Into the darker time of the year and a sardine snack.

The hours are few these days, that carry light in them on their own.

Street lamps and the moon light up the dark through the fog.

Every day I walk outside to breathe in fresh air, to lighten my heart with space around it to beat in and to feel inspired by the ever-changing landscape around me, my back yard.

I’m re-exploring the familiar, and it makes me feel so enriched.

To see the known with new eyes, like it was the first time.

And sometimes I even get that rush of blood to the head, like the first time you know you’re in love with someone, that moment when you know your so completely lost in them that there is no going back.

I love that nature can make me feel that way too;)

I’m completely lost in this landscape, and I’m in love with the ever lingering fog.

The cold, the fog, the air and the walk always makes me hunger for something salty.

I yearn for basic food from my childhood that thrills my senses with simple combinations of salt and ocean.

And I yearn for living a bit more deliberately every day.

To catch the trade-winds in my sail, to dream, discover and explore, lie Mark Twain puts it.

That’s exactly what these days are about!

But as I wander in the fog and think about sardines, short little snip-bits of stories are created in my mind, little movie clips…

I picture old sailors coming into the harbor tying up the boat after a long days work. Engulfed in the fog and the darkness they rest their weary bodies on the railing and open a can of sardines kept in a waxed canvas sack.

One lights his pipe, and the other cuts on an apple with a well used knife three times the size of the fruite.

You can hear the ferry crossing the fjord in the distance, breaking the silence every now and then with it’s fog horn, a dark roar in the night.

They tear off pieces of bread made that morning, and with their rought hands fish-out pieces of sardines to go on each slice.

No one says a word.

It’s only them, the night and the sound of the water gently rocking the boat.

——-

These are the kind of stories my mind creates as I wander through the fog dreaming of the sardines I’ll eat when I get back in my warm little studio.

The fog creates poetry of the dullest landscape and becomes the most perfect place to sit down on a rock, read Edgar Allen Poe and to dream, discover and explore.

PS: Happy Thanksgiving to all my American readers!

Wishing you a lovely day;)