Life can be concurring mountain tops
or chase new partners all non stop

Life can be greeting the morning light,
or dance in joy as the day turns to night

to chat with a friend for hours to go
to pick a wild flower - or just leave it to grow

Life is a sip of a scented tea
or a hint of a smell - of what used to be

to laugh so hard that the sky turns bright
or to miss her so much, that you cry every night

Life is a cookie, a hot yummie piece
and a hope that the good things will never cease

and oh we know - after rain comes sun
and to feel real life, put your shoes on and run

to a mountain top or the edge of the sea
to feel all alive, to feel not Me but We

Life is yours
love it
live it


Yes, of course it hurts

In dark times. When the loss seems unbearable. So unbearable that you surrender to it. When the black cape of grief is so heavy that it becomes your soft blanket of comfort. When the sense of sadness is so present that you simply adjust, believing it will always be so. And you clinger to your grief, refusing to let go. Because if you do, it is like you let her go. And you don't want that. So you hold on. You hold on. Tight.

Then one day you remember her and you smile through your tears because she-

-loved life-

She loved life like no one else. She loved her family and friends, laughter, dance, theatre, travels and a good read. And you think

Yes, it hurts

it hurts so much that she is not here anymore but

after winter comes spring
after rain comes sun
nothing lasts forever
nor good nor bad
dare to love, trust and believe
dare to be open to anything new
and the most important:
yes it hurts. sometimes it hurts like hell.
it is life
but love it still
I will
like she did



By the Swedish poet Karin Boye. Translated in to English by David McDuff

Yes, of course it hurts when buds are breaking.
Why else would the springtime falter?
Why would all our ardent longing
bind itself in frozen, bitter pallor?
After all, the bud was covered all the winter.
What new thing is it that bursts and wears?
Yes, of course it hurts when buds are breaking,
hurts for that which grows
and that which bars.

Yes, it is hard when drops are falling.
Trembling with fear, and heavy hanging,
cleaving to the twig, and swelling, sliding -
weight draws them down, though they go on clinging.
Hard to be uncertain, afraid and divided,
hard to feel the depths attract and call,
yet sit fast and merely tremble -
hard to want to stay
and want to fall.

Then, when things are worst and nothing helps
the tree's buds break as in rejoicing,
then, when no fear holds back any longer,
down in glitter go the twig's drops plunging,
forget that they were frightened by the new,
forget their fear before the flight unfurled -
feel for a second their greatest safety,
rest in that trust
that creates the world.


Hummus on a Golden plate

Today, I time travelled. Back, to the past. I was maybe 5 again. It was Christmas time and we were at my grandparents house in the village. Snow was pouring down. Outside the large window the scenery was all white. I was sitting in front of the open fire place looking at the flames, feeling my cheeks getting all warm and red. Soft Christmas music was playing and I heard the rest of the family talking and laughing as they were all preparing the food and putting up the last decorations. And then it was time to set the Christmas dinner table. Time for crystal glasses and shining silver spoons, forks and knives. I smiled and ran towards the table. Just in time. Just in time to see them being carried carefully out of the corner cupboard. So delicate, so elegant. The golden plates. The gorgeous cream white porcelain plates with a touch of gold around the edges.

The golden plates. I can only remember us eating of them at Christmas time. The rest of the year they lived in that cupboard in the corner. Sometimes during summer vacation I could sneak up, open the cupboard door and just look at them, admire them. And slowly let my fingers stroke them.

Today those golden plates live in the cupboard in my living room. Today I was sitting on the floor, holding them carefully in my hands. And they took me back. To long noisy funny Christmas dinners. To happy times, to celebrations. Always celebrations, festive days.

I got up from the floor. Still with the plates in my hands. I had decided. Today we eat from the golden plates. On a plain normal Tuesday. Call me crazy. Yes, we had hummus, salad and home made bread on my grandmother's precious golden plates. And oh, did it taste delicious!

I do think that my grandparents would have liked that. I lit a candle and I thought of them. And I celebrated: Good memories, Today. This moment. Life.

 PS: The hummus turned out yum by the way - maybe I'll share that recipe:-)


My Valentine

come to me
come and see 
who I am
the real me 

I am not the abuse
I am not what he did 
I am not just simply my trauma

I'm the courage that escaped 
I'm the cleverness that survived 
I'm the power that protected my tiny spark of flame 

oh my Valentine
you do get me right 
you give hope that I can love again 

you do fan my spark
into firecrackers bright
you see me 
with your eyes open wide 

you see beyond and you sense
and you know me so well
a new love
but we've always just known one another 

oh my Valentine 
you read all my signs 
I am yours 
and you know it is so

with respect, joy and laughs
we are like half and half
and together we're one of a kind 

I love you
you love me   
there is hope
I now see   
and believe

Be my Valentine

I celebrate Valentine’s day with my fellow blogger friends. Read more at Write Tribe’s language of love


Your children

What a blessing, to have a child
a mini you - just as wild
or so you think when you watch them grow
and your own mum says: see, I told you so

- first when you are a mum you will understand
they belong to themselves, just for you to lend

to love, support, encourage forever,
their side to leave? Oh darling. Never

no matter what, because they are,
and always will be your shining stars
your light and love, an eternal bond
with them you know you are always Home


For my darling children with love. And for my parents too.  


Your children By Khalil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you.
And though they are with you, they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite.
And He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hands be for happiness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
So He loves the bow that is stable.


They will manage. You will too.
Joy and love. Whole life through.


A gift from the heart

I once read that the greatest gift you can give to another person is your time. Once you have given it, you can never take it back, and hopefully you have created good memories too. Maybe you have shared a moment, exchanged some smiles, had a good laugh, got into a nice talk. In this digital age of ours, I do believe that giving your time to someone is a gift, and the same is someone spending their time with you. Whether it is being together, talking on the phone, initiating a talk with a stranger. Give a bit of your time, a kind word, a smile, and it can mean more than you know to the other person. For me, sharing good moments, making memories together makes time a gift from the heart.

That said. Like others, I do appreciate gifts gifts too. You know what I mean. Of course I do. Don't we all? If you are like me, you also get specially moved when receiving a gift feeling that the gifter has really thought of me. Like: 

The beginning of something brilliant. 
A gift for the new year from a friend who believe in new beginnings, and who knows that my passion is writing......

A guardian angel
From a friend who loves me

Softest cosy socks ever
From someone special who think about me, just like that. To keep my feet warm. And my heart.

Curry magic
From a dear blogger friend. Yup, I do love those curries. Will try to swing my magic spoon:-)

A dreamcatcher,
From an American workfriend who explained: Native Americans of the Great Plains believe that the air is filled with both good and bad dreams. According to legend, the good dreams pass through the center hole to the sleeping person. The bad dreams are trapped in the web where they perish in the light of dawn. Historically, dreamcatchers were hung in the tipis or ledge or at the baby's cradle board. And now also one above my bed:-)

And then the greatest gift of all.
Don't waste it.
Live it.

Did you give or receive any gifts lately? Please share. 


Dare to leave your comfort zone

If your are an observant reader of my blog (of course you are:-)), you might have noticed that I have had a rather Poetic start of the new year. Unleashing my inner poet, and (re-) discovering others. The flow in poetry gets to me a lot these days... It's like words on a low gearwords in slow motion, words like in a song. I have simply enjoyed it so much.

Writing poetry is a bit of a new territory for me, and publishing my poems is definitely moving out of my comfort zone. But hey, that was a part of my own promises to myself for the new year. To be brave, to take responsibility for my own life like in Caged bird no more, and to Be your own boss, to just go for it if it feels right, and to dare to be brave, even if it means leaving my comfort zone. Sometimes we can even use a gentle push, just to make us dare, to take that first step, to go there. And sometimes life has a plan of it's own, and before we know it, life is turned upside down. Still, there is always hope, healing, and a plan B:-) Yes, you will get through it and you will come out in the other end, you might have to leave your comfort zone and take a chance or two. If you want to go for it, do it. Life is too short for regrets.

One of my favourite poems about this was written in 1924, by the Swedish poet Karin Boye. Her style of writing makes her poetry just as relevant today. I hope you will like this one as much as I do:

You shall thank your gods (by Karin Boye. English translation by David McDuff)

You shall thank your gods,
if they force you to go
where you have no footprints
to trust to.

You shall thank your gods,
if all shame on you they pin.
You must seek refuge
a little further in.

What the whole world condemns
sometimes manages quite well.
Outlaws were many
who gained their own soul.

He who is forced to wild wood
looks on all with new sight,
and he tastes with gratitude
life's bread and salt.

You shall thank your gods,
when your shell they break.
Reality and kernel
the sole choice you can make.