Freya, there is so much I loved about this post - the recognition of foremothers and their cellular influence on each individual generation right up to you. How both you and your great-grandmother loved poetry, scribbled your own, and had a commonplace diary. Your recognition goes beyond the actual written words to an acknowledgment of the energy that swirls in her creativity. I loved those pictures; thank you so much for sharing them with us. They must be such prized possessions... those written words, a timeless tangible part of your ancestor. I am so touched to see you honor a foremother whom you never knew but admittedly are connected to because she has carried you as well, like how you carry her now - each generation exchanging skins to tell their collective story.
Also, the relationship between Södergran and Olsson made me cry tears of joy. I can feel their sisterhood and love across centuries still. They really did understand each other, fanned each other's flame when the world couldn't care less about who they were. That right there gives me hope and makes me believe in our connection and sisterhood even more, and the indelible respect and gratitude that I feel deepens. And at the end, there is always Dickinson's ghost murmuring poetic epiphanies, breaking our spiritual stupor and propelling us into the practice of love and sisterhood.
How beautifully poignant to read this gorgeous essay just as I have been pondering once more how lucky I am to live in a place of my choosing (I'm French and I live in Ireland), when, as you say, "the world seems intent on making exiles of all of us". Now I need to find out if there are any letters from my grandparents. Older ancestors were most likely illiterate.
What a treasure. I love seeing mormor written across the pages. My ancestors stories (what we know of them) are similar. I also think of what they left behind, who they never saw again, the language and culture and land they were separated from, and who they displaced. Every tradition I hold fast to or try to reclaim, every Swedish word I learn or hear feels like a kind of a healing. Thanks for sharing.
Circumstances the exile us from ourselves, and intentionalities that connect us to ourselves. Beautiful! ❤️
I also write by hand every day across a couple of notebooks, besides keeping multiple sketchbooks. I think the digital versions of ourselves are necessary today but they cannot be the only way we exist. They must not be. I think only about how they connect me to myself because I haven't allowed myself to think about what they will be after I'm gone. But there it is. The world will last much longer after me, even though it will also end with me. We were not meant to see too far ahead.
An utterly beautiful essay, Freya. I've recently been feeling this kind of dialogue with the past through my reading, and it's an eerily wonderful feeling.
So beautiful Freya: made me cry. The physical touching of your female ancestors through the letters is so very poignant.
My grandfather wrote a book called 'From Sweden to Northern Wairoa" ( New Zealand). Like many in NZ we ended up here due to our ancestors, for me - Scottish and Swedish, who were full of courage or desperation. However, of course there were people here before us immigrants, a people who were forgotten or treated with disrespect to say the least.
I tried to read some of those letters with my memory of Swedish. The handwriting is beautiful too.
Could sit in your beautiful words all evening but must move on to make dinner!
“How the world seems intent on making exiles of everyone—impoverished people crossing the world for opportunities that make other people impoverished.” - What a sad and succinct account of human history in a beautiful story about your foremothers and the poets who may have lightened their load.
I wonder how long your g-grandmother felt the charm of her first Astoria 4-leaf clover.
This is beautiful, Freya, and made me cry. I chatted with a taxi driver last week about the fact that nearly all of us in Australia are migrants, whether first gen or fifth gen or somewhere in between. We have no written remains of my father’s family who came from Scotland in 1913. And precious little of my mother’s ancestor who was transported in the 1830s.
thanks for this -- I was going to wait and read it all, then write something. But for now, just to say -- I too have a Swedish grandmother, and great grandmother, from Aland Island, part of Finland now, and we have a few letters from my great grandfather father to Seattle. I'll read your post fully soon, just had to mention.
What a treasure your mother gave you, and so fortunate for us that it came into your hands for you to share with us. There's a magic in connecting with another human across a century of time. A beautiful piece.
We don't know each other but your letter was send to me by my dear friend Gywllm. And indeed it is "transporting." How fortunate you are to be able to trace your heritage back so far. Personally I have an album of photographs but I don't know the names of any of "my strangers" although I was told by my mother that we were descended from them. Alas, she didn't know their names either.
This is also a beautiful piece about the value of writing the old fashioned way. I am often frustrated by the short "texts" I receive that tell me virtually nothing. I hope that actual writing survives and does not become a lost art as our planet and relationships disappear.
Södergran astonishes me! "I had to walk through the solar systems, / before I found the first thread of my red dress." Just wow. Thank you for this beautiful story!
Hola , Es Muy Triste Tú Historia Familiar. Mí Familia Estuvo En Él Exilio Más De Cuarenta Años , Mí Abuelo Luchó En La Guerra Civil Española 1936-39 , Con Los Republicanos , Y Tras Perder La Guerra , Cruzo La Frontera Dirección A Francia , Donde Los Amables Gendarmes Lo Llevaron A Un Campo De Concentración. Tras Pasar Varios Meses En Unas Condiciones Infrahumanas , Le Dieron Ha Elegir , Luchar Contra El Fascismo Y Él Nazismo , O Morir De Hambre O De Alguna Enfermedad. Eligio Unirse Al Ejército Francés , Y Luchar Por La Libertad De Todas Las Personas , Sean De La Condición Que Sea , Raza O Religión. Ocho Años De Guerra , Dos Campos De Concentración Y Mas De Cuarenta Años De Exilio Pagó Mí Abuelo Y Su Familia Por La Libertad. No Conocía A La Poeta Que Mencionas , Pero Voy Ha Buscar Algún Libro Suyo Traducido Al Español. Un Saludo.
Freya, there is so much I loved about this post - the recognition of foremothers and their cellular influence on each individual generation right up to you. How both you and your great-grandmother loved poetry, scribbled your own, and had a commonplace diary. Your recognition goes beyond the actual written words to an acknowledgment of the energy that swirls in her creativity. I loved those pictures; thank you so much for sharing them with us. They must be such prized possessions... those written words, a timeless tangible part of your ancestor. I am so touched to see you honor a foremother whom you never knew but admittedly are connected to because she has carried you as well, like how you carry her now - each generation exchanging skins to tell their collective story.
Also, the relationship between Södergran and Olsson made me cry tears of joy. I can feel their sisterhood and love across centuries still. They really did understand each other, fanned each other's flame when the world couldn't care less about who they were. That right there gives me hope and makes me believe in our connection and sisterhood even more, and the indelible respect and gratitude that I feel deepens. And at the end, there is always Dickinson's ghost murmuring poetic epiphanies, breaking our spiritual stupor and propelling us into the practice of love and sisterhood.
How beautifully poignant to read this gorgeous essay just as I have been pondering once more how lucky I am to live in a place of my choosing (I'm French and I live in Ireland), when, as you say, "the world seems intent on making exiles of all of us". Now I need to find out if there are any letters from my grandparents. Older ancestors were most likely illiterate.
What a treasure. I love seeing mormor written across the pages. My ancestors stories (what we know of them) are similar. I also think of what they left behind, who they never saw again, the language and culture and land they were separated from, and who they displaced. Every tradition I hold fast to or try to reclaim, every Swedish word I learn or hear feels like a kind of a healing. Thanks for sharing.
Circumstances the exile us from ourselves, and intentionalities that connect us to ourselves. Beautiful! ❤️
I also write by hand every day across a couple of notebooks, besides keeping multiple sketchbooks. I think the digital versions of ourselves are necessary today but they cannot be the only way we exist. They must not be. I think only about how they connect me to myself because I haven't allowed myself to think about what they will be after I'm gone. But there it is. The world will last much longer after me, even though it will also end with me. We were not meant to see too far ahead.
An utterly beautiful essay, Freya. I've recently been feeling this kind of dialogue with the past through my reading, and it's an eerily wonderful feeling.
So beautiful Freya: made me cry. The physical touching of your female ancestors through the letters is so very poignant.
My grandfather wrote a book called 'From Sweden to Northern Wairoa" ( New Zealand). Like many in NZ we ended up here due to our ancestors, for me - Scottish and Swedish, who were full of courage or desperation. However, of course there were people here before us immigrants, a people who were forgotten or treated with disrespect to say the least.
I tried to read some of those letters with my memory of Swedish. The handwriting is beautiful too.
Could sit in your beautiful words all evening but must move on to make dinner!
Thank you for sharing.
“How the world seems intent on making exiles of everyone—impoverished people crossing the world for opportunities that make other people impoverished.” - What a sad and succinct account of human history in a beautiful story about your foremothers and the poets who may have lightened their load.
I wonder how long your g-grandmother felt the charm of her first Astoria 4-leaf clover.
This is beautiful, Freya, and made me cry. I chatted with a taxi driver last week about the fact that nearly all of us in Australia are migrants, whether first gen or fifth gen or somewhere in between. We have no written remains of my father’s family who came from Scotland in 1913. And precious little of my mother’s ancestor who was transported in the 1830s.
thanks for this -- I was going to wait and read it all, then write something. But for now, just to say -- I too have a Swedish grandmother, and great grandmother, from Aland Island, part of Finland now, and we have a few letters from my great grandfather father to Seattle. I'll read your post fully soon, just had to mention.
What a treasure your mother gave you, and so fortunate for us that it came into your hands for you to share with us. There's a magic in connecting with another human across a century of time. A beautiful piece.
There are so many beautiful parts in your work of writing. Thank you. It is like unwrapping an unexpected gift.
We don't know each other but your letter was send to me by my dear friend Gywllm. And indeed it is "transporting." How fortunate you are to be able to trace your heritage back so far. Personally I have an album of photographs but I don't know the names of any of "my strangers" although I was told by my mother that we were descended from them. Alas, she didn't know their names either.
This is also a beautiful piece about the value of writing the old fashioned way. I am often frustrated by the short "texts" I receive that tell me virtually nothing. I hope that actual writing survives and does not become a lost art as our planet and relationships disappear.
Exquisite piece Freya. I so felt the presence of your foremothers.
I sit here in Clackamas and I am transported.
Södergran astonishes me! "I had to walk through the solar systems, / before I found the first thread of my red dress." Just wow. Thank you for this beautiful story!
Hola , Es Muy Triste Tú Historia Familiar. Mí Familia Estuvo En Él Exilio Más De Cuarenta Años , Mí Abuelo Luchó En La Guerra Civil Española 1936-39 , Con Los Republicanos , Y Tras Perder La Guerra , Cruzo La Frontera Dirección A Francia , Donde Los Amables Gendarmes Lo Llevaron A Un Campo De Concentración. Tras Pasar Varios Meses En Unas Condiciones Infrahumanas , Le Dieron Ha Elegir , Luchar Contra El Fascismo Y Él Nazismo , O Morir De Hambre O De Alguna Enfermedad. Eligio Unirse Al Ejército Francés , Y Luchar Por La Libertad De Todas Las Personas , Sean De La Condición Que Sea , Raza O Religión. Ocho Años De Guerra , Dos Campos De Concentración Y Mas De Cuarenta Años De Exilio Pagó Mí Abuelo Y Su Familia Por La Libertad. No Conocía A La Poeta Que Mencionas , Pero Voy Ha Buscar Algún Libro Suyo Traducido Al Español. Un Saludo.