2 years – Mobile roots, music and onwards.

It’s my two-years-anniversary for Paris. I think. It might have been yesterday. I think it’s today. I open my imaginary bottle of Moêt & Chandon, and I drink to that. Santé!

Yesterday (or the day before), in 2009, I had fallen asleep outside on the veranda at my grandmother’s place, down town Oslo. In the early morning silence I had packed up my bags, and as I closed the wooden door to her apartment with a heavy “thud” sound , walking outside to wait for the 37-bus, the world went into a silent freeze mode. It might have been my brain tuning into that mode, no matter: we were not moving fast, not me nor the world. Changes were towering in the distance, and I think I preferred not to think about it too much.

A phone call from my dad (-you’re awake? “Yes” – you’re on your way? “yes” -remember, if there’s anything you need, if anything happens, call me and I’ll come down there!” “yes, thanks dad.” -Bye! “Bye!”) woke me up for some seconds, forcing my thoughts to the mission I was on (moving to a new city (Paris), learning a new language (french)), but by the time the bus was rolling towards the train station I was gone again, into the land of No Thoughts-No Fears.

I remember nothing from the airports (Gardermoen – Charles De Gaulle).

I remember flying in over Paris. It was around noon, I had a cup of crappy air plane coffee in my hands, and from where I was sitting (window seat), our eyes met. Paris’ and mine. A city I had never been to, never longed for (my plans were to go to Strasbourg, but I changed them in the week before the application deadline), was there some 1000 m below me, returning my look. And then it happened (and you will need this song in the background now). My roots started to grow. From me, through the cold, hard air craft construction, they playfully grew their way through the light layers of pale midday clouds, they hit the first 6-story roof tops, they grazed the Eiffel Tower, landed gently on the streets, dived into the Seine, and continued down, down, they found their way through the dark catacombs and even further down before they settled into the warm soil of Paris. Freeze mode & fright turned into capture mode & curiosity. And impatience, it felt like it was the root’s tug between Paris and me that pulled the air craft down to the ground.

On the RER-B, on the line 7, all the way to rue Mouffetard and the Young&Happy hostel (!), where I checked in and payed for two nights, the roots tugged at me, all the way to the Sorbonne office, where they had “just gotten in a new offer for an apartment, if I would look at it before 15H since the owner was leaving the city, why, it’s just round the corner” (which was what I understood of that 20 min monologue in french), and then down to the beautiful 30 Rue Lacépède, (neighboring L’énvol Quebecois where I would do some concerts in the year to come), where I met monsieur Mamet and got the keys to the hot tin can on the sixth floor called Chambre 10.

During my year in Paris I climbed those worn down steps at least 4 times each day. From my window view, which in the fall was from Chambre 12, a bit further down the hallway, my roots would still tug at me. Gently reminding me that anchors are there, whether I see a Bonnie Prince Billyish darkness or burn in concentration. They gently tug at me while I don’t believe in anything or anyone, or when I trust the world, they’re there when I try to settle once and for all (yet again..) that putain/merde I can go where I wan’t to go, my roots reminds me that Paris will still be there under my feet. Go run around. You still have solid ground to stand on.

 This is not a recap of my year in Paris, nor of the year in Oslo since I came back (which, when I think about it, is as loaded with new cultures, territories, languages, misunderstandings and great moments, good people, and challenges) this is a short sum up on roots and to go where you want to go.  Monday (2011), I was talking with my grandmother, mentioning the jewish saying “trees have roots, people have feet”, and she laughed and said my dad had once said he believed me to have air roots.

That might be right, I like traveling, I like it when something new demands all my attention. But I do it like I do if I am to jump from something high (ehm, never above 5 m..), I make the decision in advance, then I stop thinking and just walk fast til’ I’m in it and take it from there.

My roots have seeped somewhat back into Oslo soil. And as I sit here writing, outside in the back yard of my friends apartment, which until august  is my home, a window in the building next door is open and I can hear someone playing Valse d’Amelie (Yann Tiersen) on what sounds like a charmingly old piano. The overly parisian piano waltz turns my roots into nerves, making me become aware of the sense of familiarity and home music gives the world.

In Paris.

In Oslo.

Please, stop playing that waltz, s’il te plaît. It makes me start crying. It’s not even 12 o’clock, and I’m outside, with good coffee, with a summer ahead and a quite stable mood, so I can’t be sitting here whimpering in memories of the past and hopes for the future. Crap. Or at least close the window.

I wont be closing the “Jen-i-Paris”-blog. I’ll come back. From time to time. But I will be starting a new one, “Chambre 12″. On all the different tugs of things I notice when I imagine myself sitting in front of that view. I still feel the tug from Paris, but alot of good things holds me here as well. And things tug at me towards disaster areas, refugee camps, towards helping out so people can go where they want to go, think and speak freely, act, get education, so they can create. Cause I know that’s what I hope people can help me with, when I need it. So that I can create what I can. Music, the only language I ever knew how to speak freely. Music is a mobile home, the only place where I feel the tug of everything equally – cause I am in place.

Happy anniversary Paris, today or yesterday.

Post Paris Perspective

It’s 04:45 in the morning, Oslo time. I remember waking up once in Paris, in my chambre 12, right about this time, because of some high ramble outside. Then, there, it was thunder awaking me, firing off rainstorms from heavy golden clouds, and the view from my window looked like this:

Now, here, it was the States Road Service awaking me, planting trees into the roundabout outside, and the view from my window is two men in orange and yellow reflex outfits, a tractor and trees, in this brick-building-surrounded roundabout with huge commercial signs on the rooftops.

I am sure that if my sense of adventure would leave me at this point, depression would be quick to take it’s place.

It’s been 45 days since I left the City of Lights, stood at the airport after an up untill then tear free departure (you can’t cry when something seems so unreal), hiding behind dark sunglasses and an 80 kg mountain of luggage stacked on the trolley, my grand fathers blue shirt on my shoulders, high heels on my feet and a real struggle on the inside to understand the situation. Leaving? Haha, no, why of course not! Quelle drôle d’idée.. And yet, yes, here you go, Jenny Moe, back to the country no french know anything about if it wasn’t written in Asterix and Obelix, on my way to the country called the way to the north, cause my year was done and up there was where the adventure supposedly continued. 175€ of overweight and 6 carry-ons later,  I was well buried into the window seat in the back row of the plane, a row blessedly empty except for me and my post paris blues (that’s an understatement), and a notion of this being the beginning of an adventure couldn’t have been further away, I wouldn’t believe it even if Asterix told me so. With a certain sense of fatigue in my muscles (muscles after all very grateful for the help from a friend carrying the luggage down the 6 staircases at my home 5 hours earlier on) I kicked of my shoes, put my feet into the seat, flung my hands around my legs, rested my forehead on my knees and began what would turn out to be a two-hour long event of grieving, gradually drenching my grandfathers shirt with tears&sniveling, under the concerned supervision from the flight attendances. The scene accompanied by a selection of french&other songs on my iPod, beginning with Brad Mehldau’s ”Don’t Be Sad”.

As I tried to tackle the end of the Parisian year, the airplane took the most beautiful arch around the whole of Paris I’ve ever witnessed. I could see the Eiffel tower, Champs Elysees, my university at Jussieu, the arrondissements, I could see everything, I could feel everything, I remembered everything, I missed everything, and everyone. It was a killing 10 minutes view, in my head winning all kinds of Oscars, and I’d run up to the front of the plane to thank&hug the captain for the beautiful flying, if I didn’t think that my now so red eyes probably would have given me quite the insane- watch -out-she-might-try-to-highjack-the-plane-back-to-Paris-look.

I stayed in my seat, ordered red wine and some water so not to forego with dehydration, iPod showing Brad Mehldau ”Now you must climb alone”, window showing a neutral no-man’s land of clouds and blue sky. No man’s land suited me fine. I was nowhere myself.

But now the view outside my window has changed again, that’s how it goes, that was then, this is now. New views, new adventures.

And now is Oslo, now is music, now is friends, family, now is breathing a bit more calmly as I’m out of the high tension field of always interpreting, now is continuing to make mistakes, but being a bit more aware of making them (the privilege of making mistakes in your own language&culture !). Now is the weird feeling of being a place where nothing reminds me of Paris, here is the strange sensation of having stepped into CS Lewis’ wardrobe a year ago, been a fantastic place, and when I’m back in Oslo, it’s like Paris and all it held was in my head, cause Oslo bears no witness to anything that has taken place this last year. True, memories are in my head, and with those who came visiting, with things and everything. Music. But on an everyday basis, Paris doesn’t exist. It’s a bit sad. It’s also a bit good.

Now is Norway, north, and already the anticipation of crisp clear october mornings with frosty breath and red golden trees and coffee in the park. The air is fresher here. The sea is salty. The forests more deep and the world a bit more wild. And a bit less crowded. Vraiment.

All this. For now. Cause sometimes my iPod plays Mehldau’s ”Always departing”. And sometimes it plays ”Always returning”.

Cat on a hot tin roof – a brief story on a steaming relation with Paris.

Ah. Finally it came in handy, the Oxford handbook of expedition and wilderness medicine, which I brought with me a year ago to the utter wilderness of Paris. This morning, at 04:32, I flipped the pages to page 680, chapter 23: Hot environments – deserts and tropical forests.

Cause Paris is boiling. And my tin can excuse of an apartment is not helping. As the book says: Increasing summer temperatures in normally temperate areas, exacerbated by urban environments where buildings can store heat and so rise night-time temperatures by 5 degrees, are producing urban heat waves and deaths amongst the frail and elderly, Heat waves in Paris 2003 caused hundreds of deaths. On the streets, the signs call out for elderly to stay out of the sun and drink water.

I am not elderly, I am not fragile. But I am norwegian, and I just can’t get used to laying awake at night-time in massive heat&sweat. Nights like that turn the days into a blurry mix of fatigue and impressions, which, when we add on the fact that I am leaving in 3 days, is making my personality bordelineish, making my anger flare up faster than a french political scandal hits the medias (enough with the affairs!), and kind of making me put things on edge. I can check of several of signs of heat exhaustion (fatigue, weakness, headache, nausea,hysteria, anxiety, impaired judgement) in my handbook (it’s nice to blame something on something anyways), but it’s not only me. All over Paris the cars honk their horns louder and faster, women snarls at men who bump into them in the streets, the men shouting “ta gueule!!” in return.

So what to do.. Ah yes, page 692, I drink around 3 liters of water a day and I hang up newly washed wet&cold clothes in the apartment, to cool it of a bit. Then I curse Paris, join in the collectively increased frequency of utilization of the words putain merde,(flute and mince just won’t do) but I also excuse myself afterwards.

And then, luckily, there are several remedies in addition to a wet towel on the forehead. We have, like last night, chilling piqueniques at the foot of the Eiffel tower, we have air conditioned cinemas, we have americans climbing the roof of the next door building just to talk for a while in the wee small hours of the morning time, we have friends making you laugh, chilled rosé, little spots of shadow paradise in parks, where sleep can be found for some minutes.

And we have music to blast the room full of when the bags are being packed and the heat must be tolerated. And – we have the knowledge that tuesday night I will be in Drøbak, at the cottage, diving into the salty sea, listening to the crickets and for the first time in long time – sleep an undisturbed, full length night under the starry sky.

Suitcase.

My suitcase stands in the corner. Between the blue&white marmor tiled wash stand and the light wooden closet, it stands there on the floor, empty on the inside, and today it spoke to me for the first time, it said: Four.

I looked at it harshly, and pointed out the obvious lack of necessity to remind me: I have but 4 days left in my chambre 12. On the 30th of July, the very same day as I for the first time encountered Paris one year ago, my eyes will be clouded, my bags and all my belonging will be brought down the six floors down to the first, where they will be untill mid-july. Then my bags will be packed for not to be re-opened untill I’m on solid northern ground, my eyes will be searching for a reassuring place to look, and my voice will be sending a last au revoir into the hot air vibrating on the streets in the city of lights.

Drama queen, my suitcase says. Whatever.

Cause my suitcase is standing there, like a security guard over my land of happiness, making sure I remember using the time that remains well – since I’m leaving soon. But also like a black omen, not really letting me live fully, because everything I do is the last of this and the last of that. Every minute without maximum experience is frowned upon by the suitcase, but I find myself doing less and less as I sit and just…live. The slow death towards departure makes me want to quit&run, just get it over with, accompanied by A-ha’s Dark is the night. This whole leaving-thing gives me a weird rhythm of running around seeing this&those&them, gathering memories by the dozen, just to be apathic&paralysed in the next beat– infront of my black suitcase.

But it’s a privilege, my suitcase says then. Looking forward to going back home, yet not wanting to leave this home.

Okey then. Smile.

So I leave my security guard and the troubling thoughts of leaving behind, as I head for lights by the canal St. Martin.

4 days, you know.

HOPE.

My second favourite french expression: Profitez bien! Use your time well. Or get the most out of it. Maybe even take what you can. I begin my last month in Paris, and a quick tour back to Norway just proved the fact that I am in the age where everything that happens around me seems to be of more important character. People get engaged (gratulerer Elin&Andres!), married, pregnant. And people even die, their death tying a ribbon of black around the eyes of those around. The enormous kingdoms of death and life turns your stomach into a battle ground when you realize that yes. Death is there, now recruiting one of your loved ones.

It will make you feel drained, as though salt and sorrow are stuck in your muscles. For a long time, maybe forever. But it will also, hopefully, give the reaction I know I would like people around me to have when I go: Crap! I wan’t to live! I want to enjoy! Okay I’ll do that thing I wanted to, I’ll putain merde just go on and try! And then, after that blast of mania has gone away (I don’t believe anyone has ever done anything in that kind of euphoria) maybe you’ll sit at home and just nod silently and say: Okay. I think I want to do that thing now. I think it’s about time I’ll try.

So I end up in the middle east again (as I will until friday). Cause the thing surprising me the most was that the ordinary day existed there as well. People were playing basket in Ramallah, they were even dancing. People smoke water pipe on a roof top terrace in old Jerusalem, dancing to arabic music. People everywhere opened up their homes, showing a hospitality most Norwegians never dare display.

And yes, people are depressed also. Because people they love die, are imprisoned, are living with fright of an attack by Palestinians or israeli, men beat their wives, parents teach their children to hate and fear, and sad frustration transforms faces into abandoned images of resignation -they are the faces scaring me the most. And that resignation we can find everywhere, and I come to realize that death don’t scare me nowhere near as much as people not living their lives. The Radiohead song True Love Waits has a phrase summing up almost all the patients in my service in psyciatry: I am not living, I’m just killing time. People wanting to sleep and forget. Depression is thought to be the number one disease by 2020, outclassing cancer and cardiovascular diseases. Depression saps energy, steals away motivation, leaves no room for believing it will work out. That’ a battle. That’s the battle.

But again, people fly kites. And people still know how to profit well from a beautiful warm sunset, like in Haifa, no matter what lies in the history or in the future, that moment is lived as a good one. And from Haifa I met 80-year old Dafna, a Palestinian christian who had to leave her home with her family during the establishment of the state of Israel, mother of four children who were the success of her life, cause she had raised them and they had not become crazy and hateful. She believed in peaceful co-existence, and one thing she said will stick with me forever: Faith is hope, and hope drives us on.

Tent of nations, thunder horses and desks in the wild.

I continue my Paris journal with more from the Middle East, a minimal effort
in the face of how long people there have been continuing their fight for a living be they carriers of israeli or Palestinian identity cards. Like the Nassar family, living outside of Bethlehem where they run a farm and a project called Tent of Nations, who have been proving ownership to their land since 1916, but still are under the threat of having their property demolished. And the 27th of may this year, the order came for nine of their structures to be demolished. A letter can be sent to the embassy in your respective countries to show concern for the matter, I’ll leave the draft in a comment under this post.

As the name implies, tent of nations is an initiative for different nationalities to get to know one another in the best way there is: Though manual  labour, theatre and eating. In particular, they have been    organizing camps for Palestinian refugee children. For me, it  was a slice of heaven to be there. Just throwing stones off a  field, doing something useful and most of all – not talking so  much. Then, walking around the estate, seeing the theatre  scene, and my some of my favourite things: desks out in the  grass. And, to maximize the perfection of the place (for me): a beautiful reddish-brown horse, his arabic name, Ra’ad, meaning Thunder.

They work for understanding. They work for building down hostility, and for building up trust. Trust, so hard to gain and if broken almost unfixable, and still so so essential for continuing together towards something better. Their woman empowerment program is especially worth a highlighting. This family does what demands effort from their very soul. And at the same time they are working for survival.

So what does all this add up to?

A good place to volunteer some of your time, thoughts, letters, money and prayers, a place to build relationships (and muscles) under the baking sun, a place to sweat while saying to yourself “for crying out loud, I’m actually doing something to better the whole entire middle east crisis!!”…plus eat the  best couscous of your life, and maybe in the early morning light go for a ride in the golden landscape..

Kites.

The theory of relativism put to practical use: If something feels bad – put it next to something else that is worse. Like during exams spring 2009: Radiohead There There   on the ear, and 5:23 minutes of looking at the New York Times world in pictures. It kind of put my own up until then horrible unbearable situation under a bit more privileged light. Relativism usually works its magic if one knows how to use it. But what if you’re really down, and you look at the photos  – and end up seeing your own situation?

Right now it’s the church week for peace and reconciliation for Israel and Palestine. A week of focus, prayer and the ever so demanding effort of looking beyond one’s own beliefs. I spent three weeks the summer 2007 travelling with the Palestinian grass root movement Sabeel as a delegate to their annual conference for young adults. The program involved travelling around Israeli and Palestinian places. Jerusalem, Ramallah, Efraim, Hebron, Betlehem, Jeriko, Kapernaum and Nasareth, places that up until then were distant and close to imaginary places known from the Bible in sunday school or through troubling tv-reports, suddenly became concrete through buildings, food, sounds (nothing is like being awoken in Ramallah from several different mosques crying out their call to prayer far too early) and most of all, through faces, people and stories. So many stories, carving impressions in my brain forever. A varied program was set up with lectures given by international, israeli and Palestinian organizations working for promoting peace in the region thoroughly denouncing all use of violence.

I came to Paris for many reasons. One of them was to find a place to live with a good view, enabling me to think more freely. And so many times I have looked out on the sky, and remembered a calm morning in East-Jerusalem, at my friend’s house, seeing two dragons flying high up in the orange coloured morning air, so still. Held by the hands of two small boys. A silence profound, a technique refined. A thread so thin and so strong, and being all the way down here still making something fly high up there.

So that’s what you do. You remember kites, and the children who fly them. And you take a break, you go back to what you loved doing as a child, you master something, you forget the time and place a bit, you breathe, you laugh. You get some perspectives, some rest. You remember hope. And you get that kite flying.

Shoufat, Jerusalem

report II.

It is what I have come to know as close to perfection: A drowsy sunday morning, come rain or come shine cause the program will be the same. A long slow jog starting out on driving roads before taking a right into the forest. Running along the broad forest roads which turns more and more narrow, the ground completely covered in hvitveis on all sides, these small white spring flowers, untill you take a small path to the right, down some rocks and then you are by the little lake. An official break there, which today was a moment of I don’t know what: A completely mirror still lake surrounded by trees in fresh spring green and orange, with a little stream throwing it’s waterdrops like a white foamy fall of water down behind a little half island in the lake, with again the little white flowers and fresh grass, reflecting itself in the lake, so calm&cliché& inspiring. Then, continuing: running between trees and following the little path which suddenly slopes downwards, still swirling between the trees, so that you are nearly falling and slipping on branches, the eyes so focused on the ground beneath and your own coordination, your breath so uncomfortably loud and interrupting in the sleepy forest (that’s a motivation for getting in better shape, running silently!), untill you’re suddenly running straight forward and you look up and stop: the fjord is there, right in front of you, open and silvery in the morning light.

You’re standing on rocks foundations, made smooth by years of wind, waves and rain, and the sky is fresh above you, the wind soft in it’s motion across the salty water and your own sweaty forehead.

Then, a morning swim in the silvery fjord, horrible in the beginning and heaven in the end, before you walk awakened and refreshed back to the cottage for a long breakfast – with lots of coffee.

Report from Norway part1

Coldness don’t do much for Paris, the city of lights turns sour and bitter, people walk even faster than normal, and no one looks up to enjoy the architecture which normally lift the spirit of any stressed soul. They don’t know how to isolate their houses, and while I do well with coldness in Norway, the wind in Paris finds it’s way through every layer of clothes I have and leave me irritated and shivering. Maybe I am a frileuse – someone easily cold, but luckily, the remedy for a frozen Paris is simple: a really good trench coat, a glass of red wine and a cinema. But the last week Paris has been even colder than normal, lingering 12 degrees below the average for this time of year. Oslo has been sunny and warm, so when the annual working weekend at the family cottage came this weekend, I booked a flight back home. And this morning: great. Paris is yet again bathed in warm beams of sunlight, like it should be in spring, and Oslo? Two hours after my departure from Orly, the 737 descends through thick grey clouds, with raindrops quietly falling down towards the landscape underneath still not totally awake after the winter snow. But still. I take a rain shower as a ”welcome back home” anytime.

So. I’m on my way back to the roots&back to the streets where I have grown up, to the seashore I’ve spent so many days, and to the fjord to let the cold,salty water yet again trigger every nerve fiber in my body ’cause it’s still too cold to swim in comfortably. Back to the family cottage. And most of all: Back to family and friends for some days. I had originally decided against leaving Paris before I left for good this summer, but this way I gradually get used to the idea of going back. It’s like we do it in the hospital really, with the patients at the psychiatric service: They get permissions gradually extending before they are finally signed out of the service. Not that I’m comparing Paris to a psychiatric hospital. I’m just saying that knowing how hard it will be to leave Paris, it’s good to take it gradually.

But as I sit here in this grey light of spring, on the bus, looking out on the landscape, drinking coffee and writing, I realize that I don’t know where I’ll live later, but I know that I’ll always belong to this northern country. And right now I experience one of those calm moments, where nothing in particular stands out, just a blessed little feeling flowing around in my bloodstream, making me smile quietly because I don’t worry. I know. I know it will be good.

J.

Til solen.

Jeg erkjenner at jeg til en viss grad har sviktet. Jeg har ikke benyttet muligheten, jeg har ikke smidd, enda hjernet har vært varmt lenge. Jeg har tilogmed ikke skrevet på evigheter, enda Paris har mye å fortelle. Så tilgi meg. For at jeg ikke har benyttet sjangsen til å virkelig GNI DET INN.

Gni hva inn i det kalde nord?

Våren i Paris, godtfolk. Våren i Paris.

Abstract&nøkkelord med fare for utsvevende innskuddsetninger: Temperatur > 20, sol, studere i sol, drikke kaffe i sol, drikke vin i sol, smile i sol, høre på musikk i sol, la solen trekke fram ord som smektende, susende, befriende og vidunderlig. Sol, som får meg å smile litt letta, får meg til å kjenne at vinteren har sluppet taket i skuldrene mine og byen rundt meg, jeg tenker at ja, jeg kom meg gjennom denne vinteren og, jeg kan tenke det selv om det får meg til å føle meg 60 år eldre. Igjen, sol, som får meg til å skjønne at folk faktisk har tilbedt denne 5 milliarder år gamle glødende massen 150 millioner kilometer unna oss som en egen gud, og med fare for å høre mer euforisk ut en Knut Jørgen Røed Ødegaard, takker jeg Gud for solen. Fordi, mon Dieu – sol! Dra ut på landet i sol, sitte langs Seinen i sol, erkjenne fullt ut at sol er ikke et værfenomen, det er en tilstand, en enormt behagelig tilstand, suse på motorsykkel i sol, formiddagsjoggetur i t-skjorte, med svette i panna etter noen meter, og igjen smile fordi sola varmer sånn, litt mer enn hva vinden langs Seinen klarer å svale, og det er helt okei. Og så alt man ser, alt solen med litt regn gir: Blomstrende frukttrær og kastanjetrær, og det i en by der samtlige gater topper Bygdøy allé, smilende mennesker (solen smiler til oss, vi smiler tilbake). Og om man legger til alt man lukter! Vandre i mylderet på markedet mellom handlekorger, roser, turister med joggesko, smykker, laks fra norge, ”5 euro le fromage!!”, krabber fra russland, oster fra FRANKRIKE, ciderepler, ”à bientôt”, naboer, ”une orange, mademoiselle!”, bruktklær som kunne tilhørt din bestemor, spekekjøtt, hoummus, liljer, køer foran nettopp den grønnsakshandleren, overprising, ”jeg legger til 3 epler ekstra, blunk blunk”, atter turister, franskmenn som kikker mer eller mindre overbærende på turistenes joggesko, forklær, litt angst for at jeg om under tre måneder skal flytte herfra, alt utenom bakevarer (vi verner om bakeriene som nasjonalskatt), solbriller, ”Bonne journée!” og vive la France!

Jeg kommer ikke til å legge ved noen banale bilder av blomster, gatecaféer eller Seinen i så grønne omgivelser som bare våren kan gi. Det får bli bildene i hodet. Og i grunn er det best, for *smile*, det er så en be-there-thing.

Og jeg tar imot teologisk kritikk for det som nå kommer, men jeg avslutter denne saligprisningen med følgende:

Amen