Dreng, der blæser sæbebobler. Allegori på forgængeligheden, 1663

(Boy, Blowing Soap Bubbles. Allegory of Impermanence, 1663)

Karel Dujardin, Collection of SMK

TURNING TIDES

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It is important to fill up your well to be well, and to have a source to draw from.

In one of Murakami's books, the main character sits at the bottom of a well for quite some time. The story actually comes to a complete standstill, and he almost lost me, his reader, here. Murakami seemed to draw his breath along with his fictional narrator, as they both paused before realizing how the rest of the story would unfold. It is apparently a lifelong dream of his, to sit at the bottom of a well and "be wonderfully isolated," I've read.

Writing is a lonesome journey. I've been at the bottom of a well this past month, and have felt isolated, in the-not-so-wonderful way. Only my inner critic joined me, a relentless shadow of bad company. I've had to lift my head and keep gazing at Shëkufe Tadayoni Heiberg's moon, which (or, rather, who) is the subject of her book, Nødder (Nuts). Shëkufe forms the third chapter of the book, I'm writing.

Nødder is a utopian science adventure into an interconnected, caring, living cosmos, a bio-fi, she calls it, but it is also a sci-bio. Her feminist and feminine worldview is reflected in language, too, as she invents both invigorating and empowering new words and the language of kvinsk! (Womanish, I guess).

I found deep rabbit holes in my isolated well, exploring the written language and the alphabet's historic relationship to the natural world. I've even felt related to how Odin learned the runes. The Norse god hung himself from a branch of Yggdrasil, the cosmic tree, for nine days and nights. Taking this unpleasant and isolated pause, he stared at the ground until the runes revealed themselves.

I went to the sea to write. It helped.

The relationship between the moon and water is an ancient marriage, and life itself sprang once from those tides. I looked at the full moon and the spring tide (springflod) that was particularly low. Something shifted and turned, like the tide itself. The text needs to be more fluid, more of a weird body of water. And I have to plunge right into it, no holding back.

Vesterhavet, Trans

WE ARE CONSCIOUS OCEANS

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Water is life giving. It is no wonder that "spring" means both this wonderful, abundant and almost erotic season of scents and sprouting life, and also means water that flows from the ground and often was considered sacred. When we search for life, we search for water. In many creation myths, including the Bible, water is present before anything else. Water is primordial juice.

The human body consists of 60-70% water, if we look at it in terms of weight, but from a molecular point of view, it is 99%. Water researcher and artist, Veda Austin, says in this wonderful podcast: "We basically consist of water, minerals and consciousness. We are walking, thinking oceans."

I went to visit quantum biologist Nikolaj Sorgenfrei Blom, guest researcher at DTU, whose scientific openness and genuine curiosity has led him to the weird wonders of water. He works with vitalization of water and is part of an international network of adventurous scientists. Nikolaj will form the fourth chapter of my book.

Take a look at this beautiful little water bridge that forms in the air and hangs there, inexplicable to researchers.

Nikolaj Sorgenfrei Blom

Studying water, Nikolaj has realized that you can only get to a certain point with your intellectual capabilities. Water and quantum mechanics cannot be grasped with the human will and rational mind only. It is simply too weird and wild. The insights have to come from a different place and cannot be forced.

"You have to surrender to something else. If the process of knowing the ways of water were anything like running a marathon, you would at least have a goal. But with water, the goal constantly moves, slipping through your fingers. It is like it says: This is not for you to decide."

I blow this small soap bubble towards you and hope it finds you well,

Birgitte

Fuglekonge (Goldcrest) / Museon, Netherlands - CC BY.

https://www.europeana.eu/item/2021657/resource_document_museon_115963

FUGLEKONGEN

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Except (the post scriptum) of an autobiographical essay, I wrote, by the sea. It is called Fuglekongen (The Goldcrest), and is in Danish only:

Kvinden, som nogle engang havde kaldt Birdie, sad en dag, lidt mod nord og en del mod vest, tæt på et venligt hav. Hun sad der, bag en rude, og løftede sit bevidsthedssvæv. Da hun vendte sig mod vinduets karm og rakte ud efter en sølvflaske med vand, forvirrede det måske – måske ikke - et ganske lille øje. Et sølverglimt skabte et øjebliks ubalance for et lille fjeret væsen, som fløj direkte mod ruden, mod spejlbilledet, mod kvinden.

Det var den allermindste Fugl, man kunne finde på de egne af de kosmiske verdener. Den var så lille, at den vejede det samme som en menneskesjæl og så lille, at den lavede sine reder af edderkoppespind. Historierne gik om Fuglen, at den havde vundet sit pompøse navn i en konkurrence med de andre Fugle om, hvem der kunne flyve højest, og den lille Fugl havde sat sig på den store ørns ryg, som intet mærkede til den. Da Ørnen fløj højest, var den lille endnu højere oppe. Fuglen viste med al tydelighed, at selv om man hverken var den, der råbte højest eller fyldte mest, kunne man sagtens opleve et meget stort svæv, ja, og faktisk var det slet ikke størrelsen, det kom an på.

Kvinden og Fuglekongen så på hinanden gennem ruden. De var ganske tæt. De var chokerede over mødet. Fuglen virrede lidt med hovedet og åbnede sit næb, som havde den noget at sige, en besked eller en sang, som ikke kunne komme ud. Øjnene plirrede, halen pegede mod nord, mens hovedet vendte mod vest. Det slog kvinden, at der kun var en fin membran mellem liv og ikke-liv, og at hun skulle holde sit vindue åbent for det.

Kvinden og Fuglen så på hinanden og mærkede genkendelse. Så samlede den sine vinger, rystede dem lidt og satte i et svæv, ned mod havet.