Why I Still blog...

When I started out this blog, my initial thought was to learn how to write in English again. I keep telling my students to write, both in Norwegian and English, but I very seldom did so myself. At least not in English. It somehow felt stupid just to file the texts on my laptop, so posting them in a blog seemed like a good idea.

There are thousands and thousands of good blogs on the net, so I thought: I just keep them to myself, not telling anyone, and it will be “my” blog, which no one ever has to waste time or energy on reading.

I was quite surprised when I found out that on occasions random people from around the world stumble upon my blog and find time to read my scribble.

Time passed and I posted more texts, and now I kind of secretly enjoy the thought of people reading what I write. I have no idea what they/you think of it (basically because my postings are never commented upon, apart from a few emails I have received), but still. There is something, a feeling, about it which is very close to the one you feel when you get attention.

I have been thinking a lot about writing lately... mostly my thoughts are about how to make time, and then... later on... what a bummer it is I didn't. The thing is; I think I know by now why I like writing so much: It is like talking to myself, and I get all the right answers; I give pretty sensible answers to questions... when asked, I think. And in my mind I question many things, all the time. (I am very curious by nature. Mostly I am curious about people. Not gossip or talking about them: I like talking to people, listen to what they like to tell about themselves and get an insight in how they think.)

I like writing, it is therapy, as well as something I can evaluate and see progress or decrease in. Sometimes I am just very frustrated, because I see no progress at all. I find typos and strange choices in words… and my headlines are just pathetic at times.

On the other hand; what is writing well and what is progress?

Well…

To me, writing well means, to me, writing in a way which can fully express my thoughts, opinions and feelings on matters I myself need to figure out. A good text allows whoever reads my texts to relate, and perhaps find new arguments and insight in normal challenges I think we all face now and again. Maybe I at times expose myself as a person, but I THINK I have done that without compromising myself too much. After all: I am who I am.

I think anyone who writes, no matter what genre they write, will agree it is impossible to write without doing so, to some extent.

Progress? I am not sure I make any progress in writing English. I found out, at an early stage, that evaluating your my own texts is really hard. But I do notice that I don’t think about what I should have added as often as I did before. But I have no idea if my rambling-ons are understandable; if there is any sense at all to what I type and put “on paper”.

Or… I am not entirely honest here: I have been told my English is fairly ok, and to me that is a HUGE compliment: Makes me want to continue writing.

Maybe starting out writing in English was a stupid idea. It is not my first language so I am writing about my thoughts in a foreign tongue, but if nothing else I am learning new words by doing so.

My only worry is that I by a mistake should insult or offend somebody, but I don’t really think I have, not yet anyway.

Some Times, and to some, Tough Is Normal.

Unlike how I raise my own children, my father had certain issues in which he gave no pardon. He never raised his voice or anything, but there was never doubt about his opinion or stand. And I never even thought about disagreeing when he told me to do something. My kids think everything is up for negotiation, but that was not the case at all, when I grew up.

From May to September, my dad told me: “I do not care when you go to sleep; actually I don't care if you sleep at all!!!!! But 6:30 in the morning you will be dressed, boots on and ready to go”.

Every Sunday morning, from May to September that is, my dad and I went up in the mountains to count and check on the flock. He would only walk as far as above the treeline, and then he would use his stick to point where he wanted me and the dog to go.

Often we crisscrossed the mountainside for hours. Just to make sure the sheep were all right. Good thing we are talking about sheep here, because sheep like to stay at the same area, they do not scatter about.

I didn’t really mind. I was in good shape when I was young, and the early, crisp mornings offered amazing experiences. Black adders sunbathing, deer which ran off into the boscage, eagles hovering above me, high up in the sky, making sure I didn’t get too close to the nest. (We had two pairs of eagles, each with a nest in the scree near the top.)

Pouring, summer-warm rain or humid, sunny mornings; bearing promises for a wonderful summers day.

 

One time I carried a sick lamb back home, carrying it across my neck. I wasn’t used to carry sheep, and it didn’t really fit very well, so I walked back home with my neck bent in a strange angle.

You know those paintings/posters of Jesus carrying the one lost sheep? There is nothing relaxed or romantic about it! It was brutal… on me, not the lamb.

One Sunday I remember particularly well. It was fall and we had our annual sheep round-up. We came home missing 7 animals. Standing on the country courtyard, listening to the silence of a Sunday morning still wet from the heavy dew I heard them bleat, then I saw them close to the top… they must have wandered behind the mountain for the night and not returned until after we left. Anyway: I went back up with the dog and brought them home.

That afternoon I went to my boyfriend’s grandmother’s birthday party, and I was so exhausted I just burst into tears for no good reason at all.

Back then we didn’t carry water-bottles or packed sandwiches: we lived in, by, with, off nature, both summer and winter, and it was our backyard, so we went up there, did our thing and went back home.

In fall we picked berries and went hunting. In winter we chopped wood, so it would dry over the year. When I had time, I carried my skies as far up as I could (depending on hazard of avalanches) and had a great skiing ride back down home. My friends used to go to the ski resort, but I never did that. I grew up in a skiing eldorado, but never learned how to ski properly.

In spring we mended the fences, and cut the most damaged brush (caused by avalanches), to open passages and trails. During summer we harvested grass and went to check on animals grazing. My horse would sometimes join in too; checking on the flock and the surrounding farms’ cattle.

Today most farms have quit husbandry; there are hardly any animals grazing in the mountains anymore, fewer pick berries, and only a few go hunting these days. To tend to the forest and brush have become neglected and the passages are not kept open anymore, the way they used to be.

Now people drive somewhere to find more friendly tracks to go hiking. 

 

To me there is a funny twist, though. These days, each fall, sportsmen from all over the country, the elite, and anyone else absorbingly preoccupied with health and sports, enlist for a race; running from town center (the marina) to the top of the mountain. They say it is very prestigeous. And very, very tough.