Little girls in a safe universe

We have known each other since we were 2 and 3. But it must have been a couple of years now. Maybe even three. This week though, we finally met again, my very oldest friend Ulrika and me.

I grew up in Nordmaling, a small town of then 3000 people 40 minutes south of Umeå. My father was a pastry chef, and the first five years of my life we lived at the roof top floor in a three-story building where the bakery was in the basement. The first floor hosted the café and the city post office. Across the street (which at that time was the coast highway) a similar building with a hardware store. The gas station at the left and a flower shop down the road. The yellow brick public school 1-9 grade complex (which of course was the only school) right in the neighborhood and the white 1500-century stone church to the right up the road.

My family was mom, dad, my two-year younger sister and I. Our apartment a two bedroom with a tiny kitchen under a sloping ceiling. Right across the hall was Olle and Gun-Britt and their son Michael who was the same age as my sister. On the second floor right under my family was Karin and Arnold who owned the bakery and the café, Näslunds Konditori. And to the left, below Olle, Gun-Britt and Michael was Olga and Frans Näslund, Karin’s parents who started the bakery.

The hardware store across the street was Näslunds Järnaffär, started by G A Näslund, Frans brother. Managing the store did Oskar and Erik who lived with their wives Ida and Elsie on the second and third floor. Erik and Elsie had a son, Gunnar, who was my age.

This was my universe before I could walk.

I am sure Ulrika, one year older than me, was the one who found me. Her grandparents lived in the house next to ours, and they owned the flower shop. Ulrika’s house was down from the flower shop, very far away for a two year old.

And when I was about three, my universe was extended all the way to her house, including her family and a little barn with sheep and cows.

Does this sound idyllic? It was.

Moving myself back in time the all-embracing feeling is safety. My family’s small home was a part of a bigger home. Four family cubicles in a house smelling from fresh baked bread. As everyone who lived in the building except for my mother (who was a nurse) and Olle and Gun-Britt (gold smith and teacher) worked in the building, it was never empty. There was always someone there. And with the café and post office there was life, commerce, sounds, smells, people coming and going, noise, laughter, joy and excitement. And above all, there were always grown ups around.

In the two Näslund buildings cross the street from each other there were four kids and twelve grown ups. That is only counting the people who lived there, with the businesses of course, many more. And the bakery in the basement was the grounding, pounding warm heart of life, kindness, presence, support and love. It was a small town Bullerbyn (not translatable, an idyllic village from an Astrid Lindgren story), and I am not idealizing.

In the extended universe Ulrika and I were running around. Two little girls jumping in the hayloft scared of spiders, visiting Oskar and Erik in the hardware store smelling the rubber from the bicycle spring arrivals picking our favorites, saying hi to Grandma and Grandpa busy in the flower shop, staying away from the big post buses trafficking the street, and most of all running up and down the stairs to the bakery. Cause there wasn’t only my dad and Arnold, there were also teenage boys cleaning the baking trays and making deliveries with the scooters. And those young men were our first love.

Being a little girl, having daily access to twelve descent and responsible grown ups + Ulrica’s parents and grandparents, I wonder how that has affected me. I wonder who I would have been without them. As in most families and communities there was some dysfunctional elements of course, but I would say I was blessed with care and kindness. Twenty-four eyes and ears saw me and listened too me. Twenty-four arms and hands were ready to catch me if I fell. There was presence.

Ulrika and I have kept in contact most of our lives. We know each other the way siblings or cousins do. Because we share backgrounds. Because we fed the lambs with baby bottles. Because we were forced to Sunday school in the beautiful medieval church when no one else was. Because we had annoying baby sisters. Because I learned to ride my bike before she did although she was a year older. Because her birthday presents always were more expensive than mine. Because she had a dog and I a cat. We know everything there is to know about our families, and the small town where we grew up is our shared anchor: heavy and safe.

And now it was some years since we last saw each other. We are emailing quite frequently, but we haven’t met in person. Now we finally do. Having a light lunch at a coffee shop. Ulrika had two strokes within about a year and has to think about not eating too much fat. I am sitting on a cushion fighting to focus on my lunch date instead of the pain. This is the reason to why we haven’t been able to get together. We are two, to some degree crippled middle age women. Older than Ulrika’s grandmother, when little girls in our safe universe.

But we look good! We have nice haircuts and great smiles and no one could tell our physical weaknesses. We complain about gaining belly fat more than stroke and cancer.

Sitting there, we realize we are survivors. We could both have been dead from sickness. We might very well have our final rest at the Nordmaling cemetery, but right now we are sitting together at a light lunch talking about what’s closest to our hearts.

Trouble 1 dropped me off at the coffee shop. He last met Ulrika when he was just a child. They say hello and hug and we tell him about feeding lambs with baby bottles and the running up and down the stairs of his Grandpa’s bakery. He watches two childhood friends very happy to see each other. 

Out of the twelve grown ups in my first universe, only two remains. And Ulrika’s mom is still there. I wish I could tell them all how important they have been to me. And maybe I have, there have been a lot of funerals. And I wish that every child would be graced by not only one or two parents, but by a community of grown ups hearing then, seeing them, catching them when they fall. Making and keeping them safe and warm. 

A conflicted 2-year annivarsery, and please let me say hello!

I have to say I find it annoying. And quite frustrating.

Home is Away Away is Home; Two Stories Worth Being Told is celebrating its 2-year anniversary this weekend! Two years and 96 postings! Trouble 1’s lovely Space Needle and Kolbäcksbro illustrations imaging my two cities. Most every week I have been writing my stories and according to the Blogger statistics there are some people out there reading them. I don’t know them. I don’t know you. But I am so curious about you!

My very first posting was entering cyberspace in the Seattle Montlake neighborhood in the lovely apartment I was renting from the equally lovely Dita, only one block up from where me and my family was living 1996-97. The 1-year anniversary posting was written on the Iceland Air flight taking me from the lower Queen Anne penthouse Seattle view back to Sweden. And my 2-year posting is happening on my couch here at the end of the road in my little village next to Umeå. My back turned acute again yesterday, and I am humbled by life.

The purpose for my blog was to share stories from my two hometowns Umeå and Seattle. Stories about two very different cities with a lot of things in common. The northern locations in their countries, the cultural arts scene, the Waterfront design, the building cranes, the tolerance and open minded Seattleites and Umebor, the moving forward spirits.

And I have. I have been telling about the Waterfront projects in both cities. About the Seattle process and the Umeå process (democracy is strong and we take our time). The traffic situations, architecture, the bicyclists, Refused and Nirvana, developers and preservers, spectacular out door venues and Swedish politics verses American. To name a few.

I love that. I love doing a good research and get the story right. I used to be a journalist. A public service broadcast journalist. Therefore, every time I am reporting about a high-rise discussion or a traffic gridlock situation I am feeling like I am doing my job. In two aspects. I am telling about something real and important, hard facts. And I am following my original purpose for Home is Away, Away is Home.

Imagine then my frustration when checking in with the Blogger statistics. Telling me only a few are interested reading about that subject! My extremely important topic from last week, the Neo Nazis marching in, only made an imprint as a little bump on the statistical curve!

The statistics is hard to figure out though. It’s numbers and different numbers, it’s diagrams and curves. And they don’t match. It’s actually impossible to get a grip. So I’ve decided to go with the curve. It’s clear and easy to follow. It speaks for itself. And this is what the curve is telling me:

You guys, out there, like reading about when my personal life is really miserable! That’s when the curve is peaking! And the tallest of the tall miserable peaks is the 2012 late fall one when I couldn’t move what so ever because of a giant knife in my back, I had to accept an alarm on my wrist, foreign people in my house 24-7 and a life a dozen times more restricted and lonely than my 96-year old neighbor Alida! That’s what you like folks!

Don’t get me wrong. Really. It is moving and it is touching. And it actually brings me a great deal of comfort in difficult times. I am truly very grateful. But hey, my journalist soul is revolting!

When I started Home is Away, Away is Home, I wasn’t planning on being personal at all, except for stories connected to the original purpose of the blog. But as time passed, life provided me material with great impact on myself, and therefore close to my heart and easily transferred to my fingers tapping the computer keyboard.

Telling stories about Seattle and Umeå is catching floating material from outside in a cone connected to my Mac Book, transforming to an informative, interesting and at times even entertaining piece hopefully providing aha knowledge and insights in foreign matters.

Telling my personal stories is quite the opposite. It’s looking into my heart and soul for a feeling, fish it up, transfer to my head and give it letters, syllables, words, images and colors. And the Blogger curve tells me, that’s when my audience is caught by the story.

Am I surprised? Not really. This is what I am teaching when I am preaching storytelling professionally. Fill your story with people, emotions, images, and stay true. That’s how you can reach someone’s heart.

So why am I annoyed? Why frustrated? Well, I could come up with something heartwarming or heartbreaking to tell most every week. But I just find it too…easy. A facile point win (does that work in this context?). And I don’t want Home is Away, Away is Home to be an all mushy porridge of emotions and sentiments.

I must admit it’s a conflict though. I am embarrassed to tell those really high peaks on the statistics curve makes my heart race. Why embarrassed? Because I am a public service journalist at heart, goddamn it! I am trained not going for the big crowd by cheap tricks!

So. Therefore I am still determined to stay focused on parallel city planning and Swedish-American analyzes. But I have also learned to love sharing my personal stories, safe that they will be received and embraced by you. And although my perspective nowadays is somewhat restricted by my physics, my life is yet remarkably eventful. So, I am convinced that there will be many stories still to tell and to wait for.

Now, the Blogger statistics also tells where my readers are located! Sweden, US, Russia, China, Brazil, UK, France, Japan a s o. This I have very hard to believe! Sweden and the US, yes, but I can’t figure out why someone in Russia or UK would be interested in my Umeå-Seattle stories. My guess would be some blog scan computer program checking in giving false information.

I am really curious though! It’s a very special feeling following that magic curve, knowing that you are out there but not who and where you are. I am so grateful for your presence and feel safe to ask you for an anniversary present: could you please come out from that anonymous statistical curve, transform to people in flesh and blood and let me say hello to you? That would totally make my Two Year Day and inspire me to continue sharing my Home is Away, Away is Home stories with you. Thank you for being there! And I am planning on the 3-year anniversary in Seattle…

A city stabbed in it's heart speaks up

It was two weeks ago. Although fall, 68° F (20°C) blue skies, a low sun and no wind. Downtown Umeå filled with happy Saturday shoppers, people having one more summer vanilla sundae with their choice of favorite topping at Rådhustorget, the big square named after the former City Hall at the heart of downtown.

Then, the peaceful weekend was stabbed in the heart. Out of the bleu thirty armed Neo Nazis came walking with their flags, occupying the common area, sucking the air out of the Umeå lung.

Now, from the Umeå perspective this really came from nowhere. Some weeks ago, another woman at a bus stop harassed a Muslim woman with her head covered. The headlines were big and the joint Umeå soul was badly ashamed. But these things happen. As the fact that we have our share of back yard racism: “well, I am not a racist but…” Rightwing extremism though doesn’t have a home here. And we probably haven’t seen a Neo Nazi in our town since the mid nineties.

So, what was this? What happened? There are brown boots marching in Europe. Ultra-nationalistic movements are growing, in Sweden too unfortunately. When Sverigedemokraterna (The Swedish Democrats), a nationalistic party, 2010 took seats in the Swedish Parliament I wood say Sweden was in chock. But they don’t take hold in Northern Sweden, and certainly not in Umeå. The thirty angry young men came from other parts of the country on a mission to reach angry young men in this area. Well, did they take a right at the wrong corner…

So, people are shopping, families are having their sundae facing the sun. Nobody knows about the upcoming stab in the heart. There isn’t a testosterone mob waiting to attack.

Yet, that’s what’s happening. People, unprepared and with little connection to each other react from the bottom of their heart and soul, defending the square and their city. There is a violent battle and the police have to do their job. The peaceful sunny Umeå Saturday is transformed into a scary and foreign place.

Within 24 hours people from various political, religious and cultural backgrounds teamed up in social media to organize a counteraction to the Neo Nazi violation. Monday evening between 3 and 4000 people came together at Rådhustorget for a peaceful rally with only one goal: to keep Nazis away from our streets. That’s how well the 30 armed young men from other parts of Sweden with their flags succeeded in Umeå: they brought at least a 100 x 30 to demonstrate against them and their opinions.

So, how is this possible?

I grew up in Umeå during the seventies. It was a very political time and age. Most every weekend there was something to march for or against and Rådhustorget watched them all. To all of us, young at that time, speaking up for what we believed in was as natural as rain. During the nineties Umeå was the heart for the straight edge movement, and the animal right’s activists managed to put Mc Donald’s out of business, I actually think that’s the only example in the world. So, don’t come here and mess with us!

Umeå is perceived as an open, solidary and tolerant place. It has a long history of liberalism and the university provides the city young, people eager to debate and discuss most everything that is on the table. There is a nutritious soil here for social movements like feminism, animal rights, left, anti war and queer. Resistance against racism is a natural ingredient in this mix. And so as thirty armed men with flags walks into the Indian summer Saturday it comes as somewhat of a moral chock to all of us.

Now, you might object that a city of about 115 000 people four hours south of the Polar Circle probably is a pretty homogeneous place and racism not really something to be worried about. True. But you might be surprised to know that 99 nationalities with more then 10 people each have their home here. When it comes to languages the last number I heard was 111. The largest immigrant population is Finnish, 2nd Iran, 3rd Iraq, 4th China, 5^th India and 6^th Somalia. These are numbers from 2009.

Rådhustorget in Umeå is about the size of the square at Westlake Mall in Seattle. As Westlake has the concrete thing in different levels across Pine Street, Rådhustorget has the Monkey Mountain. A concrete construction in levels perfect for having that vanilla sundae, watching people and rubbing your best friends back.

Only, the top level of the Monkey Mountain (a name from popular speech) works as a stage. And on that stage there is a pulpit. And that’s where the speeches are hold. Those that end the marching pro or con. The demonstrations. The Monkey Mountain is right across the former City Hall, the pulpit facing it. Quite symbolic come to think about it.

Now it so happened the same week as the Neo Nazi tumult, it turns out that the City is going to dismantle the Monkey Mountain. Imagine the reactions! To take away the very symbol for freedom of speech right at the time for a city trauma.

It had nothing to do with anything, only a move to access plumbing and power under ground, but the timing was unfortunate. And the communication from the City poor. A Save the Monkey Mountain group was organized of course, but on Monday the beloved downtown centerpiece was gone.

Now, the concrete parts are put in storage. And the pulpit is moved across the square, but still there. And the City has promised the inhabitants of Umeå to participate in the design of the future square.

It’s interesting though. Moving away the Monkey Mountain at Rådhustorget is like taking out the dinner table from a dining room. Where is the center now? Where shall we gather? Where can we all hang out together? Especially when we have something to say. It makes us…lost.

Between 3 and 4000 people got together in Umeå to speak up against racism two weeks ago. It was a long time since something engaged that many people. I can’t find the figures now, but I think the last time was March 22 2003. Most of the world stood up that day against the US invading Iraq. So did Umeå. I remember freezing my feet off. And forcing my 14 and 16 year-old sons to participate. We marched through downtown and finished for speeches at the Monkey Mountain at Rådhustorget. It felt really good bringing our piece to the giant puzzle. Being a part of the world.

Two weeks ago an unexpected and scary armed war happened in our own front-yard. And we did what we had to do. We spoke up.

Farmhouse-Penthouse

I am thinking, watching Trouble 1 and Hannes in the hole created where the rusting tin plates and the rotted shingle roof just came off, that this is very far from a penthouse.

It has always been referred to as the Big Barn. It used to be a hay barn, and it sits in between my place and Alida’s. In more modern days it served as storage for farming equipment and later my garden furniture and a lot of things kept just because there is room for them. The old tin roof has been looking sad for many years though and this spring it was a fact: the ridge is giving in. So the question was, do I need to tear it down or should I leave it to simply collapse?

Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the work and effort it is keeping a place like mine. The main house, the baker’s cottage, the woodshed/coach house and the Big Barn. This summer there have been three major concerns heavy on my shoulders: the Big Barn, the south wall of the baker’s cottage (are the ants eating it and do I need to replace the whole wall, not only the boarding suffering from the sun and wind?) and the main house roof.

My place is my maternal grandparents homestead, built 1915-20. It’s my heart and my roots. I am the seventh generation in my village, that’s how far the family tree goes, my sons the eighth. The fields and the forests, planted by my grandfather, is the map I am navigating by. The creek is the blood in my veins.

It is a gift and I am very grateful. But it is also an anchor sometimes too heavy. That’s why I need a penthouse with a view in the place where my lungs are.

Seattle is water and mountains, skies and tall glass buildings. It is the smell of red cedar and the ocean, new memories and those yet to come. My history here is only twenty years old.

It used to be taking off to Seattle was diving into the sky. It was running away from my life in the woods. From the gravity of generations and preconceived notions laid upon me. And even if I was in a really bad place when leaving here, I could trust life running into my body as soon as I was waiting for my welcome-back ride at SeaTac. Filling my lungs with that cedar-ocean spray that lifted my spirits  like a colorful balloon.

Seattle isn’t that quick fix anymore though. Twenty years isn’t seven generations, but it is pretty much 1/3 of my life. And it’s most of my sons’ lives. It is a divorce and the loss of a happy family. It is friends passed away and moving out of town. It is restrained passion and love lost in failed hopes. It is cancer. And it’s a traumatized body from countless back episodes, bedridden stays and nightmare overseas flights.

I live in the woods on an old homestead that used to be a farmhouse. It’s as much on the ground as it can be. It is as much grounded as I can be. The antipode is a penthouse in Seattle. To live in the sky with an unrestricted view of mountains and water, a big city and a tiny home, easy to maintain. It’s as much up in the air as it can be. It’s as high as I can be.

When I returned to Seattle after the cancer, I hadn’t been back for three years. I was a different person. I walked the Northwest soil with baby steps. And I had found the penthouse to fill my lungs.

Opening the door to Main Condo at the corner of Main and 23rd took my breath away. I was in heaven. Literally. The place swam in light and air from the floor-to-ceiling windows facing south and west, and sitting at the 700 square feet patio was like being on a mountaintop overlooking the city and the Sound. The place had Maria written all over, everything was perfect, even the parking; the best spots in the garage! And it was for sale!!

I was renting from the lovely Debra who wouldn’t mind selling to me. I didn’t have the money of course, but my dear friend Randi and I bought lottery tickets, convinced that this was meant to be! I am not a lottery person, I am not lucky in that way, and of course the money didn’t come my way. But I had a great experience, and it turned out I was right: I was a penthouse woman as much as I am a farmhouse girl!

And yesterday the farmhouse girl was leading the Saving the Big Barn project. In the morning already Alida’s son Melker started the chainsaw. Hannes down the road joined with the hammer drill and the team was completed with Trouble & Trouble who used to keep the barn as their hut and climbing wall when they grew up.

The plan was to strengthen the two rotting roof beams with new ones attached to the old. Then remove the rusting tin plates and dig out the soft shingles underneath. The next step would be to replace the decayed crossbars. Would the plan work?

It did! It was exciting I have to say, because the barn is tall and the roof neither accessible nor safe to work. But the Big Barn rescue team was just perfect for the mission as Hannes is a climber and Trouble & Trouble Parkour seniors with height experience, not to talk about the Koja/Treehouse project!

It is mid September. We’ve had lots of summer days although fall is officially here. And I have taken care of two of my three major concerns. I’ve had the main house roof inspected and assured that it’s okay and will last for 10, maybe 15 more years!! And yesterday my fantastic neighbors and sons saved the Big Barn for at least this winter and I am so grateful.

The south wall of the baker’s cottage I am letting go for now. Next summer new missions. And, yes, I am aiming for another penthouse experience. The roots need the air. The heart needs the lungs. The antipodes need each other.

 

A little bit less lonely

-       Take this, these guys will keep you company!

It was Eastern 2009, I had just started chemo and my friend Majsan borrowed me her Sex and The City box. I had never watched the TV series, not even been curious about it. But here I was, at one of the most difficult and loneliest times in my life, and I sure needed some distraction and entertainment.

I developed a routine. I finished every night of my troubled days with one or two episodes of Sex and the City. I got to know Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha. Their characters, their personalities, their dreams and fears. And was surprised that the series wasn’t about sex at all.                

Sex and the City is about four lonely people in a big city. Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha don’t have families. There are no parents or siblings. They are four solitaires creating their own family together. But at the end of the day they go home to their own apartments carrying their dreams and fears in take out food boxes, a pair of new shoes or a designers bag. And they fall asleep by themselves if there isn’t a temporary date or a complicated relationship keeping them company.

The four women became my best friends. I was struggling the cancer mainly by myself. Most days I didn’t talk to anyone. The phone didn’t ring and my house was empty. In the evenings I watched TV, what was on. I had no energy for films or books, and I didn’t like going to bed in the evening because I dreaded waking up the next morning, everything the same. 

Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha became my late night comfort. Dragging myself through the days they were my light ahead. My evening friends showing up always when I needed them. And then I could go to sleep feeling a little bit less lonely.

I was also surprised and taken by how the series developed and what the characters had to face. Miranda, who was all focused on her lawyer carrier and no way would have a family suddenly was pregnant and chose to keep the baby. Charlotte, the good-hearted girl who believes in love and would die for a family, can’t have children. And Samantha, the sex goddess whose main asset is her fabulous body, gets breast cancer. And yes, they have each other, but at the core they need to take care of their challenges themselves, alone at night. Like I did.

My friend Majsan was right: they kept me company during a very difficult time. But they also became my friends. Today, my best TV-friends are the surgeons at Grey’s Anatomy. 

Again, I hadn’t followed the series. But a year ago, when I was sitting in my September Seattle penthouse with my back out and the city skyline as an out of this world post card outside my floor-to-roof window, I bumped into the same view at the TV screen next to the window, and started watching. And back in Sweden with the safety alarm on my wrist and home care putting the dinner tray at my lap here on my couch, it turned out the Seattle doctors were on every day right at dinnertime. I was hooked. Such great company.

And again. Grey’s isn’t mainly about doctors at a hospital. It’s about people struggling with their lives. Jobs, careers and most of all, relationships. The hospital is just a setting for their stories. A parallel story. Like sex in S&C. And like Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha they are solitaires. Alone at heart.

We come to this world alone. And we die alone. In between that, if we are lucky, we share our lives with other people. With friends and family. Or, as the women in S&C and the doctors at Seattle Grey’s, we create untraditional families.

And if not, TV-friends are not to be understated. As long as the home electronics works, they won’t abandon or fail you. They will show up and might even wait for you. Perhaps they won’t love you as you love them, but sometimes they will ask you questions that you need to think about. Or give you unexpected advice that might guide you on your journey. And they may make you go to bed a little bit more safe and less lonely.

My friend Majsan knew something I didn’t know that Eastern 2009. And I will always be grateful that she did.

My two summers

It’s delivered as it was ordered for the exact right day! It’s literally poring down this first September day, the day we count as the beginning of fall in Sweden. So yesterday was the last official day of summer and I was sitting under my apple tree working, grateful about still open doors and windows, cherishing the sun.

But today doors and windows are sheltering me from this first heavy fall rain. This is the time of year I am migrating west if I have wings for it. That is, if I didn’t fly over for August already.

It’s just the perfect combo for a summer: June July in Sweden when the light refund from our pitch-dark winters keeps us up around the clock and the wild flowers grow tall and delicate. And then when the anxiety of the fading daylight evenings grabs me and the meadows are withered, I spread my wings and arrive in Seattle at the peak of the summer. Or, if going for September, getting one whole month more of warmth and sun, usually not having the confrontation with the above 90° F (32° C) heat waves though.

Not that I mind the heat waves. Not at all. My body is a battery always in need of serious charging; I simply cannot get enough. The pleasure of the sun against my skin, being embraced by that dry heat, is the proof that I need it.

The Swedish summer is outstanding, mostly for the light, if it’s a good one. It’s unreliable though. Sometimes the Swedish summer is like today, more like a Seattle winter. The Seattle summers on the other hand are very reliable. Once we are passed July 4^th it’s a three-month stretch of sun and temperatures around 80F and more. This year there was no measurable rain in July, and my September stay 2012 was a five-week spell of eternal sunshine and warmth.

And yes, now it’s even scientifically proven! Seattle is the only US city I have been living in, but I can’t imagine American summers being lovelier than in The Emerald City. And, it turns out I am right!

Seattle has now officially sailed passed Portland, Oregon (and every other city) as the nicest place to be in the US during the summer! Why? Well, the Pacific Ocean is the simple answer. As the Pacific makes nine months of the year rainy and quite gloomy, it works the other way around during the summer. But even though temperatures can occasionally rise to close to 100F (ca 38C), the cool Pacific keeps the air dry, and you never get those muggy almost unbearable days the East coast has to fight. The ocean also makes the evening cool off, although I as a northern Swede find them incredibly warm and I just love it and can’t get enough of them!

So, won’t I miss them, entering the fall now? Of course I will. Especially on an evening like this with the rain poring down on my windows. Usually I spend the first part of the summer hunting for a flight to Seattle, browsing Craig’s List for a penthouse with a view for the latter part of my summer. Yes, you heard me right; I am hooked on penthouses, but more on that some other time.

Although my back and I are doing a lot better I couldn’t make it to Seattle this summer. There is no way I can do an overseas flight. And as I am not quite driving yet I couldn’t get around in Seattle. I can’t go to the grocery store by myself. Heck, I haven’t even been in downtown Umeå by myself for more than nine months, so Seattle is definitely out of the question.

Which has, in a way made the summer over here in Sweden more peaceful. Not the usual restlessness and Internet hunt anxiety hanging over me. That’s been kind of nice. And so has the summer weather! Second part of May was hot and wonderful, our only heat spell, but over all we’ve had a lot of sun and temperatures between 60-70F (16-22C), which is good for a Swedish summer. I’ve had more breakfasts under my apple tree than indoors and I’ve been barefoot more days than wearing shoes! That’s my Swedish summer happiness!

If I were free to choose I would live somewhere where the air was always warm against my skin. Where my bare feet could always touch a smooth wooden floor or a cool stone one. Where the soft grass or a sand beach transmits its’ sensations through my body. Where the warmth makes my joints move effortless. Where the door could always be open erasing the border between inside and outside. Where there was no need for winter clothes and heavy shoes. If I were free in that sense.

It’s September 1. The initial day of fall and it’s poring down. I’ve lit my first candles for the season. In Seattle it’s 79°F (26°C) and there is one more month of summer to expect. But I have had a summer to be grateful for. Wild flowers, light, little walks, neighbor hangouts, Sting, and some days with the top down on my Chrysler Le Baron. My body has soaked up all the heat it could find and I feel like my battery is charged, if not for the whole winter but for the fall to come. And as I am continuously getting stronger I will trust my wings for migrating west next August. And that will get me through the winter.

Moving in a good circle

-       You are looking a lot better Maria. Really, a lot!

This is Michael talking. Michael is my chiropractor here in Umeå. He started his practice pretty much when I started my now 27-year career as a back patient. He is the one who has, by far, treated me the most.

I am a tough case. Usually, when I see a new practitioner they are all optimistic and positive, convinced that they will be the one finding the core of my problem, fixing me. At the 5^th-6^th treatment I am sitting there comforting them though. Telling them that nobody in this whole wide world has been able to help me. So, please don’t be sad. And then I smile and move on to someone else for a while, to give the poor person some space. Careful not to let them know what it feels like inside of me.

I don’t know how many have been treating me over the years. In Seattle, at least six different people, my dear friend Randi being the most patient and loving of them all. In Umeå I would say 15-20 chiropractors, osteopaths, physiotherapists, massage therapists, acupuncturist and naturopaths. And then one in Northern Ireland. And I am sure somewhere else. And it’s been hundreds and hundreds of thousands kronor out of my wallet.

- You really do look a lot better.

Michael was on call around New Years. I hadn’t seen him for about four years, letting him rest. But here we were again, like so many times before, only: I was worse than ever.

Michael is looking at me with new eyes though, not intimidated or depressed about my sad condition. He has studied, now working with a different technique then he used to. And he tells me that he thinks my main problems are at the bottom of my pelvis and in my neck. And that everything in between is secondary to that. And in good spirits he takes on the assignment helping me out.

I have seen Michael pretty much two times a week since January. A month later I got his first “Maria, you are looking better”. In March he told me about his measuring points, which told him I wasn’t as twisted as when I first came in. I didn’t feel that much difference myself, but clinging hopefully to Michaels testimonials, “Trust me Maria, you are getting better.”

I have never before experienced the power in someone believing in me. I showed up in Michael’s office many times lost in discourage and pain, frustrated about my condition and situation, feeling like I did no progress at all. And I left with his words ringing in my ears:

-       I have to say, this looks fantastic.

At the very end of May, the day for the funeral of my dear uncle Lennart, I found myself forgetting my back support at the house, being up and about for a whole day without it! This was the first sign of a turning point. It took my brain and body that long to understand what Michael had been saying for 3-4 months: that I was doing a lot better.

Since then I have been more stable and I am slowly getting stronger. I have been able starting working out with my upper body and can now do 4,5 kilo (about 10 pounds) with my biceps and triceps (8 kilos = 17-18 pounds in my hay days)! I am so happy: I never thought I would get my arms back again!! I still have to be very careful about my lower back though, but hopefully, some day…

And I am driving! Well, rephrasing: on a good day I am driving my summer car, the Le Baron which doesn’t have a stick shift and is therefore more gentle on my pelvis. It also has a power seat so that I can adjust the angles while driving, if necessary. Also, I am only driving with a co driver, not ready to be alone in the car yet.

What is still tricky is walking, since my pelvis is still unstable and often a bit twisted. I am not doing more than 400 meter (0,25 mile) at a time, but 2, 3, or even 4 times a day, which makes me end up at a mile on a really good day, and that’s pretty darn good!

And, in August, at the time when most Swedes are returning to their desks at the office, I was able to move my 9 months couch corner office down to it’s regular place at the bottom floor! Oh the joy sitting up straight in my beautiful office with my computer on my desk in front of me!! I can’t of course do 9-5, but 2-3 hours at a time, and I just love it!

On May 5^th under the title You always have a choice. They say / Part 2, I was listing 77 more or less impossible dreams that I wanted to do. I am happy to announce that 9 of those dreams have this summer been achieved!

·      Go to a concert (Sting!)

·      Drive        (at least semi driving)

·      Move around without back support

·      Sit for hours with my beloved neighbor Alida drinking tea and talking about life and death

·      Climb a ladder (to get to The Treehouse / Kojan)

·      Stand up and sit sown without the fear of being stabbed by a knife in the back

·      Change linen in my bed

·      Cook       (at least semi cooking)

·      Have a shop till you drop afternoon with a friend (although I dropped in about an hour, but thank you Agneta and Agnes!)

Within reach are Going to the movies and Going to a restaurant. And I am having my breakfasts at the kitchen table or outside, and even doing a little bit of happy dancing on a good day! Curios for the rest of the 77- item list? Look here of what to expect: http://homeisawayawayishome.blogspot.se/2013/05/you-always-have-choice-they-saypart-2.html

It’s 9.30 PM and it’s already dark outside. The day was beautiful. 70°F, perfectly blue sky and a light breeze. I didn’t make it to the beach this summer (one of the dreams), but I’ve spent many afternoons on my sun-bed on the grass behind the bakers’ cottage, and that’s good enough. Today might have been the last one. Late August is usually early fall here on the 64^th latitude, and so having a tanning day August 25 is rare and wonderful, a late summer memory to cherish when temperatures are dropping.

-       You are looking a lot better Maria. You really do.

Yes, I am beginning to believe that I do. And I can feel it too. It’s a bit magical that it might be Michael, who has seen me for 27 years, possibly finding the roots for my dysfunctional body. I feel like I have been moving in a big circle. And I think Michael is as happy as I am about that circle.