I have been fascinated by stories since I can remember. From a really young age I would ask my parents and grandparents what it was like when they were young. I use to love, and still do,  hearing the stories they could remember from their childhood and youth about themselves and also what they could remember other familymembers had told them about theirs.

Over the years it has kind of morfed into a genuine interest about lived life and not just where my own family is concerned, but also friends and collegues and even people I dont even have a personal connection with. It is so amazing to hear how other people percieve their lives, what they have experienced and what they have learned from these experiences.

It is the foundation of how we evolve as people, as families and as cultures. And it makes us so much more alive when we connect with the stories of our ancestors. It holds the key to our own lives as we carry these struggles, loves and dreams of our forefathers with us into the present and even further into the future.

I do imagine this is why I love journalism so much. It holds the essence of storytelling in a way that no other profession does. It carries the seeds of personal history and people from all walks of life together in shared life-experiences . And the knowledge I/we can gain from these lifestories are priceless in our understanding of who and what shaped the culture and the people that we are surrounded by at this very moment. Their experiences in the past are part of our present and this to me is the very magic of stories and of history.

As time goes by….

So, my dad crossed over yesterday. 90 years, a good long life. Except for the past maybe 8 years, he was a pillar of the community and being the head of the local library he also initiated many cultural events. On some of these he worked closely with my mom and they were both kind and giving people. They gave my siblings and I a wonderfull childhood.

We were there yesterday. And allthough he was on morphine, due to pneumonia, and suffering from alzheimers as he had been for some years, we did our best to create a comfortable and loving atmosphere. So his passing was as easy as it could be.

Before his passing I/we sat with him and read from his favourite author, talked to him about the wonderfull vacations we had as a family when we were children, reminded him of our love for him, and also our mom, who passed on 10 years ago and who he missed very much. I told him what a great father he is, and let him know that we are all good and that it was OK for him to let go when he felt the time was right.

And then later it happened very quickly. It seemed that one moment he was there, lucid, silently sending his goodbyes and I love yous. And then he was gone.

It was the best thing for my dad. And seen in that light we are all relieved. But now that he is gone the stories are also slowly vanishing. The stories my parents knew from 60 years ago when we were children, things they only remembered. They are all gone. And their own stories seen from their view are gone. We have ideas, remnants of what we have been told, but they are secondhand and coloured in that way.

This is life.

The life that is forever changing and renewing itself and when we are gone the stories of the past will take a new turn and be coloured by new perspectives.

We are all these stories. Molded in time and coloured by each and everyone we come in contact with. And that to me is beautifull.

My dads life, and my moms, influenced me and my story in ways I haven’t even discovered yet and I am gratefull for being part of their story which has left a wonderfull, loving and giving mark in the world.