vittra – the scandinavian light

Words & Images: David Hjortsberg-

She comes and goes as she pleases. Luring me into comfort and then ripping her beauty from under me when I least expect it. She lingers on too long and appears too suddenly, catching me off guard and full of wonder. She is a singer and a song, a painter and a canvas, a dancer and the dance itself. She transforms and restructures even in her absence. Me, and everything around.

I have been following her all of my life. Sometimes knowingly – with a childlike curiosity. Sometimes – as a silent passenger alongside her. But always with a certain fascination; however subconsious it might be. She plays a part in all my childhood memories. Setting the mood, amplifying the details, acting as the storyteller in what I am trying to recall.

When I close my eyes and think of home, of places that genuinely make me feel at peace and harmonious, she is the ultimate bearer of truth. The maternal caress. Everything she touches connects me to this place and the men and women that walked here before me. She has a certain class and grace that is unlike anything I have seen in this world.

She brings me back to the places I love, again and again, showing them to me in new ways every time. Always soft to the touch, with just enough strength and warmth to invite in new ideas to the familiar scene. She holds my hand and keeps me company, never letting me feel alone in the dense forest and the cold vast landscapes. Her presence smoothes out the sharp edges of the city and her radiance drenches out the noise of the busy soundscape.

Her fabric shapes my thoughts and my sentiment. She picks me up and she brings me down. Keeps me calm and gets me excited. Lets me reflect and look for answers to questions deep within. We are one and the same. We dance together in joy and in grieving. And when she goes into hiding for long periods of time, as do I. Only to emerge when the nights grow shorter and the days longer. She is the healer and the protector of life, and the comforter of the weak.

© all pictures David Hjortsberg

More of this poetic essay in our NL1 magazine!