Monthly Archives: januar 2017

For being soft



Oh yes.

and straight away I remember

sitting there, so close to

in my head I can see our hands, holding

your face turned towards me

that expression


where everything in me melts away from words


close, close

your breath moving my belly

nose in the nook of your soft throat


you did it once

I was dancing slowly

closed your body around me, your face in my hair, let my back lean into you

Oh my. Oh my


And still, I was not able, later

lift my hand

make you turn your head

your arm right there in your lap


what if your face said «what?»



I remember

words and words and words

still I couldn’t reach

everything he couldn’t say

and really, really

not hear

me, him


in the heart, in the body

skin muscle sway of the back, the soft cheek


and the face turning




no, I couldn’t lift my hand

your arm right there

your neck the precise curve of my palm


I just sit

focus on the breath moving my belly




Oh, this poem.

I was reminded of it today.

Straight into my heart

it is, though. Disaster.


One Art
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.





And here is my own poem on losing:

The list would be so much longer and more profound now, this day, this night, this year.


(Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art” from The Complete Poems 1926-1979. Copyright © 1979, 1983 by Alice Helen Methfessel. Reprinted with the permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, LLC.
Source: The Complete Poems 1926-1979 (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1983)


Care and surrender


The shower. Goosebumps all over, pleasure

the warm water a restful touch

something other than discomfort, pain, needles

even if the gnawing in my thighs, legs, belly is always here now

I am standing up on my own, can move my feet

day four

last night was torture


I surrender into body

I am good at this

all that I am

body, sensations, how it feels to touch and be in, pleasure, pain, numb


remember the second evening at hospital

helped to a soft seat

washcloth, soft light

cleaning away, sweat, fear, anesthesia, tears

then the cloth on my back

so vulnerable nakedness, hospital gown in my lap

defenceless; I can’t move – neurosurgery and semiparalyzed legs

undressed with all my flaws visible

she even rubbed body lotion on my back

I put on my own t-shirt

that someone fetched from the suitcase I packed ages ago

what is in there for them to see?


someone taking care of me

I surrender

such a rare ability




my eyes

alone a minute, sitting wobbly

I’m here

this is my life, right now, this is me


I got out of that bed

once more

Mount Everest



drop in

there is no way around

just through




Sleepless in Zürich




In the middle of the night-awake in the hospital feeling beat up and scared and lost, this article (see below) popped up; a woman who has had a life a lot like mine. Both disease-wise and just very active and normal (which I sometimes kinda forget)
She even writes about what happened to her sense of who she was, putting words to that loss of identity which is so hard.

Comforting to remember I was not always like this; helpless almost immovable now, and having so much pain, nausea, brain fog and fatigue when I’m not in hospital – but active and hardworking (actually, also in pain etc).

And even writing that makes me think. So that is how I think I «should» be? To be what; worthy, good enough, a person? Judging my own human condition.

One of the people who came in my room said «we forget that we are human BEings, not human DOings»

just like my darling Camilla has taught me so lovingly, importantly, before. But oh yes how I forget that. Because it is so difficult to feel worth anything when I’m not that person doing what «everyone» is doing anymore; working, earning, capable, free, normal.

not the first time thinking this, far from it.  I have become aware of the deep roots of identity, of fundamental feeling of worthiness through these last years. (Through often not feeling it). And how I can often struggle to try to seem worth something. What is a human? Or an animal? A tree, a plant?

Am I this skin and these bones, or my thoughts, my hours in front of computers and doing dishes, cleaning offices, treating pasients, doing experiments, teaching? Sleeping? Walking? Travelling? Loving? Or am I something deeper than all that – as well as all that?

In addition, this article gives some really good facts about endometriosis and adenomyosis, treatments, myths.


Kropp glede



liggende i sengen

mørk natt


midt i hver-natt-fortvilelsen, ødelandet


synke dypt inn

det fysiske

tvinge hodelykten bort fra tankene som går og går


tvinge, først

til tær: bevege hver tå oppmerksomt

kroppen blir levende

leggen vil strekkes


pusten dras inn i en gjesp


det lugger skikkelig i skyggen av hoftekammen

der inne i magemørket

strekken likevel god

jeg blir hel, blir kropp

synker ned i tyngde


plutselig smerten der

bølge av sorg, tårer

synker inn i også det

er en uendelig rommelig beholder


av alt jeg er


gjennom smerten


oppdager dirrende diafragma

kraften holdt i tømme av smerten som presser opp der


lar det sterke seilet fylles med luft

langsomt forsiktig

havet utvides i alle retninger


ryggraden blir virkelig

mm, vri meg

sier den

et sukk glir inn i en luksuriøs bevegelse

strekk vri pust


en myk organisme på lakenet


kroppen er en verden

mørke grotter, piggbusker av smerte

rundt røttene, myk mose

skinnende fargefjes på stilk

et hav klukker og svaier



Vær med


intensitet: smerte

vær med det,

vær med meg


ikke gå når intensiteten brenner

jeg er meg, der

mer enn noen gang

er jeg meg når jeg puster inn i det


for pustens berøring gjør vondt selv med mykeste fingre


når jeg tillater tårene,

ansiktet mitt er nakent da

hvis du blir vil du se endringene i det, i meg

slik lyset hele tiden endres over en slette


bølger av stadig skiftende væren

dirrende smil vått av tårer

kraftfull konsentrert pannerynke,

gjennomsiktig klarhet i utmattelse



jeg er, da

levende – med alt det er

ikke snu deg vekk og vent på masken



Home, what is it?

Walking, the moon over the town and river, dark winter evening.

Walking and sensing: I am going to the place I live now. It doesn’t feel that way. But I know the street now, the ground, the river.

Embracing all feelings that show up, or trying to. To be a container for what I really feel, all of it. For who I am. To allow them, to just hold them in me and not run away into distractions and addictions. Allow me, with all the parts which I judge and push away: no more.

Not demanding of myself that I should feel different, feel anything particular.

Trying to allow a small feeling of hope, but not pushing myself. Because I understand the part of me which is too tired and too experienced to be able to endure hope at the moment. Not feeling anti-hope, either (in case any positivity-terrorists should latch onto). Just being empty, or perhaps so filled with preparation for what is coming; going into that deep dark place where I have been before too many times.

We talk about surgery so mechanistically. Like I am a box to be opened, fiddled around in, closed. Neat.

The breath which is so slow and has to be forced by the nurses (and this time, in a foreign language, another country) for hours after I return from the state closer to lifeless than to life which is anesthesia. The disorientation. The memories of searing pain which are in the body only, because the mind was numbed.
The healing that takes a long long time, if healing is “return to normal”, which I have never done again after each surgery. Just to a level of functioning and health and life force in movement. The opposite in that post-op time; unmovable. Trapped inside my body, woozy with drugs, floating in the intensity: pain. All-encompassing.

The changes in my skin, muscle, shape: the colours and contours. Blue black green skin, puckered by thread, swollen from inside – or hollowed out. Numbness, scar tissue, redness.

This is where I am going, again, and I observe my systems slowly submerging in the state where apparently I gather my force. I am more silent, turned inward. More tired already, preparing for being immobile?

Home. There is no home now and I won’t force myself to feel that there is. My home is gone (for me – it exists without me), there is no childhood home. I live somewhere (I keep telling myself), but it doesn’t feel like I do. I had to move so I did. I know home is somewhere else, unknown now, or perhaps nowhere geographical?

I am nobody’s now. Love is gone and I am an I, not a we. I walk alone, do alone, think and cook and exist alone, so different from what I thought would be. It was there, so vibrating, and it is gone. I am nobody’s beloved but my own – I thought I was.

I won’t demand of myself any particular emotion or reaction. Allowing everything; the last few years of tantra studies giving me words, rituals and practices for my instinctive core of this spaciousness from way back. The way my senses are a language of their own, a world in itself.
The pull of nature and of unmaskedness, of movements coming from inside instead of mimicking a technique. This pull always was there but now I have words for it, and ancient traditions framing it. I am now qualified to give to others treatments in this frame, and to receive them myself. I have found the desire to be authentically myself, and the tiredness stopping me from being much else, more and more.

Still I observe myself in old habits: so afraid of rejection I am in glimpses automatically pleasing, easygoing, simple, light. But now I see and give a loving pat to that part of myself (after initial yelling at myself inside). I understand all the me-s of the years before. They are ok. I can experiment and play with new ways of being me: my identities are gone, anyway, not easily, but kicking and screaming. The silence and quiet now: what is being born? Which me is emerging?

Walking back to the living now-place, stopping to watch the moon, walking because soon that is not a thing I can do. Walk until I have tired feet, tired legs. Move myself along the ground and crunch ice and leaves.