Wolf winter

So this year is a real “wolf winter” with lots of snow and cold. Way overdue if you ask me. The only thing that makes six months of darkness worth it is the glitter of snow and days like this, when an icy breath rises from the stream and hovers in the sunlight.


DSC_0115I love when the sunlight picks out each branch and twig in the forest. It happens on days when they’re covered in frost.



But a winter like this also brings specific challenges. Snow weighs a lot, so today we had to remove some of it from the balcony so it wouldn’t break!





We borrowed this electric thingumajig from a friend to deal with the worst of it, but I also used a big bucket meant for making wine. Use what you’ve got!







And afterwards, make sure you hang your clothes up to dry!



My whole world


No matter how small the creature, it’s always at the centre of its own world.


Hubby and I sometimes talk about this in relation to spiders and flies: how they must view the world so differently from us – not only because they have more eyes, but because they hang upside down from tent ceilings and windows. Wonder how this garden looks from their perspective, we say. Do they even have a concept of it, or do they just see their immediate surroundings and ignore the rest? Is the ant’s world comprised of the blade of grass directly in front of it – an obstacle to overcome – or do they think about the ant hill and dream of reaching it faster than yesterday?


Every single organism is at the nave of its own universe. It’s the receptacle for sun and rain, for wind and weather. Everything that happens to it happens in relation to their unique self.





Even in a field of endless waving grain, every seed is an individual.



But what about fungi? Their self resides under ground, and the bodies we see poking up through the forest floor are only satellites revealing a larger presence beneath the surface.


And we humans – can we see beyond our immediate surroundings? Can we grasp the concept of the garden even though we can only see the blade of grass that blocks our way?

Are we individuals, or a seemingly unique expression of something else – something constant, something whole?


Going to the chapel

This weekend, hubby and I went on an outing to an old chapel in the middle of the wilderness. It was built in 1891, and the spot was chosen to be accessible from several surrounding municipalities – even though people had to travel 25 miles’ worth of primitive forest paths to get there.


Back then it was also used as a school. There was no central heating, but there was a fireplace that the teacher or the beadle had to stoke.

The house was really pretty both on the outside and the inside. It recently won an award for ‘most beautiful building in the county’. It almost had a viking feel, probably because it was built during a time in Swedish history when people liked music, literature, art, and architecture that smacked of romantic nationalism.


The afternoon light really did the room justice.



Outside the chapel there was just endless forest – and miles of winding road flanked by wild flowers. It was almost ridiculously picturesque.


But then on the way home the weather turned really dramatic, veering from violent winds and pelting rain to the brightest sunlight. I almost couldn’t snap these pictures at all, because the wind kept buffeting at me, my camera was drenched, and I had no time either to compose the images or adjust focus and exposure.

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Just a few more lilacs


There’s a Swedish saying – “between hawthorn and lilacs” – which means a really, really short time. Legend has it that a Stockholm cobbler put a sign on his door that his shop was closed between hawthorn and lilacs – maybe to enjoy this brief but heavenly time of changes and delicate foliage just before summer settles like a green and sleepy giant.



It’s such a transient beauty, and maybe that’s part of the charm. The lilacs explode on the trees in white and pale purple, and then wilt within days. But while they flower, nothing smells more divine. Well, apart from the man in the pic below. 🙂


Strings in sunlight

Tonight hubby had his final guitar lesson for the semester with his group of new learners, and my presence was kindly tolerated. 🙂 We grilled sausages in a hut built in traditional Sami style (grillkåta) and played and sang together in between bites.



It’s always fun to see hubby in teaching mode. He really was born to do this – and I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse! In any case, he’s really good at making people sort of perform at a higher level than they really should be able to – to create circumstances and show the exact things they need to immediately apply brand new knowledge in relevant and inspiring exercises. They get to feel that they can do things instead of staying at a very basic level and rehashing the same old stuff again and again. I don’t know, it’s hard to describe, but I really admire his ability to bring out the best in people.






It was such a lovely evening – windy but sunny – and the hut we sat in was cozy and warm with a fire in the middle and benches covered in reindeer pelts.






Petals in the sun

This blog post contains advertisements for and links to my books.


Everything is reaching now – reaching for the light, the rain, the air. Me too. Today I finally felt like I woke up from my winter coma. Maybe it’s my thyroid meds that are working, maybe it’s the sun, but just like these flowers I feel rejuvenated and bright.



I was at a press conference today for a radio show that I’m participating in this summer. I’m filling my slot with the tale of my PhD and a truckload of good music. The other contributors are singers, actors, innovators, nurses, headmasters – and even a prime minister! 🙂

And when I sat there among all those accomplished people, I had this feeling: that I’d finally arrived, or at least got somewhere in my life. I listed the things I am, the things I can do, and I realized that it’s starting to become quite the list. Just as long as I don’t step back into the shadow and downplay it all. As long as I keep on reaching.




(The above pictures are total rip-offs of this image, by the way. Tip of the hat to Pete Hillman for the idea to angle the camera so as to capture the sunlight pooling in the actual flower.)

Anyway, I can tell you that it was extremely liberating to suddenly feel that I was someone. You don’t really feel that when you shuffle around in a narrow, dark brick corridor from the sixties that smells of sweat and old wood. (I’m talking about my place of work.) But today was sunny, warm, and windy, and I wore a dress that fluttered around me as I walked, and – not to stretch the simile – I felt like a flower dancing in the breeze.




Speaking of flowers, next week is Midsummer’s Eve, when local legend has it that if you pick seven flowers and put under your pillow, you’ll dream of the one you will marry. I’m already married, of course, so I don’t need to – but Christer and Henrik in The Seventh Flower, my Dreamspinner World of Love novella, definitely do! 🙂


Unfortunately, Christer thinks he’s too old for silly stuff like that. He’s not the kind of guy to pick those seven flowers, and he certainly isn’t the type to fall for someone he’s just met. Especially not a womanizing blogger named Henrik.

Besides, Christer’s previous marriage didn’t end with a happily ever after. Therefore, he has no interest in gifting his heart to someone who lives five hundred miles away and probably isn’t even gay. His family is right: it’s time he grew up and stopped dreaming.

But Midsummer’s Eve in Sweden is a magical night, and Henrik won’t stop flirting. As the midnight sun shines down on the misty woods, maybe there’s room for one last dream…


I NOTICE him as soon as I arrive. How could I not? This is supposed to be a family gathering, and unless my sister, Felicia, has brought a new lover here to spite her soon-to-be ex-husband, the smartly dressed man tying flower garlands for the children isn’t family.

So of course I become awkward. He hasn’t even seen me yet, but I can feel my limbs stiffen and my underarms sting. Crap. As if Midsummer’s Eve with my siblings and their brood isn’t enough of a challenge, I have to smile and chat with a total stranger too?

I hover behind my car, trying to work up the courage to go to him and behave like a human being. Since I’m part of the family, I have semihost duties this evening, however little I want to admit it.

Maybe it shouldn’t feel so much like a chore, considering. After all, it’s not as if the rest of the party is so very alluring. My reticence with outsiders may be excused, but I can be weird with my own family too. And even though I’m supposed to know everyone here, some of the teenagers are a bit hazy. Last time I saw them was precisely a year ago, and quite a few have shot up like daffodils over the winter. Maybe they don’t even remember me. Maybe I should go introduce myself to them.

The thought makes me grin, and I square my shoulders, muttering to myself to get a grip. When I turn toward the house, the new guy is watching me. My heart makes a hiccup. Something about him seems familiar, but I don’t think I know him. Realizing I’m staring, I quickly avert my eyes. God. How utterly dorky can a man be?

As if in answer, I feel more prickles in my armpits and resist an urge to sneak back into my car for an extra layer of deodorant. Instead I look back up at the man with the garlands. Time to acknowledge the fucking guest.

Smiling, mostly to convince myself that I’m a fully qualified member of the Homo sapiens species, I walk close enough to offer my hand but not close enough for him to notice anything off about me. When our eyes meet, a ray of sun glints in his iris, and I—

Oh no. Oh fuck. Oh fuck-fuck-fuck. I know that face. I know it like the dark side of my dreams.

In an attempt to deflect from my reddening cheeks, I force my smile into a grin that probably looks deranged. “Hi,” I say too loudly, and the hand I hold out feels sharp and angular, like a pointer dog in full rabbit-sniffing mode.

“Hi.” The new guy disentangles his fingers from the plaited birch twigs. When we shake, his hand is weak, soft, and a little moist. It slips out of mine much too soon. Shy? Or is he disconcerted by my insta-sweat and flaring cheeks? “Henrik,” he mumbles with a gesture at himself. “Pity invite, I’m afraid.”

I laugh, and then I stop abruptly because it’s not that funny. “Whose? Not Felicia’s, surely?”

“Felicia?” Henrik’s gaze grows momentarily distant. “That’s your sister, right?”


“I studied in the car,” he admits. “So now I know who everyone is. You’re Christer, aren’t you?”

Blushing, I apologize for not saying so at once, but Henrik shakes his head and is magnanimous about it. That makes me feel even worse, and I wish I could explain—that it’s not me being rude, exactly, or socially inept. I mean, I kind of am, but…. There’s a reason. A reason I can’t talk about. With anyone.

Well, there was Rolf, of course, but he’s history now.

“Yes.” I nod. “I’m Christer. So… you were invited by my brother, then?”

“Yeah. We’ve met through work, and he…. To be honest, I think it bugged him that I didn’t have plans.”

“That’s Anton, all right,” I chuckle. My brother wants everything to be by the book. I’d say he has a fetish for organization, but the word is too weak. If someone’s whole life is consumed by the object of desire, it can’t just be a fetish, can it?

When I look at Henrik again, his eyes are a soft brown. The afternoon sun pierces them like amber—real amber, the fossil resin with tiny bits of leaf and insect that glitter in the light. How the hell does a man like him not have plans for Midsummer’s Eve? It’s the most important holiday of the year. Maybe his whole family is dead? Or maybe he hasn’t got any friends?

But he hasn’t mentioned any of that on his blog.

My gaze drops to the garland in his hand. Birch, buttercups, and beaked parsley. For a moment I allow myself to wonder what he might do with that once he gets back home and transforms his experience into that sensual form he’s such a master at. Maybe he’ll place the garland on the skogsrå or a vittra, those seductive forest fairies that seemingly exist only to lure stupid men away from civilization. Perhaps his narrator follows the white-clad vittra to her hollow under the ground and is lost forever in her bewitching caresses.

Henrik shifts beside me, and I’m brought back to the present. “Um…,” I force out because that’s the most intelligent thing I can think of. My mouth and my mind have combined to impersonate the Sahara.

“Well, this is nice.” Henrik smiles awkwardly. Something in his face has hardened, almost as if he’s smelled something disgusting.

Oh. Oh shit. At once I remember to take a step back. We’ve shaken hands, so I don’t need to stand quite so close. We’re outside, so that’s good; there’s a faint breeze to carry away the worst, but you never know. Maybe he’s got the nose of an Alsatian.

Not that he needs one where I’m concerned.

“Yes, yes, very nice,” I blurt belatedly. “A bit cold, but it always is on Midsummer’s Eve, isn’t it? I mean, perhaps not where you’re from—I mean, where are you from?” I almost slip up and mention his hometown, but I screech to a stop in time.

“Uppsala.” And again, that smile. It seems to be his default setting. It’s not exactly happy, but definitely not sad either. It’s nothing like his professional smile in the photos. It’s… enigmatic. My stomach bottoms out at the thought. I don’t need enigmatic in my life. I need concrete and proof and day-to-day and boredom. Like I had with Rolf.

“But I do love the countryside,” Henrik adds.

“Not a lot of flowers here, though,” I point out, and immediately want to shoot myself. Flowers! What the hell did I bring that up for? Now he’ll know that I know.

But Henrik’s eyebrows rise a little, and then he shrugs. “Guess not.”

I indicate the garland in his hand. “So… not much material for that around here, I’m afraid.”

Henrik laughs. “Not as much as in Uppsala, that’s for sure.”

I smile. Uppsala is a hundred kilometers south of here. When summer arrives down there, the north is still covered with a crumbling layer of snow.

Henrik holds up the garland and purses his lips. “Buttercups and beaked parsley. That’s all I found.”

“It looks nice.”

“Yeah… not nearly enough for putting under your pillow, though, is it? How do you manage?”

I’m momentarily stunned by hearing a forty-something man refer to the tradition of putting seven flowers under your pillow to dream about the person you’re meant to marry. That stuff is for teenagers, the same kind of people who pluck petals off daisies, chanting loves me, loves me not. Middle-aged men don’t waste their time on such frivolities.

Henrik grins at me. “Did you ever do that? As a child, I mean.”

I blush. “I guess I did.” I’m actually sure that I did. I remember Felicia forcing me to accompany her when she was fourteen and I was eleven. It was here, in the woods around our cabin. She was mooning over some boy called Göran and wanted the flowers so she could dream they’d be married one day. In the end she dreamed about our sixty-year-old neighbor, and everyone teased her for weeks.

“And did you find seven distinct species?”

“Hm?” I meet Henrik’s golden brown gaze. “Oh….” I smile at his scientific way of expressing himself. “‘Distinct species’?”

He makes a face. “Jargon, sorry. What would normal people say? Types, kinds?”

“Species is fine,” I assure him. “And the answer is… yes and no. I remember we’d had a really cold spring, so we probably had to settle for a few compromises in the end.”

Henrik waves the garland a little. “So my two measly varieties are a triumph?”

“It’s nothing short of miraculous,” I deadpan.

“Wow….” Henrik frowns at the mostly birch thing in his hand. “I wonder if I’d even have thought of becoming a botanist if I hadn’t lived in the south.”

“Oh, so you’re a botanist?” The question almost sounds natural.

But Henrik’s jaw flexes slightly, as if he’s bracing himself for something. “Go ahead.”


“Say it.”

I have no idea what he means.

“A botanist who lives in Uppsala,” he says pointedly.

“Oh…. Oh.” I shrug. “You get that a lot?”

“My friends even call me Linnaeus.”

I can’t help laughing. “You need to invest in a white wig.”

He runs a hand through his chestnut locks. “You mean I don’t look like the Prince of Botanists?”

“You look better.”

Seriously? Flirting? I half look away in case he freaks out, but he doesn’t. “Hotter than a two hundred and fifty-year-old corpse, check.”

I swallow down panic. I need to keep talking, and I need to stop. I’m going to make a fool of myself. The evening is long, oh God, I’m going to get tipsy, and I’m going to tell him I’m his biggest fan, all that crap. And I know he’s straight. Unless he’s bi, but that would be like winning the lottery and finding the cure for cancer on the same day—not possible, if you don’t have karma the size of Lapland.

Which I don’t. After leaving school, my life has been boring, predictable, and quite nice. Nothing to warrant an upheaval like Henrik fucking Fjellner being bi and taking a fancy to me.

Find your copy at Amazon or Dreamspinner.

Softly, softly

And so it begins. Slowly unfolding, cautiously reaching for the light.




I wasn’t even going to go for a walk tonight, because I was beyond tired. But I’d promised a colleague to snap a few pictures for her and the light was really pretty, so I forced myself.

And good job I did, because wow. I sometimes have to pinch myself, because this is where I live.




The village is so perfectly nestled into the nooks and crannies of the wooded mountains.


The beauty of puddles.



Some parts of the forest are more photogenic than others. It’s hard to put your finger on, but it’s a combination of moss and the density of trunks.


One of my favourite spots to photograph, and I arrived at just the right moment.



The buds aren’t quite there yet, but they’re trying.



There are still relics from last year, though. Drained and brittle, but still pretty.





Things you don’t notice until you lie on your stomach at the edge of the lake with your elbow in a hole filled with dirty water…


Ten o’clock and goodnight.


A sunshiny day

And finally we got a glimpse of what May should be – on a Saturday, no less, and on the weekend when we decided to pay a visit to the cabin. Couldn’t have asked for more.


We moved a bit of stuff from the house that hubby’s mum is selling to the barn by the cabin, not only because there’s room for it there, but because we’re planning something big for that place.




Right now the interior looks like this:



But a space like that can be made into something cosy, and a kind of museum where you can also sit on warm days and eat. So in the future, when all our other million projects are done, we’re going to clean it up and put olden thinges on the walls!



I really long to do these kind of really physical, concrete projects. I guess five years of living exclusively in my head does that. It’s so nice to see things take form in the real world as opposed to just a text.

And that’s probably why I still so enjoy snapping pictures of natural beauty as well – of which there was an abundance this weekend. First out, the forest floor. New grass struggling out of the old, and moss, moss, moss.








The sun cast a whitish glow on the pale yellow grass from last year.





Later it turned into gold and copper.








Merging into coral and purple as it dipped below the horizon.


Sunset 4



The light returns


The darkest, longest night of the year is past. Now we change course and move towards the sun again. Every day, the world will become a little brighter.



It couldn’t come at a more fitting time for me. Last Friday, it was the day of my defense. In hindsight, I realize that I’ve been under more pressure about this than I thought – and I was aware of quite a lot of pressure! It feels as if for five years, I’ve slowly, excruciatingly rolled up in a tight ball, like a cramp or a Big Bang, and now that knot has loosened, the world has exploded into being, and I’m free. And at the same time, the sun returns. It’s almost too symbolic.



I can’t believe it’s done – that it’s finally over. The longest project so far in my life, and it’s now finished. My road has been very stony, dark, and misty. I haven’t had a clue where I was going. It’s all been very confusing.


But the defense went really well, I had a wonderful discussion with my examiner, my whole family was there to watch, my colleagues and friends and of course my husband. Instead of terror, I felt a cautious kind of joy. My work was accepted by the person I respect most – and whose model I used in my studies! Talk about coming full circle.

The party afterwards was wonderful, and I’m not as tired as I should be. I feel like a load of stones have fallen from my shoulders, and I can begin to straighten up again. And above all: I can now be an ordinary person again. I’m not a PhD student anymore. I’m a doctor. I’m done. There’s nothing more to prove. I can go about my business like everyone else and not have to reach for the stars. I can relax. I don’t have to know everything. I can let things be as vague as they are in the real world and not pretend to have an answer.


Well, at least as long as I’m not talking to the media, but you know… :-/ I can move on! Maybe on one of these. 😉