A blogger & her blog


Hey Presto! Mio manifesto!

Or something else, equally enthusiastic. I just checked my blog counter. And it says the blog site has been visited 64 times!!
Maybe that´s not a lot at all in the world of blogs, but.
In my innocent state of blog ignorance, it sounds tremendous.
Just yesterday I was struggling with thoughts like; why blog, or write at all, there are so many people doing it, high quality, and I know nothing about blogging or how to make it be read out there in the wild wild web, the dream stream where so many great ideas and projects sink to the bottom without anyone ever having noticed at all, that it was out there floating about…

This counter number really encourages me. I will keep going. And when my tiny tot son soon starts kindergarten (7.of Oct.), I will get time and energy to research how professional blogging is done. Not that the info will mean there is commercial hope for a blog like this one. But just to know. And even if it isn´t possible to make money out of this typing, I will keep blogging. Just like I have kept a journal for as long as I can remember. From before I started school. Writing is simply necessary for my wellbeing. And to have someone actually read what one writes, is … a gift I truely appreciate, money or no money. It carries its own reward. Both the writing. And the being read.

Anyways. The heading today; A blogger and her blog, is an intertextual referance to my first piano notes booklet.
It was called A girl and her piano.
I guess it symbolizes to me, being at the starting point of learning a new skill. Like blogging. Or piano playing.

I played the piano age 10-16. Learning from an elderly lady, a very elegant one. And nice. Never telling me off for not having practiced enough at home. (Again). Always just playing the piece for me, then supporting me through learning it note by note. A great pleasure to master a new piece. The music from my key-pressing, became more and more nice to listen to! I mean, from the first very simple songs, twinkle twinkle little star… to more complex classical pieces, like “March from Carmen” …

Age 16 I quit. Two reasons. Or maybe three. First, we moved from Haugesund to Karmøy. Half an hour by bus. So it made my piano lessons and football practice more difficult to keep up. I continued football for a short while, and quit piano. Also because I was more interested in sitting at home listening to pop and rock music, making collages of pop idols, gluing pictures from magazines, and drawing words at great detail, writing poems about being in love, and about the fear of atomic war, and such. This was 1988.

But the third reason I quit piano lessons, is the more interesting one. It was because, every xmas my teacher arranged a concert by all her students, for our families. That last xmas, I was her oldest student, hence her show piece, the one she was the most proud of. Which is a compliment. But. It made me feel very pressurized. That my performance somehow was connected to my teacher´s honour. And my parents´ pride in me.
I remember the numbing nervousness prior to walking on stage. The fear of forgetting notes, or just freezing half way through.
My performance went well. Everyone was smiling, clapping.
I went down from the stage and back to my parents´and little sister´s table. I took the bottle of coke to pour myself a glass. The glass bottle hit the edge of my glass like a drumstick! How extremely humiliating to my teenager heart. My father leaned across the table and put a finger on the bottleneck, stopping the sound. He looked me in the eyes, with a gentle laughter. A precious moment, but at the same time I felt ashamed, that everyone now had heard as well as now could see from his holding the bottle, how nervous I had been.

My teacher was sad that I quit. Told my parents I could reach far if I wanted to. I don´t know how conscious I was about my reasons for quitting. I probably just felt like it. Maybe these reasons were not even correct. Just a product of my hindsight theorizing.
But it doesn´t really matter. They are the reasons as I see it today. Correct or not correct, they still hold value as my present truth.

More than twenty years later, in 2010, I decided to find out what my stagefright was caused by, and to try and get over it. As I was in a project which would have me hold an opening speech at an exhibition of my poetry and video installation, linked with paintings by Fanø´s fine artist Margit Enggaard. Easter 2011. At Fanø Kunstmuseum.

My husband works at a university college, and there they have this lady employed, who helps the students get rid of their exam anxiety. Which is very related to stagefright.
The fear of not performing good enough.
So we contacted her, and she came over to ours 3 times in all, doing her magic using TFT, thought field therapy. Whilst tapping gently on points on my fingers, hands, head and face, she asked me questions about how it felt when I thought about holding that opening speech. She asked if I recognized this feeling from earlier experiences in my lifetime. Yes, I said. From a piano concert when I was a teenager. Ok, she said. Let´s rewind the film that is your life until we get to that concert. Are you there? Now step into your body. What does the feeling look like? Now send waves or rays of love from your heart to the origin of that feeling, choose a colour for the waves or rays that feels right…….

That´s how we worked. Visualizing event after event connected to my fear. From time to time returning to that question; you will hold that opening speech soon. On a scale from 1 to 10, how tense does that make you feel? And I tell you, after an hour of the tapping and the talking and the visualization of changing my inner…self protecting shortcuts…which I had created during my related life “traumas”… like reflexes, my mind automatically stopping me from having a similar, so disturbing experience ever again… After an hour, I felt, still tense, but not at all like before we started. Beginning at ten, after one session I was down to a 4! And after three session, when she reminded me I would hold that speech soon, I just smiled, and said I could actually no longer feel stressed when thinking about it. ! True! I still don´t believe it, but. It´s gone!

Thought field therapy.
Extremely interesting method for healing.
I can no longer claim to have stagefright.
Not that it makes me want to jump on stage.
But there is no numbing fear paralizing me, making it completely impossible if and when I need to … well. Perform.

I strongly dislike that word perform. Form in front of. With people watching, judging. I much prefer to write something and send it off. Or edit video, with me singing on it for example, and then send it off. Not to have to perform live.
To be present whilst video is running, is actually a kick, though; I tried that at my exhibition. It´s such a thrill to experience the audience responding; do they laugh where I laughed whilst making it? Do they see the link between words, images and melodies, the same way as me? Or in a different way, which would increase my understanding of my own work? And hence influence my future work, make it better than the last work I made?

It´s not that I don´t want to connect with the receiver of the products I make. I just find it hard to stand there in person, representing my work, feeling the feelings of the receivers.
Although this may not be exactly true anymore. As I did try to read out my Norwegian poems in a gallery called Henneberghuset in Esbjerg this spring. And I actually, to my great surprise, utterly enjoyed it!

I guess I will have to collect new experiences, to fully realize I am now free from stagefright. And all those old thoughts I still have, connected to my previous inner blockage, need to be replaced by more positive ones, relevant to my new inner reality.

Hey, next I will be seen on MTV (or whatever the newer music video channels are called), all naked, swinging a mike like a lasso over my punk rock mohawked head (purple and orange hair colour, of course), shouting “IS ANYBODY HUNGRYYYYYY? HUNGRY LIKE THE WOLF??? WANT A VIEW TO A KIIIIILL? WELL THAT AIN´T GONNA HAPPEN, DURAN DURAN WAS YESTERDAY, THIS IS THE NEW NOW, HAVE SOME OF THIIIIIIIS!!!”

Hmmmm. I guess I will have to learn a bit of el-guitar.
Or maybe rather a base guitar, plus a percussion setup I can play with pedals whilst doing those funky base riffs. Oh yeah. YEEAAHH!!

As I always say: Imagination is the only limitation.


Broken Bones


It´s a quarter passed five in the morning. Been upstairs comforting my fouryearold daughter. She fell from the bed whilst playing last night. Seems her collarbone is fractured. Going to see the dr.in the morning.

She is ever so brave about it. I have explained to her that her skeleton is like a twig that has been broken. That it only hurts when she moves her shoulder. That it hurts a lot, and the body will fix it but it will take some time. I asked her if she now understands why I always tell them to calm down when they play rough games on the bed. She nodded. Message received.

I normally tell them to ease up, her and baby bro, when I hear them play like that. But last night I was busy, watching their big sister show me her new dance routine. I thought they would be allright, as always. Then the scream. Shudders down my spine.

It´s two AM two nights later as I write this line. We went to the dr. yesterday, who sent us to x ray in the hospital. Sure enough, her collarbone is broken. She got a sling, or what it´s called in English. A band across her back, supporting her arm, easing the pressure on her shoulder. She gets painkillers four times daily (including nightly). Poor little mite. Today she told grandma on the phone “It´s gonna be okay…” Sweetest thing.

I remember last time I was involved in someone´s bone breaking. I was 14, and my little sister was 2. I put her on the back of my bicycle, and told her it was very important she kept her legs away from the wheel. Famous last words. Of course she couldn´t understand. Her little leg was broken, she cried all night and next morning her leg was plastered. I will never forget the sight of her sitting on the kitchen table, with her tiny, thick, white plaster leg.
I can´t remember feeling guilty, though. Maybe I´ve just repressed it. Our mother was always good at explaining how things could happen accidentally. Knowing her, she probably helped me un-blame myself.

One last thing in my life about broken bones, is an occasion where I didn´t break any, but statistics would say that I should have done.
We were on easter holiday, in the snowy Norwegian mountains, renting a cottage. I was 10 or 12, and had made friends with one of the local boys, who was a dj at the kids´ disco in the afternoons.
One day him and his mate showed me how they used to cross the river. Underneath the car bridge, there was a concrete beam all the way across. Connected to the bridge with iron poles, maybe 2 metres apart. The river was about 25 metres wide. “You don´t dare to do this!” They said, and started walking on the beam. Now, those words have the same effect on me as a red flag on a bull. When they said that, then I just HAD to do it. To prove them wrong. So I walked after them. Holding on to a pole, then letting go to take a step before I could grab the next pole. The water was rushing beneath my feet, five six metres below. Bit rocks sticking up, the river foaming around them. Soon we reached the other shore, and I was happy and relieved. But the boys just turned around and started walking back across the beam. I had not thought about the return.
I started walking, letting go of the pole, taking a step, grabbing the next one. Suddenly I thought “If I fall now, I will hit my head on a rock and drown.” I froze. But the only way out of there was to keep walking. Pole by pole. Let go, walk, grab on to. One more time. One more time.

I felt very happy and proud when we reached the starting point of the river crossing. It took me many years to think of it as something wreckless, risky and foolish.

I guess one can also view it as an act of the fool in a tarot deck. Walking into the unknown fully trusting everything will be okay. Fearless.

When I get the chance, I will talk to my children about pride. Explain to them that everyone needs rites de passage; to show their peers acts of courage, proving one´s beloninging with the strong ones. But that need must not get stronger than the need to be care-full, being one´s own best friend, resting in the knowledge that no matter what I do or don´t do, I know I am a brave and strong person. Some times the bravest thing to do is to stand alone, resisting a challenge.

I have never had any bone in my body broken. Not yet.
But I have been through breaking relationships.
I have felt heartbroken. And experienced a few broken inner barriers.
A lot of emotional pain. Spending time in sorrow, whilst waiting for the wounds to heal.
Once something broken mends, it makes you a bigger person. Richer somehow. Your depth deepens, your height heightens, to try to draw a picture of increased consciousness. This doesn´t necessarily mean what happened was a good thing, though.
No one ever said life would be good. Or easy, or fair.
At age 23, I was so filled with despair, I didn´t want to continue living. That inner breaking apart, almost cost me my life.
Not every wound can heal.
In some cases, you must learn to live with the loss.
So help us God.
Or whatever you choose to call the higher power. Or not to.
Every person is free to choose its own truth. What to believe and not to believe. Beautiful freedom that each of us has got.
Life is a mystery.
Of this, at least, we can agree and be sure.

I guess I should go back to bed now. So I´m “fresh” when my daughter wakes up again in a couple of hours, crying, in need of more painkillers. Feels terrible giving her medicine. But what else can I do than relieve her pain so she can sleep.
Sleep is the best medicine, so they say.
And with those final words, I say good night.


The we in wedlock


I just arrived home again, having been to Copenhagen for 5 days.
Been to my husband´s oldest son´s wedding. (In Denmark they call their partner´s kids their “bonus-kids”. So he´s my bonus-son. I have a bonus-daughter as well. I´m truely lucky to have them).

We have had the pleasure of seeing Kasper and his Fie tie the sacred knot of twosome togetherness. Exchange little bands of gold, slipped gently around each others´ happy fingers.
Two lovely people in their twenties, having been together for eleven years already, their thriving baby son a living proof of the joyous warmth between them. Love moves people. Long Live Love.

There was a huge party. About a hundred people. Family and friends. Speeches and home made songs about the couple, lots of different bands on stage, as the groom is a very active guitarist. Her girlfriends made a speech together, and his childhood mate did a funny quiz. There was splendid food, open bar, the wedding cake, and after the bridal waltz, the groom´s socks were cut in two with scissors, by his male friends. Possibly to demonstrate that his new wife will know how to sow the socks back together? I´m not sure. Traditions can be pretty weird. In this case funny weird.

In the wedlock ritual, wellknown from previous experience by everyone present, a circle was formed.
All these smiling people, dancing, singing the praise of romance… we all belonged this evening in the circle of Kasper and Fie.
A community whose members don´t meet normally, other than
in little groups. As we are spread across the country.
To see all their people together, see everyone shake hands and some who never met before, start to get to know each other…
It´s hard to find the words to express the significance of this.

It creates one shared understanding of the couple´s essence.
It creates a bond, not only between the newlyweds,
but between central people in their network.

Basically it creates a superfine spider-web
spun between hearts, with soft and silky wedding-thread.

(It´s tempting to make two more rhyming lines there, but I think I will try to stop myself. The image deserves to stand alone, somehow).

The ritual of wedding, makes a milestone.
Marks a togetherness.
It is a great investment by the couple, in my humble opinion.

Stating two people´s wish to stand united through time.
A symbol of hope and faith for everyone connected to the two.
Not faith as in God save us all or the queen.
But faith as in courage to hold on, to believe it can be done,
that the commitment to romance is worth fighting for.

Lighting up the flames of passion, of compassion, of Love eternal.
Inviting everyone close, to come participate in the celebration.
An honour. A great gift given to each guest. A heartmelting experience that will remain in all of us as a precious, fond memory for the rest of our lives.

The we in wedlock. Includes many more than only two.
Is what I want to say.
The weekend´s party´s left me with an attitude of gratitude.
New warmth glowing in my heart. I´m positive this we is here to stay.

Like the groom sung in his speech;
“I will fight for the right to love you.”

(Backed-up by his band The Grenadines. They promised that his wedding song will be released as the first track on their album no.2. Too late for their album no.1, as it is to be released any day now. Check them out on Facebook. Beautiful melodic music).

Long Live Love.
Ever-lasting Love.
Dance me to the end of Love.





Yesterday I went into my netbank to see how much money I have left, and discovered I have not been paid this month!! It is my last payment before a year of support stops, so it really threw me. And gave me a taste of what it will feel like to be me in October.

I´m quite good at not worrying about things. I trust that thinking positive will create positive results. But it certainly is a challenge, moving towards no income, in a time like this, where so many are unemployed and struggling.

The local flowershop, just twenty metres from my home, wanted someone, so I applied, but only part time and from October, so they have  found another one. I am also not trained in flowerings (or what it´s called), but it seems like a peaceful job, colours and scents, quiet talks with customers, who want to buy flowers to express their emotions for someone, romantically or a funeral, or… just to cheer up themselves… I thought that could be a nice thing to learn to be good at helping people with.

But that train has sailed. (Quoting Austin Powers). Next move I will make, to find income, is to write an open letter to my fellow islanders in the local paper. Letting everyone know I´m available and searching. Maybe there is a person like myself on this island, eccentric enough to respond to a letter like that. I know that I would gladly employ a person for some hours a week if I had money, and could do with a pair of helping hands, doing dishes, writing letters, pushing my wheelchair…  I hope this strategy will be a success.

Coz if it isn´t…. Then the next step will be the dole office on the mainland, in Esbjerg. Have some meetings with their consultants to plot out my options. Take a masters degree in social anthropology or media science, f.ex. Or get a trainee job in a local tv station. (I make shortfilms, videos, photography and editing. But self taught, so I need more technical skills to apply for proper tv jobs).

Thing is, as soon as things are placed in Esbjerg, there is a ferry schedule included in each end of my work hours. And I want to keep my two littlest ones in kindergarten for half time only, for the next couple of years. Ideally, if at all possible.


Except for these plans of action, what I´m  REALLY gonna do, is collect my Norwegian poetry and send it to an author in Norway, who is known to advice writers on where they should send their scribblings. I have self published a book in 2011, but I realize I completely and utterly SUCK at selling the book. So I want to find a publisher who can help me spread the word, so to speak.

My self published book is written in English. And I have found a publisher who wants to turn it into an e-book. So it can reach people who actually read English. And hopefully it will sell. And if it doesn´t, at least it may be read, in the e-book library lines, and that is more important to me.

I am participating in a couple of exciting cultural projects as well. Making apps, for example, promoting my Danish home island for tourists. Giving them local information through their mobile phones.

And I´m part of a group or two of enthusiastic people with great ideas, for happenings, performances, festivals…

So it´s not as if I´m lacking interesting things to do with my time.

All I´m lacking is money, honey.                                                                                 Must be funny. In a rich  woman´s  world.

I´m in the middle of educating myself as well, actually. In 18 months time I can call myself  “a vocal sound therapist”. If I get all my case results together. Very exciting education. I will certainly talk more about that later.

So is this blog gonna be all about me myself and I? Probably, yes. Write what you know, as they say, the wise.

I´m first and foremost on this planet to increase my consciousness, of my self, my Self and of LifeDeath. (my word, just jumped into life this moment).

I support two things that the beat poets used to say:

Write your life.


Make the private public.

I believe in sharing our life experiences, to help each other learn and grow. I believe life is too short to make shallow conversation. I believe that sharing one´s truth, strengthens both the talker and the listener. Breaking taboos. Expressing feelings, fears, joys…

That´s what words are for…. (almost quoting a famous song there 🙂

This blog will find its own form as I keep typing along. I will for sure add photos and videos when I find out how to. And present my book and film on a page.

Be patient with me and my ramblings. And let me know your opinion on what I write, if you feel like it. I hope to find out how to get back the function of comments real soon. I effed it up installing a facebook sharebutton plugin. Big sigh. Until that´s back in order, you can always reach me on lenekaltwasser@gmail.com or find me on Facebook; Lene Kaltwasser Henriksen.

To be reachable or not to be reachable

is a central question in this our

new age of communication.

Bottom line.    :o)




So. Here we are now… entertain us… as said a certain K. Cobain.

I´m a bit dazzled. Suddenly I have a blog for the first time! Have been thinking about it for quite a while. As I love writing and write quite elaborately on my Facebook profile.

I will just write what comes to me naturally. No fixedness. No boxes.

“Destroy roofs and walls. See in all the rooms at once.”                                        – Jim Morrison.

I predict I will be talking about two things mainly in the weeks to come; my lazer eye operation experience (happening 23. of Sept.)

And my current change in life situation, as I will go from being a mother-staying-at-home to being mother-of-kindergarten-children-looking-for-source-of-income. This shift happens with my little son´s entry into kindergarten 7. of October.

Well. Dinner here now. Time to switch off the dvd cartoon, and get my oldest daughter to put down her Minecraft.

As we say in Norway; Vi snakkes! ( = We´ll talk again)!