This post is in English for you, Andra. I have been thinking of writing about your book. So now I do.
I took it with me for a weekend alone at my cabin in the forest. The plan was to do some badly needed studying and at the same time breath a little air. Air that doesn’t contain busyness, daily life and cores. Air that smells like forest, rain and fire wood.
The book had been sitting on my kitchen table for a few weeks. I enjoy getting packages from someplace else. But I didn’t seem to get any further than the unboxing of it.
I didn’t get much studying done either. The air smelled like peace and the couch told me to sit still. So I mostly did. Late at night I went to bed with the book. It had been laying on the kitchen table for a day here as well.
You signed it, Andra. It’s like a voice from years ago, because strangely enough I think I remember your handwriting. A milimeter of a year years ago is still a huge impact in my life.
So I read you book. And I felt sad. I felt wise. I felt small, and big. Your writing is like a long poem of life. In a way I cannot really explain. It is beautiful, sad, victorius and giving. Your book is giving to it’s readers. So I read. And slept. And woke up and read again. And I wanted to tell you.
Your book gave me something. Like the rain on the metal roof , it created a soothing rythm inside of me. Thank you.