No. 102 - Copenhagen or Bust
plus, my mother's aura
Hi dear readers, whoever you are.
It’s a bit of a mystery to me. I’m grateful and amazed that I have as many readers as I do, though I fully understand that the numbers lie: apparently only half of the people who subscribe to any given newsletter will actually open the email they receive. That’s still many people reading my words; many thanks to those who open the email and engage!
As I wrote a few months back, my husband David and I are going to Copenhagen for the summer on a house exchange. I want to write about my feelings for Denmark, but I’m not sure how.
Here goes nuthin’, as we used to say when I was a kid.
I was raised by my mother and my grandmother, who emigrated to Canada in the 1920’s. Growing up, Denmark was this mythical motherland that my grandmother would return to every couple of years, and sometimes my mother or my aunt would go as well. They would always return loaded down with amber jewelry, stainless steel kitchenware and fancy coffee carafes. We had handmade Danish Christmas decorations on the tree, and my Grandmother would make a Danish dessert every year for Christmas dinner. She also regularly prepared Danish dishes, many of which I didn’t realize were from the motherland until I visited there myself.
Occasionally there’d be a visit from some Danish relatives, and I’d get to hear my Grama speak in her native tongue. It was very mysterious, but I felt that that’s who she really was and I was glad for her.
Grama and I were tight. When I was around 21 years old, she told me she’d pay my way to visit Denmark with her if I saved up my own spending money. I was 100% down with that. In order to put away some dough I took a job as a live-in personal aide to a woman named Donna who had cerebral palsy, something I had no experience with. If I remember correctly, I got the job because Donna and I hit it off during my interview, but looking back I’m amazed that she put her life in my hands. My impression was that I was at the very least a big improvement on the woman they were letting go, a free spirit named Rainbow. I’m not making this up.
I wanted to find a way to stay in Europe after the visit with Grama ended, and to that end found a little hardcover book in the Victoria Public Library called Schools in Europe of Interest to Americans. From that book I learned of a school in Helsingør, Denmark called Den Internationale Højskole—the International People’s College. It’s a Folk High School, meaning there’s no strict curriculum and no grading. You choose whichever classes you want and take part in cultural dinners, et cetera, and the rest of the time you party your face off. At any rate, that’s the way I remember it.
I spent the summer with my Grama visiting her sister Musse in Northern Denmark, then went to the school in Helsingør from September to December 1982. I spent Christmas with my relatives in Esbjerg who I’ve since become close with.
There were approximately 60 students at Den Internationale Højskole, half of whom were Danish and the rest came from various places around the world. The only Canadians were myself and two fellows from Québec, one of whom I fell in love with and traveled through Europe with after Christmas. I later moved to Québec to live with him, which is a different story.
I’ve since been back to Denmark four times, always to visit family in Esbjerg. I don’t claim to be Danish—though by blood I’m half Danish—I’m Canadian. But I feel a kinship with Denmark and specifically my family there that can actually bring tears to my eyes. It’s true I cry more easily as I age, but still. I feel my Grama in Denmark for one thing, which means my heart is there.
And now…
Something I wrote back in 2020, just before the pandemic changed all of our lives:
My Mother’s Aura
When I was 21 years old, my mother quit drinking cold-turkey on a bet with my uncle, who made a habit of eschewing alcohol for the month of January. Today we call it “Dry January”; whether or not that term existed in 1981 I couldn’t say. She continued well past the month’s end—in fact she continued her “Dry January” for the rest of her life. It sure would have been nice if that bet had been placed 21 years earlier... but that’s a story for another day.
By my reckoning, my mother did a neat little switcheroo and replaced booze with all things New Age. If it was purple, or had anything to do with auras, angels, incense or magnets, my mother was all over it. I used to scoff—hard—at her seemingly bottomless well of credulity: it was a come-one, come-all kind of acceptance of anything alternative. I don’t scoff quite so hard nowadays—I have since become my own brand of Woo. I do, however, still have difficulty stomaching the trappings associated with New Age, and I definitely employ my Spidey-senses no matter what comes my way.
Judging by these photos of my mother, I’m going to guess they were taken 25 – 30 years ago. Hard to say. She looks pretty happy, that’s for sure. Whatever else these photos are, I find them quite beautiful. If you want to learn a little more about aura photography, here you go:
The Colorful and Clairvoyant History of Aura Photography in Artsy
Some Stuff!
What to draw and how to draw it from 1913
Nick Cave on being an old rockstar
David Hockney shows his sketchbook:
—>Okay, that’s it—we leave the country today, so I’ll catch you on the flip side! Bye! 😘
🪞WORKSHOPS! Downloads AND in-person workshops!
🪞Check out my resource page where I’ve started compiling things related to journaling, note-taking, and more.
🪞Visit balampman.com
🪞There’s always Instagram
I see a parallel between the young you going to the library to find a school in Denmark you could go to and the grown up you joining a home exchange network to find a way to Denmark. And here we go, off to the continent!
Have a great trip B.A.! I look forward to hearing all about it if you choose to share in your newsletter. The photos of your mother are evocative.