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.