Søvn

I try to sleep. It is the end of the day and I have practiced one hardanger tune for about four hours and now the music is torturing me, haunting me with it’s repetition. Laying there wide awake I tune into my imagination: I travel out the door and down to the beach. I sit on the stones, looking at the waves and the mountains in the night-light. Staring.

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But still the melody is there, the waves washing in each note. And so I turn around and head into the trees and up the mountain.

I step on the wet rock where knarled knuckles of roots grip tight and provide me with foot-holds. I touch a branch to steady myself: part of an uprooted tree, felled by the snow in the weight of winter. The dried soil around the exposed root sprinkles off when I touch it, covering my hand with a velvety powder that lingers long on my skin. On the path I stand on the pine cones quietly listening. And there is the melody, delivered on the wind like fairy music.

It is not until I reach the open higher ground where the snow swallows all the sound that I can find peace. There I hear only my own breath in the whiteness. At last I sleep.

I awaken the next morning in the midst of a dream. I have caught dozens of fish. They lie glistening all around me.

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