DESPACITO. SLOWLY. BACK AGAIN.

Returning to my blog today is like returning to an old and faithful friend - you know, one that you haven't caught up with lately, but one you can pick up with right away, exactly where you left off, maybe years ago - and like magic you connect immediately!

I have not checked my blog for ages, but I see from the stats that there have been readers all along, clicking into different blog posts, all over the world. This amazes me, pleases me and touches me no end. I love you all. I'm returning to you too, my friends!

Looking back, my last blog post was published on February 12. I wrote another one on March 16, which I never published, for several reasons. I will though, and it's perhaps appropriate that it comes after this one, because in a way it was a turning point for me. It was about my visit to Berlin at the end of February.

After my post-Christmas blog entry, about my stay in Australia, I felt changes coming. Slowly, slowly, but definitely something was moving in me. Or maybe not moving, but resting. Or both at the same time. This is still grief. Yes, I think so, this is yet another side of grief. Moving, resting, staying still, moving again. But gradually that rollercoaster is not so violent and desperate. Not so loud. Not so overwhelming.

I noticed I was sleeping better, even in Australia - and it wasn't just the jetlag. Obviously I was spending time with my family - all of them for once - and that is always a joy and a boost, but also I seemed to be more at peace with myself and my sorrow. Peace - yes. Tranquility. Acceptance.

My turning point - well, is there one? All through my period of grief since my husband died I have believed that things will mellow, that time will heal. Change comes gradually. Because I am basically a lighthearted and positive person - and I am also human - I have experienced bouts of happiness and laughter and joy in between all the sadness, but definitely the sorrow and pain painted a thick layer on it all.

My memories of my husband, my associations with our experiences and our life together, have triggered a lot of emotions in me during the months and years after he died in April 2015. So when I went on a trip to Berlin at the end of February this year I was expecting to feel his presence again - not because we had been there together a lot, maybe only once in fact, a long time ago - but because I knew he had been there several times before we even met and that he loved this city very much.

I went to Berlin with my daughter Johanne and my two granddaughters. It poured with rain the whole time, the wind came in strong gusts through the streets, the subways and the big open squares, and our newly acquired colourful umbrellas turned inside out.

Still - our four day Berlin trip was simply fantastic. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and I felt confident and convinced that my husband would have loved it too. But this time I was on my own, with his and my daughter and granddaughters. His presence was there. And then again not there all the time.

Suddenly I felt ready to meet spring and not least the second anniversary of my husband's death - April 6. I definitely knew that it couldn't possibly be as bad as that same day in 2016, when I thought every milestone was met, every special day experienced once. And unexpectedly it all collapsed on me. I reached the bottom then, the darkest place, the pit. I realised that all those days would come around again, and it took some time to crawl out of that desperate knowledge.

And then - almost unnoticed by me - something started swirling in and out of me, like a white feather, like a soft curtain swaying in a summer breeze. My soul began to change, ever so gently, ever so slowly. Everything became lighter, brighter, easier - gradually. I was emerging. In January I was introduced at a party to a man who wanted to meet me again, but no. For me there was no emotional or physical connection, no chemistry, nothing. Probably I was not even ready then, but at least it was food for thought. Could IT happen to me again?

And then, suddenly, at the end of March, a new man appeared in my life - out of the blue. I did not expect it, I did not see it coming, I did not even want to be falling and feeling mad and reckless like a carefree teenager. Which is what I was when I first met him.

But I did fall. I'm still falling.

This man is on my wavelength, after all these years. I am fifteen going on sixty-three.

MY RESTLESS EXISTENCE

I am in France again, in my house in the village of Thuir beneath the Pyrenees. I am here for several reasons - not that I really need to present any - the main one once again being a wish to get away from my hometown Oslo. My restlessness knows no boundaries, and as long as I merely exist at the best of times, I might as well be here instead of there.

View from my house - snowcapped Mt Canigou in the Pyrenees

There have been snowfalls in Oslo recently, and as anyone who knows me will verify, I'm no fan of the white stuff. When I return in a few days I will have to dig out the car at the airport car park, which reminds me that I have no shovel in the boot. That might be a huge problem.

My husband - who always loved skiing, both cross country and downhill, who played bandy when he was a young boy - gradually became tired of the winter months in Norway too. The cold, the ice, the snow, the slippery roads and not least the perpetual darkness. We had agreed that we'd spend more of those dark winter months here in France, where all of a sudden you might wake up to a day with promises of bright sunshine and warmth.

But last Sunday as I was landing at Barcelona Airport I could feel the forceful greeting of Marcel the Storm. The turbulence was indeed the worst I've been in for a while. As I neared the Pyrenees, on the plain after Girona, my little hire car had trouble staying on the road. Winds at up to 150 kilometres per hour really threaten to throw cars off the road, or overturn them. Very often roads are closed when these gusts are going on. Off the motorway and driving the 10 kilometres up to my village I had to dodge fallen branches all the way and a tree trunk here and there. Thinking about it now I could have stopped and gathered free firewood, but then again - not. This stretch of road has earned me two speeding tickets in three months - only a few lines over the limit, mind you - so in fact the fallen stuff blocking the road at intervals was good for me.

Our favourite summer restaurant La Flotille closed, abandoned, deserted

The storm died down gradually, but of course it's winter here too. I had an urge to walk along the beach today - just to feel the elements tear at me. The wind and the rain were powerful enough without lashing out at 150 kph.

And the rain hid my tears. Yes, my tears - that are still coming. I found that my stay in Australia over Christmas and the New Year helped numb me and keep the constant sorrow padded, for the obvious reason that there was such a lot going on all the time. There were people around constantly, it was so busy that I sometimes had to ask for a little bit of "alone"-time to pick myself up. I am after all an elderly woman.

It was as if my brain and my emotions had a time-out while I was in Oz. It was as if they too were on holiday. The numbness was nice in the way that it kept my emotional exhaustion at bay, the one that comes with all the grief and all the crying. I was able to discern some of my old energy again. The weather was warm, the sky was blue, my closest family members were once again gathered all around me.

BUT. There is a big but. Almost every time we gathered - for instance when we sat down for a meal, I found myself counting a chair for my husband, a plate, a glass. I feel his absence so physically that it's as if he's there too. His absence is a presence. This became very apparent during a family trip like the Australia visit because in a way it's completely unthinkable that I should've done something like that without him. He SHOULD have been there.

And he was there. So strong and clear. But my loneliness is excrutiatingly apparent too in these settings.

I know a wise old man, and I met him at a dinner party a few weeks back. A widower, he lost his wife five years ago. He's lovely and entertaining and great at including everyone in conversation - what you would call a perfect gentleman. Across the table from me he associated a piece of the conversation topic with sorrow, looked at me and said "I bet your grief still dominates your life - all you do and all you feel. It will take at least three years. Then you might begin to live a little again, to laugh a little, and your heart will be in it."

Sunset over Mornington Peninsula, Australia - Christmas 2016

And do you know what? This is also one of the reasons I'm here in my house in France - to grieve in peace. My numbness didn't last. I should have known it - it's impossible to force yourself to go numb and devoid of emotions. They will surface eventually.

I pull out a chair for my husband here too.

He should have been here.

THE LONG HAUL DOWN UNDER

I have neglected my blog for nearly three months - or put it on hold, so to speak. I have no intention of wrapping it up, on the contrary, but my life has been filled with exciting travels.

My daughter Julie is married to Josh and they live in Melbourne, Australia, and I hadn't seen them since my husband's funeral in April 2015. A rendez-vous was long overdue! My youngest daughter Sophie is living there as well, for six months, so it was time to gather the family and regroup. What better occasion than Christmas!

So we - the four of us still living in Norway - set off on December 20 - on the horrifically extensive travel from Oslo to Melbourne. I had chosen the quickest route, via Dubai, but it's still a mind-blowing distance - 24 hours approximately and the crazy jetlag to boot. As the air steward said as he was serving the meal a couple of hours before arrival in Melbourne: "Good morning, good afternoon, good evening, whatever. Here's you breakfast, lunch, dinner, whatever." (It was 9 pm local time, 11 am our left-behind time). Knowing you're going to be cooped up in a very limited space for that long means having to place yourself in a sort of Zen mode - and tell yourself this is something you just can't do anything about - there's no escape - and you have to forget all about claustrophobia and all other types of anxiety. Alcohol helps, especially a Bloody Mary or two, and so does a pill. For me at least. We all have our different survival methods.

I couldn't believe our luck when Julie told me she'd managed to get hold of a rental flat next to her and Josh's place, in the same building, in the beautiful suburb of Toorak. This made everything so easy for us while staying in Melbourne. The proximity, the leafy flowery walkway between the entrances, the huge sun deck and the Christmas tree made us feel we were at home, and the long travel and the ten-hour time difference were suddenly peanuts! For the time being anyway, until I woke up on Christmas Eve with the mother of all colds. And I am never ill, so I felt it was very unfair that this should happen now! I was very anxious about it being a three-week type of flu, but with the aid of paracetamol and rest I was back on my feet again in less than a week. Yes, I know I tend to exaggerate my pains and woes when I get ill, and I become exceedingly grumpy, but imagine my worry at being bed-ridden for weeks in Oz - definitely not a fun option. 

Possums started circling our Melbourne rental flat as soon as dusk descended, and remembering Dame Edna Everage's cheerful and endearing greeting to all her guests and audience - "Hello possums!" - I had thought this was a cute animal. No way. The growling, the wheezing, their presence everywhere - especially in the tree you just walked under - it's all quite disturbing. And some of them are huge! 

Gradually I learnt that the most dangerous animals in the world live in Australia. The reptiles. The insects. I lived in Africa as a child and thought I was pretty confident about all creatures great and small, but some phobias definitely found their way into my head Down Under. Especially when the shark alerts suddenly became a daily occurrence as we moved down to the coast after Christmas. 

Hairy beast!

Hairy beast II. No no, this is not a possum! This is Julie and Josh's sweet cat - Miko - but she likes to sit in the trees at the entrance, just like the possums. 

Shark alert in Anglesea. The helicopters indicate a circle round the area where they spot the shark. Many spottings this holiday, and several beaches closed. As if the Australians care…. 

Friendly guys? Not always, it seems. They are very strong. 

Once again I'm reading the great travel writer Bill Bryson, whom I recommend as a must for everyone who loves travelling and becoming acquainted with a country from the inside. He's very witty and capable of noticing some of the less appealing sides to a country and its people, and elegantly ironic about it he is too. All interspersed with descriptions of easily attainable historic events. I'm glad I picked up this book when my Oz stay was actually coming to an end, because by then I had so many references and observations of my own and laughed out loud at the recognitions. 

This is a little excerpt of Bill Bryson going boogie boarding with his friends Deirdre and Glenn, an aquatic pastime that my granddaughter did several times: 

"'What about sharks,' I asked uneasily. 

'Oh, there's hardly any sharks here. Glenn, how long has it been since someone was killed by a shark?' 'Oh, ages,' Glenn said, considering. 'Couple of months at least.' 

'Couple of months,' I squeaked. 

'At least. Sharks are way overrated as a danger,' Glenn added. 'Way overrated. It's the rips that'll most likely get yer.'…. 

'Rips?' 

'Underwater currents that run at an angle to the shore and sometimes carry people out to sea,' Deirdre explained. 'But don't worry. That won't happen to you.' 

'Why?' 

'Because we're here to look after you.'"

We happened to have the exact same conversation with our new Australian family. 

I'm full of admiration for the brave Aussies and very happy they're now part of my life and can lead me through all perils, known or unknown.