“You may stay for as long as you want. In gets cold in October.”

The ways in which people receive me vary, but I am finding my own way of being a guest. In a forest cabin I share the house with three others. We pick food from the garden and forage in the woods. I sleep in the attic, the old house creaking and moving around me.

In Gothenburg, another friend welcomes me to his shared apartment. I sleep on the couch wrapped in blankets. He fusses over me and I make us pancakes in the morning, always reminded of my grandmother as I watch the batter make bubbles in the pan. I loved it when she made me pancakes when I was a kid. Her love flows through my hands and into the bellies of my hosts; having food, shelter and company is really all we need in this life.

Hospitality really goes both ways. To give, there must be someone to receive, and I find myself getting better at receiving kindness. I used to get a bit stressed, thinking that I need to deserve it or give back something of equal value. That it has to happen right away. As if love also is transactional.

That’s capitalist bullshit.

Instead now, I more easily find myself in the moment, trusting that people are giving because they enjoy doing so. Right now, I am the guest, and we figure out what that means together. I trust that there will come a time when I will get to open the door to my home and offer food, shelter and company to whomever may need it, then. I look forward to it.

At times I wonder how long I can be this lucky, but then I tell myself not to worry about it. I eat the pancakes.

…

(This story told in pictures.)