'My Burning Heart' & 'Bittersweet'

Love Poems of Rumi



Poems read by Deepak Chopra & Madonna

Our Life Narrative

Last year I gave a radio interview aired by NRK, the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation. The hour long program was hosted by a lovely journalist, Miriam Wicklund.

The format of the interview was a combination of "Desert Island Discs" and "On the the Coach with..." and seemed to work well, not least because of Ms Wicklund's respectful and clever edititing job, as well as her sensitive use of the music tracks I had chosen.

The experience was a rather extraordinary one for me, and I felt grateful and privileged to be able to be asked to tell my life story. Somebody once suggested that all we ever long for is to have our story witnessed, recognised...

If you understand Norwegian you can listen to the interview by following the link on this page located at the NRK web site:
NRK - Sølvsuper
Just in case the links above are dead, here's the URL, a direct link straight to the interview, so that you can copy and paste:
http://www.nrk.no/dynasx?p_lenke_id=766084&p_artikkel_id=4542143&mswmext=.asx

Leaving Home

It's terribly early to leave home at 15. I didn't realise that then. The smallness of rural drove me into a kind of despair, which in turn inspired me to do a lot of work to improve our local environment.

For many years youth who wanted higher education to , often outside our own county. Contributing as a student I worked very hard to introduce higher schooling, roughly the equivalent to the American High School, German 'Gymnasium,' or the British 'A-levels' models. By the time I was 15 we had achieved our goal, and the first cohort of students started in a class combining distance education and classes on site. It was a great achievemnet. Today Dokka is a known, sound and successful educational centre in the district, offering a wide spectrum of opportuinities for those who hunger for knowledge.

Personally I was in the the first cohort; however, I couldn't stick it for more than three months, or so. Then I left for Oslo, having auditoned and been accepted at the Norwegian National Ballet School: I had seen West Side Story at one of the main theatres in Oslo, Det Norske Teater, and I was obsessed. All that seemed to matter to me was theatre!...

I still remember my parents on the day I left. They had been trying desperately to talk me out of leaving, but found their efforts to be of no avail.

As I was dashing off to the station the I was leaving, nearly keeling over from the weight of a rather huge and stuffed bag over my shoulder, my father called to me: "I think you're mad to go, and I want to stay home. Wait a couple of years and finish school at least! - But - if you really are going to be this stubborn, go! And I warn you: If you do go, do not return home expecting help!!"

Harsh words it may seem, uttered in the heat of the moment. I did return for help many, many times, however. I frequently received help, although not always.

What I remember most affectionately about parents, was that whenever I arrived home very late, and they had gone to bed, there was food prepared for me, neatly laid on the kitchen table.

Memories of those yummie sandwiches, the smoked salmon with scrambled eggs, always makes me smile when I think about it. In these moments I remember my parents with deep gratitude and appreciation.

Books

I was an avid reader, and for most of my childhood I read at least 4-5 books a week, and usually a book a day: It helped to connect with a larger world outside the smallness of the mountains, the endless forests and fields, the hamlet and the village. Books filled me with hope through filling colour, stimulating my imagination. Books, as the films I watched at the cinema, told me I had reason to dream - of other places, people, things to engage in.

Although having grown up in the country meant that we always had to be part of all the work that needed to be done around the farms, I took my first real job when I was ten years old. I worked in a quarry, and the job itself consisted of climbing up on a grid much like a monkey equipped with an iron bar. With this bar my task was to get lose any stones which had got trapped in the grid. I had to work fast, because it would only be a couple of minutes before another load of stone was poured over the grid, so if I weren't attentive or fast enough the whole loadful of stones would end up on my head.

Working from 7 am to 5 pm six days a week, I made the equivelant of £1 or a $1 and a meal at noon a day. I was nackered by end of the day.

At the end of the summer, I had a small fortune. I had been brought up to be very rational in my spending, so I bought a new desk for myself: so far I'd done all my homework at the kitchen table. My new desk was made of teak, and it looked mighty fine, I thought.

I still had money left, so I went to the local bookshop and I spent it all on books. It was a treasure. Buying my own books for the time in my life, was extraordinary, and I can still feel the tremor inside thinking about it, as I felt then. Books were my friends, my inspiration, my love.

"What do you want all those books for?" asked my mother. "Couldn't you have bought something sensible?"

Dokka

Dokka is a small village in the municipality of Nordre Land, in the county of Oppland in south eastern Norway. This is where I went to school, and I lived at Dokka until I was a teenager. Dokka is bordering on the two major vallies in Norway, Valdres and Gudbrandsdalen. Dialects are more rife in Norway as in the British Isles, and the original dialect used in Nordre Land is an interesting one as it in some ways is grammatically more similar to German than the commonly spoken and written Norwegian bokmål.

I left home at 15, which was terribly early indeed. At Dokka there was not much to do, however. Unless you were a physical activities fanatic, in which case opportunities were more than ample, the local library, the cinema, the Scouts, the School Brass Band, and two cafés - one placed at either end of the only street with shops in the village - were the only alternatives. You could take up smoking of course, which I did at the age of 10, and being addicted by the age of 12. A prerequisite for a successful young smoking career at Dokka, was that you ahd at least one smoking parent; that way you could go to the shops and pretend you were buying cigarettes for your parents. Otherwise it was impossible as everyone knew everyone.

We, the young rebels without a cause, preferred Kafé Vidar at the south end of the High Street because it had a juke box, and was decorated in green with warm colours. Centralkaféen at the north end, however, was dominated by respatex: it was all light, with white curtains and it had no jukebox. Pretty nasty for secretive and mischievous youngsters, in other words.

I think of my years at Dokka with great affection. Especially my mates, Jan Steinar, Jan, Bjørn, and Ole Johnny, and the my neighbour, a girl named Vesla whom I still have contact with.

Then there were my teachers. Oh my, how lucky I was! I bet not many have had the fortune of such good a match as Miss Torbergsen was for m. She was my very first teacher in Primary School, and she was ace! For a woman, she seeled huge: tall, big bones, prim and proper, dressed in black and with her greying hair in a tight bun at the back. - It would be difficult to top her, but when I was 9 we got a new teacher named Gunnar Bratrud. He was the first male teacher i'd had so far, and I came to really love him and respect him, at times adore him.

He was also the head of the scouts. At a scout nmeeting at his home, I noticed a book in his bookshelf which kindled my enthusiasm. It was called "Line" and was written by a well known Norwegian author Aksel Jensen, and it had been recently filmed. When I asked if i could borrowed, he looked a little amused, replying, "Yes, you may. But you've got to ask your parents'permission first." I did, they gave their permission, and my teacher brought the book to school. As soon as I was home from shool

Nature around Dokka was amazing in every way. Situated as a gateway to, some would argue, the most spectaularly beautiful parts of Norway, it was reach in vegetation with plenty of fields and woods, usually of scandinavian pine. The area main industries were forestry and timber, and agriculture.

I remember huge fields of lupines. Being near to where I lived, luscious and colourful, they used to take my breath away: I found them vigorous and beautiful. Not many shared my enthusiasm, however, complaining, "These awful lupines! The spread worse than weeds. It's that dreadful woman again who's put them in her garden. She never plucks the dead heads once they've finished flowering, so they keep spreading. Oh, she needs a good talking to!" Personally I felt grateful to the woman, whomever she was supposed to be, for spreading something so beautiful and enthusiastically engaged in life, I couldn't care less whether lupins were weeds proper. I loved them and look at them over and over. I still do.

Despite much of the earth being cultivated over large areas, some were still wild. Finding fields full of flowers was not usual, as in this filed of wild pansies. Apart from the mountains and the cattle, these fields were the main ground my granny would take me on her walks of exploration.

At Dokka two major rivers meet, the Dokka River, and the Etna. As kids we used to go bathing in these rivers, but only the Etna was suitable for swimming: it was deeper and much, much stiller; it was also endlessly more poetic and beautiful. In my childhood the rivers were used for bringing all the timber from the forests along the rivers to the huge sawmill by the fjord. This practice ended in 1969. Only an old pole nest used to catch and retain the timber remains bearing witness of this important practice which went on for centuries. It is represented in the coat of arms for the municipality, depicting the hooks used by the log drivers for manipulating the timber.

Dokka is situated at the end of the fourth largest lake in Norway, Randsfjorden. A magnificent and dramatic delta makes up these rivers' entry into the lake.

My Brother

I loved him very much, even though he could irritate the life out of me on occasions. I still love him wildly and I miss him terribly.

I lost him when I was 24. He was 19 and died in a car crash, only a few days before Christmas in 1974.

Life was never to be the same for our family. We never quite recovered. This tragic event showed many things, one of them being that there may be no greater trauma than for a parent to lose his or her child.

My brother was a musician. He played the guitar in a band who had just started recording their first album. He had just finished his A levels and was having a year off to tour with his band, get some experience and make some money before he started at the Royal College of Music.

My mate. I miss you. There's so incredibly much I would have liked to talk to you about and discuss with you.

We couldn't go skiing anymore as we used to because I have ruined my knee. But we could still go swimming in the summer. Go for a ride in the car, too - any season. And laugh and joke, like we used to. And we could listen to music, lots of music...

I miss you indeed.

My Mother

This is my mother, the woman who all her life tried to make everyone happy. And I mean everyone.

She never seemed to have acquired the ability to prioritise until very late in life.

From childhood my best memories of her are her magnificent artistic abilities: she was an extraordinary piano player, and began studying music at the Music Conservatory. Similarly, she was an exceptionally gifted fine artist. When I was a child she used to make extra money by drawing ads for local businesses which were shown at the local cinema before the film started.

She was always conscientious and sincere, and despite having a wicked sense of humour she seemed almost naïvly earnest. I inherited that quality from her. Her concern for everyone's happiness and wellbeing, brought her to collaps from exhaustion when I was 12 1/2. I remember that summer very well. It was a difficult one for us all.

Twice she got cancer. The first time was in 1970, the second in 1974. She was seriously ill on both occasions, and underwent very major surgery on both occasions. Only a few months after her second bout of cancer, however, she faced may be the deepest trauma of her life, by far surpassing her cancer: the loss of her youngest son in a traffic accident.

My mother's life was not an easy one. Because she was always concerned with other people's well-being, there was little room and few ears for her to share her story, her pain, her despair.

I wish I'd understood her as well when I was young as I do now as a mature adult.

My Most Extraordinary Grandmother

Much of my childhood was spent with my grandmother. She taught me that greatest joy in life: reading! I was four and she had bought me an ABC. She was very excited when she unwrapped the book, excited like I had never seen her before. I remember the moment very well because it was as her breathing was quicker than usual, and her hands revelaed a slight tremor. As she began showing me all the drawings in the book along with some signs which she accompanied with funny sounds. She kept repeating them to me, over and over, having me repeat back to her. She called these mysterious signs in the book letters.

Since before the day I could move in an upright position, she took me out for walks. I understood much later in life that the whole purpose of these walks was discovery. These walks were short ones at first. Then they became longer and longer. Having grown up in a small hamlet called Grindaheim, right in the heart of the magnificently beautiful mountain range of Jotunheimen, she had a great respect for nature which she carefully communicated, thus passing it on to me. She taught me the names of all the flowers we came across on our rambling strolls across fields or mountains.

She spoke with the animals, as she did with her plants. And they all thrived around her. She loved everything that lived and spent every minute of her conscious life supporting life.

Every day that followed she sat with me for a little, and very soon I could read. By the age of five I was reading books on my own. I could also add up and subtract, because she had taught me some other mysterious symbols, the numbers, and what to do with them. And in the process she had taught me to read.

The best time of year was the Summer when my grandmother and I would take the cattle high up in the mountains. For two whole months we would stay in this mountain kingdom, surrounded by spectacular nature and animals. All we would do is read, natter, and sing. And always looking and listening: looking at the mountains, the colour of the sky, she shape of the clouds, the animals, each other...

Never once in my entire life did I ever feel her love for me not be present, or even wane. When I came to visit her, at the sound of my car, she would peak out from behind her kitchen curtains. When she saw me, she looked as if she'd just seen the sun rising - every single time.

She was a paradox indeed, my grandmother. Toward the end of her life and full of days, she was deeply frustrated because Life wouldn't let go of her. One day and deep despair, she cried out, "Oh, my dear God! Oh, bloody hell!"

I guess that sums up life for many of us, but especially so for her. My, was she brave - and so amazingly wise, in a most ordinary way.

I'm deeply grateful to her. For everything. Our love is as solid and eternal as the mountains of Jotunheimen amongst which we wandered, learnt, laughed, and sometimes cried for all those years.

My Dad

This is my dad. The photo was taken in 1948.

The Nazi occupation of Norway had ended three years ago. Norwegians were still happy it was over, their exuberance only having started to wane ever so little little. They were full of optimism, determination and hope for the future. Everyone was busy sharing one superobjective: rebuilding the country. There was a sense of joy, libido was in the air, and everywhere one went people were engaged in creating and supporting life.

The occupation had been long, exactly five years and one month, and very harsh. My father, as did my family on both my father and mother's side, had been actively engaged in the resistance.

My dad was 22 at the time this photo was taken. He had recently met my mother. Less than a year later, they got married.

I am so glad they did.

Our first move

I'm struck by the presence of trains and railway stations in the pictures and memories from my early childhood. The railways are important in my life, my father was devoted to his work in the Norwegian Railways.

I have always liked traveling by train. I still do. It gives me a sense of room, of openness. It leaves me the freedom to do things whilst being on my way towards my destination. And it always feels so very safe. "Statistically," my dad used to tell me when I was a little boy, "travelling by train is by far the safest way to travel." I could always sense an air of dignified pride about him when he spoke to like that. It lingered in the air and sort of tingled inside me long after the words had been uttered.

My parents had very little money at the time I was born. That's putting politely; they were outright poor. My father had only just finished his engineering studies at Oslo Tekniske Aftenskole, which he had done at the same time as he was engaged in his apprenticeship with the Akers Mekaniske Verksted. They were married at Blaker kirke. After they got married, my dad continued his apprenticeship contract with Akers Mek and the Norwegian Railways. My dad made hardly any money at this time.

Fotunately he was a magician on the accordeon. During week-ends he did jobs on the side playing gigs. That brought some money in, but certainly not enough. Nobody has ever said this either, but I'm sure this was reason why we stayed with my father's parents for the first few months of my life.

Although it's never been said this either, I suspect my mother's pregnancy with me had not been planned. Passion had got the better of them, and I was given the oppportunity of life. Although my nan, my grandmother on my mother's side, who was deeply steeped in the christian faith, tried to suggest mine had been a premature birth. As I weighed all of 8 lbs at birth, that's rather unlikely. My nan held on to her particular perceptions about my arrivial in this world, however, until the day she died.

My dad finished his education with phenomenally good results, and shortly afterwards he applied for a job at Dokka, a small village in the municiplaity of Nordre Land in the county of Oppland. He got the job, and our family moved for the first time.

Not much later my dad was promoted and he became the youngest train engineer in the country ever. He was very pround indeed, and so were we.

Throughout my early chilhood he would let me come to work with him. I remember the feeling of standing right at the front of the train, looking down at the rails which seemed to disappear underneath the train itself at lightning speed. It was so exhilararting.

But the ride home on his bike, sitting on a small child's seat behind him and holding my arms around this big man in front of me, was even more exhilarating. My beloved dad.

A Beginning

Everything has a beginning.

For a long time I've wanted to create a log where I could put images and memories representing my life. This is the beginning of that project.

This where I was born, in Lillestrøm, a small town situated in the municipality of Skedsmo, a few miles outside Oslo. When you arrive at Oslo Airport, this is the only stop the train makes on its 20 minutes journey between the airport, Gardermoen, and Oslo Central Station, called Oslo S.

The greeen area you see in the middle of the picture of the city centre to the right, is a rather astonishing feature in Lillestrøm called the Town Garden. It's rather beautiful but not open to the public as it's part of a luxury apartment complex.

I spent only one night Lillestrøm, ever. The whole purpose of this one day visit was to be born, to incarnate. The name of the midwife who helped my mother and me on the msot significant occasion was Engeline, which translates as Angeline for the English speaking. But I guess you already may have guessed that.

Here is another shot of Lillestrøm, taken on a misty October day. I have no memories of this place. It looks quite pretty and very friendly leaning upon that gentle hillside, don't you think?

The day after I was born, my dad came to pick up my mother and me. He took us back to Blaker where we lived for the next 6 months. My dad was an amazing musician, but had been brought up in a tradition of getting a "proper" job. The arts did not constitute what was meant by "a proper job", so like his father, he began working for the Norwegian Railways. My grandfather was station master at Blaker, a small hamlet in the municipality of Sørum, a part of Akershus County Council. Blaker is not very far from neither Lillestrøm, nor Oslo. This is where we returned to, and we lived in this tiny little yellow station house with my grandparents.

The journey of my extraordinary life had begun.