Ambitions Derailed

I would like to report that since December 13th, I have been productive and busy. I would like to, but one of the basic tenets of my blog is to provide an honest account of my life, so I can’t. Instead of making excuses, I shall ineloquently attempt to provide a post that will get everyone up to speed.

Late fall I had stoked my ambition engine full of coal, and was beginning to make some exciting progress in my personal and professional goals.  The pinnacle being, successfully pitching some blog posts for my favorite celiac charitable organization in the States. Unfortunately, as American Thanksgiving arrived, we also reached the culmination of my Father-in-law’s battle with pancreatic cancer. For those who have not experienced the loss of a parent yet, may I say, that there is nothing quite like it, to derail life’s forward motion for a spell.  So instead of gathering research, and diving into my writing as planned, I have found myself, sitting quietly observing the ripples of loss on its glassy surface. 

In December, we made two trips home to the states. The first to say our bedside good-byes, and attend the funeral, the second to spend 3 weeks with family for the holidays that were supposed to be my father-in-law’s last, but alas, we forgot to reserve that time with his cancer, so he was already departed.  January came and we returned to Sweden, with jet lag, fatigue, and heavy hearts aching for home. Only, after a year and a half abroad, I, and my family, could no longer name a place that felt like home. A brief trip to our old neighborhood while we were in the States was awkward, and unsettling.  There were many factors that contributed, but it was mostly because our international experience has changed us, and the dynamics of small suburban life has not changed at all. Sweden is my current home, and I love our international life here, but because I’m a temporary resident, I can’t fully claim Sweden as home either.  So where do we belong?

Since I was powerless to intellectualize, and research my way through the grief of loosing my Father-in-law, I focused instead on finding a place to call home.  My first response to this expat paradox was an ardent, and urgent, search for the place to that would soothe my displacement angst for our eventual return to the states.  I spent two and half weeks on realtor.com, Trulia, Great Schools, and School Digger researching housing markets and schools in various parts of the United States, searching for the location that would provide us with the aspects of our Swedish life that we have come to love.  Easy access to outdoors, trails, biking, fresh air, clean water, greater reverence for nature, healthy work life balance, and populated with physically fit, attractive residents who are progressive, intelligent, and maintain a certain level of magazine ad coif and style at all times.

Of course, that was slightly ridiculous, trying to replicate Sweden in the US.  Anyway, we had been informed that a third year in Sweden was definite, so my musings were at best premature.  After the third or fourth potential new home listing I forwarded to Finance Guy, he patiently told me that he was going to focus on our life in Sweden, and making the most of our time here.  Well, I suppose that’s one approach.  After a few days, I begrudgingly accepted his wisdom, and went cold turkey off my apps.

The Hunger Games movie hit iTunes and after re-watching it, I launched into re-reading the entire series. Loosing myself in the revolutionary adolescent angst of the Panem youth was delicious therapy for the week it took me to read them.  Then I found myself, once again facing loss.  This time it was Peeta and Katniss, who abruptly exited my life as I finished the final chapter. I hit the Teen’s bookcase like a junkie needing a fix, and found Divergent and Insurgent.  Another week gone, and still my insatiable desire to transport myself away from my grief continued. The last book I remember reading, in that three-week period, was The Penderwicks.  It is a lovely book about 4 sisters and their summer adventure, and reminded me of all the fun my daughters used to have in our old neighborhood with the girl next door, and suddenly BAM! Longing again for the home that isn’t there.  Must. Find. Something. Else.

It was at that point I began accessing American Netflixs from Sweden, and in mid February I unintentionally discovered their Korean drama section. Honestly, I didn’t go looking for it, it just appeared…I have a long and sordid history with Korean Dramas, which could be a blog post in itself. For the next few weeks, they served as my media drug of choice and transported me to an unfamiliar culture, and landscape, that helped in my continued avoidance of the unpleasant emotions simmering just below my surface. This continued through most of March and April till my children asking me exactly how many dramas I had watched.  I had lost count. Oh the shame.

Even though I have been mostly placating my grief, I did spend time exploring my losses with words, so there exists a written record. I have accepted that sometimes emotions are too messy for mainstream public consumption.  This is especially true when you are wading knee deep in them. I am hoping that time will give me the perspective and wisdom to edit them more effectively. I don’t think that will be any time soon, since with April came news of another loss of sorts.  A change, that I am not currently at liberty to discuss, but has privately kept us busy seeking it's meaning in our larger life plan.  When one goes seeking change, they really can’t be surprised when it sneaks up and bites one on the arse.

While I am certain the last few months could have been more constructively spent, experience has shown me it isn’t good to trifle with grief. Respect, patience, and a letting go of previous expectations for a time are needed until the equilibrium returns.  Until then, I guess it’s good to sit back, observe the ripples and practice breathing till I am ready to dive in again.  

Lucia~December 13

When I was in first grade, a new girl came to my elementary school.  Her Mom was from Sweden, her Dad, an American architect.  She and I became friends and I was invited to her house on several occasions.  Her mother, was one of the first true characters I ever met.  She wasn't warm and fuzzy like all the other Mom's I knew.  She didn't hang out in the kitchen offering us snacks or concerning herself with our happiness.  In the the sitting room outside her bedroom she had a giant loom, where she was frequently found weaving fabric.  She had long straight hair, a funny accent, a glass eye that wouldn't look at you, and smoked pipes and cigarellos.  Most of our other friends were a little frightened by this woman.  I wasn't.  Even as a child, I was drawn to her eccentricities.

Their home was an extremely modern design, with a scandinavian vibe, designed by their Dad.  It was a three story house built hanging on a rocky hillside.  The top floor was occupied by the kitchen.  That's it.  The second floor had the master bedroom and a sitting room/living room.  The bottom floor had three bedrooms and another bathroom.  Each floor was connected by steep stacked open stairs each with a curved landing providing a place for the stairs to come back beside themselves.  One day when I was visiting the home, Mrs. B. was working the loom.  As I made my way down the steps from the kitchen to my friends bedroom, I paused to watch her.  It was the coolest thing, I had ever seen. She saw me lurking on the steps, and invited me into the room to watch her worked.

I remember the room being mostly white, with splashes of colorful textiles, that she had weaved.  The faint scent of cigar, and pipe tobacco lingered in the air. I was drawn to some family photos sitting on an expansive window sill.  They were black and white shots set in modern frames.  So unlike the gold and inlaid wood ones at my house.  There were pictures of my friend in a snowy dark setting, with a wreath on her head with four candles.  Lit.  I couldn't stop looking at it.  First, that was a lot of snow.  Second, I was struck at how beautiful my friend looked lit in the darkness with the glow of candles illuminating her face.  How important she looked.  I was a little jealous.  But there was another emotion that began to rise the longer I stared at the image.  Fear.

What kind of twisted tradition hands a kindergartener a candle, and straps a lit topiary to their head?  In my vast 7 years of experience, I hadn't even been allowed on the same latitude with matches.  They were kept out of my reach, and under no circumstances was I allowed to touch them.  If my Dad made a fire in our fireplace, we were instructed to keep a safe distance from it.  Fire, as far as I was concerned, was dangerous and forbidden!

Mrs. B paused from her work when she noticed my fascination with the photo.  She asked if I wanted to see more.  Of course, I did.  She stood, walked across the room, and took a photo album off the bookcase.  We sat down on the boxy white sectional.   Mrs. B told me the photos were from Lucia Day in her village in Sweden.  Every year at the darkest time of the winter, there was a procession of girls through the village with candles to light the darkness and warm the cold with songs of hope and promise for the sunlight's return.

As she showed me the photos she told me that in Sweden all the girls wore white dresses and held candles, but only one girl was chosen to wear the lit wreath. The Lucia. They would get up before the sun rose, get into their gauzy white frocks, and go out into the cold winter snow. She informed me, it was a great honor to be chosen as Lucia. I thought that was funny, because in my country, the one who draws the shortest straw would be most at risk of getting their hair set on fire.   In first grade,  I wasn't a huge fan of the dark. So waking up early and going out in the freezing cold darkness.  I couldn't see how that could be a good thing. Snow was ok though.

Still I couldn't help being drawn to the beauty of the images.  My friend had seemed to survive the ordeal, as evidenced by her coming to find me so we could get on with on our play date.  I guess Lucia couldn't be all bad.

This year I got to experience my first Lucia.  I learned a few more important facts about Lucia in Sweden today.

First off, you will be relieved to know that they no longer use real candles.  Whew.  They have battery operated torches to light the darkness.  This makes it a much safer holiday for small children then in previous time periods.  Also crack of dawn, not really that early. Sun rose at 8:36 today. 

Nowadays in preschools, around Sweden anyone can be a Lucia, even boys.  They can also choose to be a Tomta (santa), a Stjärngosser (a star boy-imagine Gandolf meets a dunce cap with some stars), or Pepparkaka (a gingerbread person).  Pepparkakkor in the shape of hearts, are also eaten in large quantities this day with plenty of coffee to wash them down.  Lussekatter  are also eaten.  They are saffron buns and the designated pastry for Lucia.  We found them to be an acquired taste. Maybe the ones with gluten are better.

I have some photos from the day, but all the concerts were given in the dark, with flash prohibited, so, the photos are, well,  you'll see.  All in all, the day was just as mesmerizing as my friends photo, filled with illuminated faces, song, and snow.

A Lucia concert at a typical Swedish föskola

Lucias, and Rudolph on the sax
.

Pepparkakkor (and one lone Stjärngosser on the end)

Tomtar, blurred to protect their identity

A little pyrotechnics for the finale...Sparklers held by the teachers.

All Saints Day in Sweden~Allhelgona

It isn't uncommon, in a 'frequently wellness challenged' family, to loose a few weeks.  Managing minor ailments, fatigue, and whatever viruses are circulation in a family of five, can cause days, weeks, even months to blend together.   Finance Guy also slowed down his travel in October to have some quality time home with us in Sweden, so it really didn't seem right to ditch my sick children, and available spouse to sequester myself, collect my thoughts and commit them to digital paper.

We have also been dealing (from afar) with a loved with cancer.  I'm not going to discuss that in any great detail, but it has reminded me that most inflammatory chronic autoimmune illnesses end in cancer.  Usually the really bad kinds of cancer, not that there are any good ones...  For my Dad 30 years of elevated liver enzymes ended with liver cancer.  For our loved one now it is Type 2 diabetes (recently recategorized as an autoimmune illness), and pancreatic cancer.  I'm only a witness to this person journey, and I don't feel it is my place to say more.

Finance Guy left for the states today for a Board Meeting and to spend time with family during some challenging days.  This past weekend before he left, I drove him past our island's cemetery, hoping to witness a Swedish tradition that I had read about, but missed last year.

Saturday night, November 3, after the kids went bed, and the last of the Swedish trick or treaters cleaned out our Snickers bars, Finance Guy and I...snuck out.

It was a classic thriller halloween weekend moonlit night.  A misty fog hung in the air, just enough to give the moon an etherial glow and set the night chill deeper to our bones.  As we drove through the rolling woods, and fields of the nature preserve, I couldn't help thinking it was the kind of scene that zombies usually wander out of in movies. Halloween is only just catching on in Sweden, and doesn't have the same scary connotations as in the U.S.  But still as we drove toward the cemetery visions of zombies danced through my head.

Beside me sat my partner in crime (and life), armed with a dinky mag-lite and a couple of mini-snickers bars he absconded from the trick or treater bowl when I wasn't looking.  He is a man who likes to be prepared, (and knows his wife gets grumpy when she is hungry).  For political viability reasons, he may demand that I delete his photo from this post, but I couldn't resist. 

We arrived at the cemetery and the cars that lined the road earlier for a church service were all gone.  (By the way cars lining the road for a church service, not something seen often in Sweden.) We drove into the lot and parked next to the single car that remained.  Maybe everyone was gone, except a lone ax murderer, or a disgruntled Texan with a chainsaw...  As we stepped from the car we were both nervous, but the calm quiet chill of evening snapped me out of my 80's scary movie thoughts.  As we approached the cemetery gates we were met with the smell of burning wax and this sight.

Every grave was lit with candles, some with several.  The churchyard itself covered about 4-6 acres (1.5-2.4 hectares) and has inviting foot paths that wind through.  Like most cemeteries, some areas are densely populated with headstones, other area are still open fields patiently waiting.  Unlike many American cemeteries this one is tended on a daily basis.  Not only by cemetery personnel, but by the families of those interned.  It may sound morbid, but it is one of my favorite spots on my island.

Having been a hospice social worker in my past life, I'm no stranger to cemeteries.  I find a strange sort of comfort in them.  Maybe it's because I like to imagine the person and what their life was like. Maybe it's how it forces the existential dilemma upon me.  Maybe it's how my strolls among the graves have helped free me from personal paralysis brought on by psychologically imposed perfectionism.  'Really' I think to myself, 'does it really matter that much?  No matter what is done, or left undone, no amount of riches, or fame will prevent me from joining the ranks of the dead some day. " Eventually we will all be nothing more than a name on a headstone.

This night in Sweden, Allhelgona-All Saints Day, those names are remembered, and family and friends light a candle for the loved one who has gone on. Each light representing a loved one left behind.

As we strolled through, we could hear voices speaking softly in Swedish, and people were still arriving with paper sacks in hand containing candles and matches.  Some people would seek out a grave, but others would find a beautiful tree or ancient rock to light their tribute.  There were families with children, seniors with canes, and small groups of family and friends gathered.  We breathed in the beautiful stillness as we walked down grassy isles of headstones with names and dates lit by the flickering lights of candle glow. The smell of smoky wax filling the cool night air.  It will be a smell, I will forever associate with Sweden, much like the smell of burning pinyon pine and Santa Fe.

Candles at the mausoleum

Candles and heather placed around a reflecting pond.

Most of the candles were white, although we did see a few in red glass jars, shaped like hearts.  No gaudy colors, or flowers, just simple greens, with a rose or pinecone were laid upon graves.  Many people planted heather at the base of the stone.  Unlike America there was no grave, or family tribute that was trying to stand out above any others.  No one insinuating that their loss or grief was greater.  They were all the same.  The same loss. The same grief.  The same light of love that burns on.

A massive ancient oak, seemed a popular place to remember.

Unlike the rowdy, candy grubbing, party atmosphere of Halloween, there is a dignified simple beauty to how the Swedes remember their dead.  No zombies, or vampires.  No fear that the hand from Chiller Theater will reach from a grave and drag me in, just quiet flickering reflections of the lives that  extinguished before ours.

Maybe someone from Sweden would read this, and scoff at my American sentimentality.  It could be warranted but, with another person I love facing a cancer spawned from autoimmune disease, my thoughts and emotions about life and death are closer to my surface now.  But humble Sweden cannot deny that in their tradition, they have offer me another comfort in their cemetery.  It was clear to us, that the number of candles lit by the living in remembrance, far outnumbered the graves of the forgotten dead.

Tack på det Sverige.

~Karen

Lidingöloppet

As many of you know, I live on an island just outside the city of Stockholm.  It's a peaceful picturesque hills and fields are spotted with charming villas, sheep, and horses.  Even though we are little more than 10 miles from downtown Stockholm, we are for all intensive purposes living in the country. Usually when I drive the road that leads to my house, I pass more pets than people.

Or pets and people.

But hiking in the nature preserve near our house there are signs that hint to something more...

Every year, since 1965, for one weekend in the fall, our island's population of 43,000 nearly doubles with an international gathering of athletes of all levels and abilities, for the world's largest cross country race, the...

Festivities kick off on Friday and go all weekend.  There are 7 events in total, and all geared to different abilities.  The main race is the 30km 'classic' that runs on Saturday.  There is also a relay; geared to corporate groups, a LidingöRusset for individuals with special needs, a women only race, a nordic walking event, and it all wraps up on Sunday with races for the kids.The courses runs through woods and fields all over the island on dirt and gravel paths.

An aspect of this weekend that fascinates me, is that because of the she number of runners it is impossible to accommodate all of them  in hotels on our island.  However because the race is so well supported by all the commun's resources, open a number of the gymnasiums, (high schools) so that the runners will have a place to sleep the night before the race.  A fair number of those runner will find themselves sleeping on the floor in either a gym or classroom.  Just incase a 19 mile run through the woods on challenging terrain wasn't enough, they are willing to throw in the race eve challenge of sleeping on a hard high school floor. 

It is hard to live on this island and not get swept up in the excitement, and the traffic that the loppet brings.  Our Swedish dream house is located a couple miles down the road from the start line for the two larger races.  I enjoy watching it's transformation in the week leading up to the loppet.  This year that was a very rainy week.  Luckily on Saturday, there was a break in the rain, and although the sun barely shined all day, and there was a nip in the air, the rain held off.

I briefly considered avoiding the crowds and staying home all day, but instead I piled KC, and Beanie on our bikes and took a 2 mile bike ride from our house to the start line.

In my desire not to miss the race, I ended up arriving early.  So we had some time to meander, and soak it all in.  Here we see part of a Swedish breakfast of champions, chocolate milk, and coffee.  No need to waste money on expensive sports drinks when a little sugar, fat and caffeine gets the job done.

This field, less than 8 weeks ago, was the summer pasture for about twenty horses from the islands riding school.  So all the tents, the flag poles, porta-potties, and sound systems electrical feed are assembled in the days leading up to the race.  The race has three locations, and the one closest to our house is the 30 and 15 kilometer races.  They finish line is at another field a few miles walk from this one, and in between there is the registration and vendors area.

First Aid Tent

While we wandered, we had the pleasure of bumping into one of KC's teachers from her school.  She was with a friend who was running  in the race.  She told us that last night there were runners sleeping at KC's school.  She also pointed out some girls, maybe 9 or 10 years old wearing turquiose t-shirts.  She told us they were from the figure skating school.  She explained that in order to manage sheer magnitude of the race all the clubs on the island volunteered their members, and time to help.    

Volunteers from the Lion's Club

We watched as a John Deere tractor pulled trailers into a row across the field.

We soon realized that they were for the runner's gear bags.  Each trailer had different start group's numbers on it.  After the first seeded group starts, other groups line up and start at 10 minute intervals.  Runners are seeded based on previous years results and each race group seemed to have 200-300 runners.  After the group starts the trailer with their bags are picked up and tractor driven to the finish line.

As we waited, you could feel the anticipation building, and we had time to observe the pre-race prep of the runners. Lots of jumping, lunging, and short jogs.  Above you can see the 30 person deep porta-potty cue, being avoided along the wood line. I guess the coffee had to end up somewhere.  I have to hand it to the Swedes, they miss very little opportunities to commune with nature.  We also observed this man.

I assured Beanie that while he was not going to run the race in a neon skort, leis, and an umbrella. He looked close to seventy so we figured he was just there to get the runners pumped up.  After some warm up aerobics that were lead by a Swedish man who had almost as much enthusiasm as Richard Simmons and his two lovely assistants. That is them up on the bandstand.

The races began.

On our bike ride home we intersected once more with the runners as they came out of the nature preserve and crossed the road toward the driving range/ski slope.

Oh and guess who else we saw still with umbrella in hand?

Guess I was wrong about him, but how crazy and dedicated a runner must one be to carry and umbrella for 19 miles through the woods?  He was also seeded in the first group, so he must have had a pretty good time last year to make the cut.  Impressive.  I'm not just saying that because he's wearing a skirt.

Tomorrow,  the Lillaloppet is for kids ages 7-15 and depending on their age they run either , 1.7k, 3k or 6k.  For those, like myself, who don't naturally think in metrics, that is 1 mile, 1.9 miles and 3.7 miles. The kids races, like the adults, are run through the woods on either dirt or gravel paths. There is even a 'fun run' for the youngest the Knatteloppet for children 6 and under.  That course is 1.7k.  See right there.  That's how you know you are in Sweden and not the states.  Cause seriously what American's would ask their 4 year old to run a mile 'for fun'?  I mean, I'm sure it happens in the super jock athletic families, but in Sweden similar cross country mile that we moaned about being required to run in middle school, is deemed totally appropriate and 'fun' for preschoolers.

Tomorrow we won't be participating, although after today, Beanie and I decided that next year, if we still live on our island, we would do one of the shorter runs.  If for no other reason than to feel apart of and event that makes Sweden, and our island so special.