Tobias

As if I could suffer, knowing you are here.
Sun is returning, its angle more direct, certain.
Nettles revive their iron kiss, piercing the ground
To roll out a velvet carpet over forest floors.
I walk barefoot, gamboling, a lamb-sphinx
Awash with Spring, its pangs, its birth.
Knowing without winters to toughen my hide
The sun shines for me alone
Even as velvet needles my soles,
And I prick my fingers whilst winging green angels.

My First Story-Mr. Jones and Mr. Bones

Behold, ladies and gentlemen.  Hard evidence that I began my story-telling journey as a wee lass of 6.  Saved from the dust covered archives by my trusty dad Jim.  Originally saved by my diligent mother, who may have suspected I'd find this entertaining many years later. Holla to the mutha. The translations are provided below each frame. Spelling errors included. Punctuation provided 28 years later for your reading ease. Enjoy.

 Mr. Jones has a goat. The goat(e)s name is Mr. Bones.  Mr. Bones bites the hose. My what will Mr. Jones___ (do?)  Mr. Jones moans and moans.  He is mad at Mr. Bones.  He ties Mr. Bones to a rail.  Mr. Bones hops up on the boat.  He pokes his _____ (nose?) in.  The home soap is on the sill.  Mr Bones bites the soap. Bam Bam.

 What a mess. My What will Mr. Jones do.  Mr. Jones gets so mad.  He ties Mr. Bones to a pole.  A robe is on the line.  Mr. Bones waits for Mr. Jones to go.  Mr. Bones tugs on the rope.  He hopes to get the robe.  Mr. Bones dines on the robe.  Mr. Jones (scribbles)  Mr. Jones will sell Mr. Bones.  Mr. Jones nails a noat to His home.  Mr. Bones dines on th(e) noat.

Sad Mr. Jones.  he has no hop(e).  My what will Mr. Jones do?


A cliff-hanger if ever there was one.  I was left wracking my brain after reading this, trying to recall what, if any, plan I'd had for the obvious sequel to Mr. Jones and Mr. Bones.  Only the misty haze of intention lost to time met my musings.  Though we may never discover Mr. Bones' fate, at least we know that he existed, if only for a few penciled moments.  Those hand-written moments were bound in wide-ruled school paper, taped on the spine and trimmed on the edges to resemble a real book...or a close to it as a first grader might come.  I have to admit, I'm quite proud of Little Jaime and fairly intrigued at how our destinies can manifest at such a young age.

Shotgun weddings and marrying strangers

I got a call from my gypsy aunt last week that went something like this:

Her: I didn't know you could marry people. I thought just Jackie and Summer could.
Me: Yup. I was the first to get ordained. Started a whole trend apparently.
Her: OK.  Well, my mom's neighbor's kid needs to get married to his girlfriend before December 25 and they need someone to do it. Would you consider it?
Me: Uh,... sure?
Her: How much would you charge?
Me: Well, I don't marry people that often (read, never), so I don't really need...
Her: (to her mother, my grandmother) Well, she should get paid for her time at least...(to me) how about 25 bucks?
Me: That's fine.
Her: When could you do it?
Me: I'm pretty flexible.
Her: (murmling in the background between her mom and the neighbor)...how about now?
Me: I'm kinda busy now...but I guess?
Her: Well, they just got cold feet so how about next Saturday at 2pm?
Me: Alright.

So today, I dolled up a bit, grabbed my Universal Life Church certification, and headed to Grandma's Neighbor's House, which, incidentally, my father built.  My aunt enthused over the new Jeep Rubicon in the driveway and we all chuckled over the bumper sticker that read, "Jesus Christ is Lord, not a swear word." Gypsy aunt said, "Well I use it as a swear word all the time!" I made a mental note not to mention any devil worship in the brief and thoroughly extemporaneous ceremony which I was about to perform.

The door opened and we stepped in to a nicely decorated, classic American house. Sitting on the couch were the bride and groom. I knew this not because we had previously met, but because despite the casual attire of everyone except myself, they were the only ones pregnant.

He wore a Creed t-shirt and jeans and looked like your favorite stoner friend from high school. Skinny, dark hair, quiet, loved his dog, Daisy. She, the stoner's girlfriend, was waiting in a hoodie, black t-shirt, tan cargo pants, and black Nike trainers.  She was big, he was little.  They were both keeping their cards close to their chest and saying nothing except to show me photos of their dog as a puppy.

I said, "I had a shotgun wedding too this year.  My husband and I just had our first baby in March, so I know what it's like to be planning at the last minute."

They didn't say much.  He was 36. She was 25.  They seemed nice and bland.  There was a home-made cake on the dining room table in a covered glass cake-stand.  Two bottles of unopened Martinelli's sparkling cider stood on the table next to a stack of plates and forks.  Two extremely joyful and manic dogs ricocheted between the Christmas tree, the couches, and my crotch. We made small talk while waiting for the groom's friend to show up. Thirty minutes passed; still no friend.

The groom's mother, grandma's neighbor asked, with a heavy southern accent, "Now, where's that friend of yours!"

"Oh, he won't be able to make it." the groom responded quietly from the couch.

When were you going to let us know that fairly key piece of information, I wondered.

It was my show then.

Did they have rings?
Yes.

Did they have the marriage license?
Yes.

Did they have anything they wanted me to include in the ceremony?
No.

Did they have anything they wanted to say to each other?
No.

Alright. Complete artistic license for me it is then.

Anyone have a camera and want to take some photos?
Blank stares, and then, from Southern Mama, "Oh! Well, I guess we have our iphones."

That'll work.

I positioned myself in front of the Christmas tree so there could be some nice photo opportunities. The bride and groom remained seated on the couch.

Ok, I can take the hint.

I promise to not make the bride stand for too long. They rise. I ask them to hand each other their respective rings...and we're off.

Before I left the house to drive there, Tobias asked me if I had anything prepared in the way of speaking points.  I told him I was leaving it up to Spirit for inspiration.

Mind you, I knew that I wanted to impress upon them the importance of:
1. Being on the same team
2. The best gift they could give their child was a happy relationship between them.

Beyond that, I was going to give myself over as a channel for the Universe to use as it saw fit.

You know you've been in the zone when you can't remember what you said or how you performed...when it just flows.

Well, I couldn't tell you what exactly I said, but I do remember them paying attention and afterwards, Tobias received a text from gypsy aunt and dad heard from grandma that I was, "Amazing." and that they were "Very impressed with my examples and how I tied it in to having a child and her tattoo."

The tattoo was a pentagram smack in the middle of her chest with a sun around it.  Their wedding bands were celtic knotwork.  I may have mentioned Wiccan/Pagan traditions of handfasting. The dog may have burried her nose in my bum as I was pronouncing them man and wife.  Her owner may have yelled, "Git OUTTA THERE SHADOW!" as I was giving them the go-ahead on kissing.

They gave me 40 bucks and Jesus Christ remained Lord.  I consider that, a rousing success.

Time Only Exists When You Look Outside

I was standing in the shower today, in one of the rare moments of me-time these days, when it occurred to me that I am almost smack in the middle of my life.  34+34 puts me at a respectable 68, which, though it might be on the young side now in western culture, is not out of the realm of Passable.

It made me laugh.  Somehow on the way from trying to freeze time by holding my breath as a child to having a child of my own, I forgot to give credence to the passing of hours and days from a societal achievement perspective. For example, I went walking across a country after leaving my first respectable, full-time-with- benefits job  without a plan as to what I'd do next. At 33. Time for me, has always been a weird and slippery thing.

A large part of my soul just knows time doesn't hold any weight.  Because of this, I contemplate things like going back and getting a degree at Harvard because that's what I wanted to shoot for and then chickened out at 18.  What did I know then? But look at what I know NOW.  Such a much better place to be on the journey of accumulating specific knowledge.  How old am I? 34.  Whatevs.  I could still become a famous singer.  I could become an accomplished character actress.  I could hike across another country.  My point is, everything I could ever dream of doing still feels very much within reach.

I believed in the omnipotence of time for a little while back in my late teens/early twenties.  Then I had a nervous breakdown, thankfully.  I look at that wretchedly scary and uncontrollable experience as my bitch slap by universal truth. Time doesn't matter.  You live your life and follow your passion at whatever age you happen to fall at on the calendar.  The skin and energy and vitality will take care of themselves and do their own thing in symphony with how your soul is believing.

My intention is to keep manifesting my dreams, regardless of the date on a watch or the candles on my cake. I guess on some level, I thought all that might shift when I became a parent. That somehow my life would become clearer and more focused like a funnel when I had a wee human to nurture.

Yet, the wildness remains.  The rampant dreamer and wonderer is still afoot, beckoning me down the trail of possibilities and personal legends.

 I suppose the part of time that made me laugh in the shower today, was the realization that I am an eternal child myself, always curious, always hopeful, even to the last breath I inhale through my body. It certainly doesn't sound very compatible with the check-marks and achievement bars set by society, but what would I change? Nothing.  I love this experience. I love dabbling and dreaming of big things.  I love being surprised when I look in the mirror and see that I have more lines on my face than I remember...and that I put them there in the process of dreaming.

Living Light

Physical reality follows thought and intent.  Patterns of disease and illness, according to the Secret Book of James, come from ignorance of the Light.  I read this to mean, by forgetting what we Really Are, which, in my mind, are pieces of a Whole that is ultimately Light. Lightness of being, light in the darkness, light to be arranged in a rainbow of realities.  

Right now I am see-sawing back and forth on the brink of a choice to embrace Light or wallow in fear.  There is a part of me that has so identified with having a body that I sometimes forget that it is a vehicle but not the power that animates.  I have come so close to death but never actually experienced it that I sometimes have a false sense of intimacy with the shift in matter that occurs at that moment.  Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I have learned the fear of dying unexpectedly but never gone into the unknown so my relationship with death is not transcendent, but rather a flirtation that gives a false sense of mastery or kinship with it.

I want to be cozy with bodily death because I realize on a fundamental level that I am not loosing anything but rather, leveling up, so to speak.  Now that I have a child, I am faced with the integration of the notion that he would not be loosing anything either, should I transition before he reaches maturity.  That one is a lot harder, more than likely because I haven't embodied a state of peace around death yet myself.

The heritage I come from teaches that death is like sleep and that we will awaken when Jesus returns to be reunited with our loved ones. Death will have no more power.  Essentially, everything stops when you die. Your spirit doesn't ascend, it just goes into a deep freeze until you're unthawed by the Lord. Of course everyone will be sad when a loved one dies but it should work out ok as long as you've been saved. That however, is another gamble that you can't REALLY know for sure, no matter how many scriptural assurances are thrown at you in church.  It was almost a matter of pride in our culture to be in a continual state of wondering and therefore constant questioning (read, worrying) of your salvation.  

I don't think this is extremely helpful, nor correct, especially when the good lord spent so much time speaking about love and being able to do miracles, heal the sick, walk on water, and generally, be rad, accepting human beings that recognize their divinity. It's all been horribly twisted.  It is still the A track however, so when I am faced with an imbalance in my physical body I find myself standing at a crossroads.

Part of me says, "No problem. This is an opportunity to remember wholeness and restore balance."

The other part of me says, "Red Alert! You are about to be put into the fire! Your body is fallible! Sin! Sin! Death! Scary!"

I infinitely prefer the first option and so am battling for the space to view all options and outcomes with equanimity...that said, what I really ought to be focusing on is the Source of Light.  By beholding we become changed. Not by creating crazed regimes of enlightenment but existing in the Light.  Enjoying the connectedness.  Remembering that we are all spirits having a bodily experience.

My homework now is exploring ways and states of being that raise my consciousness to exist in this truth with ever deepening awareness.  So let it be written. So let it be done.

Traveling the inner byways

As of the last four months, all my traveling has been of the internal nature, relying on memory and imagination to color the miniscule gaps of time that appear and disappear like worm-holes in the state of being called New Motherhood.

Between the feedings and the changings, the entertaining and the nurturing, people around me are starting to get their wander on, and several, my baby sister included, are taking off for the Camino and Peregrinations Into The World.


Vicarious travel has never seemed so exciting until now.  Remembering the places I have been and the people I have met whilst being on the road evokes a sense of gratitude and excitement on behalf of those going into New Frontiers.  I do not feel the need to go now, but am quite content to wait, germinate and bide my time until the next leg of the journey through the world is fully developed and ready to embark upon.  It may be years before this happens and that is right and fine.  

I am on an adventure of the most human kind at this moment.  Watching and witnessing the unfolding of a spirit coming to land in a body that I helped form and bring into being.  It is its own form of world travel, only this is a stone that will ripple the surface of life's pond with stories and adventures of its own one day...imagine.

The Darkness of Denmark

I'm sitting here at 4.18pm watching the sun go down.  Yesterday, Tobias and I hosted a huge family gathering out here at our summer house and I wondered aloud, "What do you Danes DO with yourselves for the three months out of the year when the light shines little to never?"

I was hoping for answers like, "We spend our time telling tall tales of northern trolls and Viking heroes of yore."  or "Carving toys for village children."

What I got was a range from, "It's the opposite in my soul, as in, it comes awake in the winter." to "I don't remember."

The leaves have all mostly fallen from the trees and I have the fire burning pretty much constantly and I have to admit, it's pretty cozy.  It reminds me also, that the Seasonal Affective Disorder that plagues a large majority of Pacific Northwesterners, is probably childs' play compared to the deepening dark of Scandinavia.

In response to this, I have several photos of the early Fall which demonstrate both light and color. And castles, because let's face it. Castles should be hunted down and photographed with all the glee that a foreigner can muster. Behold. Glee.

We also discovered Hamlet's Grave, which, the sign was kind enough to inform us, was likely not where Hamlet was burried, but WAS an important burial mound for some kind of Danish royalty, so we should be satisfied with that. Talk about marketing genius.

Another Fall highlight has been meeting a very nice and frisky Icelandic pony named "something Icelandic".  Here she is in all her shaggy glory. 

Volunteering, Fall Food, and Pooping In The Woods

It has now been four months since I landed in Copenhagen without a clue as to what I was doing in Denmark besides following a hot Dane I'd met on the Camino, home. 

In that time, I have lived on a sailboat, walked the length of the country dressed as a Medieval Pilgrim, learned enough Danish to get arrested, and become engaged.  I have also applied for a greencard to stay, which, contrary to the Danish Immigration website, is taking decidedly longer than 1-3 months to process. 

All of this adds up to the topics for today's post.  Namely, what to do when you can't legally work, live in a summer house in the Field of Thor and are watching the days get shorter by 3 minutes every day. That's 21 minutes less day light every week.  Only counting sunset.  Count sunrise getting later and it's almost 40 minutes less daylight every week.

So volunteering instead of getting a job.  It's good for the soul, bad for the pocketbook, but potentially a lifesaver if you aren't a Facebook addict or have already watched through every episode of Glee, Revenge and Once Upon A Time.  This explains why I am torn, as I have done all of the latter but am totally Facebook Happy.  

Needless to say, I did some research after a conversation with Tobias about how Denmark doesn't seem to be much of a volunteering country...and found out that we were both wrong.  According to THE website on Denmark, 43% of Danes volunteer at least once a year. This is chalked up to the fact that they have a socialist minded society and this involves great social trust, so they are therefore more inclined to give their time to organizations that facilitate a smooth and harmonious society.

Americans on the otherhand, apparently have a 26% percent volunteer rate.  In these stormy election times, many news commentators in the States have made it clear that our current president is suspect for having socialist sympathies...and also for wanting to raise taxes to help build a stronger infrastucture for social services.  Just a random thought, but volunteering might be a good option for unemployed Americans to both help themselves and help their country.  But of course, we're not socialist, so that should make up for the missing 18% percent.

I'm riding on that philosophy as justification for not having found a suitable volunteering position yet, along with the fact that we live in Thorsager, which is so far out in the country that we have a septic tank instead of city sewer. 





This means, that when it becomes full and the Septic Wizards are preparing for their sojourn to the country, we get to poop in the woods.

Our current reality is comprised of such wilderness exoduses and the bathroom slowly starting to smell like a Rest Stop Loo despite my liberal use of cleaning products and air sanitizers.  We just happened to luck out because we can't see any of our neighbors from our house/woods.  Civilized as Denmark is, there are still fantastic opportunities to rough it and then make a nice martini from the contents of your refridgerator.

Or, in this case, to embark on a processional of curries and soups for the fall, which make it more likely than ever that you'll get to experience the joys of a nice Vindaloo and then a quick trot into the trees. 







Fall is obviously a wetter and drearier time of year which stubbornly clings to an optimism that trickles through falling leaves in the form of magical sunlight.

Hence, Tobias and I decided that we should have food which highlights the magical sunlight.  We've spiced our way through Vindaloo, Korma, Tom Kha Gai, Chicken Noodle, Chili, and Vegetable Glory.  We've made it a priority to include rice in every meal. It has been delicious. 








The toilet is coughing and gasping now. Apparently the Toilet Man has shown up like an angel of goodwill, summoned by the power of this blog.  I will have a look outside.

Yes, there he is, with the word Kloakservice emblazoned on the side of his truck.  I I seem to remember a part of the colon called the cloaca from high school biology.  Tobias, via Skype has assured me that it means sewer which I guess makes sense. 

The toilet has now turned into a vaccuum nexus to another world, spewing forth its wroth on unsuspecting spectators.  I now understand why some children are totally freaked out by the thought of getting sucked into drains.  Or their country loo.  The house also smells like something died a looong time ago.

So you see, life in Denmark is both cultured and primal, in hole and out hole, summer and winter.  You should all visit and be as entralled as I have been.

North, to Vendsyssel!

Alright. It's been 21 days since the last installment of Danish Diversions.
Fear not, I have been busy building fires, writing stories and watching the weather change from sunny to decidedly more precipitous. 

Also, I have started ballroom dancing and taking trips to the northern white sandy beaches of Denmark in the region known as Vendsyssel.  Fifty cookies for anyone who can pronounce this, who is NOT from Denmark.



Now, as you can see, the beach was blustery and full of concrete structures, which it turns out, were built by the Germans in WWII.  Conveniently, after the war, the sand bluffs that they had been built into decided to molt.  Now the western beaches are filled with these beached concrete whales of war that people grafitti and paint gold. 





I think they'd make great stages for little performance art peices.  The empty spaces left by the huge guns, like where the mural is painted behind me, have plenty of space for prancing about.




















 On our way along the beach, I also had a chance to heroically carry Tobias across a RAGING RIVER OF DEATH (twice), as he had not thought to purchase red rain boots like I had. 



















I would also like to note that this is the land of Tobi's childhood so we hunted down his forrest and magical lake that he used to play Robin Hood and Pioneers in.  (Though not necessarily at the same time.)

To celebrate our very successful day of Northing, we ate seafood and I found a salt water prince masquerading in the form of a crayfish.  He did not escape transformation. Lucky me.

Stay tuned for stories about the soups and curries of fall, which are not remotely Danish, but happen here, so are therefore, relevant.

The Barking Deer of Denmark

The morning started off calm and serene...me with my cup of tea, a nice long meditation, then gazing out my window into the lush Danish foliage.  Everything was tranquil as the sun came filtering gently through the beech leaves. 

A deer came bounding from left to right, graceful and lithe as it leapt in front of the porch ...and began to bark like an angry Rottweiler.

It did not stop to chat or explain itself, merely kept barking alarmingly as it sailed past the deck and crashed into the woods, yarking at the top of its lungs.

Yes, I said the deer barked.  Like this guy at around 1.17

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9EWzg4eiJnM

Everything in my brain was on hyper alert.

Stimulus recorder:  Deer! Barking!

Command Central: Deer do not bark.  Repeat, recalculate input.

Stimulus recorder: Deer! Still! Barking! Bark! Bark!

Command Central: Impossible. Deer are mute.

Stimulus recorder:  Negative.  Sounds emerge from deer. Bark. 

Command Central: WTF.

So there I was, tranquility shattered, furiously searching the interwebs with queries to the following:

deer+barking
deer+sounds+Denmark
deer+wounded+bark
DEER+BARKED+WHAT!

Nothing useful was coming up.  Deer grunt, they sigh, they cry, but apparently, they do not bark. 



So I went to youtube and found our above fearlessly barking deer.  But my deer had no horns.  My deer was just your average run of the mill, unpronged deer.  I decided to consult the expert searchers and immediately Skyped Tobi at work.

Jaime: Whatever you are doing now, drop it.  I have an emergency
Tobias: What is it baby!
Jaime: A deer just ran by the window barking and I have no idea what it means.
Tobias: ?
Jaime: Yes.
Tobias: The deer BARKED?
Jaime: That's what I'm saying, but none of my searches are coming up with anything GOOD.
Tobias. Woah.

In his wisdom and years of interwebery magic, and Danish fluency, he was back in five. 

Tobias: Deer bark when they are afraid or excited.
Jaime:  Excited?
Tobias: Yeah. You know.
Jaime: Oh. I don't think it was excited.
Tobias: Is it still barking?

The thing had continued to sound like it was ralphing up its guts in canine fashion for a good five minutes after flashing through my yard. Then it stopped.   Five minutes after that, as I was catching my breath and wits, a bird came flying as fast as it could right into the huge picture window and bounced off in a cloud of feathers.

There was no body to be found.  I'm pretty sure the Danish wildlife may be insane. Or excited.  Either way, watch out.  Deer have been holding out on us.

Danish Stomach Flu and other fun summer activities

I have been remarkably healthy these last five months.  No coughs, no runny noses, nothing even remotely exciting from the Stay-Home-Sick pantheon.  So I'll admit, I got a little cocky.

When Tobias came home on Friday feeling 'real tired', I stepped up and nursed that sick man and his man flu the whole dang weekend, confident in the knowledge that I would not contract his affliction.

It seemed fairly terrible as he vascillated between no appetite (the man usually eats half a cow without blinking), dizzyness that made him break into cold sweats, and mind crushing headaches...to say nothing of the distress happening down under. 

Never mind that, I felt strong and immune ready to field any bugs he might throw at me. 

He left on Sunday for business and I felt fine.  Monday I staggered a bit and decided to lay low, just to err on the side of avoiding the worst of it. Tuesday was pristine and seemed to be proof that I had mastered time, space and the man flu without feeling like warmed death.

And then Wednesday struck.  I awoke feeling like a burbling brook.  In my guts.  Strange.  But oh Nelly.

As the day progressed, the hours grew longer and more agonizing as my lust for food disappeared and even water started looking suspicious.  Still, I knew I had to eat and drink to replace lost fluids so I alternated between moaning on the couch, shuffling to the loo, trying to watch films, and refilling my water glass.

After a very, very long night which included me sitting in the hot shower for at least half an hour...around 3 am trying to cure my headache, I decided to try some more water, and a grapefruit.  I have since discovered why appetite is one of the first things to go.

Anytime I eat something, it makes my guts start howling again. We're talking three part harmony.  It's unstoppable.  So, here I am, in bed, at noon thirty on Thursday, writing this epistle and contemplating another stumble to the bathroom before I attempt to sleep still more.  All the same, I might kill for some chicken soup right now, but the store is far away, I'm on foot, and it's likely my bum would explode if I attempted such a pilgrimage.  This is a good and worthy challenge around being present and not judging myself or the situation. Let's hear it for soul growth opportunities.

In the meantime, I can recommend some fantastic summer films if anyone is similarly inclined.   

Guess WHAT!

Yes, that's a unicorn. On that finger.

I had jokingly said to Tobias that if I were to ever get married, I wanted a unicorn engagement ring. 

When Tobias took a knee in front of his father's commune, I of course said yes. He put a curled chili pepper on my finger that he had grown from a seed.  Unicorns are apparently very difficult to locate in ring form and must be imported which takes more time than he felt he had. He didn't want me to beat him to the punch, being a liberated and outspoken woman as I am ;)  Unbeknownst to him, I was quite prepared to wait :)

I asked if we could get a simple silver something instead of a huge unicorn rock and give the rest to Make A Wish so the 5,000 dollar goal would be reached and we could let our adventure be yet another catalyst for making magic in the world.  He of course, said yes.

What a beautiful man.  What a magical ring! 

The artist's job is not to succumb to despair but to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence."

I'll be the first to admit that Woody Allen has been more than a little controversial in his tastes and moral inclinations, but I could easily justify carrying his children for being such an accessible and down-right blue collar type of artist. 

Watch Midnight In Paris by Woody Allen.  Then watch the recent documentary on his life.  Actually, maybe watch the doc first because it begs the follow up of devouring the rest of his films. 

Here is a man who, for lack of some austere monk like devotion to conversion ephiphany of creating the "perfect" peice of art, has consistently made film after film for years because that is what he does. 

He says in the documentary something to the effect of, "I don't worry about whether a film will be great or not, I just figure, if I keep making them, I'll get it right sooner or later." 

All I am saying is that if one has the desire to create or paint or tell stories or dance, one should do it and leave quality to the critics.  It is only in the tango of creation that antidotes can be found, that new improvisations come out which may hold a cure for the "emptiness of existence." 

The truly beautiful aspect of this quote (From Midnight In Paris) is that emptiness is a philosophical concept, which, in its very existence, takes up space.  As modern quantum physics tells us, there is space between everything, even things that feel solid.  So space then, or emptiness, is actually the substance that makes up everything...and finding a way to play with all that space, is possibly, why so few dare to call themselves artists.  It's a big notion, being a kid in a sandbox with a brush or a keyboard as your shovel as you attempt to build castles out of galaxies of sheer space. 

Where do you even start?

You pick up your tool and start to push ideas around.  You add a little water and time and keep mushing things together in ways that please YOU.  You laugh. You holler.  You stay up all night and keep playing in your galactic emptiness with all the joy and passion and hope you can dream up.

So thank you Woody Allen, for reminding me that we combat despair by providing alternatives.  They may all be different strains of the same spaciousness, but we can craft new flavors and shades to color our days.

Capitalism vs. Socialism-A Danish Metaphor

This morning I was gazing out the window of the summer house around 9.12am.  Two happy birds were bouncing joyfully about the grass ripping up worms at a leisurely pace...like one would enjoy a fine cigar. 

Something deep in my subconscious sat up and howled.  I checked the time again. 9.13am.  Looked out the window.  Yep, worms in the mouths of birds.  No one seemed particularly sleepy or concerned.
THE EARLY BIRD GETS THE WORM.

huh? god is that you?

the EARLY BIRD gets the WORM!!!!


9.14am.  Birds gobbling worms. Nope. That isn't true in this reality. 

WHY!!

All of a sudden I realized, "I am in Denmark. Land of 52 weeks paid maternity leave.  Land of healthcare for all.  Land of well fed birds at anytime of the day."

Then it became clear.  The difference between capitalism and socialism is that in capitalism you starve if you don't get up before 7am to rut in the dirt in the dark because the government would rather listen to themselves chirp than make sure that all the worms are evenly distributed amongst the locations and times that people may be out and about to hunt them. 

Though it seems alien to look out the window now at 11.38am and still see the happy grazing going on, I believe that is why people travel and enjoy using the word exotic.  The difference is rather charming.

Don't Park Too Close to Old Danes

Tobias and I are staying in a friend's flat while we nail down some more permanent digs.  It is a nice basement apartment in the center of Aarhus, right next to the university.  There are grand villas and cozy gardens all along Emil Aarstrups Vej that smack of old money and the hyggeligt glory that obessesses the Danish psyche. Hyggelight, for those who are in the dark, is pronounced HUE/HOO-guh-lee and means, very simply "fucking cozy as shit".  That's really cozy.

Cars line the sidewalks and people push strollers up and down at a leisurely pace.  It was a perfect afternoon to go to the store and then clean out the car.  I got in the car and drove it away from the space it had occupied for less than 24 hours. 

The shopping trip was a rousing success and I even got a chance to politely refuse to be signed up for some shopper program, in Danish. "Nej, tak." High on the fumes of my Danish mastery, I returned home and parked close to the rubbish container.  The car is a disaster due to our numerous moves and generally small inhabitations. 

My astrology reading playing in my ears, I happily started throwing crap around and an organizational free-for-all.  It wasn't five minutes later, that I spied an old man creaking towards me. He appeared to be talking in my general direction. I took out my ear phone.  He was definitely talking.  At me.

Well, I was so pleased with myself that I just tried to understand what he was saying without my customary, "Undskyld, jeg taler englsk."  ...I'm sorry, I speak English.  I defaulted quickly to my normal phrase as it seemed like he had a very important message he was trying to convey.

"Where are you from?"

Smile from me. Be charming.

"The USA, from Portland, Oregon."

"Oh no."

um.  smile again. be nice.

"Yep, sure am."

"You are living in the basement."

"Yes, we are staying in a friend's flat while we look for another place to live."

No change in facial expression on his part. Just stares.

"I have a Danish boyfriend."

He shakes his head at me.

"You're a bad woman."

Sorry? Did I just hear that right? Ok, I'm a bad woman. Always agree. First rule of improv.

"Well, I can't help it. They are very nice you know."

He smirks.

"You need to park not so close to me when you drive this car.  It is no good."

Was I close to him? I can't even remember.





"Oh god. I'm really sorry.  I will definitely park further away. Could you not get out?"

He laughs.

"It is just lucky I am a nice one. Some others will not like that parking so much."

"Ok. Wow. Well, thanks for telling me."

He stands there and looks at me like I've lost my marbles.  Several seconds pass awkwardly.

"You keep doing what you are doing now."

Yes. I am cleaning out the car. Good idea. Is that goodbye?

"Alright, have a good day."  Smile again. Nice Jaime. Nice Dane.

Dane looks at me oddly and walks to his car.

There was no one in front of his car when I parked behind it on Sunday. There was still nothing except a tiny lip where a tiny driveway connected house to street.

But hey, sometimes it's the little things that make a big difference right?

As he drove by me I waved.
He stared straight ahead.

My astrologer was saying at that moment, "Relationship are really your joy in life."

Hehehehe. Yep. They sure are. 

For we are not constrained by the fame of our deeds, or the limits of our bodies, but rather by our capacity to dream, to imagine, to grow rich within and with that capital, ignite our world...

Unicorns on the Hærvejen

It was Day 8 or so on our Authentic Pilgrims On The Hærvejen trip.  We had just finished our humble lunch of strawberries and cheese in the hamlet of Vrads, lured by signs of meditation centers and organic butter.  With our bellies full and no available houses to rent in this community of artists and Masser oven builders, we decided to push on.

We walked past a young Dane shooting a longbow in a field and I waved.  He pretended not to notice us even though we were wearing the outfits which would have perfectly complimented his sport.  Never mind that though, soon we were upon the Meditation Center and started talking excitedly about the possibilities of retreats.

Cars whizzed passed us, people on bicycles stared or smiled or both, it was a typical day on our 300km trek.

UNTIL.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, across the road and in the forest, I saw it.  I could not believe my eyes and went crashing across the tarmac, hauling Tobias along with me to document the clear PROOF.

I felt like the Jane Goodall of mythological creatures.  The documentary would be called, *Myths In The Mist*

It was everything I could do to maintain professional objectivity, but in the end, I think you will all agree that I composed myself quite well in the face of this monumental discovery.

Standing there silently, not 5 meters from me, trying to disguise himself as a tree stump, was the Mystical Unicorn.

Let your eyes show you what your heart cannot comprehend.

Oh the majesty.

Cast of Characters

It's time to get to know some of the characters of The Begining of El Camino...get in a cozy chair and walk backwards in time down the Camino with me to Logrono...city of cafe's and pinchos and narrow streets.  Also, Papi Chulo, Alessea, Ulrik, David, and Ima, who had already left for home when this photo was taken.  

Papi Chulo was a doctor from Italy.  He carried a backpack that was more of a portable pharmacy than ruksack and wore all red, all the time.  PC was fond of showing us hand signs that meant, "You asshole, your wife is sleeping with another man."  He could also drink any of us under the table with a smile on his face, which is probably why he has that knowing and whimsical look in this photo.

Alessea was his long suffering and extremely tall, daughter.  She loved the equality of everyone on the Camino and was always prepared to let Papi Chulo indulge in his childlike wanderlust and demanding desires.  Her usual facial expression was one of bemused tolerance. She called her father Eduardo. She loved her job as an HR manager and general over-lordess and you could tell that everyone liked her right back.

David, the caballero sin caballo, never knew what he wanted if he could have anything and was fond of calling me 'una mystica'.  He loved Cataluna with all the passion his heart could muster and would spend hours talking about Barca and football with Ulrik. David was full of witty spanish one liners like, "Chulo chulo, mi pidulo" which roughly means, "Cool, cool, my dick."  

He and Ima were our fearless guides and translators for the first week until they and PC and Alessea had to leave at the end of Semana Santa.  David would occasionally wear his boxers on his head in the Albergues and liked to run marathons, but thought he was out of shape.

He loved Ulrik and Ulrik loved him. They were like a pair of best dog buddies who you knew would rip up chickens together and run to the ends of the earth howling with glee.

Ulrik, whom you have met before, Danish folk singer and attache from day 2 in Zubiri, was clearly not from this planet.  He was fond of playing his tiny guitarlele and gazing dreamily and lovingly at whatever his eyes beheld.  Though from Roskilde, he spoke English like an American and had a passionate adoration of the clawhammer banjo,  Hank Williams III, whom he called Hank III, and teaching me swear words in Danish like, "Run for fuck's sake, bitch".  He would move his mouth very slowly and precisely to show me how to say hard Danish words like Rød, and never acted like he was 22.  

He also developed a strange and troubling skin affliction on his hands that lasted the entire Camino.  He took cortisone from Papi Chulo, rubbed iodine on them, tried benadryl and anything else people might suggest.  No one knew he had chillblains until a couple days before the end of the trail.  He refused to see a doctor right up to the end.  He may have been from Jupiter.

And then there was Ima, mother to all and eternally young beauty.  At 37, all she had to do really, was just smile and make us all fall in love with her a little more. However, she never rested on her youthful laurels.  She was fond of making sure we were all ok, seeing the sights, and telling stories about our lives.  She lived in Tortossa and was a teacher who travelled the world in the summers, visiting places like Nepal and Africa. She communicated in the universal language of love.  Full stop.

There was Hanne the Dane whom everyone called Hannah Montana, and I met her in a herd of Danes one morning on the way out of Larrasoana.  She could walk faster than anyone I met and was on her second Camino.  Hanne had just started opening to the universe and magic and energy and moving with initiative through the world instead of always reacting.  She was probably half wood nymph and even though we only had a few hours on the trail together, she was one who lingered in the heart long after.  It wasn't until Santiago that I saw her again, but since coming to Denmark, we have corresponded and seen each other several times, so the story continues long after the walking stopped.  Hanne trains for triathalons, but I didn't know that then.







Then there were Max and Sana, two Germans who were walking for reasons I still don't entirely know.  I only know that Max was a fuzzy bear and Sana, a tomboy princess.  Together, they were like a walking fairy tale where the world doesn't know that they are royalty and only discovers it in the end, after trials and tribulations that they undergo with grace.  The last day in Santiago, I was wishing I could see them again.  I turned a corner and there they were, standing in front of a shop.  They told me I was the one person they hoped to see before they left the Camino and we have been in touch several times since.  They live in Lubeck, which is only 300km from Aarhus.  We will definitely see them on scene again. Max is the tall guy and Sana, the girl on the right.





Thus began the first week of Camino.  May it live a thousand years.

Writing makes you rich

It is exciting to think about making loads of money by writing away on a Danish sailboat or in international coffee shops.  Since I am now essentially living my lifelong dream, I figured it wouldn't hurt to check out the financial realties too.

Today I decided to do some research on just how much money I have made as the author of Theobroma Gypsies.  From online sales mind you, since the ones at the launch don't really count...actually. Yes, we better count that.  

I was very encouraged initially because there are two used copies selling for more than a brand new copy on amazon.  http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/offer-listing/0557658268/ref=sr_1_cc_1_olp?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1339590050&sr=1-1-catcorr&condition=used

Also, Barnes and Noble is apparently hocking the e-book for 8.99, which is about 6 dollars more expensive than buying from lulu.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/theobroma-gypsies-jaime-mathis/1030375965?ean=9781257342891&cm_mmc=AFFILIATES-_-Linkshare-_-TYYL2aZFZn0-_-15%3a9781257342891&

VS..

http://www.lulu.com/shop/jaime-mathis/theobroma-gypsies-a-legacy-of-chocolate/ebook/product-17465977.html

Now maybe lulu isn't as fancy as B and N but upon closer investigation, I discovered that I make more selling a copy for 2.75 than I do selling it in a 'reputable' place like B and N for 8.99.  Welcome to the idiosyncratic world of 'legitimate' publishing.  

I crunched the numbers and presto! 50 dollars. Yes. Oh baby yes.  Riches! Glory! 

That's without the launch sales. After overhead I walked with about 150.00 in my pocket.  

200 dollars I have made. As. An. Author.  Since 2010.  Hm.

So I decided to convert it to Kroner.  1,185 DKK.  That's over HALF the cost of my first month of Danish classes! I've made enough money writing my book to pay for a basic ability to ask where you are from and tell you I ate your banana in Danish! 

Invincible? A distinct possibility.

Watch out readers of the world.  You will know my name and read me. Now everyone, hurry up and go buy my book from lulu so I can make enough money to learn how to save a Danish child from a burning building!

http://www.lulu.com/shop/jaime-mathis/theobroma-gypsies-a-legacy-of-chocolate/paperback/product-12481544.html

My boy Hans C

Today is in honor of my departed homie Hans Christian Andersen.

Ol' HC was da bomb because he liked to make tiny rocking chairs out of paper and give them to kids.

He kept it real by taking a length of rope with him everywhere so he could climb out a window to safety if his hotel burned down.

Hans C was from the hood, no joke, of Odense. This is pure ghetto, yo.  His mom was good for nothing and likely a whore. He said so in one of his fairy tales.

I'd like to give a shout out to tall dudes like Hans with crazy imaginations and a propensity for falling in love with opera singers and already engaged women.  He knew a honey when he saw one, even if they were unavailable.  And the brotha had style.  He could DRESS and he made sure the shutter caught him lookin' fly.

So RAISE da ROOF for HCA, who wrote more fairy tales, acted in more plays, travelled the world more, and was more afraid of the comittment of buying a bed than anyone I ever knew.

You are my BOY H Christian A. I know you believe in unicorns and that shit smells simultaneously. For this I am happy.