I’m out on my rock, the sun is shining, sending beams to the waves, making the whole ocean glitter. At least from where I’m sitting.

I came here, and I have all day, I was going to write. I’m working on a short story now, I’m calling it The Elephant Letters, but in Swedish, of course. I should be writing, but I can’t get started. I’m feeling sleepy. I’m hungry, even though I just had two eggs, a sandwich and a nectarine. I can’t stay here.

I could go back to the house, cook an early dinner and maybe pick up a new book. I just finished the one I have with me today. Every day isn’t a writing day.

Varje

ord bär på

hela universum

– Göran Sonnevi

Every

word carries

the entire universe

I met a birch. Weird, but incredibly beautiful.

I wanted to photograph us together, but working with a self-timer is not easy. It took many scratches, bruises, sore muscles and even some bloodshed, before this was caught by the camera sensor. Totally worth it.

There was a piece on one of the radio programs that I listen to while climbing the cliffs of Koster. They interviewed Johan Rockström, the director of Stockholm Resilience Centre where I study, about ecological illiteracy, and then they talked with WWOOFers at an organic farm on Ekerö in Stockholm.

Oh, it made me want to go back to Whiskey Creek Farm on Vancouver Island or Duckworth Farm in Sonoma Valley again, so bad.

I grew up in the city, but still, I don’t think I could be considered one of those ecologically illiterate people, not even before my university studies in geography and sustainability science. I spent all my childhood summers either in my grandmother’s big kitchen garden, at my uncle’s organic farm or on the island in the Stockholm archipelago that my parents rented. The island lacked both electricity and running water. As a teenager, I spent all of my free time at the stables, riding and taking care of the horses. I grew up knowing where food comes from and what hard work it entails to grow it.

I don’t need to go WWOOFing to remedy my ecological illiteracy. I want to go anyway. Like. Now. The soreness from working hard with your body, and the incredible sleep that follows. There is a physical contentment that isn’t achievable from a desk at the library.

But I need other things too. My mind is an insatiable beast and I don’t think I would be happy making a living out of farming. I need to get my master’s degree, because I think that will lead me on to a career that will make me happy. Or at least something sufficiently close to happiness. But. That’s why WWOOFing is such a great concept. I can go to get my hands dirty on the holidays. Next summer. Dedicated for WWOOFing. That’s my plan.

The Ragnar and Sonja Smith clan, the two of their three daughters that are still alive, with their children, grandchildren, husbands, wives and girlfriends. Two second cousins and a baby missing, and me of course, being behind the camera as I am, but otherwise. There we are. A family tree in the flesh.

And two of the younger members: brother Aron and cousin’s daughter Tilda. As beautiful as the surroundings.

Have you ever thought about the beauty of randomness? The cracks that spread across the bark of a living, growing tree. Patterns created by moss, light caught by lichen.

Look, the pine has boobs!

 

I was sitting in the high grass, waiting for a butterfly to show up. Uncle Terence was lighting the fire with dry juniper branches. The smell was so rich. He was preparing the proper Koster braai (to be true to his South African origin).

Aunt Eva and dad came with two huge zucchinis and the fish – beautiful, freshly caught mackerel. Kai and Tilda invited their mothers and me to fika.

There are so many things that need to be done with a family dinner, so many pieces that need to fit. It is a difficult thing, food and togetherness. But it is a challenge I would like to be able to master. The fish was incredible. Small packages of heaven. (I will become a proper vegetarian again when I go back home, I promise)

After dinner, I made friends with a goat.

I walked over the cliffs today to my special crevice. I’ve been  going there since my early teens, hidden behind high cliffs on a headland is a crack in the rock shaped like an armchair specifically made for me. Protected against the most extreme Atlantic winds, but still with a view of the waves crashing against the rocks below, I’ve written, read and thought many big thoughts.

I haven’t been here for seven years, but still it was surprisingly easy to find my way back. It’s like the bluffs and rocks have become part of my internal geography, forever part of my mental map of the world.

But I only had time to eat my lunch and read five poems, before thunder started rumbling like an old grumpy man over the mainland. Three poems later, the drops started falling.

There is something beautiful about those first moments of rain. The drops fall on the dry rock, creating a dotted pattern with the darker, richer colors of the wet stone. The smell, too, is something very special.

Thinking that this might become as dramatic a rainfall as the one yesterday, I tried to find the fastest way back to the main trail. But I couldn’t know if the narrow paths that I found among the heather and the junipers were human or grazer made, leading me back to civilization, or if following them would take me to a destination only rational for sheep.

Suddenly, I came upon a wet clearing. There, I met a tree. A beautiful old rowan, with branches growing in all directions. The trunk light grey. It made me think of the weirwood trees of Game of Thrones. There is a wisdom in old trees, the perseverance in having survived on the edge of an ocean. The thunder and rain kept on coming, so I didn’t stay long, but we shared a moment, and then I walked on. I will probably never be able to find it again.

I finally reached the main trail. By the time I was back at the house, the rain was done falling for the day.

The animals are taking care of the nature reserve, looking up in surprise whenever someone comes and interrupts their all-summer feast.