There are days when the words don’t want to come. When the body speaks louder than the mind and the world feels still, almost silent. Today is one of those days. Sometimes it feels as if both the body and the words need rest – as if stillness itself wants to speak. Maybe I need to step back from the words for a while, let the body have its say and let the lake, the wind and the silence take their place.
Ideas are not plentiful today. It feels as if the words have run out. It might be because of the pain in my neck, or simply because I have nothing new to tell.
In earlier years, this would have frightened me. The thoughts would come: have my words run out? Do I need help to find them again? But now I simply feel that maybe I need to rest from the words. Because they usually show themselves to be there, just behind the noise. They haven’t yet found their way into this morning – maybe they’ll arrive another day. Sometimes the words just need to rest in the body, to be rocked into a quiet song.
By the Lake
Yesterday morning at the lake. The jetties lay still and the world held its breath. Here, both the words can rest and the body can speak.
I went down to the lake to bathe. Only one of us “bathing sisters” swam; the rest of us stood with our hands above the water, letting our bodies cool down. I was first into the water and first back out again.
The feeling in my body after a swim is always wonderful. For a short while the pain disappears and my whole body fights to regain its warmth. Energy rushes through me and my thoughts slow down.
Even though the swims are wonderful and give me strength, I don’t think I’ll swim today. I’m thinking that I probably need to go to the health centre and get my neck sorted out. It’s been almost a week and a half now and the pain isn’t going away. Maybe I can get something stronger than Alvedon or Ipren, because right now it feels as if I can’t stand it any longer. I thought it was just a bit of neck pain, but the pain keeps changing and gives strange sensations in my body.
Reflection
In the past I would have been afraid that my words had run out. Now I think that perhaps it’s just like the body – it needs recovery to have strength again. The words aren’t resting to disappear; they’re resting to come back with new force.
AHA
It struck me today that words and the body are alike in some ways. When I give them rest, when I allow space for silence, both the words and the body find their way back into their own flow.
Between the Lines – My Voice
Between the pain, the swims and the silence lives a longing for balance. To dare to pause, to dare to be without words for a while – that is perhaps also a kind of strength. Life goes on anyway, and one day both the body and the words will awaken again.
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Final Reflection
It’s as if the body and the words work together in their own way. When one needs rest, the other carries the stillness. I think maybe this is how life tells me to slow down a little, to let the morning be quiet without rushing anything forward.
Perhaps it’s not about finding my way back to the words, but about letting them find their way back to me – when the time is right.
I live today, right now. History teaches me to rest in body and soul. Tomorrow waits out there in the future – a day I cannot live today. But what I do now can grow into something tomorrow. Right now is always, because this is where life is lived. – Carina Ikonen Nilsson
Autumn day of stillness – rain and love. Early morning coffee, a gentle candle flame and memories of grandmother and great-grandmother set the tone for a day filled with quiet reflection and everyday warmth.
Autumn day of stillness – rain and love frames my early morning. It is 5:22 a.m. when the coffee sends up its fresh aroma and warms my hands as I write. I have lit my grandmother’s wall lamps on her small sideboard where photographs of the grandchildren stand. The soft glow falls across their faces, as if the furniture itself wants to watch over those we love. Beside the lamps, a small live candle burns gently. Its steady flame keeps me company and adds warmth to the dark dawn.
Grandmother’s and great-grandmother’s sideboard with family memories and warm light.
Inside this sideboard my grandmother and great-grandmother meet. In life they never fully agreed, yet here they rest side by side. My grandmother’s little ornaments remind me of her, and between them lie my daughter’s drawings and family photos. This also brings back memories of my great-grandmother’s own sideboard – with a big clock that chimed every half and full hour and photographs of her children and grandchildren.
This morning it feels clear: both of these women live on in me. Two strong, loving presences whose memory deepens my day.
The cat has already slipped out into the darkness. Because more rain is expected, we may choose to stay home. We had first thought of a weekend trip with the motorhome, but a rainy weekend feels less inviting. Instead, it seems wiser to settle into autumn at home – stocking up on candles, cooking food that smells of comfort, and perhaps lighting the first fire of the term in the wood-burning stove.
Autumn day of stillness – rain and a rhythm of care
Yesterday unfolded at the gentle pace that only rain can bring. Our little one came home in the middle of the school day – soaked from recess – to change clothes. We laughed at how wet they were, wetter than after any washing machine cycle. So we put them in a bucket to drip dry, and then he returned to school warm and dry again.
It felt precious to welcome him home, even for a brief moment. Such everyday care carries so much love.
A city errand and hidden stories
Later we drove into town. He had things to do, and I used the time to enjoy a sunbed and pick up groceries. When I was done, he still wasn’t finished. Therefore I stopped, hungry, at Charli Chaplin for a kebab plate. It was edible but far from memorable. Having once run a small food stand myself, I could taste potatoes that had stayed too long in the warmer, meat past its peak and watery tomatoes.
While waiting, I sat in the car knitting and watching people move at their own speed. An elderly lady parked in front of me and then drove away. I wondered: When I reach her age, will I still dare to drive? What does her day look like, and who waits for her at home?
Right there, in the quiet of the car, a feeling of tenderness for all the stories of life opened up – the ones we know and the ones we can only guess at. Every person carries a story, in both light and shadow, and simply telling it has its own worth.
Autumn day of stillness – when sorrow makes room for love
Often when I write, a note of sorrow slips in. Perhaps because sorrow is always nearby – a gentle background between chaos and order. My own sorrow at feeling set aside sometimes stirs. It cuts and hurts, but I let it guide neither day nor heart. Some days are heavy, yet more and more often I return to this truth: another person’s actions can never measure my worth.
And within that sorrow lives so much love – for my grandchildren, and for our little one who is learning to trust. He knows that when things do not turn out as planned, he can always come home. When he says, “Carina, we need to talk,” I hear a longing for comfort and warmth. He wants to feel that someone listens and understands, someone who stands on his side and can say: “It’s okay, I hear you. You wished for something else, or you feel… You need this moment. Sometimes life is like that. We will find a way together.”
That love – to truly be there and to listen – carries me through the days.
Between the lines – my voice
This post speaks about letting love hold steady even while sorrow remains. It is about carrying one’s roots in the heart – grandmother and great-grandmother, their scents and memories – and about passing the same warmth to the next generation.
AHA – between the lines
In the simple things hides the depth of life: cooling coffee, a bucket of wet clothes, an old sideboard and a small candle. Each shows how love moves silently through generations, enriching even rainy days.
Your Voice: Between the Lines
Between the lines is an invitation: Pause. Breathe in the coffee’s aroma. Remember those who carry you. Allow joy and sorrow to share the same space. It whispers that none of us must walk alone through life’s shifting seasons.
FAQ text – Autumn day of stillness
This post belongs to the collection Reflection & Self-Healing. Here I gather writings on how to meet life when it holds both sorrow and love, how to find calm in everyday moments, and how to carry memories forward through generations.
Questions for you, dear reader
How do you find calm on a rainy day?
Which women or ancestors do you carry with you in your heart?
How do you offer comfort when someone says, “We need to talk”?
Reflection
Yesterday’s rain offered a slow rhythm. This morning I feel gratitude for quiet moments, for my family, and for the women who showed me that love is something you carry within – never something that runs out.
Yesterday has already found rest in history, tomorrow waits ahead. But right now – this is where life happens.
Yesterday, I wrote about the piles that seem to come alive at home. Today is about a completely different kind of pile – the pile of ideas, thoughts, and words that are growing here on the blog. Something new is taking shape: a way of writing that gives my words more direction, and my reflections more space.
How I Want My Blog to Feel
Lately, I’ve been thinking about how I want this space to feel for you as a reader. I want it to be personal and present, but also easy to follow and enjoy. It’s about combining heart and structure – warmth with clarity.
My New Way of Writing
I’ve created a post template that lets me stay free in my writing while giving the words a clear frame. You’ll notice that my posts now:
Are easier to follow
Appear on more regular days
Have more breathing room, photos, and reflections
I’ll also be sharing short daily posts – little glimpses into my day and my writing process, sometimes giving a hint about what’s coming next.
Will You Come Along?
I hope you’ll enjoy this new chapter in my blogging journey. I’d love to hear what you think – does it feel more alive, more clear, or more inviting?
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