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That Scent of Freedom

I was a little girl  at the very edge of Europe where there’s nowhere left to go but head first into the steel grey Northern Sea (and you just don’t want to do that. It is cold.) Like most little girls I moved with ease between the world of the angels, the animal kingdom, and yes, there were trolls in the forest next to my house. I swear.

People in that part of the world pronounce the r’s like the French, but harder. They live with 250+ days of rain pr year (ocean + 7 mountains surrounding the town = wet), and eat a lot of fish. That one glorious season when the fisherman next door was especially lucky in the Accar arena (a sort of octopus) we had different variations of Accar every day of the week (accar suffle, accar toast, accar pasta, accar burgers, accar pizza, accar soup, accar.. you get it.) I never ate it again. Ever.

Every Sunday and every holiday we went for hikes, with or without ski’s depending on season and elevation. We call it tur, and it is the national religion where I grew up. Out and walk in nature. I was not even 3 years old the first winter I had to give up the cozy dog sledge to my new born little brother, and I was for miles and miles stumbling along on my first ski’s trying to keep up with the red dot in the horizon which was  the back of my father. My mother had chocolate in her chest pocket, and for each little giant step I would take she would give me some. Best chocolate ever.

This was before all the terrible happened and our family fell apart.

(Don’t worry, I will not tell you about the terrible here, since my mother and father and brothers are all alive and it does not seem fair to them to expose it all publicly. Let me just tell you that we all got through to the other side of it, each in our own way.)

My two brothers and I moved with my mother to a bigger city, a warmer more optimistic place. Brighter somehow. And at 15 I found my tribe. I entered acting school. Theater theater theater, it was my passion.  In dusty vacant factory halls, wrapped in cling film and strobe lights, we were changing the world. If there was any limits to the mind I was breaking them. Or so I yearned for, longed, hoped, dreamed.

Experimenting. There were nothing I would not do, if there was a slightest glimmer of a hope of transcendence.

Twenty years old. Dharamsala, North India. Tibetans. Namaste. I was initiated. I had been for so long looking and searching, reaching out, up, beyond. And here it was. That which I had been searching  for.

I knew it.

I could smell it.

It was within me.

But the momentum of searching was strong. Many many years strong. Ideas and ideals, oh, so seducing. Until the wheel many years later finally came to a rest. It came to stillness. Sweet, sweet stillness. And tears. A tidal wave of tears. Gratitude.

Right before (thank you thank you thank you) I got stuck in some kind of self gratifying place of achievement, the Goddess (I call it the Goddess well aware that I probably will be kicked in the butt for my arrogance. Again.)  took my two hands, lifted me up and threw me, all of me, into the whirl pool of Feminine Embodiment Practices. Here I am a student, sometimes a teacher, almost blinded at times by the brilliant infinity of this path.

And softened. Humbled. Grateful.

The girl in the rain with the fish and the trolls. With the R’s harsher than the french, and the ski’s made of wood. She knew it all long.  She knew.

I see her running in the autumn wind with her hair loose, running running running. Back and forth. Like a leaf.

She is swallowing full breaths of freedom.

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