In the garden

The last couple of days I have been contemplating this strange fact:

The world is a different place now, than when I started writing my book.

In this sense writing is like telling the future. In the years it takes to write, rewrite, edit and publish a book, the world spins and the people change. Some are born and others leave us. When we are writing our stories we are not writing them for the people we know, but the people we will know in the years to come.

In my memoir my small daughters are seven and nine years old, playing with their dolls, jumping from the swings on the playground. Now they are teenagers, doing whatever teenagers do (hanging out with friends, snap-chatting, instagramming and homework).

Time moves on. I am thankful to be here, to take part in it all.

But in my book, I have saved those precious moments; the swings creaking, back and forth, my girls giggling and their hair fluttering golden against the blue sky.

My book is a time capsule, not with things in it, but moments; fragments of things we said, laughed about, cried about.

Moments that flow so natural, so free, as they happen, but looking back, they take on an almost cinematic quality and I look at them wide-eyed; did that really happen?

My story is starting to become a riddle, even to me, and I am thankful I decided, and got the support I needed, to write it down, before the moments faded.

Because this whole crazy thing called life, is stories really; thousands and thousands of stories, happening all around us, moving, changing, evolving, and catching one is like a balancing act in an old silent, black-and-white movie; the past in one hand, the present on our head and the future in our other hand. While we are on a unicycle, pedaling to keep our balance. And typing on our computer.

Cheers,

Lene