In my twenties I believed life was about an adventure, passion and an untamed potential I perceived in every living thing. I savored life’s essence dancing my way through the effervescent white nights in Norway when the day would never end and the sleeplessness was a badge to strive for. I danced barefoot on a floor of a pub with broken glass under my toes to a loud music, with the stars in my eyes. I drunk to my delight and let my amber-red hair sway to the rhythm of eternal youth that ran through my veins. I slept on a beach by a bonfire, my body drenched in a sweat, smoke and an aroma of love, My dreams were full of wonder and life just seemed to be opening like a flower’s bud in the palm of my hand. Each day I woke up feeling happy and ready to just be. I was drunk from the mere possibilities that awaited me.
Thirties came with a baggage of motherhood; a mellow and definitely more subdued type of an experience. I was a life bearer, a giver and a personification of mother goddess. This time the sleepless nights were of a different sort and they didn’t leave me ecstatic; only exhausted. I cut my hair short and I forgot how to dance to the tune of the Earth. My music was that of lullabies and nursery rhymes. The rare moments I could remember who I was, were defined by my newly-found peace in meditation and writing. In fact, passion I put into writing was an only remnant of my fiery and wild twenties.
Then came my forties when I found my beauty again. I grew my hair longer and started spinning new dreams. I yearned for a passion and life that would be meaningful. It all came to me in a sudden flash, in a moment I will never forget. It was in a smile, the eternal allure of a new love, intoxicating and powerful. At the same time I realized I had a dream. I wanted to be a writer. It is beautiful to dream… and so I write.