How hard it is to finish something good...

One major thing I forgot to mention in my last blogpost about why I quite my plan of moving to South Korea, was that I already in August 2015 sensed that the life I lived was coming to an end. Deep inside I had a feeling that my task was done. The problem was that I didn't want it to be.

I felt it while being in North Korea for the first time, and when talking to Morten Traavik there, and I think a part of me knew when I was asked to continue working with NT2 in October. Even when I said no, I was hoping for other doors to open up, and in my mind planning on moving to South Korea still.

Why is it so hard to stop doing something you love, even if it's about time? Even when you know deep inside that it's not gonna work. Why is it hard to leave something not good for you - like a relationship? When letting go of something bad I've understood that for me it's difficult to end it because it feels safe, and because it's all I know and the future is unsure, and I'd rather feel safe in something bad, than insecure facing something new. I guess this goes with ending something good too. I've found part of my identity in living the dream, doing what I do, and stopping and changing course is scary.

I struggled majorly with accepting my Dad's cancer and death, and there are still times when I don't want to accept it. The twist in this was that our relationship was good, but he was suffering and very ill. Of course I didn't want him to continue to suffer, but a selfish part of me still needed him to stay, for me. Life has not become the same after he passed away, and I wonder if it ever will. The last month I am thinking about him daily. Everything reminds me of him - a mountain, an ice cream (because he liked ice cream, memories of him buying us kids ice cream, or how he and Lukas - his grandchild - both are crazy about ice cream, or... and on and on), a rocking chair, men with beards, someone else calling out for their Dad, Jonah Mateo (my nephew) being born, knowing he will never know his grandfather, drinking coffee with my Mom, remembering how we used to be three of us zipping coffee together. He is everywhere, and then he disappears.

I didn't listen to the small voice telling me the Korea/Hawaii-life I lived was gonna end, because I didn't want it to, because it made the future too scary, because I still had so many dreams unfulfilled. And I didn't want to accept that Dad had terminal cancer, and would die, because it was too painful and because we had dreams together that had not yet taken place. But it still happened. And both episodes threw me into a big black hole (vakum).

Still when looking back I'm grateful for the little clues I got before it happened, because when it did, I feel like I was prepared. I'm grateful how I suddenly started to cry intensely one night though I at that point believed Dad only was suffering from pneumonia (lungebetennelse). And the sense one morning long before he died, that I had to let him go now... I look back at my last talk with Morten, and see that I already knew I wouldn't visit North Korea again any time soon. I was being prepared, slowly without knowing, and it gives me more peace to accept it today.