I didn’t plan on bookending my debut and goodbye posts for Roots of She with Norwegian poetry but it seems to be what I find when I peel back the layers and move closer to the core. I’ve looked at the world through this poem with the words out of focus but more as a lens. So many of you wrote that you loved to see the Norwegian in the last poem (one I penned on my own) so I’ll leave it here in Olav Hauge’s original form. The translation is below.
Du var vinden.
Var det den leidi eg skulde?
Kven spør etter leidi
når ein har slik vind!
I am a boat
You were the wind.
Was that the direction I wanted?
Who asks about direction
when one has such wind!
In not too long I’ll be again, looking through these words. The echo of the wind is a memory. My hair, once raptured and wild in its gusts now still in the calm. Do we slip away or go out with a storm? Either way, the sail is at ease.
It can be hard to let go. We hold out for the wind to pick up but also wonder if we want to set a new course. I never needed the wind but it did take me. I enjoyed the ride and discovered that it was the wind that needed me. And still does. A sail gives shape to the wind, defines the wild and gives it purpose. Like a long pause, expecting and waiting for music to begin again we suspect the wind has changed, died or blows in a new direction.
In waiting the boat drifts, with thoughts of new directions, new energies, and new possibilities. What is our obligation to the wind? What is our obligation to our own wild self?
Not following our hearts often comes from a fear of betraying who we used to be, at the cost of who we are now.
So we drift, suspended in time as it marches by. We surrender ownership of our days to a passive hope. Sometimes we drift into a current and find ourselves in a new place, sometimes into a maelstrom, finding ourselves being pulled further down. But the drift is a surrender, for better or worse.
Do we wait until the wind might move us again? It’s through the poem I will look and see if what is written in the stars mirrors my heart. The stars are beautiful and bright but like the Northern Lights, my heart wants to dance across the sky. And I’m ready to move again.
A note of deep gratitude and thanks: I yearn. And now I write. While I was committed nonetheless, you’ve been a loving witness who didn’t turn away. I’ve written and you’ve received. Thank you. It’s a new wind, you and I, this writing, and I can’t wait to see where we’ll go.
In my introductory post I didn’t dare call myself a writer. And I do so now only in flirtation. I’m not afraid of owning it but I’d rather flirt with it. And having had such a lovely (truly and deeply) lovely experience at Roots of She, I invite you to stop over at my place. There’s a renovation underway to make room for this new flirtation and the expansion of my work. It’s an open invitation.
And to Jenn: You are a rich and layered embodiment of love, my dear. To receive a non-writer into the home of your child, Roots of She, was a risk and you took it with me. I am forever grateful and quite changed by this. I had a spark and you offered a place of fuel and tinder while the generous readers gave it oxygen and fanned the flames. You’ve stood with me- patiently so. Roots of She is a gift. You are a gift and a beacon. We are so inspired by your creation and your steadfast tending and nurturing. The roots might have other origins but you are the curator, gardener and goddess here. Thank you, sweet woman.