Awakening

So now I have been to the Amazon. It was my ultimate dream, what shall I do now? There are things I would like to do, but know that I can't, like a cruise to Antarktis (they are expensive, but not tremendously expensive; however, I get seasick, so we can forget it). Of all the wonders of the civilised world, I'd like to see the Pyramids, but it doesn't feel the right time now. Maybe, at some point. Of the many wonders of the natural world - yes, there are many, but nothing that I can't get off my mind, like I had with the Amazon. I mean, something that I tell myself I need to see before I die.

I hope to live some years still, but if I take one long trip every year, there are not that many left (and I have promised never to travel again). What are my priorities? Do I have any?

I am reading all these clever books about the philosophy of time that argue that there is neither the past nor the future, just the present; which I have always said, without reading clever books. Does it mean that the Amazon does not exist, has never existed, been a dream, is a dream? Yes, I know it's all quite pointless.

Yet I feel a huge emptiness and sorrow. I know I will soon fill it with something new, but right now I feel a weird kind of disappointment: it's over, this big huge enormous dream that was so wonderful that I really have no words to describe it, but would so much like to. But, as all dreams, when you wake up, it's gone.

Blog challnge Day 29 – Your aspirations

The older you get, the more you realise that there is a limit to what you can do with the rest of your life. When I was little I was sure that I would go to the Moon, Mars, Saturn and beyond. When I was young I hoped to go to London and Paris. I wanted to be a famous writer. I haven't become a famous writer, but I am quite a good scholar. I have tried scuba diving and found out that I couldn't do it. But if I hadn't tried I wouldn't have known. I have tried paragliding and was terribly sick. But I still remember the few wonderful moments before I got sick.

I know that I will never go to Antarctic, although I would like to, nor explore the Amazonas, nor climb mountains. But I have seen 13% of the world (according to Facebook) which is more than most other people.

I will not learn to play an instrument nor become an extreme skier. I am quite happy enjoying music played by others, and I go skiing for pleasure, not for challenge.

I will not die young because it's too late. I will not receive a Nobel Prize because I chose the wrong subject. I will probably not be invited to a Royal Dinner because we no longer live in Sweden (otherwise, chances were good). I will not make the front page of Newsweek, and I am glad for that.

I hope to write another book. Or maybe two. I hope to see my children's succeed. I hope to see my grandchildren grow up and become something they want to be. I hope to see more of my students make brilliant careers – some of them have. I hope to be remembered for what I have done.

Blog challenge Day 17 – Your favorite memory

Many years ago in the Dreamtime I went to Australia together with Anton who was then eleven years old. The proper age for initiation rite. We had been in Australia two years before, travelled around from Ocean Road to Barrier Reef, from Penguin Island to Jacob's Creek, and we had also been to Ayers Rock. We had called it Ayers Rock because we knew no better. But we wanted to know. So we went back to stay for a longer period and try to understand. We would write a novel about an eleven-year-old Swedish boy's encounter with Dreamtime.

The people at Ayers Rock resort thought I was crazy when I wanted a place to rent for three weeks. They told me nobody ever stayed there for more than two days. We rented a caravan and a car. Every morning we went either to Uluru or Kata Chuta and walked and talked. We saw Uluru at sunrise and sunset and even in the rain, which we were told only happened once every ten years. We read stories and made stories. In the evenings I wrote down our made-up stories and read to Anton who would say that I had got everything wrong.

I had a permission to go into Aboriginal lands which I had applied for and was granted six months before. The community where I could go was three hundred kilometres into the desert, and you needed a 4x4. There was no guarantee that we would even be allowed to fill the car with gas. I didn't take the risk. Well into the second week, when we thought we had read every piece of information available and taken every guided tour, we saw a small inconspicuous ad promising an unforgettable experience. The understatement of the millennium.

We joined a group of five and a female guide. The other people had booked years in advance. We went five hundred kilometres into nothing in a vehicle that looked like a merrily painted tank. We slept in swags on the ground and cooked over a fire. Water for personal hygiene was rationed to a little bowl every morning. The Milky Way rotated over our heads at night.

On the second day a group of Aborigines approached slowly. Linda, the guide, had told us that we had to be patient. They would come when they decided we were ready. There was no point trying to rush. Meanwhile we gathered seeds and made bread. Not the way they show you in tourist resorts: here are some seeds, try to grind them on a stone, and now taste the bread. It takes hours to gather enough for a very small loaf. It takes hours to grind. You get a new sense of time.

Then finally came the storytelling, moving around, observing every detail in the landscape. Where we only saw sand and stones, suddenly there was a waterhole. There were five kinds of edible tomatoes and fifty deadly poisonous. There were honey ants to dig from under the sand. There were kangaroos to hunt. Not with boomerangs, but with rifles. One of the elders made a spear for Anton. I wanted a spear too. He said, through Linda, that women did not have spears. We women were taken to women's sacred places. Anton was allowed to go to some men's places because he wasn't smoked yet. We danced the Lizard dance. We followed the Lizard Man's tracks across the country.

Eight days in the Dreamtime. The Aborigines have a special tense to indicate Dreamtime, something like “he has always been doing...”. Anton and I have always been walking through the desert listening to stories.

Dreams

I have two recurrent dreams that I know many people have also experienced in some form. The first is that I discover an extra room in my house that I haven’t seen before. Sometimes it is empty, sometimes it is full to the brim with someone else’s bric-a-brac that I am mortally scared to break. In my dream, I tell Staffan: “Here is a room that we have forgotten, why don’t we use it?” If the room is full I know I need to get rid of everything and redecorate the room to my own taste. The interpretation of the dream is discovering new possibilities within yourself, not entering the dark sides of your mind.

The other dream is about being on a train or occasionally a boat. I have my children with me and tons of luggage, I know that we must get off at the next station, but all the kids’ clothes and toys and all my wn stuff are scattered all over the train, and I must collect them before the train stops. I know that whatever I don’t find will be lost forever. When I do find something I wonder why I have kept it.

Last night I dreamed a hybrid of these two. I discovered a new room in my house, full of things that I had forgotten to pack.