FOUNTAIN OF SORROW

The other day I was suddenly, out of the blue, reminded of a favourite song of mine by the American singer/songwriter Jackson Browne. As a matter of fact he's one of the finest poets in the songwriting business, and his lyrics are worth listening to because they are loaded with profound meaning. This particular song - Fountain of Sorrow - is supposed to be about his short lived affair with Joni Mitchell, but the words will fit any frame of mind, any thought and feeling.

"Fountain of sorrow, fountain of light, you've known that hollow sound of your own steps in flight."

I think the reason it cropped up in my mind is the absolutely brilliant title. That same day I'd had a message from best friend Grete telling me that she'd lost her father-in-law. Her mother-in-law died only six weeks earlier. I knew them both - they were lovely people who welcomed me right into their home and their hearts when I went to England to visit Grete and her coming husband way back in 1975.

Grete wrote in her message to me: "A lot of sorrow this year. I have this wistfulness, but at the same time I'm incredibly grateful for all the love that lies embedded in that sorrow." I weep at the way she puts it! She's a true poet, just like Jackson Browne.

We had talked about all this sorrow just a few days earlier, and that was even before her father-in-law died. Mine, hers, her husband's, my husband's. When people ask me these days how I'm doing I find it hard to lie, to pretend I'm okay. Because I'm not. Things are going shit actually. I'm going through the hardest time of my life. It's inhumane, and not least unfair, the way life has given us this blow. We are on death row, simple as that.

I also find it hard these days to enjoy myself. Should I? Can I? Do I even have the strength to? My life is flooded with sadness. But - enjoyment can consist of so many things, so yes - I escape into books, music and films. But meeting friends for an evening out, or a girls' weekend away…. well, I cancel those. I have no wish to be away from my husband for any long period of time either. Yesterday he offered to accompany me on a 2.5 hour drive to the mountain cabin to show it to potential buyers, then 2.5 hours back again to Oslo. I so appreciated it! Just having him there, next to me in the passenger seat, meant the world. I would have been lonely and worried if I'd made the trip without him.

Still flowers in my garden - what a gorgeous autumn we're having here in Oslo!

Then suddenly I find I'm heeding Grete's words. Love lies embedded in the sorrow. Because lightness comes easily to me - heaviness is not a prominent part of my character - I am quick to turn my thoughts around and not sink into darkness. I laugh easily, and when my wise beautiful friend Tove came around yesterday and spent the night here, our giggles combined effortlessly with deep existentialist topics.

Tove's words to me are: "Don't fight life as it happens to you. Don't resist. Go with it. Move along with it. It will make everything easier to bear."

My Irish friend Addie - my sista from another mista - says to me: "Come to Ireland both of you and stay with us for as long as you like." She's practically prepared to remodel her house for us so that my husband can move around more easily!

It's exactly one year ago today since our lives were turned upside down. Coming down from the cabin yesterday afternoon I recalled the phone call from a very worried daughter Sophie when I was driving that same winding mountain track one year ago, after having spent half-term holiday up there with oldest daughter Johanne and the grandchildren:

"There is something really wrong with Dad."

Little do we know of what awaits us round the next bend of that winding road called life.

Fountain of sorrow. Fountain of light. This is what I am right now. Overflowing with both.

 

I cooked my grandmother's signature dish tonight - "brun lapskaus"- beef stew with autumn vegetables. The colours reflect the outdoors reds, yellows and browns. And it makes me think of the generations of wonderful people that come and go and leave their mark forever.