My 30 year vision
11.09.2024
Some weeks ago, during an exercise in the forest, I was asked to imagine my life thirty years into the future. I closed my eyes. Strangely, it didn't feel like something I had to invent. It arrived more like a memory. This is what I saw.
I'm awake early, at sunrise. I open the front door and observe the waves while soaking in the fresh air. Life is waking up again. My little girl twines herself around my leg. She's usually awake with me at this time, doing the morning asanas together. The rest of the house is sleeping. I like the quiet breeze of silence. The little one jumps back into her bed as I step out the door. I usually wake up in this rhythm: electrolytes and lemon water after a visit to the loo. Next on my agenda is more stillness. I meditate for forty-five minutes before I take my board and move into the water. Mornings are always glassy. Being first in the water feels different from anything else. Connected to nature's heartbeat.
Getting back to my white house, I'm met, as always, by our little dog. Together we walk to meet the rest of our little family waiting in the doorway.
Every morning we have an açaí bowl that my wife and the smallest girl prepare together. Same toppings: strawberries, blueberries, almond butter, bananas, homemade granola, hemp and a dash of our honey.
Beekeeping is one of my hobbies.
Together with it, a green juice containing celery, ginger, cucumber and lemon. I like it clean. No apple.
We always have breakfast together. All of us.
At this point, I love the childish energy. While I get their backpacks ready for school, I always smell the brown goat cheese before adding it between the fresh sourdough. In their bottles they have fermented, unpasteurized milk.
Watching the kids cycle off towards the horizon always melts my heart.
Oh, my wife looks gorgeous today. Soft skin in her pastel morning gown.
This is one of our few moments alone during the day, and we always have the same ritual. She lights candles while I brew coffee from my Swiss manual grinder. These days I import my own coffee directly from a farm in Ethiopia. The original coffee country.
We discuss our intentions for the day. Why we love each other. And the things that feel heavy. Looking at them together helps us clear out some dust. It took us time to get here. To understand what safety meant for both of us. Somewhere along the way, we learned to choose each other without leaving ourselves behind. It's rare to meet someone here. Maybe it only went this way because neither of us compromised on what we truly needed. There was flexibility, of course. Space to reroute when life asked us to. But strangely, the other direction never felt like a compromise. Just different. There is a kind of flow in that. It reminds me of the unforgiving landscape I grew up in. At the top of Norway, in the northernmost city of cities.
By ten, I leave the house. The boys are already there. We always meet in the same corner of our little Portuguese village. Talking about everything and nothing. Mainly just being in each other's presence. Dolce far niente. They serve red wine from a bottle without a label.
We always have one bottle and stop after a half glass each. Occasionally I enjoy a mezcal or something, but it's more of an exception.
These talks with my brothers are key. There's something about the genuineness of it. We are connected by honesty and listening to each other. Our ages span a few decades. In spirit, we are old students. Growing up and dying together like this is precious. From time to time, one of the guys brings out charas, hand-crafted cannabis from the Himalayas. I leave the sacred men and head for my studio, where I write and work on my coming documentary. It's furnished simply, made of wood so it can breathe, and placed in lush surroundings.
I have a fixed rhythm and get myself into deep focus for three or four hours. Just in time for sunset surf. By then, the kids are home from school with their grandparents and friends staying with us for a few days. Our house has a spacious backyard, a playground and a few more houses, so our extended family is always welcome. For me, life is rich and simple.
Watching the sunset from the peak of the A-frame feels magical every time. The wind slows down around sunset. Being immersed in it allows my nervou system to inhale and exhale deeper. It's a timeless state that requires nothing. It's getting colder, so like sharks, the few of us left out there keep swimming around to stay warm. And to stay alert for the next build-up. There aren't many chances left before she sets. I make my way in through the reef after riding the last one of the day.
At our little white castle, the gang is waiting for me. They've made lasagne. For some reason, this is what is being served. The same thing I asked my girlfriend at the time to make after finishing my first Vipassana — ten days of silent meditation. The first of many.
These days I volunteer regularly and sit for meditation at the Dhamma centre close to Lisbon. We eat together. The house is louder now than it was this morning. Stories from school. Someone getting another piece of lasagne. The last glass of red for the day. Later, we move outside.
Someone has already lit the fire. The kids disappear and return again. The dog finds a place close enough to feel the heat. There isn't much left to organize. I sit down. For a while, nobody says much. The fire crackles with the ocean somewhere there in the dark.