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  • End of Year Ceremony

    Karin read the joint email from the city’s schools one more time.

    The principal of the secondary school wrote that they would very much like to continue the tradition of holding the end-of-year ceremony in the church, but that her speech must not contain any religious elements whatsoever. Not like last year, when she had ended by wishing the children a pleasant and blessed summer.

    One word.

    Blessed.

    “Then why are you holding the ceremony in a church,” Karin muttered as she typed her reply, “if you want to restrict my right to say what lies closest to my heart—the very thing I have been called to say in my role as a priest?”

    She smiled to herself.

    She always built her sermons around the infinite love of the cosmos. She intended to do the same this time.

    Karin practiced a form of spirituality that not even the Church of Sweden quite knew what to make of, but her message had always been the same: to bring people together, not divide them.

    When the day arrived, she was unusually nervous.

    What was expected of her and what was about to happen were not necessarily the same thing.

    She reminded herself that light had always made people uneasy.

    Karin welcomed everyone into the church, dressed in its summer finery. Once everyone was seated, she closed the doors and, her legs trembling slightly, climbed into the pulpit.

    “When I stand here before you,” she said, “I am dazzled by your light. The inner light that shines so brightly it can sometimes be difficult to see. But I can see clearly that the future is bright because of you.”

    She let her gaze wander across the room.

    “You have chosen to celebrate an ending and a beginning here. You are ending a school year and stepping into a summer of unfamiliar things. You do not need to go to church to be loving, and you do not need to be here to believe in something greater than yourselves. But sometimes people need to gather in ways they otherwise would not, to acknowledge what brings us together.”

    She paused.

    “Light.”

    The children sat quietly.

    “You celebrate your birthday once a year. You come here once a year. Days like these are for letting go and replenishing yourselves. You are concluding a year of worldly learning in a place that can remind you of something larger. The cosmos dissolves boundaries.”

    She smiled.

    “I hope you at least catch a glimpse of your own greatness. I don’t mean followers or comments, but your inner light.”

    She stepped down from the pulpit.

    “To see yourselves and one another more clearly, we are going to do a simple exercise.”

    Karin demonstrated with her hands.

    “Stand like warriors. Follow the movements and sweep away whatever no longer serves you. What truly belongs with you will remain.”

    They followed her lead.

    “Now take each other’s hands. Form an unbroken chain.”

    The church fell silent.

    “Close your eyes if you wish. Think of something you are grateful for. Say it silently or aloud. Feel that gratitude moving through you, like a wave of light.”

    Karin walked slowly through the church, between the rows.

  • What Do the World Cup and Eurovision Have in Common?

    They are both global storytelling festivals.

    The competition is the stage; the real drama is the people watching it.

    The World Cup and Eurovision create temporary maps of affection and resentment. For a few weeks, people rediscover who they feel close to, who they instinctively oppose, and which old stories are still alive.

    The arguments around Eurovision can be more revealing than the winning song. They show what a country cares about, what irritates it, and how it sees its place in the wider world. The fascinating part is watching a country say, in effect: “This is how we want the world to see us this year.”

    The World Cup does something similar on a global scale.

    When people talk about Eurovision, they often talk about the songs. When people talk about the World Cup, they talk about the football. What fascinates me is what happens before either competition begins.

    Long before a ball is kicked or a song is sung, countries start telling stories about themselves.

    Every Eurovision act is, in some way, a national introduction. Some countries present themselves as modern and sophisticated. Others embrace humour, eccentricity, tradition, rebellion or nostalgia. The songs matter, but so does the message behind them.

    The same thing happens at the World Cup.

    This year, Norway told a story.

    Before the tournament had even properly begun, the Norwegian team posed dressed as Vikings. Some people immediately saw colonisers and raiders. Yet that is not how much of the world sees the Vikings. For many people, the Vikings represent curiosity, courage and the willingness to leave the familiar behind.

    The people who sailed west from Scandinavia were not living in a land of endless abundance. They survived in a harsh climate with short growing seasons. They looked beyond the horizon and wondered what else was out there.

    That image still resonates today.

    Norway took that story and turned it into a simple act: rowing.

    Suddenly people everywhere were rowing for Norway. They dropped to the floor in offices, schools, gyms and living rooms. Nursing home residents turned their exercises into rowing sessions. People who had never met a Norwegian in their lives found themselves taking part in a small national ritual.

    The rowing was not really about football.

    It was a story about a small country setting out into the unknown and inviting others to come along for the journey.

    The image was simple and irresistible: a small nation climbing into the boat together and rowing out to take on the world.

    Norway was rowing for gold.

    I don’t even watch the matches, but it was almost impossible to miss. My social media feeds filled with Erling Haaland videos. There were clips of his goals, his interviews, his larger-than-life presence and his peculiar sense of humour. I even found myself watching videos of his sister affectionately mimicking him. Her impressions were funny precisely because they were so warm. She seemed to know exactly which details made him recognisably himself.

    That’s how these tournaments escape the boundaries of sport. The players become characters, their families become part of the narrative, and the supporters create rituals that travel far beyond the stadium.

    You don’t need to watch ninety minutes of football to become aware that something is happening.

    The same thing happened at Eurovision.

    Bulgaria did not simply send a song. It sent an idea.

    Before Eurovision, Bangaranga was a catchy pop song. On stage it became something else. The choreography, movement and visual storytelling brought the song fully to life. I found myself completely hypnotised by it.

    The word itself is unusual, but DARA used it to express something universal: finding your inner strength, letting go of fear and having the courage to be yourself. The performance transformed that message into something you could feel rather than merely hear.

    Bulgaria went on to win Eurovision for the first time, but by then the story had already connected with people.

    That is what these competitions are really about.

    Countries do not simply send football teams and songs. They send stories about themselves.

    This year, Norway’s story was rowing towards the horizon. Bulgaria’s story was finding the courage to become yourself.

    One invited people to pick up an oar. The other invited people to let go of fear.

    The competition gave them a stage. The stories are what people will remember.

    Years from now, most people will not remember every result. What they will remember are the stories.

    This year, Norway’s story got people rowing.

    A small country told a story about itself, and the world decided it liked the story.

  • Freedom and Responsibility

    Freedom and responsibility go together; you can’t have one without the other.

    Change is also a form of freedom – when we welcome it.

    So, freedom is the ability to choose, take responsibility for our choices and grow through change.

    Simple to understand. Challenging to live.

  • Roots and Routes

    We spend a lot of time thinking about our roots and where we come from.

    But our lives are shaped just as much by the journeys we take, the places we go, and the people we meet.

    Our roots tell us where we began. Our routes tell us who we became.

  • Blessed Are The Peacemakers

  • The Same Book. Two Completely Different Experiences.

    “I didn’t expect a book to understand me.”

    I’m fourteen and I’ve spent years feeling like adults hear me but don’t actually listen. Like school decides who I’m supposed to be before I even know myself. Like being young means waiting for life to begin.

    I picked up Warriors of Change expecting another story about brave kids changing the world. I was wrong.

    This book made me feel something stranger: recognised.

    It felt like someone had taken all the thoughts I’ve had but never said out loud—the anger at unfair rules, feeling different, questioning things everyone else accepts, wanting adults to guide instead of control—and put them into words.

    The Declaration of the Children of the Universe made me cry. Not because it was sad, but because for the first time I read:

    Maybe children are people now, not future people.

    I know some adults will think this book is rebellious or unrealistic. Maybe it is. But I think what scares people is the idea that young people might already know who they are.

    I didn’t agree with everything. I argued with parts. But weirdly, I think the book wanted me to argue.

    My favourite idea was that questioning isn’t wrong and change isn’t betrayal. I’ve always felt guilty for wanting different things from my family, my school, even my culture. This book made me think:

    What if becoming yourself isn’t selfish?

    After finishing, I didn’t feel inspired in the usual way. I felt… braver.

    I think some readers will hate this trilogy. Some adults especially.

    But if you’ve ever felt too loud, too sensitive, too imaginative, too rebellious, too different—or like no one takes you seriously because of your age—this book might feel less like reading and more like finally being heard.

    I wish I’d found it sooner.

    “Interesting, strange, and surprisingly sincere — but I’m not sure who it’s for.”

    I’m 16 and picked up Warriors of Change because the title sounded dystopian and rebellious. I expected something more like The Hunger Games or a YA fantasy about overthrowing a system. It’s not that.

    This book feels less like modern YA and more like someone trying to remember exactly what being young felt like before adulthood took over. Sometimes that works really well. Some parts made me stop and think:

    Why do adults always assume they know better?
    Why are children treated like unfinished people?

    The ideas about school, freedom, questioning beliefs, and being allowed to become yourself are interesting. I liked that the book doesn’t automatically side with authority.

    But I also kept wondering:

    Was this written by someone who was raising children or thinking about their own youth?

    Because sometimes the characters sound less like teenagers now and more like what adults wish teenagers would say if they could explain everything perfectly.

    Also… almost no phones? No social media obsession? No constant notifications? No AI? No influencers? No group chats exploding every five minutes?

    At first it made the world feel dated.

    Then I started thinking maybe that’s intentional.

    The book seems weirdly uninterested in trends and more interested in older questions:

    Who decides who you become?
    What if school isn’t helping everyone?
    Can traditions stop people becoming themselves?
    What do children know that adults forget?

    Those questions don’t really age.

    Some parts (especially the declarations and speeches) felt long, and occasionally it sounded more like a manifesto than a novel.

    But I respected that the book actually believes in something. A lot of books now are ironic about everything. This one isn’t embarrassed to care.

    I didn’t agree with all of it, and I’m not sure I was supposed to.

    I think readers will either feel deeply understood or roll their eyes completely.

    I ended up somewhere in the middle:

    I questioned it.
    I argued with it.
    But I kept thinking about it afterwards.

    Which might mean it succeeded.

  • We live in a time when involution is more important than ever

    Modern life encourages disconnection — from our bodies, our inner voice, and nature.
    Productivity is glorified.
    Doing is valued over being.
    Technology overwhelms intuition.
    Constant input drowns out inner wisdom.
    Identity becomes fragmented, shaped by algorithms.

    We need to remember who we are.

    Involution is being with yourself — fully and honestly.
    It’s not about escaping the world, but coming home to yourself within it.

    Involution is sacred solitude — and we all need it.

    Sacred solitude is how we rebalance, restore, and remember.
    It’s the quiet act of being fully present with yourself.

  • Eurovision is Not a Battlefield

    Eurovision is not a battlefield. There are no soldiers on that stage, only artists. It was created as a space where countries could meet through music rather than conflict, where political tensions were held back rather than performed.

    “Music unites us” is a comforting slogan, but unity becomes more complicated when participation itself is questioned. If shared spaces only remain open to those we approve of, what kind of unity is being protected?

    Debates over boycotts reveal something larger than disagreement about particular countries. They raise questions about culture, morality, and belonging. When does participation become endorsement? When does exclusion become principle? And who decides?

    People who choose not to boycott may be seen as indifferent, complicit, or disloyal. Others may see participation as a way of keeping dialogue possible. The disagreement is not only about politics. It is also about what cultural spaces are for.

    Eurovision has long carried contradictions. Countries compete while claiming unity. Histories of conflict sit beside performances of celebration. Identity is expressed, judged, rewarded, and sometimes rejected.

    Perhaps the question is not whether Eurovision is political. It almost always has been.

    Perhaps the harder question is whether culture should remain one of the few places where countries continue to meet despite disagreement.

    Because once shared spaces disappear, it becomes less obvious where people meet those they disagree with, misunderstand, or would not choose to spend time with at all.

  • What Story Does Eurovision Tell About Europe?

    Eurovision is often described as a song contest, but people rarely speak about it as if that is all it is. Many claim not to care. They laugh at it, criticise it, dismiss it as political, strange, over-produced, or irrelevant, and then they watch anyway. Sometimes openly. Sometimes from another room while insisting they are only watching because someone else put it on. Often while already knowing who should win and who should not.

    This says something.

    Perhaps Eurovision continues because it is not really about music, or not only about music. Every year, countries step onto a stage and perform a version of themselves. Not always who they are, but sometimes who they hope to be. Sometimes who they think Europe expects them to be. Sometimes who they once were, or who they refuse to stop being.

    For a few minutes, a song becomes something larger. It becomes identity.

    Some countries arrive with confidence. Others seem to ask for recognition. Some bring humour, folklore, absurdity, pain, rebellion, nostalgia, or longing. The performance ends, but the story does not. Votes are given, votes are withheld, patterns are noticed, and people argue. Beneath all of this sits a larger question:

    What is Europe?

    The word is used easily. European values. European identity. European culture. Yet no clear definition exists. Europe contains histories that do not fully agree with each other: empires and occupations, wars and reconciliations, languages and loyalties, countries that remember the same events differently.

    There is no single Europe. Eurovision complicates the idea further. Countries outside geographical Europe participate, while others sit at its edges—connected through history, politics, migration, or culture. Europe begins to look less like a place with clear borders and more like an ongoing negotiation about belonging. Who is included, who feels included, and who remains outside changes over time.

    There are many Europes. Nordic Europe. Balkan Europe. Post-Soviet Europe. Rural Europe. Urban Europe. The Europe of migration, memory, and inherited stories. The Europe imagined from outside, and the Europe people carry with them long after leaving.

    And still, once a year, countries gather and vote.

    Not because agreement exists, but perhaps because disagreement does.

    Eurovision survives, perhaps, because it allows contradiction. Countries insist: this is who we are. The contest quietly replies: you are also part of something larger. Neither statement disappears.

    This year’s winner sang:

    Welcome to the riot.

    And then came a made-up word:

    Bangaranga.

    Meaningless, perhaps. Or perhaps not.

    People create new words when existing ones no longer feel large enough. Maybe Bangaranga means: become yourself. Remember yourself. Resist disappearing into everyone else. But do not become so individual that connection is lost.

    Maybe this is true for countries too.

    No one country is Europe. All contribute to it. None define it.

    Perhaps Europe is not an identity at all. Perhaps it is an unfinished conversation—a place where histories meet without fully merging, where blame survives, memory survives, difference survives.

    And despite everything, people continue showing up.

    Singing.

    Voting.

    Wanting to be understood.

    Because beneath performance, competition, and politics, there may be something simpler: the desire for recognition.

    To say:

    See us.
    Remember us.
    Understand us.

    And perhaps Europe itself is asking for the same thing.

  • The Courage to Think

    Thinking is often treated as something automatic. We assume we’re already doing it because we have opinions, reactions, beliefs, and conclusions, but real thinking requires something more demanding. It requires openness.

    To think isn’t just to process information; it’s to allow ourselves to be changed by what we encounter. That isn’t easy. It means letting go of certainty, questioning what feels familiar, and staying with ideas that don’t immediately make sense. That takes courage.

    Inspiration is often treated as something external, something that arrives when the conditions are right. But it’s closely tied to thinking itself. It emerges when we stay open, when we’re willing to engage without needing immediate answers or clear outcomes.

    When I was growing up, characters like Pippi Longstocking, created by Astrid Lindgren, suggested that it was possible to move through the world differently, without needing to fit neatly into expectations or social norms. That kind of influence doesn’t just inspire behaviour; it changes how you think about what’s possible. In a different way, Tove Jansson, the creator of the Moomin books, encouraged a deeper kind of reflection, a willingness to examine and question rather than accept things as they are.

    Thinking doesn’t happen in isolation. It’s shaped by what we read, what we experience, who we encounter, and also by the language we move through every day. Language does more than communicate ideas; it shapes how we understand them. The words available to us influence what we can describe, question, and even notice.

    When language becomes simplified, shortened, or reduced to immediate reactions, thinking can become narrower too. Quick responses replace reflection. Nuance disappears behind slogans, captions, and certainty. Even digital forms of communication—text language, constant scrolling, emojis, and rapid exchanges—change the rhythm of thought itself. They’re expressive, efficient, and useful in many ways, but they also encourage speed over depth. And deep thinking rarely happens quickly.

    There’s a tendency to avoid discomfort by simplifying things, by turning challenges into easy explanations. Phrases like “everything happens for a reason” don’t open thinking. They close it. They offer resolution without understanding.

    Challenges aren’t interruptions to thinking; they’re what make it possible. To think well, we have to be willing to learn, unlearn, and relearn. That means meeting new situations without assuming we already understand them and allowing doubt, uncertainty, and contradiction to exist without rushing to resolve them.

    In that sense, thinking isn’t just an intellectual activity. It’s a way of being. And it begins with something simple but difficult: being open enough to change.

    Excerpt from Thinking Out Loud: Notes on Being Human