I stare back at my reflection: blood shot eyes, a bit of a swollen check having been pressed up against another man's chair for over four hours on the train, greasy hair (shower bedamned) and several bags on my back, and under my eyes. It's been nearly 21 hours since I've seen a bed, and I will have to wait another 10 as I prepare for my journey by ferry from Nynashamn to Visby, and finally to the farm in Rone on the island of Götland.
Known for its medieval buildings, mainly churches, and the stony soil, much of Götland is populated by simple sheep farmers who want to seek out and maintain a simpler way of life. My experience of Götland via the wwoofing website excited me to the possibilities of being knee deep in mud shearing a 1,000 year old breed of lamb (or lamm, in swedish). But this would not be the case.
Several weeks prior to my arrival I contacted Martin and Anso about my visit and they put me in touch with Marion Huber, my co-wwoofer during the two week stint. Marion is also from Switzerland, and would just be finishing her practicum at a hospital in Turku, Finland. She seemed really sweet via email and enthusiastic about both meeting up and our farming experience together.
As I stumbled through the Stockholm Central Station balancing my 15 kilo bag, a backpack full of books (train fare) and the mounting expectations of my rugged two week stint on an island.. I found myself in the mess of Stockholm commuters bustling towards the south bound Nynashamn train. I then realized that I had totally forgotten everything the train station agent had told me, and now I was encumbered both with bags, and a complete lack of direction. I turned to a group of school children, picking the oldest one (usually its a safe bet to talk to students as they are immersed in english and more readily able to converse), and upon tapping her shoulder realized it was the teacher. She beamed at me, and soon I was on my way, tagging along with a group of students bound for Götland via the very same ferry. School children here seem to go on many overnight trips to various locales all over sweden. We saw several up in Abisko when Yvonne and I stayed at a hostel for four nights and hiked above the arctic circle. I can't imagine taking anyone of my previous art classes (kids of the same age as this stockholm group) for four nights in a hostel.. I can just imagine the squeals now.. ugh. Nonetheless Helen and Katarina (or "Kiki" as the students affectionately regarded her- headmaster and all) talked me through the process of getting on the ferry and arriving without issue. They also informed me of their jobs, the current school system in Stockholm and the effectiveness of their type of private school. Let it be said that private schools here are not the same as private schools in the states. With money funded entirely by the government, although the school is private, it does not seek tuition from its students. It also does not bend in any way to the laws and structures given by the government for public schools. It no longer comes down to money or class, but a manner of preference.
At the train station I excuse myself from the rambunctious group to use the ladies room. I had been searching the train and ferry station, but still no sign of Marion. I even stalked a girl for several minutes before I decided she was definitely not the wwoofing type. . but as I left the ladies stall I spotted a girl in a trademark large leather jacket, totting a giant silver suitcase, and looking suspiciously familiar to the several photos I received from Marion to indicate her appearance. There she was, in tight jeans, nylons, make up and an impossibly fashionable brown leather jacket. I felt like a complete ogre in her presence, and immediately began imagining her dealing with a flock of rowdy sheep.. heh.
Let's just say I was a bit skeptical about her, though I'm such she felt the same about me in some way. She seems uncommonly enthusiastic about meeting me and beginning this trip and I feel kind of awkward at first, not sure if she's entirely sincere in an attitude uncommon among soft spoken, introverted swedes. We exit the bathroom, yes, and head for the queue where we'll deposit our bags and collect a "real" ticket.
With her small frame, and gentle, doe-like demeanor I fear all my actions and movements to be oafish and crude. I try to focus through the intense fatigue brought on by a hellish 16 hour train ride with two screaming children, a man who wreaked of smoke, and sitting chairs only. It could've been worse.. I eat typical swedish fare (meatballs and potatoes) while she carefully chews a gala apple. This oughta be an interesting two weeks. ...we spend the rest of our time discussing our mutual experiences prior to our random meet up in the ladies room. Her time in the hospital in Turkey, her favorite vacationing spots, what kinds of songs her family sings together during Holidays, etc etc.. I tell her a bit about farming before I feel my eyelids drop and we both decide I should sleep, we'll talk later..
We leave the ferry, each anticipatorial of the strenuous, eye opening weeks ahead of us on this strange island. Not entirely sure what Martin looks like we immediately set eyes on a bearded man in the corner sporting a flannel shirt, holding one kid on the hip, while the other toe-head clings somewhat hesitantly to his pant leg. It was too easy. Martin's car is full of work debris and children's toys. The tell tale signs of all farmer cars I've driven in is some homemade repair to the car involving some kind of duct tape, wire or wood. Martin's appendage was a large wooden 2x 4 that was used to prop open the trunk large and long enough for Marion and I to load our large bags. We all squished into the car, and headed for Rone Smissarve.
Alma and Torrun are 2 years and 4 years old respectively. They run the show. Their white-blond hair and pale blue eyes seem to act as a shield to any punishment or reprimandation. They aggressively pursue their desires and seem impervious to their parents' wishes or warnings, though Martin's booming voice has a strong effect at times. Torrun claims she's feeling car sick, and rather than have our indoctrination be through the regurgitated lunch of his eldest tot, we decide to stop at a local church. Marion and I explore the church while Alma and Torrun each distribute rocks of different sizes and shapes into our hands, expecting the obligatory "Tak" (or, "thanks") after each deposit. I surruptitously chuck my gifted gravel in with the rest, pretending to act surprised and happy with each new bundle. It becomes apparent that Torrun is better, so we leave the gorgeous church, and head finally for home.
The farm is probably the most run down of any yet, but i do not judge. Though Martin is a bit weird at times, he seems to be enthusiastic about having help. What Marion and I hadn't anticipated was the extreme lack of work we were able to do. He takes us through some routines, proper care with the electric fence; how when and where to feed the chickens, and the benefits of having sheep of some 1,000 year old breed. Dinner is a strong meat sauce spaghetti made with beef from a local livestock herder and butcher. It's savory and delicious, and we help ourselves to many spoon fulls before heading to bed.
Martin's initial tour of the house, and our sleeping quarters, let us know that in case we needed to pee in the night, there was a bucket in the corner of the room we could piss in and then empty in the morning. I thought Marion was going to faint! Thankfully her English is not always so accurate, so she misses things that would otherwise cause her to go into a kid of fit, or sunken emotional state (this is just me projecting). So far we've done very little but clean up after the kids and Martin and Anso, organize some of the tamer livestock and sort firewood for the furnace into piles. We are also responsible for dinners twice a week, so last night I did some brainstorming. WIth cupboards stocked, but no obvious continuity I meditated on a dinner that consisted primarily of ground beef and flower. Pasties! The treats that my mom's friend colleen used to bake for us. A tradition from her folks' native land of northern(?) england. I felt empowered by the personal history and the potential delicious outcome. Truth be told they turned out fantastic! The crust was perfect (even without measuring cups, dern metric system) and the filling was really fresh, you could tell the cow had been recently slaughtered.. mmm.
We've been eating them ever since... so nice.
Marion is a bit fed up with the alternative lifestyle. Her impression of Swedish farms were quaint, and perfectly run. The reality of small scale organic farming is that it's either a life hobby, or something that most people do on the side. Martin and Anso are really intelligent, ambitious people and it looks like with two rambunctious kids, it's difficult to even keep their own lives in order, let alone the farm.
While Marion remains skeptical, I am keeping my eyes open.
Seidon is a refugee from Iraq. His mother and father, both doctors, were prohibited from practicing their craft under the rule of Sadam Hussein, but were also forbidden from leaving the country. He tells me the details of his life story after I timidly inquire over the course of our trek from Rimforsa to Haddebo. After several pleas to the embassy for visas his mother is able to take Seidon and herself to England and then to Sweden, his father joins them a year later. Unlike many of his friends, Seidon owns a car, and was more than willing to offer a ride to a stranger who he met through unlikely means at his friend Hjordis' house in Rimforsa. He gives me a wide grin when he talks of the thrill of driving, and happily tells me of the several extra hours of work he put in at the ICA Supermarket to save enough for gas, insurance and the costly expense of a driver's license (some 80,000 Kronors about 15,000 US Dollars
We wind up and down roads that I would consider unsuitable for Seidon's beautifully kept car, but he continues to press on and executes a few encouraging quotes in English to assuage any anxiety I might have..it feels foolish to worry so insistently on the care of his car, something totally out of my control and in the hands of a capable driver. Finally, with great relief I spy the Skogsfestivalen sign, we made it. I take a deep breath, and spy out of the windshield a man who I can only guess is Viktor. His black shirt, displaying the sign of the same name as the entrance, greets us with a warm smile. Already I feel more at ease than I had at Hildegard's. Seidon opens the car door for me, another sign of his incredible chivalry, and over-politeness. His slacks and pressed shirt flapping in the wind as he smiles wide again, encouraging me to liberate from my seat belt and greet my destination. I smile warmly and shake the hand of my new host, Viktor Säfve. Seidon and Viktor keep up small talk, laughing about the misunderstandings about directions while I attempt to heave the impossible load of my rucksack. Seidon looks horribly out of place, his pressed shirt, pristine and glaring against the backdrop of dark, wet forests, and slippery rocks. Viktor stands at attention, his brown pants with evidence of labor, and his sincere gaze not at all judging or hurried. I assemble myself, a mule of Patagonia green and grey, and bid Seidon adieu. I still can't believe he went out of his way to Hjortkvarn from his route to Uppsala, but despite my gracious thanks he claims the pleasure was all his.
Water is gathered every morning from a well down near where Seidon parked the car, about 200 meters from the house. The large water jugs weigh about 50 lbs each, and though I am strong, require the wheelbarrow.
Viktor leads me and Yvonne straight to the house, passing the komposting
toilet outside to the front porch currently occupied by two precocious,
The interior of the house is inviting. Cool, natural colors cover the walls and offer a contrasting backdrop to the cold, almost greasy black iron stove--the original one from the house's construction. Large, unassuming candle holders hang at eye level above the cooking area, clean from wax dripping, and eager to hold up the only obvious source of light for the kitchen. Food is kept in the pantry and in a large "sleeping couch" relegated to the dining room. This old piece of furniture belonging to Kata's father was used to acquiesce paltswimmar (food coma) after a large meal. It now houses a
After a short tour, we return outside to hear the list of projects we would start and hopefully finish in the next few weeks. The first of which was chopping wood, and clearing the large 10 meter by 5 meter pile of spruce, birch and maple from beside the goat house. I had never wielded an ax and after several worried looks from my grandmother as she watched my brother break down a fallen redwood, I thought I never would. Though here I was, eagerly encouraged to quarter and split giant logs. It was a pathetic sight, but Viktor's encouragement and faith put my anxieties at ease, I would soon learn proper technique and stance so that you didn't hurt your back. Yvonne, who had just returned with Viktor from a 10 day trip to Northern Sweden cataloguing endangered mosses, fungi and lichen with foresty
Viktor showed us an area of plantation forest (a term I would become thoroughly familiar with..) that needed attention to revive. The spruces were growing less than 2 meters apart in some areas, and were without proper sunlight. No mosses or other species of floor dwelling flora (or fauna) could survive and thus the trees suffered. We would learn the proper way to diagnose the area, gauge economic strategy for cutting, and preserve some trees for future wood to sell, and enrich the natural area.
After a delicious (sic) vegan dinner, we head to the nearby lake. Goats follow us obediently and Viktor sighs, saying that they will need to be carried if they follow us along this shorter route, so we take the long way,
The boats wait for us by the edge of the water, unprotected as if no one has ever been to this lake but us.. I get in the middle so as to encourage
The island, one of a few in the Hjarte (heart) lake is completely untouched by man. Still home to several species, including moose (who i was very eager to catch a glimipse of) it also houses several glacial stones (rocks carried here by glaciers during the ice age and dropped when the ice melted. Some have split cleanly in two or three pieces.. they are massive.. and humbling). We paddle to the shore of the island and proceed deep into the forest while Viktor instructs in English about the various pieces of a forest. I listen with all my might, still without my forest-floor-legs, and numb from sitting on my feet the whole ride over.
We climb and duck and weave, soaking up the incredibly greenery of our surroundings, awe inspired by the quietude and the promise of moose or crane sightings. Climbing back into the canoe I feel a new serenity pass over me. This is where I need to be, this is where I need to spend my time and learn to let go. I hope that the next two weeks will show me new kinds of patience and humility. A kind of peace that you can only find in places you hope will never change, that have unequivocal power over you without question. I stare out into the still water reflecting the flanking mountains and spy a golden eagle soaring high above our destination shore.
Hildegard offers me another cup of lemon verbena, the leaves straight from her front steps. I wish I had the capacity to download all of the photos I've shot of this incredible place.. H's computer is a low voltage machine that she has specifically ordered due to her high sensitivity to electricity. All lights in the house are on only at absolutely necessary hours, and her lamp above the kitchen table is candle lit. We sit there in the bright morning (though it was bright at 4am) and discuss her travels in India and her move from Germany about twenty years ago. I look down at the apple sauce (one of the thousands of apple derivatives we've consumed during the beginning days of the apple season), yogurt and cracker mixture, a slurry piqued with the occasional vinebär or fresh currant. Everything we consume, save a few dairy products is straight from the garden. A strict, but fairly complex vegetarian diet that leaves me dreaming of north carolina bbq.
We leave the table, and I snag the dishes hoping to win some merit with my highly demanding boss making sure that the water is not on too hard for too long, or too hot (all things I've learned through trial and error). She restricts soap usage for only the toughest grease which is rare considering how little cheese and meat they cook with.. We leave outside, and I don her eldest son's boots-and while I've always been known to wear a small 42, I squeeze happily into a size 40, tuck Denise's jeans into the tops and head out to collect apples. Today she has me chopping down the field formerly known as "The Butterfly Sanctuary". There is nothind sacred about this large patch of grass which these long handled shears are no match for.. The dull blades pull pathetically at the grass and it takes several attempts at finding the best way to grab at the grass rather than attempt to use the tool for its original purpose. Hildegard drops by after tending to her tomatoes in the greenhouse to survey the progress, "Dat's eet?" She says, surprised at the lack of ground I've covered. Hildegard works diligently beside me gathering up the grass with a rake and piling it into her wheelbarrow to take to the side of a long gravel path to add to the compost. Several of the piles of discarded apples I collected earlier are slowly hidden by the mounting grass shards. I'm thankful for this, because I don't feel my taste for acceptible apples is as leniant as hers, and the thought of wasting anything in this household means a scolding I don't care to enjoy.
Hildegard and I attempt a conversation, which is always more tedious than expected. I knew there was a language barrier, but I didn't know it would be because I didn's speak english..
Me; Is that your car?
H: Vhat?
Me: Your car?
H: Eh?
Me: Car, Auto! (pointing to her car)
H: Oohh.. Car!
Me:...
Hildegard does not actually have a farm but an incredible garden filled with a variety of herbs, vegetables, flowers and fruits which she implements in some adult classes she teaches in the winter time about alternative medicine (her main source of livelihood) her five children, some at the house now, and others away are very shy around me.. though my hulking 5'11" frame has been widdled down to some 8 pounds slimmer in the short 4 days I've spent in this vegetarian household. Meals consist of a variety of items from the garden and involve several flowers I've rarely seen in salads. Only one big meal a day is served, and the rest are a small assortment of yogurt, crackers and cheese. Lots of tea is drank, and rarely straight water (save me).
I walked 30 minutes to the local store yesterday to buy some peaches to accompany her son Silas' 13th birthday celebration. Her daughter Hjordis (pronounced Yoris) of 24 years, baked a plum cake from scratch with her visiting friend Seidon (a refugee from Iraq who arrived 15 years ago with his two parents, and now attends university with Hjordis in Uppsala- a town about 2 hours north of Rimsforsa where I am currently staying). Hjordis rarely cracks a recipe book and instead draws on years of practice and providing for her younger siblings. Linnea has just returned from a traditional Swedish dance competition and is beaming with her 15th place--commendable since most of the competitors are highly practiced and much older than she (of 18 years only). The place was packed for the celebration, and H's ex husband Ryner accompanied the celebration. They are still close though they've been divorced for several years. The celebration starts with a tradition of tossing the honored party up and down on a chair and chanting something.. I don't really understand. Then we dig into the plum cake. My lemon thyme (straight from the garden) and sugar peaches are a sort of success, but I'm really only gauging by Hildegard's positive response. We then open presents. I had the foresight to bring a few things from Oregon that are appropriate for kids, and decide to wrap up a carved bunny shaped puzzle made from Oregon wood for Silas. The puzzle is actually very easy, and so we all conclude that he must attempt it blindfolded! We all take a turn and laugh at the ridiculous measures we take to go faster and beat the previous person's record. I marvel at the time and attentiveness everyone shows to this activity. We are all happy in eachother's company...
I retire early to my room, at around 9pm (when it is just getting dark) and write in my journal til 10:30pm. I hope there will be enough warm water in the morning for a shower...
Today, Seidon, Hjordis' friend offered to give me a lift to Hodebo, the small town just outside of the forest I'll be working in for two weeks with Viktor and his partner and a few other WWOOFers. I've been in contact with them for several weeks now and the lift is an extremely fortuitous! Hodebo, just outside of Hjortkvarn is impossible to get to by bus (an 8 hour journey) but by car it takes an easy 1 1/2 hours :) Seidon and I talk politics on the way and differences between both Swedish and USA culture and Iraqi and Swedish culture. He is incredible polite (as is everyone I've met in Sweden) and is encouraging of my travels. I'm not entirely sure if my experience in Hildegard's farm was very authentically Swedish as my reactions and interactions from other natives here happen to feel different, regardless I've learned an incredible amount in only a short time..
Posting has been very difficult since I have not had easy access to a computer and the next two weeks will be no different. I will have access only once a week for two weeks and then I am planning on visiting my relatives a few hours away for a few days before trekking to Stockholm for the week. I will be able to access email easier by that time.
I have kept everyone in my thoughts this last week, and hope you all are well!
I blink. My eyes refocus on a hunk of lemon chiffon that has just hit the floor with a resounding "smack!" I grip the knife harder and decide whether to let in seep into the doughy holes of the perforated rubber flooring, or snag a nearby dish towel and make the janitor's job a little easier. The chatter, and clank of the bakery in the back is barely audible under the cloud of conversation, laughter and orders being hailed by tired wait-staff and the elite, lined up for their tables for two.
My position is called "Pastry-Technician" a laughable title, mighty difficult to convey without smiling or feeling the need to tap dance an excuse... Pastry Tech or as I like to call it, Cake Slinger, is the position allotted to those whose job it is to decorate or "plate" an enormous piece of cake (or made to disguise a less desireable piece for consumption) with an array of sauces and "edible tchotckies" such as chocolate curls, chocolate dipped espresso beans, lemon wedges etc etc etc. A job most commonly sought after by aspiring graphic designers, wayward studio artists, or the nascent retail/food associate who is roped into it from previous experiences as a young diner. But waste NO TIME in plating, or trying effectively recreate a Wassily masterpiece with chocolate sauce, because expedience is key when you have a Saturday night shift (prom nights in May were a personal hell of mine). There's two of you, and hardly room for both (think of the width of a bowling lane, sans gutters). Knives fly as you dose them with scalding hot water before attempting a mousse torte or the new york cheesecake. Some people watch in horror as the plates flip upside down while I defy gravity and let the plate come to the cake, and not the other way around (for easy placement). Frostings flop, insides crumble, decorations wilt with a glance.. and you are there at the mercy of time and space to make it all work. Make it all work fast. I think I could get into the restaurant business. The rush and intensity-- the versatility and movement you must possess is addictive. At the end of the night we all flop around the cushy booths in the lounge, clumsily clutching a cocktail and dribbling out the main events of the night through tired eyes, and lazy smiles. It's an amazing bond you have with servers, dishwashers, cooks, management alike as you all brave the clientele of the evening. A wealthy buffoon, an anxious wife, a bevy of bubbling blonds...All of them
The summer after completing my first year of college, my mother pushed me from the moment I stepped off the plane from NC to get a job. And I worked tirelessly on perfecting a resume and cover letter for several under-whelming positions. I cannot recall how exactly I came upon this strangely titled position, but the notable restaurant on the West side was asking for a new baker and pastry technician. I remember I had visited my friend Brian the night I received the call for an interview and raced back into town to prepare a suitable "suit". The kind gentleman who interviewed me was only there for a few more weeks before he and his wife moved away to finish her grad school degree. I was left in the hands of a few embittered, veteran techs, and a hilarious, male comedian duo of bakers in the back.
I had never learned anything about baking save for a few lessons at Safeway and was totally unprepared for the finesse and grace necessary to frost an entire gateau. It was trial by fire, and several desserts made their way to the same holey (holy?) floor before they ever made an appearance under the gleaming deli-case glass. I remember the Crisco grease oozing onto my fingers as I practiced row after row after row of shells, rosettes and cursive lettering. The heat from the summer was intensified by the close proximity of 450 degree ovens, baking sheet after sheet of meringues, tart shells and shortbreads. Sweat ceremoniously trickled down my neck and collected in the collar of my chef's coat-- an oversized, thick white shirt that hid any inappropriate attire (tank top, colored T) from view. Perhaps they should instate this as a punishment for girls at NS with tanks at under 3 finger width..
By the end of the summer, and after months of 40 hour weeks I became confident in my skills, memorized hundreds of recipes and could make a killer panna cotta in under 10 minutes flat. I knew all the tricks and I felt emboldened as I left for my second year of college.
So here I am. Two years of private school teaching in my past (a small detail that drops the jaws of several of my coworkers.. why?) I am slinging cakes once again, this time--exclusively in the front and with the help of a whole new feeling--whole new staff of people who are far kinder, cooler and harder working than I remember. My anxieties have vanished and now I am clean, efficient and feeling affable. Tickets may line our entire 16 foot counter, and customers may glare and demand more creme anglaise! But I am at ease, wielding my knife--in a space no larger than a modest walk in closet... and though a few more pieces of chiffon may hit the floor I don't care. It's not the end of the world, and most importantly it's nothing as intense as a room full of tweens.
Culture Shock has never truly hit me in foreign countries. I've experienced the most socio-culture jarring from returning to the States, in the place that I once considered "familiar".
There is something very comfortable about your own personal history. Especially one that somehow supersedes your current feelings of success. I left Portland an accomplished student, an emboldened leader and a tenacious social activist with loads of confidence, goals and ideals. Returning I feel beaten up by my failures, way more fragile and yet far more mature than when I left (even two years ago). As I grow older, I being to recognize my previous invincibility, and take it upon myself to get back to what was good about those years.. in doing so, I've tried to rekindle connections with old friends, apologize for distance with patient, present listening, and assist my relatives while learning my own personal history.
Enter my grandmother...
... who has always proclaimed that the Sundeleafs have danger in their blood. There isn't enough time here to go into all the magnificent details about Jonna Lou.. but simply stated, she's the most charismatic, vivacious and lethal 70 year old you've ever met. She'll swear, spit, and drink; louder, bigger and greater, and then the next minute, sing the sweetest jazz melody, recite prose with an accomplished orator's ease, and bake the most delicate boysenberry pie--SO good it makes your toes curl. With her contagious laughter, irresistible stories, and cunning glances, you're sure she's been a movie star at some point in her life, or at least a part time USO act forty years ago... She tells the story of our relatives who were imprisoned in the Philippines Internment camp with tenacity and confidence. You can feel the heat of the soil and the sweat of the guards.. Soon after I've probed for details of her childhood on Friday Harbor, San Juan Islands, Washington: wearing bobby socks to all the dances, and marrying my grandfather, a man who may not have sported two left feet, but has taken to mum growing over two stepping. I sit with her in the cool sun room of her home in Milwaukie and we share family stories, or rap about the difficulty of the Friday crosswords, or that b*tch Rachel Ray (whom we both can't stand.. but secretly covet her easy, inexpensive recipes).
I have relished these unforeseen afternoons with her in light of the delayed trip, and the whole of sinking into a different personal history before I go and discover my roots in another part of the world.
Biking is also different. While I don't consider Portland to be a safer biking city, the hubris of bikers and clout they carry on the road is definitely more present here. Bikers weave, run stop signs, huddle in packs before bars, and glare at your main brand track bike with pirated spoke cards.
Just last week a bicyclist assaulted a man in a car! The man driving on a road laden with stop signs drove beside a bicyclist who proceeded to run every sign. The man, an avid bicycle rider himself, stopped the biker and told him he needed to set a better example for bike riders everywhere by obeying the traffic laws. At this point the rider became surly, and eventually rammed his bike into the mans car, threatening him.. This was hot news in Portland last week, and something not entirely unexpected.
Biker v. Driver
To own one is to Love one...
I've spent more than my welcomed time in the Ugly Mug and need to dash to Powell's to look up books on camping in Sweden but I'll probably just curl up in the Blue Room.
Monday July 14th, 2008
It's 6am, the day I leave for Seattle and the eve of my flight to London.
I have scheduled my hostel for two nights and made additional contacts
to my relatives in Stockholm. I had a whirlwind of errands under my belt
during a 12 hour rush Sunday and I have everything I (think I) need for my trip...
except for my passport.
I've turned over/inside out every container, backpack, envelope, portfolio, coffee mug
looking for the yellow envelope that has been the permanent home to my passport
for over four years. The envelope has never left a particular box, and never been out
of my site, until now. I had glimpsed the yellow envelope just before it was crammed
into the back of my Subaru, yet maintained an eerie feeling of unrest until that
Saturday afternoon when I went searching for it. I immediately called Becky and
frantically asked if she could search her place (my previous residence for the month
of June) for the important folder. Of course, the yellow envelope I had reassuringly
secured in my car was for something completely different, an insurance form and a
letter from North Shore thanking me for my time during the initial interview. In the
mess of all of my things, I was reminded of an article Adam (he and Tommy are
friends of mine who are concerned with living without "stuff") mentioned about a
man who pars down his belongings to 100 things.
Here is the article from the RedEye: http://redeye.chicagotribune.com/red-062508-things-main,0,2507304.story
Early Monday morning, after dreading in all of my Catholic guilt, the impending cancellation of my trip, and the difficult logistical dance I would perform to get a new passport in record time I received another call from Becky. The passport was still missing and we commiserated over the phone while crafting a new plan. She has always been so good about calming me down, and organizing my
thoughts during the rush of particularly hectic moment. She has a way
of seeing like no one else I've ever met, and hearing her voice on the phone always makes me smile...I racked my brain for several minutes while listening to her rifle through more and more of her own boxes and storage.
After recollecting other details about the envelope she happened upon a bag shoved into the corner of a closet she goes into every three years or so. Suddenly. She found it.
Among the dusty mannequins, old floor lamps, boxes of photographs was an errant Whole Foods bag that had been neglected in the packing process, because of its odd location. Becky was kind enough to stow away my things for the Good-Bye BBQ while I was teaching at camp, with masterful organizational skill, cramming everything (delicately) into an unbelievably small space. Having not touched the bag myself in a few weeks I didn't remember it, and because it was the *only* brown bag in my assortment of belongings, it remained unknown to us.
The passport is now en route to Portland where my mother, previously clenching hands and jaw, is rejoicing at her daughter's extended stay. I'm happy to be parked in my hometown for an additional two weeks before leaving. It'll give me some time to job hunt, and hammer out some details on camping and hiking in Sweden. It's also allowed me a chance to connect with my oldest relatives in Sweden and hopefully secure a visit to my ancestors related to Carl Larsson
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Larsson
This whole experience has been eye opening for me. I have spent the last two months flying through my daily activity, cramming every last minute with a meet-up or a get together, or some other sundry social thing. And/or favors or jobs in fear of running out of money for the trip...now I'll be out way more money than intended for the replacement ticket. So strange/funny how the world works.. I haven't had the time to sink into planning or even just relaxing. I'm appreciative of the additional income afforded to me by the NSCDS camp, but insodoing lost hours and hours of preparatory time...
In the Quaker faith there is this term used called Way Opens.
Here's a post from a Quaker faith-based blog. Though I don't consider myself religious, it has an interested pique that can be related to here:
[Way Opens has] become almost a Quaker cliché.
That truth is the belief that God’s revelation, even in and integral to daily life, continues for those
who seek God’s way. God is at work within and around us, leading, guiding, sometimes when
we least expect or feel it.
wait for guidance, to avoid hasty judgment or action, to wait for future circumstances to help solve
a problem. The spiritual guidance which may come in a time of seeking or entirely unexpectedly,
bringing suggestion for previously unforeseen action.”
help us make major life decisions – careers, life partners – and minor ones, as way opens is about
a form of Christian discernment that takes us to the heart of the Christian life as living in God's will.
t’s about discovering a fresh and deeper way to live a God directed life – a life that eschews simple
spiritual solutions and takes us to the deepest, most soulful parts of our being.
(http://holyordinary.blogspot.com/2007/06/as-way-opens.html)
The idea of "waiting for guidance, to avoid hasty judgment or action" pertains literally to my situation, but affords other modes or ideas of thought in respect to what I've gone through. Way opens is a kind of blessing of truth given in sometimes unforeseen moments to elucidate a situation or future situations. It's almost like nirvana, but not as untouchable, or intense..? The bottom line is that the perceived "losing" of my passport before an event I've planned and looked forward to for months, is a sign or moment of way opens: I need to slow down.
I cannot take on everything, all the time for everyone.
I need to relax and live in the moment more, and forgive
myself when I cannot do everything all the time.
I need to simplify...
I feel I've learned an incredible amount in these past two days. It has felt good to slow down, and to sink into all the time I will have-- I will need, to pay for my replacement ticket and do proper research to come up with another plan. My experience at North Shore showed me that any free time was not really free ("There's no such thing as a Free Period"?) It wasn't enough just to teach my classes, and teach them well.. I lived and breathed that school for two full years. Now I need to slow down. There's a Paul Simon refrain that comes to mind, I think it's from the "Bridge Over Troubled Water" album Slow down, you move too fast/you've got to make the moment last...
The People magazine waiting for me in the lobby of my mechanic (Bill at Morton Grove auto, he rocks) housed within its pages an article about the new trend of women addicted to stress. After the feminist movement of the sixties and seventies women began taking more powerful roles in the work place, adopting more responsibilities. And yet they maintained previous ones: such as the role of mother, etc.. not even mothers, but women who involve themselves in every minute of every day-- become addicted to this rush as it pumps adrenaline into our bodies to cope with the stress of activity. A woman writes that in the moments where she did nothing her self-esteem plummeted. It was the thrill of the work she did that gave her validation. If she wasn't helping someone, bettering herself, her garden or her ability to do the perfect standing mountain pose, she felt worthless. I can definitely relate to this woman's story, and find myself feeling especially down when I am not doing some Thing.. or working as hard as I possibly can.. My trip will hopefully allow me some reprieve and reflection as I attempt to discover more about who I am and where I've come from slowly, and without an onslaught of obligations.
Today I'm purchasing my new tickets with a voucher from US Airways, and going on a long bike ride awaiting, patiently, the arrival of my passport from Chicago.. My trip to Sweden will happen, but in the meantime I'm enjoying the mental and emotional space.
I've just arrived in Portland after a long day of 900 miles from Salt Lake City, Utah to my home town. This is the genesis of this blog, and will cover the details of my trip to Sweden.. and the preparations before. Onward!
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gailmtang said:
this is the whole comment:i'm currently in berkeley and was on the hunt for a coffee shop to rest my... read more
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Jim Leesch said:
It sounds like Portland is a place I need to . . . hmmm. I'm confused. I need to avoid... read more
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nsundeleaf said:
Thank you for the sincere response. This has been a whirlwind of experiences, and it's hard to believe I have... read more
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I loved this 'pastry tech' tale; it read more
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