Forest

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Photography: Troll Hunting

Part of our summer trip included searching for Thomas Dambo’s giant wooden trolls. Let me tell you, these incredible sculptures do not disappoint. Not only are they breathtakingly beautiful, but they are enormous!

Thomas Dambo has crafted over 170 creations all over the world. If your curious if one is near you, here’s a wonderful Trollmap. We only visited two trolls this trip, but we will try again soon.

Now, come with me into the forest to meet Bruun Idun and Pia the Peacekeeper.

From Thomas Dambo:

“In the night, there was a storm, there at the beach where she was born
And Idun felt a feeling wrong, and so she walked there in the dawn
And in a flute, the magic horn, a tune so passionate and strong
She played for them an orca song to ask them where they all had gone“

Brunn Idun stands on the shoreline playing her flute to the Orca’s to ask them why they have all left the Pugeut Sound. Her flute was made by artist, John Halliday Aka Coyote from the Muckleshoot Tribe. On August 25th, the Mayor of Seattle, Bruce A. Harrel, declared it “Brunn Idun Day”. This special recognition celebrates Bruun Idun’s and the Trolls’ contributions to our collective stewardship environmental management, water protection, repairing habitat restoration, preservation and conservation. Every August 25th is Bruun Idun Day.

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From Thomas Dambo:

“Pretty pretty please, let’s keep the peace beneath the trees
Hold you in my hand I will remind you with a squeeze
Quiet little people cause your criers make me tired
Pia likes to play with people, people they keep quiet“

Pia likes to play with the people beneath the trees, and she likes it when it’s not too noisy.

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  • These photos were taken with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW.
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Poetry: Ghost Flowers

Midnight whispers wake us, voices we know
Call, calling out from generations long ago
Begging us to climb vine-covered walls
Where shadows hide and moonlight falls
To secret gardens where nightmares grow

Hands clasped together—our protective shield
Quick, quickly we cross the vast muddy field
Through scrawny, tawny bramble copse
Where starlight magic jumps and chops
Past broken mushrooms laying half-healed

There we hear the night’s beating heart
Thump, thumping loudly as if tearing apart
Stumble, trip through twisty almost-road
Past two-headed raven and three-footed toad
Where ghost flowers’ bold eyes flit and dart

Luckily these sickly pink flowers can’t shout
Roar, roaring for backup from monsters about
Instead slowly blinking they don’t look away
Following our movements with nothing to say
Until dark gloomy clouds turn the light out

Panicked we run despite no guiding star
Trip, tripping on half-rotted logs where they are
Fingers slip, paths divide—until it’s only me
Standing beneath an unwavering willow tree
Hoping nothing near has the power to mar

The drowsy pink sun eventually rises all sad
Cry, crying for you—my sweet-hearted lad
Lost in the wood where the early bird sings
Days, weeks, and months we look for your things
Until winter wipes clear all the traces we had

  • This week’s poem follows the format of Robert Frost’s “Ghost House” using the same rhyming structure and ending words. The painting was found at Goodwill and my teenage daughter added the eyes and other pen details.