I started my blog in order to make it possible for my friends and others, who are interested in writing, to be able to follow me in my world of creativity. Hopefully you will be inspired and make your own kind of art. Creativity can be expressed in many ways. Whether you write poetry, novels, articles or bake, cook, dance, paint, sculpture, sing, love or pray or not, it is a work of art, if you are truly present in the moment of creating.
My grandmother, who lived in the north of Sweden, used as a tradition melt a piece of tin on the open fire every New Year´s Eve. As soon as the tin was liquid she went outdoors and threw it out into the snow. When the tin got stiffed, she took up the piece, which was now transformed into a sculpture with many figures. She looked at it thoroughly and began to predict about the future.
You can imagine what an impact such ritual had in my young life! It was not her words, no it was merely the ritual itself. The cold dark winter night with the northern lights(auroraborealis) flashing on the sky and the liquid hot tin transformed together with the crispy white snow was absolutely amazing to watch.
The message it brought to me, was the possibility of transformation by a meeting. In this case, the meeting of the hot tin and the cold snow. My own writing career began with a meeting, a catalyst that started my process in order to fulfil my secret dream. If not, my poems still would have been hidden in my chest of drawers.
You can imagine what an impact such ritual had in my young life! It was not her words, no it was merely the ritual itself. The cold dark winter night with the northern lights(auroraborealis) flashing on the sky and the liquid hot tin transformed together with the crispy white snow was absolutely amazing to watch.
The message it brought to me, was the possibility of transformation by a meeting. In this case, the meeting of the hot tin and the cold snow. My own writing career began with a meeting, a catalyst that started my process in order to fulfil my secret dream. If not, my poems still would have been hidden in my chest of drawers.

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