Just the other day, I was lying on the sofa and my intention was to ponder my childhood according to my mom. Instead I suddenly came to think of my dad, and how much I still miss him.

I started to cry, and while sobbing I said out loud: “Oh daddy! I miss you so much, I wish you were here!”
A voice said inside my head: “You can’t have that, you know.”
“Of course I know! He. Is. Dead! Since. Long!
But I still wish we would have had more years together!”

I got married, left my parent’s home before I had turned 18, and moved to another city. Of course we visited my parents once in a while during the years to come, and they visited us, but not exactly on a weekly basis. Not even monthly. It was too far away to drive that often. And I was glad, sorry to say.

But I missed not having enough opportunities to talk to my dad. During growing up, we had always been talking, he was always there for me, and he has taught me so much about all and everything. And of lots of small nothingnesses. While out in the garden, or biking together, or sitting in his lap while he was reading for me or telling me stories from when he was a child.
Now – SHE was always around when we met.

It’s awful to say such a thing about ones mother, I know that, and it’s very difficult! It’s not allowed, and it hurts! But I have to tell the truth! To myself.
Yes! I have to realize the true truth.

They are both gone now. I was only thirty when my dad died, two years later my mom. An awfully long time has passed since, a lot of water under the bridges.

But I was lucky to be able to talk privately with my dad at the end of his life, before his cancer was so severe that he ended up att the hospital. It was a very good talk, and we were able to have some conversation by letters afterwards. At that time mom had had a couple of minor strokes, so he could obviously, and luckily, hide those letters and our conversation from her.

I could speak freely, and so could he.

The last time I saw him was at the hospital. He was very ill then and all yellow. But when I entered the room and he saw me, his smile lightened up the entire room.

Oh daddy! I miss you so much and I will always love you!

Painting by Axel Olson

I listen

Every day I listen to the Podcast “A course in… What?!”
A course in miracles, in other words.

Very often I lose my concentration.
Some of it I don’t get.
Most of it actually…

But sometimes I actually catch a glimpse of something.
And that glimpse touches me.
Gives me something!

I’ve heard, that when you start to study The Course, the Ego reacts and wont stand it, and  – hence – you can feel the most unpleasant things. Get really ill actually! So! Are these ( highly worsened) stomach-things, muscle-things, pain-things… caused by listening more regularly to the Course? Is the Ego trying to stop me from listening?

I’m not actually studying the course!!! Just listening to it!
Or at least trying to…
As good as it gets…

But nevertheless???

Well, anyway! If so! The ego wont succeed. I’ll keep on listening. I like it, even though it’s not easy to understand.

Together with reading  Alice Millers books – “Breaking Down the Wall of Silence” and “The Drama of the Gifted Child” so far – something IS really happening in me. With me.

Physically – I feel awful. Psychologically – oh gosh… Especially since I’ve now started to realize so much more about myself, my mom, and the lack of love and respect from her when I was growing up.

Thank God, I had my dad.

Painting by Erik Olson –  Dead horizon

I’ve always loved the color red

A snowy afternoon by the time of Christmas
The heaven is dark but lots of lights are glittering
from every street, every building in the city

I’m twelve, or maybe even fourteen,
a most sensitive age, for a girl
who still hadn’t been kissed or looked for.

“Ah”, I said
and stopped in front of the large store-window
“Look, mom, what a beautiful red coat!”

I could hear her frown when she said:
“You, who are so gray and insignificant,
shall not wear red.”

Later on I got a new winter coat, a gray one
with a collar buttoned  up to the chin

And I can still feel the pain

Painting by Esias Thorén – Foot steps


Little did I know what would happen when I started writing. Every post, except for the last one, came out totally different from what I originally intended them to be. And I felt  content and pleased.

The last post, though, I had decided should be about my first meeting with The Course of Miracles. And it did! But I was not totally content and pleased. Not this time. I could have written a much better text. But as always, nothing bad happens without a positive approach as well.

Later that evening, lying in my bed, I suddenly realized I was smiling. My heart was excited, and something inside me was jumping up and down with joy. I so looked forward to what I would be writing next, since I, my self, had absolutely no idea what that would be.


Some twenty-five years ago or so, I met a man. Nothing particular about that. Most women meet at least one man in her life, and the story that follows can be good or bad – or a mix of both. I guess mostly a mix of both. 😉

When I suddenly started to think of this man today, it wasn’t in a bad way. I’ve no memories of harsh speaking, no events that made me cry or suffer in any way. He was a bit odd, but basically he was kind and honest.

What impressed me a lot when I the first time visited his place, was that he owned quite a lot of books. Since I’m a dedicated reader myself, this was a very positive sign. One of the books was “A course in Miracles”.

He simply said it was a spiritual book that he used to read. I just held the dark blue book in my hands for a while, opened it and saw the thin paper sheets, and the small font the words were printed in – and then we returned to the table, the cheese, the crackers and the wine. And the talking.

Later on I moved in with him, and saw him sitting there with the book and a huge english dictionary. It must have been hard for him, since he very often had to check what the words meant. First translation of the specific words into our language, and then also to understand the  meaning of the text.

For some time he nevertheless persisted with the reading, but then he started to meditate in the mornings instead. Until he one morning happened to fall asleep, and almost missed go to work in time. After that he started doing Qigong instead. I never saw him open the Course again.

During that period one of my daughters lived across the street, and sometimes she saw a glimpse of him early mornings while he was doing his stretchings and breathings and rolling-the balls and whatever those movements are called. His figure was quite boney, and with long legged a bit saggy drawers, and an equally saggy sweater in the same color, he looked rather laughable.
I think the outfit was red…

I can’t recall if we ever talked about spiritual things, nor doing anything concerning spirituality together. I don’t know why, since I earlier had been interested in both this and that when it came to spirituality. It must have been at least ten years earlier when the first time I read Shirley MacLaines books “Out on a limb” (et cetera), a number of Deepak Chopras books, and also others. I knew people and did various thing to enhance my knowledge of these matters.

Now when I came to think of this, it makes me curious. Why didn’t we talk about, and encouraged each other in this area? Why didn’t we DO anything together?

The answer might be, that he was also very materialistic and the Course, the Meditation and the Qi gong was merely some kind of fads. Maybe he was doing these things more for the physical well-being of it, not for spiritual purposes.
I would really like to know! If he said something then about “why”, I have forgotten it. And what did this behavior do to me? Hopefully I’ll get som answers along the road, while Walking the walk.

Nevertheless! For one birthday, not long before we moved apart, he gave me a copy of “A course in Miracles”.

I have still not read it.

I’ve tried a couple of times. But it’s hard.
I’ve encountered it in different ways, f.ex. on youtube, in other books, spiritual people who talk about the Course and how much it means to them.
Recently I found the Podcasts.

Just listen to someone who reads it straight on, (with a dull voice) is worse than reading it myself.  And I don’t like to listen to one of those podcasts that seems to be like on radio, people who talk in the mouths of each other, and are like “we know it all”!

Then I found Cynthia Morgan with “A Course in What?!”
Wonderful! (You can find it on iTunes)

She reads a paragraph or two and then discusses the meaning of it! It’s understandable! It’s possible to learn from it! And the fact that I miss much of it, lose the concentration to listen, don’t understand what it means,  that doesn’t matter.

It’s a start for me – at last – and some of it goes into my mind, and some of it hooks me up and I’ve already found seeds that have helped me in some way or made me remember something. I’ve got a couple of AHA-moments!

And that’s a good start.

The wall of silence

Abused as a child?

The very thought is hard to embrace. I was never hit. Never experienced any sexual abuse of any kind… never…

(gasp)   … except once when it could have been… something… perhaps…

He was a friend of my dads. Well… friend or friend… I don’t know now, and didn’t know then, the extent of that relationship. They might have met at work, and my dad always liked to talk to other people. Help with something if he could. He talked to the black-dressed missionaries who was biking around in the neighborhood, talked to people he met at the library, in shops et cetera. He was always kind and always showed interest to their stories.

This man came from Estonia. As a four or five year old I had no idea whether he was a refugee, or had moved to our country for some other reason. He had lived here for many years though, but I never saw any wife or any children. I guess she might have been dead for some time, and the children were grownups with children of their own.

Or I might be totally wrong.

To me, however, he was a very old man, older than my dad. With wrinkles in his face and grey hair. Slim, almost skinny, not particularly tall and with a somewhat crooked figure. And a mysterious accent when he spoke.
He taught me to count to twelve in finnish. Yksi, kaksi, kolme…

At least once I followed my dad to his house. Big old house. Big flourishing garden. Fruit trees and berry bushes. Raspberries, strawberries, gooseberries. Black and red currant shrubs. Apples and plums. Ripe cherries in my hand.

What impressed and amazed me the most, was a swing I had never seen before. Like two wooden sofas built together facing each other. Very odd. And there we sat. Me and my dad in one sofa, the man in the other. They were talking. We swung slowly while the shadows in the garden deepened, until it was time for dad and me to return home.

The man used to visit us once in a while. Sometimes he gave us something from the garden. Jam, or pickled something. Once he gave us a bottle of home brewed wine. Since my parents never touched anything with alcohol, they just smiled, said thank you and pretended like nothing. Afterwards they laughed a bit, but kindly. He meant well, they said. He didn’t know.

And I don’t know what they did with the bottle.

One afternoon the man had visited us and was on his way home. I stood above a stone-stair just around the corner of our house when he saw me and approached.

“Can I have a little kiss”, he asked and pointed at his left cheek. I giggled a little and was about to hastily peck him on his cheek with closed lips.

Then he turned his face to me and opened his mouth wildly, closing in on my mouth.
Oh gosh what a big mouth he had!
Quick as a squirrel I turned around and skipped away to the back of the house, loudly singing  some la la la la laa laa…

I don’t remember him grabbing me, maybe he tried to. Maybe he started to reach out for me. Did he manage to put his hand on my arm?
I don’t even remember being frightened. Maybe I was, at least a little. Yeah! I think so. A little. But since I got away so quickly…
… I kind of won.

Was that a sexual abuse? Did it hurt me? What were my feelings? Really!

It never happened again, I’m sure of that, and I never told anyone either.
What would have happened if I had?
That, I will never know.

Well! This episode occurred, I remember, and I must have recognized it as something grown ups don’t do! The wide opened mouths I had seen so far, was when someone had laughed out loud and such, not while closing in on my face. It was totally unknown to me.

No, he didn’t hurt me physically, I don’t remember he even managed to lay the tip of a finger on me. Didn’t I easily slip away? Yes I did!

But psychically?
Honestly! At this moment – I don’t know.

But there were other things going on in my childhood, that I wasn’t consciously aware of at that time.


… I felt very hesitant.

I knew I wanted to write. Otherwise I wouldn’t have started this

I knew I wanted to write about personal growth, somehow. But exactly – about what?  About me?
I gathered that issue would come out just fine, just as long as I had started. But still something stopped me. For days it stopped me. For weeks.

Then… should I write in my native language or i English? Well, now I have decided that, as you can see. At least something that is cleared. Even though it is a little bit harder to write in English, it also means that I can feel more anonymous, and to write more freely. At least I hope so. No one that knows me in real life, will know this is me.

So? Could I let my inhibitions go now and just open my heart, be free to write from within?

Oh my God! Why is it so difficult to let go!

But at least this is better than nothing. It’s been nothing for so long, and I really need to find out what’s bothering me in the depth of my unconscious self.

You see! I’ve been living with anxiety and with pain and stiffness in my muscles for many many years. I’ve been trying many solutions, but there is something still there. Something that won’t go away. Physiotherapy helps somewhat, but not enough. The stiffness won’t disappear.

I’ve tested for food allergies, and excluded a lot of food. All kind of dairies, milk, cheese, icecream et cetera. Cereals like wheat, rye and oats. And I can no longer eat anything from the coconut. The latest I’ve given up is meat. All kind of meat! I think I can eat small amounts occasionally, I’m not totally allergic, but if I eat “normally” I feel like I’ve eaten concrete. Still eat eggs, though, but I’ve lessen the amount.

And the stomach still growls at me. Luckily not as much now after I’ve stopped eating meat, but it’s not quite alright yet. Maybe it just need some more time to re-boot.

What more?
Often tired. Muscle-tired and sleepy-tired. Don’t sleep well at night because of the stiffness and the pain. Sometimes I feel the old anxiety, which I thought had left me finally, and lately I just sometimes feel weird. Can’t explain. Start crying suddenly, to my own surprise.

I can’t have this any longer!

I don’t think “pills” from the doctor is appropriate. On the contrary! I have been using painkillers periodically, but that’s all. Have been offered stronger stuff several times, but I don’t want that. It doesn’t heal anything! At best it takes away the pain – for a while – but then it hurts the body instead.

I have been listening to and been saying affirmations, been falling asleep to meditation videos and those videos with solfeggio frequencies. I believe, that what you think becomes true, I have a lot of proof of that and I’m learning how to live that way. But still! There is something stuck inside of me! Despite all those you tube-videos with all the right frequencies and healing-promises.

But at least I fall asleep with them…

I believe, that as long as there is some kind of “poison” inside you, either there is something hidden and stuck, or if you keep giving yourself more “poison”, it doesn’t help what you try to do to feel better.

If you, for example, actually are allergic to milk protein, adding lactate or vitamins and minerals doesn’t make you feel better. Neither some kind of cleansing methods. You have to stop drinking milk and eating cheese!

And if there are some psychological matter deep inside, you have to find that pain and its origin, and release it before you can let go of anxiety, rheumatism, headaches or whatever you suffer from.

What made me realize this, was just a couple of days ago when I read Alice Millers book “Breaking down the wall of silence”, about the connection of child abuse and the later grown up life.

The pain from being abused, whether it is physically or  psychologically, is pushed away and hidden deep inside the child and (seemingly) forgotten, and as a grown up this hidden pain tries to reappear. But instead of remembering the actual pain and its causes, “who did it”, it appears as for example pain, illness, anxiety or something else. The conscious mind is trying to keep those feelings of sadness, pain and terror down, to all costs.

For the moment I can’t write more about this. maybe later. But this book reminded me of something that I had some conscious memories about – my mother used Silence towards me as punishment. She  shut me out, could even say that she “froze” me out! I don’t even know why I was punished! Was I too loud? Did I get angry and acted out? Did I badger or was whining about something?

Or had she already, already when I was only a tiny little baby, shut me out if I showed some temper? I have got diagnosed ADHD, and through out my entire life I have never felt anger. Not until very recently after I realized the awkwardness about that phenomena. And also remembered a specific time when I was “frozen” out and due to that started to put some thoughts together.

And now the faith/my inner self/God saw to I got this book by Alice Miller, a chance to find out what poison I have inside me, and help me heal my wounds.

No wonder I cry when I see romantic movies. I so much long for the love I didn’t get from mom when I was a child.
But at least I had Dad, so it could have been much worse.

A wonderful day in june

… and I’m slowly realizing I just have to do something about myself. I need to start writing again. Proper writings! Not just shallowy bla-bla.

Reading Alice Miller forces me to realize this. It’s now or never – and I don’t like the sound of “never”.