Too much chocolate...

My colleague went to that well-known Swedish furniture shop the other day, I'm sure you know the one I mean; famous for its flat packs and self assembly and even more famous (or is that infamous) for its useless instructions. In any case she surprised me by bringing back a giant slab of marabou chocolate (the best chocolate in the world if you ask me).

My mother once told me that it's better to eat lots of chocolate in one go than to spread it out over the day, as long as you brush your teeth afterwards... I'm not sure whether she said that because she, like me, has zero will-power or what, but I followed her advice nevertheless and stuffed myself. (And then, like a good girl, I brushed my teeth...)

SPC - treading with caution

The toilet at University College London

The very first time I went to an English hospital I was shocked at how worn out and tired it looked. Having lived in Sweden, Canada and the Netherlands where hospitals often resemble futuristic laboratories, all glass and stainless steel surfaces, it was like entering a different world. Initially I thought that perhaps Brighton General was more out of shape than other hospitals, but I have since been proved wrong on many occasions. And so it never surprises me learn about yet another MRSA outbreak; what with the peeling paint, cracked plaster and scabby furniture that must be left from pre-war days, the cleaning personnel are fighting a lost battle.

So it was with some trepidation I arrived for an MRI scan at University College London this morning. Despite the expected state of disrepair all went well, now I just have to keep my fingers crossed until the results come back.

SPC -- a good scrub

Bathrooms on my mind... dreaming of a sanctuary, a haven... to pamper myself.

SPC - On a street in Stockholm

My sister and I walking across Djurgårdsbron in Stockholm, on our way to see an exhibition at Liljevalchs konsthall last December. We had just had the pleasure of meeting Orhan Pamuk, the winner of the Nobel Prize in literature.

Gloomy though it may be, I think this picture manages to capture the cool midday light typical of a Swedish winter day perfectly.

SPC - up to the castle

My camera has been stolen. At the ripe old age of three it was really past its prime, if indeed it ever had a period that could be described in such grandiose terms. But it was still a camera, and to say I'm feeling grumpy to find myself at the mercy of the primitive technology offered by my mobile phone is an understatement. How am I supposed to be able to create self-portrait masterpieces with a Sony Ericsson?

But I'm not the sort of person to give up easily. So after some trial and error, most of which involved figuring out which shutter sound would be least offensive (the option "silent" is curiously absent from the long list of absurd choices), I set off to the nearby town of Lewes, home of Lewes Castle. And to my surprise I realised that despite the "camera's" countless weaknesses, the results were not altogether bad. It even has a self timer!

So here I am walking up towards the castle (which was closed), wondering what type of camera to buy to replace the old Konica-Minolta... does anyone have any suggestions?

SPC - barefoot

I once spent an entire summer barefoot. I was 22 and worked as a waitress in a fancy restaurant on south Pender in British Columbia. I lived on north Pender, so in order to reach the restaurant in time to put on shoes, set up and welcome the first guests as they arrived between 5:30 and 6, I would set off, shoe-less, at around 3pm, hitching a ride with whomever I could.

By the end of that summer not only had the skin on the soles of my feet grown tough; my ankles were stronger, my feet broader, my centre of gravity had descended and I felt deeply connected to the ground.

For years now my feet have lived in shoes, and whilst they seem pasty in comparison to the wild woman feet I had that summer on Pender Island, they are still one of my favourite body parts. I like their broad, sturdy appearance and I think they are well suited for growing roots. Maybe it's time to take my shoes off again.

Holiday prep

This is ironic. I love this month's challenge, it provides the perfect opportunity to explore what is both delicate and heavy; full of angst but also of joy; embodies uninhibited happiness and complete despair... the body, my body. And I feel ready to be brave and honest and really delve deep into my own issues and expose my fears.

And here is my hand - cleaning.

We are about to go on holiday and I have this thing about leaving the house in a state as near to perfection as possible, partly because our neighbour, a friend and the cat watcher will all be here, collectively looking after the cats in our absence, and I don't want them to see what messy slobs we really are. But also, I like nothing less than coming home to a messy house.

And the manic cleaning, coupled with the long hours put in at work in order to get everything ready for our two week leave, finds me curiously lacking in both time and focus for creative explorations... I feel temporarily stunted, exhausted and in need of a holiday.

SPC - a small wasp with a big message

On Friday, as I prepared for shut-down day, the concept of a computer-free day filled me with apprehension and I wondered if I would suffer withdrawal symptoms. It turned out to be a wonderful, almost liberating, thing to do and so I decided to extend it a little bit. The fact that spring has arrived with a bang has definitely spurred me on, and acted as an incentive to keep me from sitting inside.

Coming back from this little hiatus feels almost like starting afresh, which is why I thought it was appropriate to post this photo (which has been photoshopped) of a very young wasp. And I would like the child I was then to act as a reminder to live in the moment, to be mindful, and to have an open mind - a beginner's mind.

SPC: come dance with me

After a stressful time with my dad becoming ill, I'm starting to feel positive again. Prompted (or I guess I could say inspired) by last week's Sunday scribbling I feel like making this whole week all about inspiration. And I feel like dancing. It's time to put on the soundtrack to Monsoon Wedding and do the jiggy around the living room, and for the first time in ages there is a substantial decrease in the amount of jiggle... which is enough to put a smile on my face. Will you join me?

Update: I just came home from an absolutely awesome, and totally inspiring, dance performance by Henri Oguike Dance Company. Oguike's roots are in break dancing, and the performance was a brilliant amalgamation of the chaos and jerky moves of street dance and the fluidity and perfection of modern dance. At one point I felt almost overwhelmed and totally blissed out to be there, to witness this beautiful performance.

Stepping outside straight into a painful arctic wind afterwards, I caught sight of the tiniest sliver of new moon in the sky. The promise of things to come. Happy...

This photo of me dancing on Gabriola Island in British Columbia (about 12 years ago) has been manipulated using beadart.

SPC - hiding, feeling grumpy

Mothers and daughters, what is it with this relationship that is so difficult, so fraught with tension? My father had surgery last Wednesday and what was expected to be a simple procedure turned complicated and he was very unwell. I decided I needed to be here in Sweden, both for him and my mother, and for myself. So I jumped on the next flight filled with romantic visions of my mother and I sitting at the kitchen table, really talking, drinking wine, becoming closer, while my father grew stronger and stronger in the hospital.

Of course it's far more complicated than that. Without my dad here everything is somehow off balance. Despite her incredible experiences during the war; being forced to salute Hitler as he rode through the town, hiding in haystacks from the raping invading Russians, fleeing under dangerous conditions from east to west Germany, she has grown very conservative, very narrow-minded as she's aged. And as I listen to her talk I feel bile rising, smoke coming out of my ears, blood threatening to burst my arteries.

And sometimes I have to hide. Hide from her, but also from the guilt of wanting to hide. I come and sit quietly in this room; I try to breathe deep into my belly, I try to accept and love her, unconditionally.

And when she goes to bed at night and I hear her sing softly to herself I'm flooded with feelings of tenderness, and I'm able to let it all go. And tomorrow I know I will try again, I'll try harder to be accepting and understanding.

This photo has been manipulated using Typorganism. So far it's my favourite tool.

SPC: fragmented

This month's theme is a real challenge for me; the idea of using online tools to manipulate images just doesn't excite me that much. But I do like the Hockney-izer, because it illustrates quite nicely how fragmented I often feel.

Instead of seeing myself as a whole I often view my body as a completely separate entity to my mind. This isn't perhaps that unusual, but I also tend to divide my mind into different fragments. This schism manifests in different ways, but is particularly evident whenever I'm feeling negative about something.

Like when I'm meditating and I find my mind wandering onto completely mindless topics. Usually I try to very gently steer myself back on track, but there are times when I angrily think: "why are you doing that? stop thinking about what you're gonna have for dinner, and focus!" The question is who is this "you" I'm telling off? Isn't that me? Of course. But then who is doing the telling off? And as long as I keep having inner conflicts like these I wonder whether I will ever feel completely serene and at peace.

One of the reasons I like yoga is that even at my level I can see evidence of it starting to bring my mind and body closer together, and more importantly because it feels like a form of moving meditation it is really helping to unite the fragments in my mind. Interestingly enough the word "yoga" comes from the Sanskrit root yuj, which means "to join" or "to yoke". Mmmm... there is a wonderful promise there...

SPC: liberation

Here I am. No make-up, goofy teeth, not so great nose... it's amazing how free I'm feeling. When I started blogging I had no idea what the purpose of it was, but never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would pour my heart out in the way I have. Talk about catharsis. I have admitted to feelings and fears online that I had never even fully admitted to myself before.

I didn't think it was possible to be this open and also show my face. The two seemed mutually exclusive. But I have come across so many fearless and inspiring people in the last few months that this concern seems completely irrelevant now. So here I am. Warts and all.

SPC: Fat Tuesday

Overpowered by the semla

In Swedish Shrove Tuesday is referred to as Fat Tuesday, which neatly sums up how you feel after eating a semla. These Lenten buns are an almost guaranteed cardiac arrest served on a plate, yet Swedes have a compulsive need to consume them, in vast quantities, not just on Shrove Tuesday, but on every Tuesday from early January until Easter.

The first bite is delicious. The soft, sweet, cardamom-spiced bun is filled with a glorious almond-bread mixture and it is topped with a generous spoonful of whipped cream. But already by the third mouthful or so you can't help but wonder what all this cream must be doing to your arteries, never mind your stomach (and your hips and your thighs). Nausea soon sets in, and keeps you company for the rest of the day.

Despite years of experience, my craving for a semla was so great this weekend that I spent the first half of Sunday baking the wretched things from scratch, which included making my own almond paste (the kind sold in the UK is just too sweet). The second half of the day was spent feeling quite disgusting; I swear fat was literally oozing out of my pores. It's the perfect way to start Lent I suppose, no way are you going to want to eat anything so fatty and so sweet again for a very long time. But since Lent hasn't been observed in Sweden for many years, there the gluttony continues, relentlessly, until Easter.

Feeling brave? Want to give them a go? Here is the recipe.

SPC: body image

Since my first self-portrait challenge last week, I've been quite preoccupied with examining the mental image I have of myself. I'm stunned to notice how I ceaselessly criticise various parts of my anatomy, how I fail to see the beauty in the laughter lines around my eyes when I look at my face in the mirror, and how I beat myself up for my lack of control when I greedily indulge in one more slice of chocolate cake.

I believe that what I need is a prescription of acceptance, love, enjoyment, lots of laughter and an end to the useless comparison of my 38-year old body to how it used to look when I was 21... There are so many sexy, confident women in their 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s who don't seem to be suffering from this body angst at all. 38 is kind of like being a teenager, but instead of being stuck between childhood and adulthood, now it's all about no longer being considered "young", but definitely not feeling "old" either.

I dared myself to spend some time really looking at myself: my face and my body, and then eventually I took out the camera... The initial inhibition soon gave way to a carefree sense of enjoyment... A step in the right direction, definitely.

Alexandra of Marvelous Madness posted a wonderful quote by the American ballet dancer Allegra Kent, which ends, "As an adult, I met people who talked passionately about their new Rolls Royce. But that isn't a real posession. All we actually have is our body and its muscles that allow us to be under our own power, to glide in the water, to roll down a hill, and jump into someone's arms."

SPC: emerging from my shadows

This is my first self-portrait challenge. Again I find myself drawn back to the concept of identity (which I previously wrote about here and here) …

The person I really am often differs enormously from the person I let others see. When I believe I need to protect myself or when I feel vulnerable, I use a mind-crafted mask to hide behind. But when I feel exuberant, extrovert and brave, I thrive in the spotlight and the two me’s are almost interchangeable.

Then there is blogging, and the blogging persona. In this medium I’m realising I have an opportunity to be as open and honest as I wish; in a sense show the true me. And here vulnerability doesn’t really matter; in fact the feeling that comes from expressing myself, in what is effectively a very public domain, when I'm feeling at my most vulnerable is incredibly liberating.

But this sense of freedom comes to a halt when I attempt to use images rather than words as a means of expression. I sense a shrinking away, a desire to hide. Identity… hmmm.... as I’m hurtling towards 40 I am struggling with my judgemental self. I feel that I am fading away here in this city, bursting at the seams with gorgeous young things, that I am becoming invisible, an undesirable…

But I am aware that I am my own harshest critic, the hand clamped over my face is my own, what it represents is self-inflicted, and I need to find a way to pry it away in order to free myself from my internal judge. I need to step out from the shadows I have created for myself.

invisible mute
ready to break the silence
emerge from shadows