The lines in the curved rock by the misted lake read like hieroglyphics here, the sky is high and even in the dark the space feels so wide I am afraid I will lose my balance. the scent of the silent pines reminds me I am a stranger in this place, I wonder if the woods are suspicious of me, or curious – I sense them watching, waiting

Inside the candles and the bundles of coloured wool light up the third fika* of the day from the edges and people push in from the outside, their breath is steam and their words are a strange kind of ancient music, it brings the wide night inside

And dreams are whispered in the corners here, they say there is treasure buried in the snow-capped mountains to be carried down and there are old rumours being lifted out of the soil there… perhaps these are all a part of some bigger shalom fractal, seeping south, out of the ground... maybe.

Sometimes you have to leave to be able to come back.

* genius Swedish coffee break with coffee, homecooked sweetstuff and conversation…