Tag: autumn

Autumn

Through the window
Through the window

Saturday morning. Crisp cold autumn. Fog blankets our little corner of Örebro. The sky above is clear but the blue is barely visible through the white mist. The fir trees that line the ridge that is known as Brickeberg, behind the houses of our suburb, and beyond which is forest, are ghostly outlines in the haze. The grass of our garden and the top of the hedge that separates it from the road are white with frost. A birch tree across the road is laden with golden leaves, but further away the world seems to dissolve into grey scale – black and white. The sun is shining somewhere beyond, trying to burn the mist away, pushing its brightness through the white veil, but still beyond reach, out there.

It is a long time since I have posted on this blog, almost a year. I have thought so many times about beginning to write again, but the longer it goes the harder it gets. It has been a difficult year for our family with many unwanted challenges, some of which remain unresolved. We still live in Sweden, but we think we will not be here much longer. As time draws on we feel the pull of the great southland, our other home, Australia.

It is a little over nine years since we left that hot dry continent and reestablished our lives here. The plan for a temporary sojourn of a few years did not give us time to achieve our goals. We stayed and stayed and despite a year’s respite in the warmth of those southern climes a few years back we found ourselves returning to this cold and dark but intensely beautiful land. Suddenly we began to feel that we had stayed too long, but we were somehow stuck. Extricating ourselves rom our Swedish life has not come easy, and it is far from accomplished. Sometimes we wonder whether it is smart, or even possible…

Our time here has been good and it has been bad. Which is perhaps a picture of life. We have made decisions that have turned out to be right and others that have turned out to be wrong. We rejoice for the successes and are sad for our failures. There are things that we would change if we could turn back time, but life can only be lived forward and so we can only try to avoid the same mistakes.

It is hard to be a family from two nations, two languages, two cultures. Our children are what are nowadays known as third culture kids. They are entering adulthood now and like us, their parents, wonder where they belong. They are not Swedish, they are not Australian. They belong to a third culture, and that is the identity and heritage we have given to them. They are not alone in this. There are millions of kids around the world who leave childhood and embark on life with the same burden, if that is what it is. They carry that idea of themselves for the rest of their lives. I know how that feels because I am one of them, a third culture kid. Sometimes I rejoice for the wonders that it let me experience. Sometimes I weep.

If things go according to plan this will be our last year in Sweden. It is painful to write that, and yet in some ways is a relief. If I am to post blogs in the months that remain they will be written in that context – of winding up, of closing down, of clearing out the debris of the past years. At present I feel no excitement about moving again, finding a new home, establishing new connections and relationships. But I trust that anticipation and excitement will come. It is a strange time.

I peer through the fog beyond our triple glazed windows. The sky is getting brighter and more colours emerge from the black and grey lines. Autumn has been lovely, with little rain and frequent blue skies. The temperature has slipped slowly down toward zero and frosts have really only arrived in the last week. Gloves and hats are pulled once more from storage and we reluctantly realise that winter is just around the corner. If it rains there will soon be ice on the roads and cycling will assume its winter challenge.

Will there be snow before Christmas this year, I wonder?

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Colours in autumn mist
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South

Flying south
Flying south

A year after we arrived in Sweden I started working at a health centre on the other side of Örebro. The suburb in which we live is on the south eastern corner of the city and in my musings as I cycled to work every day I reflected on the fact that I was cycling north, away from the warmth and toward the polar regions. As the months slipped by autumn deepened into winter and I experienced for the first time real cold. I remember the novel feeling of icy raindrops hitting my eyes as I sped down the hill. The greyness of November days was swallowed up by the blackness of lengthening winter nights.

November must surely be the worst month of the year. It is cold and wet and overcast and once the leaves have gone there is little to relieve the grey drabness. Two things stand out in the greyness of November in Sweden. The first is Allahelgonsafton – All Saints Eve – when churchyards all over the country come to life with candlelight. On the Saturday of that weekend people visit the burial places of their ancestors, leaving a long burning candle on the grave. Since many people are no longer buried, but rather cremated, when they die, leaving no headstone to visit, there are memorial gardens in cemeteries and churchyards too and these become a veritable sea of flickering candlelight. As morbid as it sounds, it it the graveyards of Sweden that bring relief to the darkness of November.

The other thing that marks this month is the mid term break, the so called höstlov – autumn holiday. It is perhaps not much of a time for a holiday, so nowadays many travel abroad, southward to warmer climes – Spain, Italy, Greece, Turkey, the Canary Islands.

We stayed home however, and one afternoon took a stroll through our local forest – Markaskogen. Walking back toward home in the darkening afternoon we heard telltale sounds overhead and as our eyes were drawn upwards we caught a glimpse of migratory birds, their long necks straining forwards. They too head south at this time of the year, away from the cold drabness towards somewhere warmer and happier. Some, like the swans in this photo, go no further than Denmark, but others have the good sense to not stop until they have crossed the Mediterranean into Africa.

Heading south seems the smartest thing to do when November greyness threatens to drown us in its drudgery. Times like this we wonder why we live in this cold northern land and not in our other home, Australia, the Great Southland.