brave new world that has such people in it!

An assortment of customers in the Little Shop of Harmony:

Jukka. My least favourite customer. Probably because he rarely pays for the clothes he picks up in the second-hand basement and seems to think he makes up for it by leaving an extremely smelly piece of his own clothing somewhere instead. He is arrogant, ungrateful and shouts at me when I refuse to give him things for free (forgetting that I gave him something out of pity only the day before). But he does have some entertainment value. He sometimes wears an orange wig and pretends he is John Lennon. He picks up Christian tracts and hands them out to people in the street. He carries around an old guitar which he never plays. Sometimes he asks me to kiss him (which I also refuse). And sometimes he shocks some of the staid, too-dignified customers that definitely need to be shocked out of their own world every now and then.

The war veteran. Almost 90 years old and he pedals for miles on a tricycle every day, usually in camouflage-patterned clothes (I wouldn't have thought that would be a veteran's first choice in fashion but maybe he can't afford to buy something else). Nearly deaf but fluent in two languages, always polite and ready for a chat with anyone. "Time to go home and count the kids", he jokes and it cuts me a bit to the heart because I witnessed the pain in him a couple of years ago when his beloved wife passed away after a long illness and I know his only child only rarely visits him. He has trouble with his heart and every time he leaves I wonder if this is the last time I see him, and I already know I will miss him.

Eeva L. A proper lady. Comes by every day, sometimes twice, and usually buys something from the basement - a silk blouse, a nice scarf, something expensive-looking. Always wears a skirt and heels, in winter a fur coat, plenty of make-up to hide the fact that she is over 60. In a town where elderly ladies usually are of the mousey kind, she stands out. She runs some kind of cosmetics business from her home and sometimes mentions needing all these nice clothes for business meetings, but my colleague warned me not to take everything she says at face value. She is quiet and has a beautiful, warm smile.

Old man Kanervikko. Smells of moth balls and his clothes look a hundred years old. Whenever he comes in through the door, I sigh because I know I will be listening to his chatter for at least twenty minutes unless I make an excuse to go off and do something else. But he needs someone to listen to him, so usually I stay for a while. He comes to buy some book recommended on the Christian TV channel (which he watches devoutly even though he is not a church-goer) and enthusiastically tells me about that book or some other he has read recently (i.e. within the last thirty years). However, chatting to him is usually rewarding, as sooner or later he will say or do something unintentionally funny. One day, he told me he had snuck out to buy a book while he was supposed to be baby-sitting his grandson - after making a deal with the boy not to tell his parents. "But I met the parents as I was leaving", he adds with a guilty giggle. Today, he took off his hundred-year-old hat, and small pieces of what looked like toilet paper fell out and snowed all over the floor. He picked them all up without a break in his chattering, stuffed them back in the hat and put it back on.

shine, don't shrink

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."


(Marianne Williamson, from A Return to Love)

that star, dancing out of reach

Being creative is fun and easy. But getting to that fun and easy part is such hard work. The main problem is prying oneself away from all those distractions.

According to Nietzsche, it takes a bit of chaos as well, of which I have plenty.

"Man muss noch Chaos in sich haben, um einen tanzenden Stern gebären zu können" 
(One must have chaos in oneself in order to give birth to a dancing star).

The lesson I have learned, though, is that creation is done one small step at a time. Even God couldn't do it all in one day. It's about building that cathedral.

midnight in the cemetery

The picture says it all. Three street bums making an evening of it with a bottle of whiskey. Right? Well, not quite...

The setting is this: A wooded valley between the mountains. Thousand-year-old monastery ruins with a cemetery where ancient headstones, overgrown with blackberry and ivy, lean eerily in the silence of deep midnight. The shriek of some nocturnal animal far away echoing through the valley. An enormous, starry autumn sky overhead. It's straight out of a Gothic novel or a classic horror movie. It's stunningly beautiful.

In the middle of the cemetery, the tiny Priest's House is a roofless ruin dating back to the 12th century. There are ancient headstones in here as well. We place a candle on the dirt floor and huddle up within the narrow stone walls, sharing whiskey, stories and jokes. We are new friends from countries far apart who feel a connection and have bonded as an adventurous, easy-going gang. We have shared a fun-filled summer and know that this summer has come to an end and soon there will be good-byes - probably forever. As the autumn night grows colder and the stars wander across the sky we curl up even closer to each other under a pile of wool blankets. One falls asleep, another worries quietly about ghosts, and I lie awake looking at the stars. It's a perfect night. Beauty, adventure, friends from faraway countries. Midnight in the cemetery, completely safe and at peace.

blood, sweat and tears of laughter

"I have blood all over me and I don't know whose it is."

The aftermath of a particularly vicious volleyball game can be disturbing for sensitive viewers. But I washed the blood off me and reflected on the fact that I had almost died on that court - of laughter. And we lost the game.

mom always said there's safety in numbers

One of those days. One of those days. At work. Hard to smile at customers, even more difficult to check emails and tidy the shelves, and absolutely unthinkable to get started on all those orders I need to put together. Brain working sluggishly at half-speed. Back aching from slouching in front of the computer, browsing anything even remotely interesting on the internet and being bored by all of it. Counting hour-long minutes until I get to close up shop and go home. Desperately in need of inspiration, excitement, a fairytale event crashing unexpectedly into my dull life.

One of those days when settling down to enter sales figures into a spreadsheet is the only thing that can soothe my troubled mind.

a stray comment

"We got engaged during a holiday in Athens, with a stray dog as our only witness. Now that dog is dead."

girl talk

"I was just kidding, you don't actually look like a teenager."
"You're saying I look middle-aged?"
"Well, what are you trying to prove with those ear-rings anyway?"

evening to dye for

This will be the day that I dye (my hair). But before that, time to head over to best friend's place with bottle of wine and the FaceBook film.

moving mountains long before we knew we could

I was born an idealist. A romantic. ( Oddly enough, as my parents were of the rather pragmatic, down-to-earth kind. ) I believed in all that stuff: Everything has a meaning, there is a God and he speaks, life is a wonderful adventure, the universe has patterns and symbols and miracles, there are mysteries to solve and treasures to find and a soulmate somewhere out there who will love me until death do us part. And if you do the right thing, the inevitable result is happily-ever-after.

As many born idealists, I am now a hardcore cynic. ( Realists seldom turn cynics as disappointments don't knock them down the same way. )

One sunny morning recently, as I was walking to work, the thought struck me: "Is this the reason I often feel at odds with myself?" I have looked at the facts - broken hearts, meaningless tragedies, an absent God, betrayals, hopelessness, the unbearable tedium of daily routine - and created an armour of non-belief and distrust around me. But no matter how appropriate and safe, even true, this armour seems, it fits me ill. It pinches, itches, chokes me. It's not me.

So, truth does not fit me? Maybe it's not the whole truth, just the surface of it. ( Ironically, that is a rather idealistic thought. ) Maybe there are some patterns and miracles after all, a few beautiful mysteries and a few people capable of loving and maybe even a God somewhere. And none of us have yet seen the whole picture, so who's to say Good and Right won't prevail in the end after all. I'm not saying I believe yet. But sometimes I'm willing to try, very cautiously, a little bit.

Because the world needs idealists and romantics. We are the ones who make others see these things. We are the ones, in an otherwise empty and ugly world, who believe these things into existence.

declaration: as of this day

Could we start again please? I will marvel over the miracle of being loved by you, just as I am. I will not suspect that you look at me with disappointment, indifference, resentment or ill will. I will not blame you for bad experiences in the past. I will not assume that you have given up on me or my possible future. I will not try to live up to any standards. I will absolutely refuse to think that I am a failure. I will lay down my burdens. I will live as if here and now is all there is. I will believe that anything is possible, even that I can change. I will expect wonderful things to happen today because you are right here beside me. I will love you absolutely, infinitely, madly.

and may all your St. Patrick's days be green

Lá Fhéile Pádraig Shona duit go léir, taitneamh a bhaint as an seisiún!

lion kings, a P45 and talent in the tavern

Random excerpts from correspondence from the Western civilisation...

"Can you cook? I doubt it though ..."
"Me and my lion king are fine."
"Your P45 and a cheque will be on the way according to Ms. R"
"May I just say that she put on a lot of weight too ..."
"This girl is ok but there is an abyss between me and her."
"I am the new Rita!!!!"
"One day my mother just took a little bit of money and escape to Europe because 'they' wanted to kill her. 'They' are the same that wanted to kill my brother and me ... no comments!!!"
"You are young, European and clever so you have too many choices."
"She and her girlfriend are very nice and friendly. For me is a very strange situation."
"Irish people don't talk about that ... all is 'grand'."
"I'm sure that after countless hours of talking we would have been ... no wiser."
"I think Patrick has gone quiet altogether. God love him."
"You may find me crazy but in my imagination I associate you with the image of a novelist. Did you ever consider writing?"
"Already had about 55 marriage proposals!"
"I'm shocked you even know a word like 'nipples' but mine are still very much intact."
"I'm not fleeing from the family to have them follow me!"
"The girls thought there was no talent in the tavern and wanted to go home."
"There is something going on that I can only call an exodus."
"How could we EVER fancy him??"
"He looks blurry and talks absolute blabla."
"We have 60 Irish priests staying in the house. I still try to make up a confession I'd like to do but it's hard being perfect me."

rescue a teenager today

Walked past the school I always walk past in the morning. Saw the same teenagers I always see hurrying to their first class or morning assembly or whatever they have to hurry to in the mornings. Actually, I always seem to meet different teenagers every day, how many students can there be in that school really?

Anyway, apart from my usual, semi-subconscious reflections - how glad I am not to be an awkward, scared teenager in school, how slightly envious I am of these kids with their glossy skin and bright futures - I suddenly got angry. At my own time in school, specifically those years (thankfully, only three) when the classrooms and crowded corridors were a war zone with potential enemies lurking everywhere. Where were the adults who were supposed to help, guide and protect? No teacher seemed to give a damn about a suffering fourteen-year-old. Parents offered help but when a stubborn kid claimed she could handle any problems on her own, they didn't press the issue. Bloody hell. A teenager can't cope with everything, no matter how convincing she sounds. They should have asked again, and again. Taken matters in their own hands and protected the kid, changed the world for her. Against her will if necessary.

What did I learn from this? That you'd better handle things on your own, because nobody else will be there for you. That there must be something wrong with me because I didn't succeed in making everybody love me when I was that shy fourteen-year-old. That it's a good idea not to be yourself, because who you are doesn't cut it.

Things can hardly be much better for teenagers now, in these days of even larger schools and fewer teachers and counsellors. It chills me to the bone when I think about it. As I walk past that school, suddenly all I see is lost souls going to their doom.

the bliss of the Irish

"Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive 
But to be young was very heaven"

Not a film star on a yacht in Monte Carlo. A hotel receptionist on a pier outside a modest little Irish town. But oh so happy. The quote could represent her whole existence right then.

(The quote is from William Wordsworth: "The French Revolution". I learned it not in studying English poetry, which I was never very good at anyway, but because it was splashed in bold print across the front page of a major Irish newspaper one day. The reason for the Irish press waxing lyrical? Ireland had made it to some semi-final in some football world cup, or something like it - unprecedented in that particular sport. Only the Irish would celebrate such a (to me) mundane thing by quoting poetry in the headlines of the day. It is so true what T.E. Kalem said about the Irish people and the English language:

"They court it like a beautiful woman. They make it bray with donkey laughter. They hurl it at the sky like a paint pot full of rainbows, and then make it chant a dirge for man's fate and man's follies that is as mournful as misty spring rain crying over the fallow earth.")

before your snow castle melts

The month of March. When you are a child.

The sound of the wind in pine trees as dusk falls over the neighbourhood, the soggy grey snow beneath your boots, the smell of wet earth emerging slowly, the mildness in the air piercing the cold that has lasted so long, the light sky in the evenings, the first migrating birds returning, the feeling of promise.

You play your fantasy games in your melting snow castle, getting a little wet and cold as twilight descends. You have your own world which stretches further than the stars and knows no limit to hope and dreams, but you also have the safety of hearing the familiar voices of the neighbourhood. Soon, your father's car will pull into the driveway and you will run to him. And your mother will call out that supper is ready. Somewhere, a dog is barking.

Later in life, your dreams may break and you may learn that March is the month of murders. But if you have had even one of these evenings in childhood, you have a treasure that cannot be taken from you.

breath and death and the difference

Not breathing, that will be the death of me.

Well, obviously. But, really.

You shouldn't speculate about your own death. I'm not superstitious, but words do have power and you set things in motion when you talk about them (self-fulfilling prophecies and all that). But it's after midnight and I'm feeling a bit rebellious and a bit tired of playing by safe rules and I will die some day anyway. Right now it doesn't worry me in the slightest.

There is nothing physically wrong with me. I can run and jump for hours. Yet sometimes I have to control my breathing so as not to hyperventilate, just because I'm weak or not well or just generally anguished. Sometimes my body stops breathing and then remembers to restart at the last minute (with a reassuringly powerful effort, admittedly). I tend to panic in water so am a drowning victim waiting to happen. My father died because his lungs stopped working.

A very spiritual friend of mine once told me breathing is connected to one's spirit (spiritus in Latin means breath). Or perhaps to God's spirit, the one who is also called the Breath of God and is compared to a wind (Ruach Elohim). My friend suggested getting to know this Spirit. He may have a point.

What I really think? That I'm out of breath because I have been running for so long - hunted by pressure to be someone else, and desperate longing, and a terrible fear of not being loved. One day, I hope to be able to stop and catch my breath.

When you pick me up and carry me. Then I will feel as if I can breathe for the first time in years. Safe.

fight this!

While we are on the subject of grassroot movements... Have a look at this. Let's make one person famous - not because he deserves it but because it will save 30 000 children.


KONY 2012 from INVISIBLE CHILDREN on Vimeo.


"Never doubt that a small group of committed people can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." (Margaret Mead)

what happened to Sun Tzu?

There are some Sherlock Holmes fans even in my little city. I was forced to google #believeinsherlock, apparently a worldwide campaign, after finding little post-it notes here and there. This one was stuck to the cover of a book I happened to pull out from the shelf of a bookshop. (I'm not sure how Holmes and Watson felt about Sun Tzu?)

I am ever the fan of underground movements and bohemian campaigns, little assaults on the commonplace. Not to mention the feeling that this backwater town is somehow connected to the rest of the world.

pink day

I know it's hard to believe but I actually dressed in pink today. I own two pieces of pink clothing, both glimpsed here. Here's the Pink Cougar on her way to a coffee date with a young and innocent man.

He seemed to like it. I definitely liked it. We discussed calories, skinny models, unwise excuses to use for taking a sick day, failed marketing strategies, perfume and sweat, how far you are willing to go for your work, evening shifts and a Turkish soap vendor named Ali.

the Sisterhood of M

Three friends glued together for life thanks to a spacious city-centre flat with uninspiring rooftop views, a welcome-all attitude and a quirky wig-making landlady. University and a lively, strange city and a beautiful river within walking distance.

An intellectual one with a sharp mind, a logical leadership style, social skills edged with straight-forwardness, and a tendency towards anxiety. A romantic charmer with boundless exuberance, vulnerable openness, a taste for traditions and an urge to make friends with everyone and explore absolutely everything. And then the third one who is not in this picture, the rather confused one in the middle who envied them both and loved them both and learned to live thanks to them both. Strangely, she was the only one who was never homesick. That one was me.

just in case I ever leave

I am committing Finland to memory for future reference.

I pay attention to the way the ice crunches under my boots as I walk to work in the morning sun. The way my neighbours say hello as we pass in the hallway. How my mother smiles when I walk into her flat. How the Finnish language flows into intriguing verb forms. How regular customers in the shop always greet me in the same way. How my best friend texts to ask me if I'm also watching NCIS right now. How the view outside my window is always stunningly beautiful, no matter the weather. How my internet connection is never down (how could it, when I have four different ones?). How I can experience Arctic temperatures when I go out and still walk barefoot in my flat.

How I feel safe - in walking through dark streets in the middle of the night. In placing orders at work and knowing I won't get it wrong. In trusting that my stove won't break down as I cook dinner, or if it does, that I can make a call and someone will fix it before I die of starvation. In knowing that if I get sick someone will take care of me and it won't break my bank. In being able to predict how people think and act. In always having someone nearby to talk to.

In essence, Finland is Home and Safety. So how much is Freedom worth?

and a mustard seed afterthought

mustard seed thirteen (a.k.a. coming home)

Could there be two more beautiful places on earth to leave your heart? Between Sea and Fire there is nothing but Peace.

say I am wonderful

I look at an old picture of myself in ill-fitting clothes and cannot understand how I could love myself back then. Did I? Could I at all identify myself with my own body?

At some point in my life I acquired a dress sense which is now such an integral part of my identity that I feel almost physically ill if I wear something that doesn't fit me. Some people say they dress how they feel. I dress how I want to feel (not that it always works).

There should be nothing but beauty in the world. I work on that. I want to add to it.

nouns of March

Shocking diaries and Andromeda adventures (2006)
Abysses and shadows (2007)
Kiss resistance and wet feet (2008)
Jasper bracelets and angel choirs (2009)
Blizzard shopping and American wisdom (2010)
Crowded minds and sunset colours (2011)
Supermarket miracle and dream fuel (2012)

as one incapable of her own distress

Over a lazy Saturday coffee I try to list good things that have emerged out of my seven Finnish years of tribulation. There are indeed a few. And today, there will be a road trip through sunny snowscapes with good friends and a good man I hope to sit next to. At our destination, there will be cake.

And when I feel down, I am comforted by the thought of curling up on my sofa with a glass of wine and my latest TV-series addiction. Pathetic, yes. But there is also an element of fueling my deepest desire for change until it cannot help but take off - or possibly blow up in my face (but worry about that later).

the supermarket where Superman shops

So many pictures in this blog nowadays. It used to be a plain-text, boring old blog. Shouldn't really overdo it.

I just fell in love with pictures this winter.

To balance all the pretty dreamy images, here is kitchen-sink-realism: A mugshot of the supermarket where I reluctantly go to shop for eggs and bread. The one with the unbelievable queues to the check-outs, which give you time to study all the normal and weird people around you. The other day, an old man couldn't find all the euros he needed to pay for his groceries and an impatient businessman in the queue behind him stepped in to pay the balance. That never happens in cold-hearted, cold-climate Finland. When the old man tried to thank him, the businessman actually said: "Pay it forward." I almost proposed to him on the spot.