The last year or more I've been ...
worrying, procrastinating, making feasibility plans, making appointments I didn't want to keep, talking about things I didn't understand, filling out forms, waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, trying to forget about everything, being pushed forward by sheer despair, reading boring material, trying to remember figures, wondering why nobody can help me, forcing myself onward ...
while trying to remember that this is what forging my freedom looks like.
Sunday, May 29, 2016
Saturday, May 28, 2016
minimum stay three weeks
I have lived at least three weeks in these places:
A small house in the suburbs. Long winters buried in snow, lovely summers embedded in a lush garden.
A room in an old school with a beautiful Swede as roommate. The walls smelled like old stone, the attic was a treasure chamber of books and God was everywhere.
A motel room near a Thai beach - shared with history makers, world shakers and the occasional cockroach.
A tiny room filled to bursting with sleeping bags and friends with diarrhoea.
A large flat overlooking grey city streets and rooftops with flags. Full of file folders, languages and new friends.
A cold room in a Scottish attic and a bed with two eiderdown duvets.
A wooden Swiss chalet where I could hear wolves howl at night (maybe in my imagination).
A Hawaiian house with a slow-moving ceiling fan, shutters instead of windows and sometimes a friendly gecko.
A small flat high above the busy streets, where boys came to woo.
A house in France among endless open fields - with an orchard and boys who brought me tea and taught me ping pong.
A tiny flat hidden behind an elm tree in a quiet street. I slept alone and prepared for the world.
A worn-down attic in a worn-down Irish house, with plenty of people. Buzzed with illegal parties on boozy nights, while deer and sheep grazed outside on misty mornings.
Another attic room, above a bar and beside a mountain. A deep window, creaky floors, a yellow blanket, a beloved bathtub, a Canadian and a Frenchwoman.
The Window Sill room, hardly bigger than the window sill, where I contentedly contemplated my loneliness and my adventures and read English novels.
A terrible room in a suburb, where the only good things were red sheets, a poster of a calla lily and a view over barley fields.
The tiniest bedsit of all in a row house shared with a lawyer. The comfort of a tree outside the window and TV in bed during the small hours.
The House of the Thirteen Clocks. Disastrous, disastrous and dreary. I barely escaped with my sanity intact.
The flat of the eternal moonlight. Fairy lights and a kitchen table as protection against a cold winter. And it had a dance floor.
The Beach Hut - an ordinary flat with an extraordinary sea view. Beauty and weird neighbours.
An idyllic cottage in an idyllic village with idyllic people. Shared with an idyllic sheepdog.
And lastly, the paradise which has been there for me all through the years and which words cannot describe.
A small house in the suburbs. Long winters buried in snow, lovely summers embedded in a lush garden.
A room in an old school with a beautiful Swede as roommate. The walls smelled like old stone, the attic was a treasure chamber of books and God was everywhere.
A motel room near a Thai beach - shared with history makers, world shakers and the occasional cockroach.
A tiny room filled to bursting with sleeping bags and friends with diarrhoea.
A large flat overlooking grey city streets and rooftops with flags. Full of file folders, languages and new friends.
A cold room in a Scottish attic and a bed with two eiderdown duvets.
A wooden Swiss chalet where I could hear wolves howl at night (maybe in my imagination).
A Hawaiian house with a slow-moving ceiling fan, shutters instead of windows and sometimes a friendly gecko.
A small flat high above the busy streets, where boys came to woo.
A house in France among endless open fields - with an orchard and boys who brought me tea and taught me ping pong.
A tiny flat hidden behind an elm tree in a quiet street. I slept alone and prepared for the world.
A worn-down attic in a worn-down Irish house, with plenty of people. Buzzed with illegal parties on boozy nights, while deer and sheep grazed outside on misty mornings.
Another attic room, above a bar and beside a mountain. A deep window, creaky floors, a yellow blanket, a beloved bathtub, a Canadian and a Frenchwoman.
The Window Sill room, hardly bigger than the window sill, where I contentedly contemplated my loneliness and my adventures and read English novels.
A terrible room in a suburb, where the only good things were red sheets, a poster of a calla lily and a view over barley fields.
The tiniest bedsit of all in a row house shared with a lawyer. The comfort of a tree outside the window and TV in bed during the small hours.
The House of the Thirteen Clocks. Disastrous, disastrous and dreary. I barely escaped with my sanity intact.
The flat of the eternal moonlight. Fairy lights and a kitchen table as protection against a cold winter. And it had a dance floor.
The Beach Hut - an ordinary flat with an extraordinary sea view. Beauty and weird neighbours.
An idyllic cottage in an idyllic village with idyllic people. Shared with an idyllic sheepdog.
And lastly, the paradise which has been there for me all through the years and which words cannot describe.
Friday, May 27, 2016
crowbeaten
Got hit in the head with a crow today. Twice. Intentionally. By the crow itself. Then it shrieked at me to eff off.
I effed off and took the long way around.
It was that kind of day.
I effed off and took the long way around.
It was that kind of day.
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
a continent to explore
"Someone once told me a story about long term relationships. To think of
them as a continent to explore. I could spend a lifetime backpacking
through Africa, and I would still never know all there is to know about
that continent. To stay the course, to stay intentional, to stay curious
and connected – that’s the heart of it. But it’s so easy to lose track
of the trail, to get tired, to want to give up, or to want a new
adventure. It can be so easy to lose sight of the goodness and mystery
within the person sitting right in front of you."
(Joy Williams)
(Joy Williams)
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Monday, May 23, 2016
a secret to happiness
Today's sugary but noteworthy thought:
"A secret to happiness is letting every situation be what it is instead of what you think it should be, and then making the best of it."
Today's situation: bank business, icecream, headache, summer, cider, girl talk.
"A secret to happiness is letting every situation be what it is instead of what you think it should be, and then making the best of it."
Today's situation: bank business, icecream, headache, summer, cider, girl talk.
Friday, May 20, 2016
a kingdom heart
"When a woman has a kingdom heart, she has an active understanding of
what matters most to the heart of God. She lives in the balance of
passion and contentment. She learns to love well, give without regard to
self, and forgive without hesitation. The woman with a kingdom heart
may have a duffel bag full of possessions or enough treasures to fill a
mansion, but she has learned to hold them with an open hand. Hold
everything with open hands. I don’t think we are ever allowed to grab
hold of anything or anyone as though they matter more than the kingdom
of heaven. When you hold relationships with open hands, then people come
in and out of your life as gifts of grace to be cherished and enjoyed,
not objects to be owned and manipulated. And then when you hold your
dreams with open hands, you get to watch God resurrect what seemed dead
and multiply what seemed small."
(Angela Thomas)
(Angela Thomas)
Thursday, May 19, 2016
gonna be some sweet sounds
A memory:
Struggling through the second of three night shifts.
Coming to work near midnight, I'm tired. The night darkens while I catch up on everything that has happened since this morning (was I really here this morning too, wearily updating the morning shift girl before heading home to sleep?). I also make sure to fetch the biggest knife in the kitchen and hide it within arm's reach. Although the skies outside stay bright, the shadows in the deserted restaurant are deep and I turn up MTV to drown out all the little noises that make me nervous (Rihanna with "Umbrella" is a constant this summer).
While I am busy counting tills and doing the night audit, I am alert and kind of enjoying the quiet. A late customer checks in. A bit later, one of the regulars staying in the hotel wanders in and asks for a sandwich, which he makes with his own two hands in the kitchen while we chat about weekend plans.
Within an hour or two, the sun rises again and I can hear the birds singing madly outside. Two more customers arrive, these two dodgy-looking and without a reservation. I hesitate, but decide to give them a room after making sure they pay in advance.
In the middle of the night I venture out on one of the required "security rounds", meaning a nervous walk along the long, deserted corridors and through a part of the overgrown, wild garden where anything and everything might be lurking. Fortunately, nothing attacks a young receptionist this night either - in fact, the only creature awake is a frog sitting on the front steps.
For a couple of hours there is nothing to do except drink more coffee and plant myself at the reception computer to get some translation work done - might as well earn two wages at the same time, plus night differential. Around 5 a.m. the hotel is quiet and I struggle to muster some energy as I head to the kitchen to start the endless breakfast preparations - including the evil porridge that always sticks to the pot.
When the "evening" papers are delivered at 7 a.m. it's finally time to go home.
Struggling through the second of three night shifts.
Coming to work near midnight, I'm tired. The night darkens while I catch up on everything that has happened since this morning (was I really here this morning too, wearily updating the morning shift girl before heading home to sleep?). I also make sure to fetch the biggest knife in the kitchen and hide it within arm's reach. Although the skies outside stay bright, the shadows in the deserted restaurant are deep and I turn up MTV to drown out all the little noises that make me nervous (Rihanna with "Umbrella" is a constant this summer).
While I am busy counting tills and doing the night audit, I am alert and kind of enjoying the quiet. A late customer checks in. A bit later, one of the regulars staying in the hotel wanders in and asks for a sandwich, which he makes with his own two hands in the kitchen while we chat about weekend plans.
Within an hour or two, the sun rises again and I can hear the birds singing madly outside. Two more customers arrive, these two dodgy-looking and without a reservation. I hesitate, but decide to give them a room after making sure they pay in advance.
In the middle of the night I venture out on one of the required "security rounds", meaning a nervous walk along the long, deserted corridors and through a part of the overgrown, wild garden where anything and everything might be lurking. Fortunately, nothing attacks a young receptionist this night either - in fact, the only creature awake is a frog sitting on the front steps.
For a couple of hours there is nothing to do except drink more coffee and plant myself at the reception computer to get some translation work done - might as well earn two wages at the same time, plus night differential. Around 5 a.m. the hotel is quiet and I struggle to muster some energy as I head to the kitchen to start the endless breakfast preparations - including the evil porridge that always sticks to the pot.
When the "evening" papers are delivered at 7 a.m. it's finally time to go home.
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
impressed by kindness
"I can get my head turned by a good-looking guy as much as the next girl.
But sexy doesn’t impress me. Smart impresses me, strength of character
impresses me. But most of all, I am impressed by kindness. Kindness, I
think, comes from learning hard lessons well, from falling and picking
yourself up. It comes from surviving failure and loss. It implies an
understanding of the human condition, forgives its many flaws and
quirks. When I see that in someone, it fills me with admiration."
(Lisa Unger)
(Lisa Unger)
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
fire-hair, daddy issues and unwashed lefties
A few things I started to blog about recently but (fortunately) never finished:
"Accidentally set fire to my hair (three times)."
"Should seek therapy for: daddy issues."
"There are traits in my lifestyle that disappoint her but I can't change them because they are part of what is me."
"... the beautifully named sydäntalvi - heart winter ..."
"Today, I am so unbelievably scared of growing old."
"I held lava rock from Indonesia in my hands."
"Was called coward, scum and "a leftie who don't wash" when I reacted on social media."
"I arrived reluctantly, crying and exhausted."
"... putting down electricity cables and water pipes in the name of the future ..."
"Accidentally set fire to my hair (three times)."
"Should seek therapy for: daddy issues."
"There are traits in my lifestyle that disappoint her but I can't change them because they are part of what is me."
"... the beautifully named sydäntalvi - heart winter ..."
"Today, I am so unbelievably scared of growing old."
"I held lava rock from Indonesia in my hands."
"Was called coward, scum and "a leftie who don't wash" when I reacted on social media."
"I arrived reluctantly, crying and exhausted."
"... putting down electricity cables and water pipes in the name of the future ..."
Monday, May 16, 2016
may you live all the days of your life
May is
birdsong, the most beautiful music on earth
explosive life and a little anguish
seagulls
the thawing of my heart
the smell of earth
balcony hours
red evening sun as I get ready for bed
expectation and beauty
birdsong, the most beautiful music on earth
explosive life and a little anguish
seagulls
the thawing of my heart
the smell of earth
balcony hours
red evening sun as I get ready for bed
expectation and beauty
Saturday, May 14, 2016
trying to find God everywhere
"I dream too much, and I don’t write enough, and I’m trying to find God everywhere."
(Anis Mojgai)
(Anis Mojgai)
Friday, May 13, 2016
cast thy bread upon the waters
Other things I've been sharing lately:
Cadbury's chocolate in a foreign land
Comforting words
Money with people who will never pay me back
Flu germs
Cadbury's chocolate in a foreign land
Comforting words
Money with people who will never pay me back
Flu germs
Thursday, May 12, 2016
glitter and easy promises
Today I bought golden shoes and promised to stop smoking even though I have never started. Sometimes you have to spread the glitter and make easy promises.
Monday, May 09, 2016
aliens, upside-down ties and Marx's head
I spent five days in London, the wonderful city, and don't know what to write about it.
Cadbury's chocolate eggs spring to mind. Reading the Sunday Times in a hostel lounge. The underground trains, thundering out of ancient tunnels like prehistoric worms (or like Jeff in Men in Black II). The abomination of Karl Marx's huge head in the romantic cemetery of Highgate.
The thunder and lightning that surrounded Big Ben that day (and hail, and sun, and pissing rain, and some snow in the mix). The tame squirrels in the parks. The tourists. All the normal people on the Tube. The schoolboys, the suits, the dogs, the guy with his upside-down tie. The floating aliens in Trafalgar Square. The thief being chased through the back streets of Soho. The politeness and the offers of help. The sunny streets of Notting Hill where we couldn't agree on a lunch place. Brent Cross, the suburb made for entertainment but not for the crossing of streets. My hostel room-mate who brushed her teeth for half an hour at midnight.
The bus taking its sweet time winding through the streets towards Hampstead. The flowers. The red Lamborghini almost running me over on its way to the Gumball 3000. The flat white. Our hysterical giggling on the double-decker buses. The breakfast fry-up with an old friend not seen for twelve years. The barbed wire fence at the back of Buckingham Palace. The black-headed gull eggs sold in Harrods (why would anybody want them?). The Buddhist monk who wanted my donation in exchange for the chance to write "peace" in his little notebook. The fish and chips in Soho. The heated debate about customer service and minimum wage in the bustle of a bank holiday on Oxford Street. The lonely wine picnic outside Kensington Palace. The conference with twelve thousand women. The laughing bus driver.
Every time I come home from London, I'm a little bit more polite and accommodating to others. And a little more amazed.
Cadbury's chocolate eggs spring to mind. Reading the Sunday Times in a hostel lounge. The underground trains, thundering out of ancient tunnels like prehistoric worms (or like Jeff in Men in Black II). The abomination of Karl Marx's huge head in the romantic cemetery of Highgate.
 |
| Highgate cemetery |
The thunder and lightning that surrounded Big Ben that day (and hail, and sun, and pissing rain, and some snow in the mix). The tame squirrels in the parks. The tourists. All the normal people on the Tube. The schoolboys, the suits, the dogs, the guy with his upside-down tie. The floating aliens in Trafalgar Square. The thief being chased through the back streets of Soho. The politeness and the offers of help. The sunny streets of Notting Hill where we couldn't agree on a lunch place. Brent Cross, the suburb made for entertainment but not for the crossing of streets. My hostel room-mate who brushed her teeth for half an hour at midnight.
 |
| Floating alien |
The bus taking its sweet time winding through the streets towards Hampstead. The flowers. The red Lamborghini almost running me over on its way to the Gumball 3000. The flat white. Our hysterical giggling on the double-decker buses. The breakfast fry-up with an old friend not seen for twelve years. The barbed wire fence at the back of Buckingham Palace. The black-headed gull eggs sold in Harrods (why would anybody want them?). The Buddhist monk who wanted my donation in exchange for the chance to write "peace" in his little notebook. The fish and chips in Soho. The heated debate about customer service and minimum wage in the bustle of a bank holiday on Oxford Street. The lonely wine picnic outside Kensington Palace. The conference with twelve thousand women. The laughing bus driver.
 |
| Buckingham P. and the threatening skies |
Every time I come home from London, I'm a little bit more polite and accommodating to others. And a little more amazed.
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