May 2015 archive

Story of a Priestess

Mothers Moon print by dkjart on Etsy

Mothers Moon print by dkjart on Etsy

Today I wrote about a priestess, walking in the forest, gathering leaves. I hadn’t been writing for some time, and something in me felt off, and I sat down and wrote without thinking, without questioning if it made sense or if it was going somewhere. 

The priestess has been at the edge of my mind for some time. I want to live her life, walk her steps. I’ve often longed for a temple, one made of white stone, resting by the water, surrounded by forests, mountains, songs of nature, stillness. 

I wonder if I could carry her inside of me, and have a space in my heart, a temple of my own, that is sacred, only between me and the Goddess.

I sat down and wrote to the Goddess this morning. I started with dear mother, and then I didn’t know what to say, yet my attempt to reach for her seemed to bring her closer. I felt some relief today, like something had lifted, after a long night of poor sleep, of strange dreams, and wakefulness.

For days I felt something weighting on me, a tiredness I couldn’t shake. I took a long shower and it helped, the warm water streaming over me, and I spoke silently to the Goddess as I went about my tasks, and I felt her a little closer, like she had been waiting for me to ask. 

This book inspired me. I read it last summer, and now I’m reading it again. I want to live a life of devotion, and I hope to hear the divine speak to me, and I pray for strength and courage to follow what is being shown, what is being asked of me. 

Life has frightened me for a long time, but standing close to the Goddess I can walk through it, and she is showing me how to live. I feel she is nourishing me, and showing me the way to my Father. 

So I write about the priestess, yearning for that life, in totally devotion to the Goddess. I wish we could live in temples, study our dreams, and wear beautiful robes, gather water in urns and sing songs to the gods. 

A song I’m listening to right now, that makes me want to sit down and gaze at green mountains.

May 17



Rumi — ‘The wound is the place where the Light enters you

This is something that I wrote over a week ago, that I didn’t post right away because every time I thought about it I got a knot in my stomach. I put it off, even though I wanted to see it out there, in the world.

I feel a need to share more, more memories, things that I’ve kept to myself, that are now surfacing and asking to be seen, to be felt.

I find healing in writing these things, that hurts a bit, but that come back to me with beauty, and warmth, and love.

May 17

May 17, Norway’s constitution day. I’m not sure what to say about it, other than I like that it’s in spring, when everything feels fresh and new, full of hope. It’s a big day and people celebrate it waving flags, singing, eating ice cream.

I’m not sure why I feel pain now, as I look out the window at the sun in the birch trees. My family is on my mind, in my heart as I remember us spending this day together, and how special it was. The last time we were all gathered my mom visited from the hospital, being very ill with cancer. She died only a few months later.

I remember sitting on the living room carpet, seeing her so ill, not sure if I should be happy or sad. My mom was strong, she never complained about her suffering, but went through it quietly, though she must have felt a lot of pain. Or maybe it’s just part of that side of my family, to not show weakness or hurt, to not be a burden in any way.

Letting Go

I feel I’m being asked to let go, but I’m not sure how. As I looked out on the lake one day I felt my dad. I felt I needed to say good bye to him, to my past, that my time here was coming to an end, yet I didn’t know how to move on. 

I felt he was close to me, a guardian of sorts, watching over me. Of all of them, he seems to the one who stays with me, expensive, wise, as big and beautiful as the night sky. 


I eat a sweet breakfast, dandelion coffee and chocolate banana bread. I just want to relax and rest, and feel the pain, not shut it out anymore. Life is for us to live it, all the pain and joy, all of it. Sometimes though, the blow we’re dealt is so devestating that we can only open up little by little, the soul having shut the pain out in self defense.

There might be thunder later, which I’d love. I could watch it roll closer, dark clouds above the mountains, see flashes of light, hear that distant rumbling, and feel the rain come down.

I walk to the other window and see how grey the lake is, how the rain has just started falling, very lightly, so you could walk in it and only get a little wet.

Everything is pretty quiet. Most people are away celebrating. I feel cracked open today, without knowing why. Maybe it was the warm banana bread straight out of the oven.

What is it about small comforts that break down barriers?

I thought of my mother, and her warm kitchen, of beautiful fragrances, sweet rolls and bread that I remember eating with brown cheese and butter. She would make jam, too, which was the most wonderful scent of all.

One time I watched her make meatballs, large ones. It was just me and her at home that day, I don’t remember why, or where everyone else was, but I smile as I see myself watching Pippi in the living room, and then running into the kitchen to grab a meat ball. 

One day we went mushroom picking, and then never again. But I loved that one day in the forest with her, carrying our basket. At the time I didn’t like mushrooms (now I love them) so when she fried them up I didn’t want any, but I felt happy and wild from our time in nature. It is another special moment tucked away in my heart.


All these things, bleeding out. I thought perhaps I shouldn’t think or speak of them, or at least not tell anyone, because it makes people sad, but it helps me to write it all out. It helps me to look at my memories, see what happened, and not hide them away, asking them to be gone, when they can’t be, never will be, – they’re part of me, and I need to embrace them.

I know I’m blessed, so blessed to have had a happy childhood, even though there were dark clouds drifting in. I felt so much love growing up, and looking back I see myself walking through a beautiful summer, before the coming of autumn, and a long winter. 

It is love that hurts, and I thought I could shield myself from the pain by creating a block of ice inside of me, and pushing it all behind it, though I didn’t do it consciously. And yet it is love that sets me free, slowly, drip by drip, as the ice melts. I feel my Divine Mother is showing me the way.

The sky has cleared now, the sun has come out. Light and shadows and yellow dandelion.

The Value of Beauty

Thracian Girl Carrying the Head of Orpheus (1864) by Gustave Moreau (1826–1898). Gouache, Watercolour. Wikimedia.I spoke with my landlord today, and he said they they’re improving the road this fall, though they’ve said that many times before. I asked about the large oak tree, and he said it would be cut down, and the old birch as well. It made me shiver, made me sad. I said I loved those trees, that I thought them beautiful. He didn’t respond, and I remembered why I don’t speak about such things, that those thoughts are rarely shared by other people.

What I didn’t say was that I talk to that oak tree, that I touch it when I pass it, and that it answers me. It has a voice of its own, a language we all speak when we listen, with our hearts, and stop fearing silence.

Sometimes I want to be more like a tree, sure of myself, stable and strong in all kinds of weather, standing in quiet peace. Sometimes I feel those things when I touch it. It reminds me to be strong.

That tree is older than all of us, and this fall they want to cut it down to make room for a bigger road. They don’t know that it has wisdom to share, is alive, can teach us things. I guess all of that doesn’t matter when we want to get somewhere faster, safer.

And I love the big beautiful birch, that I can see from my window, that is brimming with light and air magic, and that it has stars in its branches at night.

A dear friend made a comment once, about being in Germany and admiring the trees there, with their large trunks and wide branches, and I thought yes yes, I feel that too.

But usually sharing such things makes me feel naive, sentimental, a dreamer. Of course we need a better, straighter roads, but I wish there was another way. I wish beauty had a greater value.


I thought of all the noise that will fill this place when they come with all their machines to work, and I felt that I’m leaving. My spirit has been saying it for some time now, ever since I returned from France, like my time here is up. Maybe the ocean is calling me.

It made me think of how things change, when we think they will stay the same, because they usually do, day after day. But one day something happens, something changes. It can be in smaller, or more dramatic ways. Like me coming back to Norway. Like the forest that was cut down one day, that I had been visiting since I was a child. Our apartment being filled with smoke one night when our neighbor set his house on fire, forcing us to move. I remember that night so well, how we were awakened by noise, and rushed outside to check, seeing the frozen night full of fire, black smoke under the stars.

And then there was the beautiful lilac bush I loved, that was one day gone, cut down, a large brown wound in its place. I’m sure there was a reason for it, but I keep wondering if they knew what they were doing, if they knew the beauty that was destroyed. If they had ever seen it, smelled it, heard the sound of bees on warm summer days, heavy with perfume. Whenever I walk past that spot I feel sad. I love lilacs, and they would be flowering around this time.

I watch The Lord of The Rings and think that we should build our houses like the elves, around the trees, in harmony with nature, not cut things down. I’m not even sure it would be possible, but I like to dream it, how things could be. 



Stories from the Dark Country



Mist and Magic

I was going to go for a short walk. I had things to do, and I had already wasted time, but the mist on the mountains drew me forward, and my spirit whispered more more, even as my body grew tired.

Low clouds drifted across rock and fir trees, and I felt this was the time when the hulder appears to steal people away, and was reminded that this is a dark country, far up north, full of stories.

When I was little, when there was thunder, my mom would smile and say it was Thor riding across the sky in his chariot, that he was angry, striking his hammer to make lightning.

In the silence of the mountains, in our cabin above a cold lake, she would warn me to be careful when playing outside in the evening, to watch out for tusser, the people living underground, that kidnap children and drag them down with them. She said all this with humor, with a glint behind the eye, but I don’t think she realized how much that scared me, how I could see them clearly in the gathering darkness, coming out from behind rocks, all hair and eyes.


I kept walking, my eyes on the swirling mist. I reached the small bridge across the river, and heard it singing, the wind blowing above and under it, whistling. I saw the trees swaying gently, and heard someone laughing, turning my head to see two ducks flap their wings into flight.

There were so many cars driving by me, jarring me, and I took a side road leading to nothing but water, to get away from them. I stood there quietly for a while, holding my umbrella under the pouring rain, and saw how the lake had gotten bigger, deeper, almost covering the rocks I like to sit on during the summer months. I saw the windflowers still blooming, and thought of all the flowering trees I had seen on my walk, both white and pink, and how things grow even when it’s cold.

As I stood there the sky brightened, and the air seemed warmer, and I knew the sun was behind that blanket of white above me. The moss was such a bright green, and the grass too, and the shoots of lilies. I continued on my walk home, and the road was mostly quiet, silver rain bouncing off the pavement, trickling from the edges of my umbrella.

I’m sharing a video below that remind me of days like this. It’s clip from a beloved movie, and one of my favorite children books. I read it again a few years ago, and it’s so so beautiful.

And oh wow, I just found this 


And this too, be wary of the mist.

And a last one. I can’t help myself, I just found these videos, and the beauty of nature, of the music is very touching to me.

Do you have stories that you love, that speak to you in a special way? 

Mother’s Day


The Forest

Walking on a sunlit path in an emerald forest, among dancing shadows, the smells stronger than I remember, more alive, the earth warmed by the sun. 

I like the overgrown paths the most, the ones that are soft and green. I walk and see that the moss is a darker shade than the grass, and glittering with past rain. I walk and think colors, colors, I don’t remember there being so many colors, and I don’t recall the air being this cold. It’s May and I’m chilled. 

I sit on a bright mossy rock, next to the sound of rushing water, the stream full of spring rain. 

I try to remember what I was doing, why I believed in it, believed there was a path laid before me. Faith can dwindle so easily, slip through my fingers, and I forget moments of light, whispers of love. 

Yesterday a friend sited a passage from the Gospel of Peace, reminding me that today is Mother’s day, and that I do have a mother, even if my birth mother has passed away.

The Goddess, my Divine Mother that I so often forget to honor, to thank, to ask for help because I feel safer doing it on my own, not knowing how to receive. I feel so small when I realize I can do very little, almost nothing on my own.

I turn to her and she is there, glittering white. 

For your Mother bore you, keeps life within you. She has given you her body, and none but she heals you. Happy is he who loves his Mother and lies quietly in her bosom. For your Mother loves you, even when you turn away from her. And how much more shall she love you, if you turn to her again? I tell you truly, very great is her love, greater than the greatest of mountains, deeper than the deepest seas. And those who love their Mother, she never deserts them. As the hen protects her chickens, as the lioness her cubs, as the mother her newborn babe, so does the Earthly Mother protect the Son of Man from all danger and from all evils. – The Gospel of Peace 

Learn to receive generously, someone once told me. And I see myself cupping my hands towards the sky, filling them with light, my naked feet deep in the earth.

Going Home  

I look up and see the sun among the trees, white specks circling the air, glistening, floating, and I know they are flies, but right in that instant they are beautiful. 

The trees are dark, glinted with gold, swaying, a clear blue sky behind them. I get up and walk, and see my shadow on the path, my hair wild, windswept, unkept. It makes me think hulder, (a mystical creature whose tales has always captivated me). Maybe one day I’ll write about her, stories of mist, of dancing, wild forests and dark mountains. 

Before reaching home I gather dandelion. I hunch down and pick green leaves, and see things I don’t usually notice, the wind up close, moving through the grass, the lake at the edge of my sight, the wind like ripples through the fields. 

Beloved dandelion, – It’s the most healing thing I’m eating right now. I chop the leaves and sprinkle them on top of my food like parsley. My stomach makes happy noises when I eat them, and I feel better, lighter, stronger.

So many thoughts on this bright Sunday. This is how I’m spending Mother’s day, walking, writing, thinking of my Divine Mother, asking her to help me, because there is still darkness in me, and I can feel it like a painful knot in my stomach. 

I hope this day is good to you, and those you love.

I wanted to share this – The Mystical Death. 



Beautiful May

FIORI DI MAGGIO William John Hennessy (1839-1917)

Artist – William John Hennessy (1839-1917)

May feels like a young woman to me, twirling in the air, her hair the color of grass and damp earth. She is smiling, laughing, dancing with light steps, barely touching the ground, spreading color everywhere she goes, leaving wildflowers in her wake. 

In Norway we have songs to praise her, – “May the mild, warm one”. We spend months waiting for her, longing for her, and breathe a sigh of relief when she finally does come. We open our windows, leave the washing out to dry, soaking in light and fragrant air anyway we can. 

When summer comes we have festivals and markets, and people spend long moments outside in the garden, face towards the sun. 


- The Sensitive Plant, study, Sir Frank Dicksee. English Pre-Raphaelite Painter (1853 - 1928) in the garden at sunset

Sir Frank Dicksee. English Pre-Raphaelite Painter (1853 – 1928) in the garden at sunset

The Lady of wild roses, of wildflowers speaking, beneath the current of life, in the silence between moments, in the river of life flowing. 


The sound of rain, and a grey, restless lake, a wet quiet road, a silver haze over everything. 

I love days like this. I’ve always loved the rain, especially when it comes down hard, and I can hear it against the roof, see silver droplets on the windows. I love falling asleep to it, to its steady beat, to music. 

When living in California, I ached for it. I loved the sunlight, but longed for the stormy, shifting sky of home, that could change so quickly, from one moment to the next, always alive.

I love to sip my tea and watch the sky. See the wind in the trees, listen to rain falling, the air fragrant with leaves.  



A Full Moon

Detail from 'Flora and the Zephyrs' - 1898 by John William Waterhouse

Detail from ‘Flora and the Zephyrs’ – 1898 by John William Waterhouse

Soft moonlight upon water, spreading like gossamer threads unto the world, bathing it in ethereal light, the white light of the Goddess.

Her face towards you, smiling, glowing, silver hair dancing. 


I lay awake, unable to sleep, the world too bright under the full moon. I walk to the window and stand for a moment looking at her, at the sky, a few pale stars.

It feels like a secret moment, a mystical breath between worlds, with everyone asleep, the divine watching over us

I return to bed, trying to sleep, but finding it very difficult still, knowing the morning is approaching. I feel bathed in white light, the soft glow of the Goddess.

Slowly the sky takes on a royal blue, and the last stars disappear. She is hidden from my sight as the sun rises.

Words came to me, that I wish I could remember, but I can still recall the feeling of lying in the light of the moon, and the silence coming through my window.


Stop and smell the roses :: Elisie Prehn

Stop and smell the roses :: Elisie Prehn

I got caught in a whirlwind, got lost in the storm of life, – tried to claw myself back to my center, the path I had just started to thread. I fought not to forget, when what I really needed was to quietly trust, in the divine, in the moment.

Let go, whispers the wind. Let go. Let go. 

A lot of things have happened. I was in France, and gathered gems, small moments to keep in my heart, perhaps for later, when the time is right. Or they will remain part of me, little secrets we all keep, that enrich our soul, deepen our gaze.

I’m home now, to dark skies and a constant shift between rain and light, the clouds always moving, changing, sometimes a cover of white, sometimes letting the sun through.

There is a chill in the air that feels strange for May, and maybe it took a hold of me, because I got sick, and I still can’t shake this feeling of lethargy, of needing to rest.

I’ve been frustrated, but perhaps it’s teaching me patience, to take things slow, to not forget to listen.