Christmas Memories, Part II.

(Please click here to read part I)

The Christmas celebrations that I recall most vividly are the ones that were spend in Sweden, whereto my family immigrated when I was thirteen and where I lived until I was twenty five.

Upon our escape to the west, when we found ourselves as political refugees, my family became a very closed knit one and still is today. Thus Christmas, which highlights the value of family and celebrates those who are us near, was always a very joyful and infinitely happy time that I recollect today with absolute fondness.

Never forgetting our central European origins, we kept many of the traditions of our Slavic roots, nevertheless also tried to integrate with the new society and thus allowed ourselves to be assimilated by the Scandinavian Christmas traditions.
Such as the Advent observance, which turned December into a month of celebration, when the house became illuminated by multitude of candles. Particularly the lighting of Calendar Candle and the opening of Christmas Calendars became a wonderful daily ritual as we counted impatiently down to Christmas Eve. The weeks were filled with scents and tastes that are so significant of this special time, such as Glögg, a type of mulled wine, a very traditional Christmas drink in Scandinavia, the ginger biscuits and the saffron buns, baked on Saint Lucia Day.
Among all this,  the perfumes of the traditional Slovak and Czech holidays cuisine kept us close to our origins and reminded us of the culture we once came from, bridging the past and the present in a poetic way...

The warmth of these almost twelve years of traditional celebrations in Sweden was what laid base to those I established as a young adult. My very own Christmas was born in North Carolina, where I lived for almost a decade.
It was here that I for the very first time decorated my home for the Holidays, trimmed the tree and started slowly to combine the traditions that I have carried with me from my past, all the way from childhood. Slowly, Christmas became a holiday that I no longer celebrated with my parents, but with my friends. It was difficult at first, but I realized quickly that all the love and happiness I felt once in the past, when I was a child or a teenager, resonated still within me.

I realized that I was capable of creating my own traditions, the ones that would dictate a new direction of the Holiday celebrations that would become my very own.

Education At The Dinner Table.

My parents are visiting me this week. As my family - near and extended - is spread all over the continent, the moments we get to spend together are few and far between. Thus I cherish every single second when we do.
Their presence bring back sentimental memories of times gone by. It seems like it was only yesterday when I lived at home with them and my sister. But after closer contemplation I realize, I have been living on my own longer then I ever did with my family. Or anyone else for that matter.

I guess I enjoy being alone to a certain extend, but there are times when I miss having a family of my very own. And the good and the bad that comes with it. I yearn for the company of my partner on every day bases and the idea of having children, filling the empty space with laughter and life, giving the future a certain higher purpose.
To this day, what I miss the most about my childhood, my teens and my early adulthood; all spent at home - are dinners and weekend breakfast at our dinner table. The best time of the day on a school night was when my mother would shout "Dinner!" and we would all gather around the table, as the evening settled over the city. We would dine, but always talk as well, discussing everything between haven and earth, while recollecting our day, joking and laughing. Even better were weekend mornings, when we slept in late and had no school or work to go to. Weekend mornings that very soon turned into noons, those magical moments that I never thought I would cherish so one day.

Most of what I needed to know about life, the magic of living and how to handle its ups and downs came from those discussion at the dinner table. All the strenght that I felt I possessed when I set out to conquer the world was born at the gathering at the table with my family; something that seemed so very ordinary then, but came to have a profound impact on my adulthood.

Perhaps just like the ancient or even primitive man, sitting around the campfire, feeling the security and warmth of not just the fire itself, but the connection with the individuals that surrounded it; the best start in life, the most important education in and about life - comes from the family itself.

Fantasy In Ice.

I am a sun worshiper and a sun lover. During the course of the year, as soon as the sun rays are warming up my surroundings, you can count on finding me outside, absorbing their vital energy. In this respect, I live in the wrong climate for sure.

Do not misunderstand me though, I love the changes that each season brings. But I would like to have real seasons, not an eternal autumn, as it at times can feel in southern Scandinavia. Our weather pattern offers very little heat and sun in the summer and rarely any snow to speak off in the winter. I do love snow though, particularly around Christmas. I was born under the foot of the Tatra mountains and I learned to ski at a very early age. There is nothing more magnificent than a clear winter day, when the landscape is covered by a heavy snow blanket, drenched in the golden shine of the sun.

In contrast to southern Scandinavia, northern Scandinavia however has a completely different climate. There indeed is snow in winter. Lots and lots of it, tons! So much indeed that it can be used each year to built an entire hotel. Well, after it has been sprayed with water and turned into ice. This is the very famous Ice Hotel, which is rebuilt each year in the north of Sweden.

This incredible engineering in ice celebrates its 20th anniversary and is an astounding project from start to finish. Each year a new, different hotel is built, and each year it is unlike any other. The building starts in mid November when skillful artist, builders, engineers and designers from all over the world gather in s small town near the arctic circle and lay down the foundation for the building blocks, that are later transported onto the site of the hotel.

The building proceeds in several phases and is in a way an ongoing process. As soon as one section is completed, it opens to visitors and overnight guests, while the other sections are still under construction. The hotel expands and grows until December 30th when it is finished, signifying the onset of it's main season.

Everything within its wall is made of ice. Anything from hallways and furniture to glasses in the bar. There are even fireplaces inside - do not ask me how this works. Nor can I clearly comprehend how it feels to live in a building made entirely of ice.
Once completed, the Ice Hotel stands so in its sparkling crystal clean glory, an amazing sight to behold and to experience, satisfying all our senses. For months it will house guests from all over the world, offering luxury and opulence of the unusual kind.

And then one day, the dry winds from the southeast bring warm air from the continent and the building blocks start to melt away. As the returning spring sun gains in strength, the hotel disappears inch by inch until finally only the original building blocks are left standing. Gone are the stunning artworks, the vaulted hallways, the castle like rooms. They have returned to their place of origin, completing this amazing recycling of the fairytale in ice.

The Ancient Word Processor.

When I was collecting supplies in our stock room located in the basement of my workplace the other day, I stumbled upon an array of discarded items stacked on a table in the corridor. Someone was obviously cleaning out their offices and left some of the old, unused objects outside. What caught my eye was an old typewriter.

Upon closer inspection I realized that this was a "step up" technology and would be classified as IBM Selectric typewriter, occasionally known as the IBM Golfball typewriter. It was an electric typewriter first introduced in 1961, but I believe the one featured here must have been a more modern type.

I have fond memories of these grand old machines. My grandmother was proficient at using one and I recall taking typewriting classes in school as teenager. I bet they do not run those anymore. Those typewriters were electric as well and we even had tests and were graded on the speed with which we typed and the typos we made. I used to do quiet well and could type with all the fingers of my hands and without looking at the keyboard. Or the character board, if you will. Today all this skill has gone lost. I type with one finger of each hand, looking somewhat ridiculous and I have to look at the keyboard of my laptop at all times. And I make typos in pretty much all words.

I used to keep an old, small, red and black manual typewriter in my first, tiny apartment as well. I honestly do not know where it was from, but I believe it to have belonged to my parents. It was a small but a more sturdy machine than the electric one and I had to use a bit more force to strike the keys, making my typing to be of the angry kind. It was a frustrating process as I hated making mistakes. I recall the endless retyping of documents and lots of vocal exclamation while typing, as I wanted a clean sheet without any errors.
How absurd it all seems today, in the height of the computer era, when any mistakes can be deleted with a key stroke, and be gone as if they never existed at all. Additionally, the software suggests words and even checks spelling mistakes. In multitude of languages.
Times has certainly changed in just a few decades.

In any case, this dear old, almost ancient typewriter of mine is by now long gone. I have no idea what happened to it actually, but to this day it is linked to sentimental memories of mine. I recall the absolutely last time I used it in the spring of 91, to type my first resume and my application for the position that I later obtained at Duke University in the US.
I never used a typewriter again or since.

Sailing Into The Uknown.

I love boats and ferries. I hate flying and I am not sure that I will ever board a plane again, but if someone asked me to pack my bags and sail around the world, I am ready in an a hour. Well, perhaps two. I would do it despite all the danger involved. To me this is a prospect of incredible, once in a lifetime adventure.

Today my mortgage prevents me from taking cruises, but every time the large cruise ships chose my city as their port, I can not help but stare at them in awe. These large resorts of the sea hold my fascination. I simply love the idea of going to sleep while on the open ocean and wake up in a new, exciting place. The transition is natural and gradual and my logic can grasp and understand it.
In fact, at one time, I considered an alternative way of travels aboard freighter ships. This is to me by far the most thrilling way of seeing the world. Furthermore, it offers opportunities of meeting people that are different, perhaps a bit eccentric, but definitely not mundane. Lots of writers and adventures chose this means of transportation.

I have a long history with the good old ferries. There used to be a multitude of them connecting the Scandinavian countries and even connecting the European North with the continent. But ever since the majestic super bridges were built, the ferries have become obsolete and many have gone out of business. Luckily, my city still has a large port accommodating ferries which sail on route between the Danish islands. I find this to be a comforting thought.

Perhaps the most eventful ferry crossing in my life took place in the August of 1980. I spend two days and two nights on a ferry that connected the city of Hamburg in Germany with the capital of Finland, Helsinki. This was one of the last parts of an adventurous trip, which started about four weeks prior in the former Yugoslavia. We were political refugees making our way through western Europe into Sweden. One can say that we were on the run, for lack of better words. The large ferry was taking us into our future and we were as scared as we were hopeful.

The black and white photograph of me, my sister and my father is taken by my mother aboard that large ship, that took us to Finland. The drawing was made by me, when I was siting on it's wide, deserted sun deck, watching the ocean and the freighter ships in the distance passing us by. Already then at such a young age, I was experiencing a sense of longing, mixed with a sense of adventure. But I was also anxious, a feeling that I sensed was consuming my parents at that time.
It took me decades to fully understand the sentiments and the distress, that the decisions to immigrate must have caused my parents. It takes courage and an incredible conviction to leap into the unknown. As the years passed by, I came to realize that in order to live fully, one has to dare to act, while maintaining the hope and the capability to dream, always embracing changes of the tides of time.

Flashback Friday: "Six Ribbons".

I was thirteen years old when I arrived in Sweden with my parents and my sister as an immigrant. It was a big change and a difficult time for our whole family, but it was also a very exciting time as well.

I do not remember much of the first few months, but one thing stands out very well. A song. Or a compilation, if you will.

I recall sitting in my aunts living room, watching a heartfelt story unfold every week on television, trying to make sense of the images. Trying to take in the English language which we did not understand and the Swedish subtitles in the bottom of the screen, which we were only starting to comprehend.
Well, perhaps I did not always grasp the details of every scene, but I understood that the destiny of those depicted within resembled somewhat my own.

The main soundtrack stayed with me, in my mind, without a title as that eluded me at such a young age, but the harmonies were there, even though forgotten for almost thirty years. Stored on the dusty book shelves of my mind, until my Irishman brought them back one day in our conversations and elucidated the origins and the title of the story that took place on a television screen, ages ago in my past.
Entitled "Six Ribbons", it is the theme song from the Australian series "Against The Wind", starring the enigmatic Jon English, who is also the performer of this poignant song, which climbed the charts in the early 80's.

It is an incredible feeling to make re-acquaintance with something we considered lost, but which we find again perhaps by coincidence. Or perhaps because we were meant to, as the meaning within will speak to us in a new way.

The Autumns Of My Past.

Mushrooms symbolizes to me the autumns of my childhood. As far back as I can remember, we used to go for weekend hikes, to pick mushrooms with my parents. Starting in the end of August all through October, we would walk and comb the woods in the mountains, in the immediate vicinity of my birthplace, when I was a little girl.

I was born under the majestic Tatra Mountains, in north eastern Slovakia, in proximity of the Polish border. This part of Europe contains the most pristine and to date, still unspoiled and undiscovered nature.
I am often told by my parents that they experienced the best part of their lives living under these mountains. When I was a child, I spend almost every afternoon with my father in their vicinity. He would take me on long walks, placing me into a stroller or into a sled, depending on the season. One can say, that I spend the first years of my life mostly outdoors, surrounded by breathtaking nature. Perhaps that is when my incurable love for it was born.

Once I start to remember the autumn hikes taken with my family, I see in my memory the golden an red coloured spots here and there, among all the evergreen spruce trees, with the tall snowy peaks of the Tatras as a backdrop. The last five years out of the thirteen which I spend in my home land, preceding the immigration to Sweden, were spend in a more central part of eastern Slovakia. This is a softer natural environment called "The Slovak Paradise". It is a national park, with rolling hills and a multitude of rich wooded areas, lined by pristine meadows; all perfect for mushroom picking in the early onset of autumn.

My parents continued with this traditional autumn activity even upon our relocation to Sweden. In fact, the Swedish nature was abundant with this forest fruit, as the Swedes, or the Scandinavians for that matter, do not really enjoy mushroom picking as much as the central Europeans do. At least they pick quiet different kinds. I still recall the beautiful autumn weekends, when we returned from long hikes with baskets full of mushrooms and the way my mother would prepare these in the evening. The best ones were neatly cleaned, thinly sliced and dried, to be used later in the year in soups and winter cuisine.

Unfortunately, the tradition of mushroom picking has not been passed onto me, nor my sister, I believe. Today I can no longer adequately distinguish the poisonous ones from the edible ones and therefore I do not dare to pick them. A great shame. Particularly, as my backyard offers a plethora of mushrooms right now and most of them I do indeed recognize from the autumn walks I used to take in my childhood.

My First Apartment.

Yesterday, while cleaning out my kitchen cabinets, I stumbled upon some old wine glasses. These were a part of so called "start pack", purchased in IKEA some twenty years ago, when I moved away from home for the first time - and for good. I was twenty something, I had finished school and I have started to work. I thought it was time to start my own life, in fact I longed to do that. If felt right in every way.

In the beginning of 1989, I found a short add in the news paper about a little apartment for rent. I recall it as if it was yesterday, when my father took me to see what would become my first own home.

Located in the opposite part of town, I moved, quiet unintentionally, as far away from my family as I could. A first, significant sign of what was to come.

I was in a very proximity of the ocean, on a quiet street in one of the best neighborhoods in the city. The small - or rather tiny - apartment was located on the second floor of a set of red brick houses, built in the 50's.
The place could easily fit into my current living room and there would probably still be some square meters left free. Consisting of one single room, one toilet, a shower inside a walk-in closet an a kitchen quite literally inside a closet, it was the smallest place I have ever lived in by then or since. Still, it seemed to have everything I needed and I loved it and my new found freedom that came with it. It even had a small balcony, facing the backyard, which I often used in the summers and where I planted my first plants, way before I became an avid gardener decades later.

It was one of the first significant milestones in my life, when I received the keys and moved in. I recall packing my small room in my parents place into boxes and relocating my few belongings into the 22 square meters (236 square feet), that would be my home for the next three years.

I guess, one can say I did grow into an adult during that short time. I experienced a time of enlightenment, when I started to discovered who I was and what I wanted out of life.
Every day, when it took me over an hour to get to work I was dreaming about a car. When the thin plastic of heavy grocery bags cut into my fingers, while I was walking back home during winter evenings, I used to look up at the dark sky, and the flickering navigation lights of planes, taking off at the nearby international airport. I dreamed about far away places, that were yet to be discovered by me and wondered if I ever was to board the planes flying south or west, towards future adventures of my life.
At the end of each month, when my salary check arrived and it again reinforced the fact, that I could never afford a bigger apartment, a car or take part in any exciting travels, I knew then, that I wanted more out of life. I only needed the right opportunity to present itself to me, the one which would offer a change. I knew I was only waiting. And I knew it was coming.

I made many sweet and precious memories while dreaming my days away in this first apartment of mine. I guess mostly, that despite my dreaming, I never stopped living. It was a time of care free years, when I had the privilege of a young, unblemished mind and held a curiosity to discover the world, with all the optimism and fearless joy that used to encompass me. Today it amazes me, how much actually did happened in my life in the span of those three years, a time that feels so short in my eyes today.

It was also here, when the opportunity I was waiting for, did occur during an early spring three years later. I took the decision to leave Sweden and move away from my family and everything I knew, across the Atlantic Ocean to the US. A move, that changed my life in such a drastic way - and in every way - it almost felt as it happened by a stroke of magic.

But that is an entirely different story all together.

Family Art.

Many members of my family are creative. My mother used to love to write when she was younger. She loves poetry and used to compete in local recital competitions as a child. Her sister, my aunt, always loved to draw and even though she initially worked as an architect, today she owns her own art design company, illustrating books and creating commercials.

My father, just like me, loves to paint. He has created numerous art pieces that used to hang on display in his practice, before he retired. I think many of his patients admired his painting and urged him to have an exhibition. My father though regards oil painting as his hobby and over the years has given most of his art away.

I have been the lucky receiver of three of his paintings, all stunning in my eyes. I enjoy his meticulous, detailed style. All three oil works have been inspired by the Swedish nature. Anything from country roads in early spring to the pristine beaches in the summer. The vivid colours and the choice of the scenery shows that he is a nature lover and a dreamer at heart.

I'd like to think that I inherited these traits from him.

Eurovision.

Today is a very rainy Saturday, but I find it somehow relaxing to be inside, curled up on my red sofa with Batcat, reading a good book, while we await an evening of a famous European tradition; the broadcast of the annual Eurovision Song Contest. Most likely unknown to anyone outside Europe, this years contest is held in Moscow. As the name implies, it is a singing contest with entries from a multitude of European countries, which compete for the best song - some performed in the original language.

I think Europe might be divided into two camps in this respect; those who watch it and are great fans and those who couldn't care less and consider this broadcast to be a nuisance. I am not sure to which part I belong, but I have been definitely fan for many years; however as time passes, I find myself switching sides.

The song contest was first held on 24th of May 1956 in Lugano, Switzerland. Much has changed since its first concept. In the eighties, it was a broadcast that use to unite Sweden, where I grew up and the following Monday everyone would scrutinize the contest and would discus whether the "right song won". Although the winners would most of the time be soon forgotten, the competition still held some consequences for the participants. It launched the carrier of Abba that won with Waterloo in 1974 and also helped to jump-start the success of Celine Dion who competed and won for Switzerland in 1988.

I did not know much about the contest in the nineties, as I lived in the US, but upon my return I noticed a great change. It has become bigger, encompassing almost the whole former east bloc including many small countries in the former Soviet Union. In fact it is such a large an event today, that it is split over several days with two semi-finals. Today the competition is additionally surrounded by much controversy, in respect to for how the winners are decided and how the votes are counted.

I will watch the contest tonight more with amusement than anything else. Denmark has qualified through the semi-finals and will compete in this evenings final, making the event slightly more exciting. I do not have favourites, but I like the Norwegian entry. However, the Danish contribution entitled "Believe Again", performed by Brinck is actually not bad either.

I guess most of all this broadcast holds another sentiment for me and that is the sentiment of the European Broadcasting Union with it's particular signature melody and logo, which usually proceeds any European broadcasts. This means televised programs, that are send simultaneously in many countries. There is a feeling of a connection with other countries, when the so very familiar melody comes streaming from the TV set. Many know it so well, but very few are aware of the fact that this musical piece is "The prelude to Marc-Antoine Charpentier's Te Deum, H. 146, a rondeau".

Every time I hear this unique tune, which has not changed for decades, it will always make me feel as if I am part of a united Europe.

The 1st Of April.

The first day in April has been labeled as a Fool's Day. It is a day when family and friends play practical jokes on each other; some are mild and innocent, some can be severe.

I seldom fall for any of it. The only "semi" cruel joke someone played on me was once at work, ages ago. I was around 23 at that time and was employed at a laboratory in Sweden. Young and insecure, I was terrified of making a mistake. The PhD student I was working for at that time, switched around some tubes that I was incubating on a shaker, without my knowledge. My tubes were capped tightly and contained a very precious sample. When incubation was completed after one hour, I was shocked to find the tubes empty and the liquid all leaked out. I remember the disbelieve, as the cap was still tightly on. Logically, it made really no sense that the sample should have leaked. Of course, once you are stressed, all the logic goes out of the window. With a heavy heart I found the PhD student whose sample I lost and explained to her what happened. She was almost on the floor laughing within moments after I finished, shouting "April's Fools Day!!" Although extremely relieved, I was doing my best to hide the complete frustration over such a cruel joke. Well, I guess I had no sense of humour. Although today this makes for a good story and indeed makes me laugh.

In Scandinavia, it is also common that newspapers and news broadcasts on television include strange news clips or articles, but sometimes it is difficult to spot which piece of news is the fake one.
I recall one year in the 80's a report on the Swedish television news regarding a fake currency being in circulation. It was concerning the hundred kronor bills of that time. The design from the beginning of that decade depicted a ship on the back of the banknote. The news anchor informed us that any banknote where the sails were down, was fake. The genuine bill displayed the ship under full sail. I remember how all of us in my family immediately checked our wallets, only to conclude that all the bills in our possession were fake. I even recall the discussion we had about what to do and who to contact, although our concern was not particularly serious.
It was only the day after in school that I discovered that this was a practical joke played on the Swedes by the media. All the genuine banknotes were depicted with the sails down.

Happy 1st April everyone, may you stay safe from practical jokes!

"The Day Before The Dipping Day".

When I was growing up in Sweden, the last day before Christmas Eve had a special and somewhat strange name. The 23d of December was called "Dan Före Dopparedan". Dopparedan is a shortage for Dopparedagen, which in translation means "Dipping Day". When the two other words; "Dan Före" are added, the meaning becomes "The Day Before The Dipping Day". Ok, so what is this dipping business all about? "Dipping" in this case is referring to a meal called "dopp i grytan" (transl: dip in the cooking pot), which was served on the 24th of December, on the evening of Christmas Eve, in the old times in Sweden. The left over broth from the cooking of the Christmas ham or sausages was reduced and spiced up, transferred to a big bowl and placed in the middle of the table. It was then served with soft bread, which was dipped into the spicy soup in the bowl. This is an old Swedish tradition, but I do not think it is very common to serve this meal anymore. However, the name is still widely used, especially describing the 23d of December in Sweden.
In many Scandinavian countries today is also called "Little Christmas Eve". Often a private Christmas is celebrated on this day by couples, with or without children, that are to spend Christmas Eve with their parents, grandparents of others members of their close or extended family.
Merry Little Christmas Eve to everyone in Scandinavia.

Earthquake.

This morning an earthquake hit Denmark. Not to worry, it was measured to be only 4.8 on the Richter magnitude scale, which is not really that much. However, it was the strongest quake to hit Denmark since 1930, which is almost considered never, as that is how long quakes have been recorded here. It managed to shake some people out of bed, throw pictures and paintings on the floor and break some china. And it made the headlines in the morning news (see picture). The epicenter was in south of Sweden, therefore the tremors were more evident in the eastern part of Denmark, and there people reported even cracks in the ceiling.
I slept gladly through it, which is highly unusual, as I am a light sleeper. Some twenty years ago I could sleep through anything, which was constantly envied by others. There could have been a freight train going straight through the room, and I would continue sleeping. I guess that is the privilege of youth. I have to say though, that I did awake suddenly around the time the quake was supposed to have hit. I remember this as I looked at the watch and was happy to realize that I still had an hour left in bed. People close to the epicenter also reported strange behaviour in animals and pets just prior to the incident. I have always found it fascinating, how animals can sense these occurrences long before we do.

A Family Clock.

I feel like it was yesterday that my father brought home this clock. However, thinking back, it must have been about 25 years ago. I have no idea where the time went. We have been living in Sweden for no more than a couple of years and I know for a fact that he spend a fortune on it.

The clock holds sentimental memories for me. It was hanging in the living room, when I was a teenager. On the wall opposite my room. In the night, if I accidentally woke up, the striking of the clock would tell me the time. I remember counting the strikes in the darkness. Low number meant I had plenty of time. High number was stressing me out.
I also remember the clock chimes when I was the only one up. When the house was still as I was sitting all alone in the night over books, trying to finish my homework or when I was preparing for tests. The clock was a constant, never changing presence, a sort of a reliable friend, yet reminding me of the fleeting time.

Two years ago my parents made a decision of a lifetime to leave the country they called home for over 25 years and relocated back to their country of origin. I am still in awe of them, as I know how much strain and stress such a big move means.
When they visited me last time before their final move they brought me a gift. They brought me the old clock. “Bim-bam” it said on the cardboard box, which made me smile. The clock was not working my father said, but it was not broken; it only needed cleaning.
I hung it up a few weeks after their departure and behold, the clock worked and the ticking sounds and the chimes would bring back a wave of memories.

Since then the clock works when it decides too. Sometimes, when I start the pendulum, it will go for days or weeks or stand still for equal amount of time. I actually do not care, to me just it’s presence is simply magical.

Little did I know those sleepless or lonely nights long time ago as a teenager, that one day this clock would hang in my own home.

"The Christmas Girl."

In my house, every year during the Christmas Holidays, a special statue of a young girl is always on display in my window. She is dressed in red and holds a basket of apples in one hand and a candle in the other. The girl is sculpted according to a well known Christmas drawing by a famous Swedish painter Carl Larsson, representing his daughter Brita.

This is indeed a very familiar and traditional image to all Swedes and the name of the drawing is "Brita As Idun". Idun is the name of a Goddess in the Norse Mythology, which is indicative off youth or the forever young, thus the apple symbolism. Brita as Idun can be found often depicted on Christmas cards and printed on table clothes and other fabrics. Or painted on china and made into pottery or small statues, such as the one in my possession.

I was given this "Christmas Girl" as gift about 7 years ago while spending Christmas with my parents in Sweden. On the day of Christmas Eve, while my mother stayed in to prepare dinner, my father, me, my sister and her husband went to a small pottery shop that was still open; it was magical to be there. My father bought two of these "Christmas Girls" statues; one for me and for my sister. He and my mother already had one themselves; that is where the inspiration originated the previous day.

The girl has since then become almost a family symbol of the holidays. Gazing at Brita while she smiles and holds a lit candle makes me feel closer to my family, which is spread all over Europe. It warms my heart knowing that my family members are perhaps, in the same moment, looking at the Christmas Girl as well.