I’m on the train. We’ve been traveling across Sweden, east to west, through this very patchy landscape we get in the middle. Small fields, golden among the otherwise dense green of early August. For five hours I’ve been sitting here. There’s only half an hour left. Then, the ocean. My head feels weird. I think I need breeze.
I’m thinking about traveling. And about my need for order. About roots, and landscapes, and about feeling that you belong. I’m thinking about how my handwriting seems to change depending on my mood and the pen I’m using – from neat and pretty to almost unintelligible. I’m thinking about family. Mine in particular. The legacies we carry, the priorities we are taught. I’m thinking about other people’s minds. And a dog.
Cecilia and Isak have bought a dog. Natalia turned 26 and yesterday she had a picnic to celebrate. Cecilia and Isak arrived by bike, Cecilia with a bag on her chest, the tiny head of a black cockapoo puppy looking out. Possibly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. The curiosity and joy and presence. Like a magnet she pulled everyone to her, to the now, away from whatever work or studies or future they were discussing.
I need that. An anchor, to keep me grounded. Otherwise, I risk floating away. That’s how my mind works. I grew up among animals, the very hands-on activity of taking care of horses. It taught me balance. A way to restrict my mind.
But it’s been years now, since I had the responsibility to take care of another living creature. I get lost in my own head.
Tilda and Kai, my cousins’ two-year-olds, are running around in the train carriage. Children are great anchors too. But having a child for the sole purpose of having something to keep me in the present, that’s way too egocentric and selfish, even for me. I can’t afford to have a horse.
But maybe a dog. Or a borrowed horse, from someone who can’t take care of it every day. I will have to look into that. The year I have ahead of me, thesis work, holds a high risk of me loosing my footing. Like never before.
Katja Malmborg 