchen floor. They both agree on that’s mysterious.

So what do I think? I have absolutely no idea. I am still worried there is undiscovered damage from the water I saw with my own eyes, and who knows how long that’s been going on? But the unexplained water bowls don’t bother me that much. Audrey is more uncomfortable than I am, after all, as I did tell in the Part 1 of this thrilling mini series, I am kind of used to some inexplicable activity around the house.

And if there is someone else living here too, it must be someone who looks after me. Someone who doesn’t want to harm me, but the other way around. Someone who takes plastic bowls, holds them to a leaking tube and fills them with flooding water. And at an instant dries wood and insulation.

Fix it! Just fix it!!

I must say I am terribly disappointed. I thought more of them. And that it just hadn’t happened yet. And I feel a bit stupid I have to say, or at least naive.

During the process of creating Väven, the new building for cultural arts which opened november 2014, there was a lot of resistance for moving the city library to the facility. 

The core of Umeå city center is extremely small.  And we are very lazy. Anything which isn’t within the square of three blocks feels remote. Like if the area around Pacific Place and Westlake Mall in Seattle was the only place to be. Anyway, at the core of these three blocks there is the Metro bus terminal, Vasaplan. A bit like the Grey Hound station in Seattle although a lot nicer. The city library was located right at Vasaplan, which of course was perfect. 10 steps and you were there. The library was also a great place to wait for your bus. The newspaper and magazine corner a warm and friendly companion while waiting.

So one of the big cons against moving the city library was that it would be too far from Vasaplan and hard to get to. Now, Väven isn’t located more than three blocks from Vasaplan, so that’s like a joke. That is, of course, if you don’t have any physical problems and are able to walk those blocks.

I used to defend the con argument with the obvious one: the City would of course see to there were buses stopping frequently at the entrances of the new city cultural center and library, anything else would be unthinkable!

Now it turns out I was wrong. The City has no intention what so ever to secure bus communications to Väven. The argument for that: Vasaplan is close enough for people to walk from. Well hello, I have news for you: not everybody can walk! There is also only one (!!!) handicap parking space located at Väven, which is a building stretching two blocks in a square.

I have periods when I can walk one block or maybe two, but I can’t do it by myself, someone needs to be with me. And there are times when I can only do a few steps, and those times are more frequent. I am physically challenged. I still have problems using the word handicapped about myself. Physically challenged. Temporarily. No, probably not.

Some people who are handicapped can still drive. And those people need a handicap space to park in. And I am sure there are more than one handicapped driving person who wants to visit Väven and the new city library.

Some people get around in a wheel chair, and most of the times they are assisted by someone. They might be able to take the bus to Vasaplan and get themselves to Väven. But as Umeå 6-7 months a year is covered in ice, slush or snow, I am sure that trip is not one they fondly go for.

I can’t take a bus, so for me the City ignorance is not a problem. I can’t drive, so that one single parking space doesn’t bother me (personally) either. I need someone who is kind enough driving me, letting me off right outside the entrance, then driving parking the car somewhere while I am sitting waiting for that someone to come back and be with me during the visit. So, I don’t fit in to any of those categories.

But I do feel deeply for everyone who is physically challenged and in pain trying to do this by themselves. It’s a most difficult, dangerous and vulnerable situation. And I can’t believe the complete ignorance and lack of empathy with the officials who are responsible for these decisions.

In fact, those decisions aren’t even legal. According to the Swedish discrimination law, the City is, already during planning, obligated to secure and provide availability for everyone. What the City of Umeå does (or more correct, doesn’t) is further more not according to the legally enforceable UN convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities. Which Sweden has signed and agreed on.

I feel embarrassed for myself about all the times I argued for the location of the new library at the Umeå River not being a problem. Umeå wanted to turn it’s face to the water again, like it once did, and just like Seattle is planning to as well. Of course the City of Umeå would also provide communications for all of us to be a part of this face lift!

And I feel sorry and sad for everyone who is now excluded from Väven, this amazing already award winning building, the new Umeå front porch.

But most of all I feel ashamed and mad for the City of Umeå breaking Swedish law and ignoring the UN convention on the Rights of Persons with Disability. And the only thing I can say here is: fix it! Just fix it!!

Civil Care, going that extra mile (literary)

Valentine’s Day has never been a big thing for me. An American super commercial event (although it’s origin was the Catholic church in the 500 century!) imported to Sweden under the name Alla hjärtans dag (All/Every Hearts Day) when I was a little girl. That’s a long time ago though, new generations feel more related to this loved and feared day, and we have made us one more occasion when it’s not okay to be by yourself. No one to give your heart to and no one to be given from. To feel alone. And Facebook doesn’t help, that’s for sure.

When Trouble & Trouble were teenagers I used to buy the three of us roses on Valentine’s Day. I stood all sweaty in long lines to get them. A lot of times I was on the verge of giving up and just drive home to get the food on the table, but no, my persistence helped, and I could serve not only food but a big red rose in a beautiful bottle a side the dish for each of us.

I think I started this tradition after me and my sons’ dad separated. I don’t remember either him or me ever making anything out of Valentine’s Day when we were still together. No, it was something about this great day of showing love that made the sadness of a split up family more painful. And I compensated the loss with big red roses next to our three dinner plates. 

When you feel alone, a perky “it’s just a commercial stunt” doesn’t do the trick. You can say it, you can think it and it can be your opinion. But what goes on in your body and soul, well that’s a different ball game, as my dear old friend Tant Helen used to say. The sad heart, on All Heart’s Day.

I have been swearing in church (does that work in English?) for some years. I have mostly done it in a quiet way. It takes a lot of guts to question the religion or ideology which is predominant, and in this time and age it is Positive Thinking. I won’t go into it in a big way (it’s a issue by itself, wait for it!), but when Barbara Ehrenreich released her book Bright-sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America (2009), it was like someone let me out. In the United Kingdom the book has the pre fix Smile or Die. Ehrenreich had gone through cancer recently, just as I had, and refused to smile through it, being happy for the experience. Yeah, such bull shit.

Anyway, Ehrenreich is now followed by more writers and researchers questioning persuading ourselves into happiness and gratefulness whatever struggles are laid before us. I am so welcoming them, and I came to think about it las night.

I had a good day yesterday. I was fine, more than fine even. My back wasn’t at it’s worst and and I got some things done that had been on my weekend to do list for a long time. I even sat at my desk for a little while, sorting out some of my stacks. Oh how I love when I can do that, it is extremely satisfying! And it’s something about sitting upright, it gives me strength. I feel normal for a moment. Happy and grateful.

I was having my dinner. My dreary Saturday dinner by myself, as every Saturday. It is fine. I am used to it. Only, yesterday was one of those days it’s not okay to have a dreary dinner by yourself. Facebook flooded by people’s heart to heart suppers or gorgeous friends and family dinners. I know, stay out of Facebook at those times. But it’s my peek out into the world.

Then, I heard foot steps at my front porch. Knock knock. Who is there? It’s Awara. Awara, what are you doing here? It’s All Hearts Day, I am coming to see you!

Awara Gulani is one of the two owners of the home care business taking care of me. I thought there had been some misunderstanding, I had already had my dinner fixed, and felt sorry for him driving all the way out here for nothing.

But it turned out he had been driving all the way out here to give me a box of chocolate, a big hug and his loving smile on Valentine’s Day! It was not until then I realized that I had been sad. Not until my eyes teared up from astonishment and gratefulness that someone would do that for me. That Awara did that for me.

When I started using Civil Care’s services I was one out of 6 clients. Today I am one out of 70. I am the only one out here in the woods and it would have been so easy for them to skip me last night. On top of their already tight Saturday schedule they drove around to each and everyone with a box of chocolate, a warm hug and a smile. They know I would understand that a trip out here would have been the stretch they couldn’t make. I am not old and confused, I have been with them pretty much from the start and we know each other well by now.

But they didn’t. And I didn’t really know I was sad until Awara unexpectedly showed up here and made me happy. Without knowing it, he pierced a tiny whole on the I-am-fine-and-grateful bubble I had made for myself. And out of that bubble came a few tears of sadness and a few of happiness. And some insight about the state of things.

And someone gave me a heart on All Heart’s Day. And through Facebook I could tell that story and give my heart back. It was a good Valentine’s Day. 

Is there someone else living here too?

A storm picked up. A real one. Ole, coming from Norway. I hate storms. Here, at the end of the road, they are scary. Ole, combined with a weird thing happening makes me feel uncomfortable. Which is an understatement.

Some background. It was many years ago now when it first happened. In the shower there was a shampoo I didn’t recognize. Neither did anyone else in the family. There must have been a perfectly natural explanation, some friend might have left it there. But a first idea was planted in me: what if there is someone else living in this house too?

Then there was the TV and digital box being shut off before they (the more recent ones) started doing that by themselves.  The cigarette buts around the front porch. Socks in my drawer folded in a way I never do. The striped duvet covert I have no idea where it came from, in my linen store. The unknown umbrella in my mud room. A t-shirt I’ve never seen before in my washing machine. The herring fillets in my freezer I am absolutely sure I haven’t put there myself.

I haven’t been really bothered by these things, more noticing, thinking there is material for a story here. 

But some weeks ago something strange happened. Audrey found a broken glass tray in my broom closet. It was a favorite, a black and white checkers patterned square flat tray. I had no idea how that had happened, it must have been someone in the family, but why wasn’t I told? I was actually quite sad that tray was gone.

Imagine my face some days later when I discovered the tray, complete and without a scratch at it’s usual place under the bread basket in my pantry! No, it wasn’t glued and fixed, the broken one was in the box where we put it for further transport to recycling. So there were two trays, and I am dead sure I am the owner of only one. Who had put the broken one in my broom closet??!!

As I am used to some unusual activity I wasn’t alarmed, although I must admit the whole thing was quite strange. Audrey, on the other hand found the goings on a bit spooky. Now, that was before what happened this Friday.

When taking out a plastic bowl from the cabinet next to the dish washer it was filled with water. And another one. And another. Every bowl on two shelfs were filled to the half with water. There was some water on the shelfs too, but not that much.

Diagnosing, the water was kind of milky, so the explanation would be dirty water coming out of the dish washer. The plumbing is at the far back of the cabinet, so that makes sense. And that’s bad. It can be really bad. I might very well have a water damaged floor under the kitchen and the bathroom next to it. But let’s leave it there until I know.

The mysterious thing here is, why is there water in the bowls at the two shelfs? It looks like someone pored the water in there!

Audrey told me about the woman in Japan living in someones cabinet. A homeless woman had moved in to a man’s house. He started noticing food missing in his fridge and eventually found out about this little old woman making a home in his cabinet.

Friday night I couldn’t sleep. I have heavy assignments on my house to-do-list. Practical and economical. A water damage under the floor on top of that would be just great. Panic wasn’t far away. Then I was thinking, what if there is someone else living here? A gnome, a goblin, a little Japanese woman, saving me from water damage taking those bowls, holding them to the leaking tube, and filling them to the half, because that’s all they can carry. One by one. One bowl at the time. Neat and tidy.

I wish it was. Because the other explanation is the water from the tube is spraying so bad it is filling those bowls and poring right down under my floor. I would certainly forgive them for breaking a glass tray and leaving cigarette buts around my front porch if they in their kindness helped saving me from the foundations in my home being ruined.

I am expecting the plumber early this week. Tonight I will be sleeping in the striped duvet covert. Hoping there is a story here. Nothing else.

A farewell to Brage

My sister’s first memory of him is trying to read the text of the song from a clipboard. She was six and accepted in the children’s choir although she couldn’t really read. My first memory is my first piano lesson.

Brage was the church organist and music director in Nordmaling, the small town 45 minutes south of Umeå where my sister and I grew up. Nowadays, visiting our parents grave and attending funerals for their friends, the grown ups in our childhood world, is pretty much the only time I am back in Nordmaling. And this Thursday Nordmaling bid a last farewell to Brage. It was his time now.

Although my sister’s and my musical life began in our family, it was within the frame of the congregation it got a structure. To start with, the children’s choir and the group for playing the recorder. And of course the piano lessons. In our teens we advanced to the church choir. And Brage conducted and administrated the activities.

Being reminded now about this part in my life there is a lot of mixed feelings. I hated the piano lessons. They weren’t my choice, but my mother’s. And I actually feel sorry for Brage who put up with me reluctantly showing up every week for years and years, never really improving. I liked to sing though, so the choirs were something I enjoyed. Although, as the stage most of the time was the Sunday service, there was a lot of boring sermon listening hours to get to the few minutes of performing.

Brage wasn’t a fantastic musician. And he was not one of those super inspiring persons always on fire. Quite moody too. You never really knew if he would show up happy and joking or if it would be one of his grumpy days. But what he did was providing us environment and context for musical education, exercising and performing what we learned and accomplished. And he was there. Quite ambitious in his programming, present and persevering.

Thinking about it now, he was a constant, as the white medieval stone church from 1480, the old rectory which serves as a parish house, and the red belfry built in 1767, looking inspired from the east. These are all acknowledged beautiful buildings, the trinity that makes the pretty center piece of Nordmaling. And this was the heart for our childhood musical life. The start for a life where music has always been a center piece. A heart.

Brage first came to Nordmaling in 1964. My sister was six, I was eight. Neither of us developed to become great pianists (not at all, we are really lousy pianists!), in spite of all his efforts. But we have our voices. Something he always appreciated and confirmed. As grown ups, now and then we visited our childhood church as part of different musical settings: choirs, vocal groups, jazz ensembles. He was always in the audience. And we watched his face lit up listening to us. Smiling. Proud even? I am thinking now, he is probably a big part of the confidence our voices are carrying.

Today my sister is 56 and I am 58. Fifty years after Brages arrival in Nordmaling, we are bidding our farewell. Taking our seat in the medieval stone church where our part of his life have made us know every painting in the church by heart. Recognize every bend of the sculptures. The acoustics so familiar it is a part of our breath. And singing him the last hymns in the church where he served for most his life, I am hoping he is lighting up. Smiling.