where a flag once came down from heaven

The sound of many voices singing "Holy, Holy, Holy" is rising from an ancient church on Sunday morning. Outside the souvenir shop next door, a plastic Santa is playing a tinny, noisy version "Jingle Bells".

The contrast could symbolise this entire December weekend. I pull up my hood against the winter rain and keep walking, stubbornly excited, along slippery cobblestoned streets.

I saw a glimpse of the "real" Tallinn when we slipped into one of the modern shopping centres that looked exactly like any shopping centre in Helsinki, a two-hour ferry ride away. The old town, where we spend most of the weekend, is a wondrous world of winding streets, tall church spires, glowing windows, thick town walls and fortified towers and everything you expect from the most romantic of medieval settings.

It is also an isolated little world of fragrant Christmas spices, alluring restaurants, gaudy souvenir shops and rosy-cheeked tourists snapping selfies - all quaintness and mulled wine.

It may not be very authentic but it's easy to get sucked into the happy carefreeness. To exclaim over Gothic vaults and the glow of Baltic amber, to drink cinnamon beer allegedly made from an old monastery recipe, to drift around cozy cafés and majestic churches among crowds of Russians and Scandinavians. It doesn't matter that the cold is creeping in and that the cobblestones are grey with rain. We're on holiday, chestnuts are roasting and we're having ourselves a merry little Christmas.

pleased, as man, with men to dwell

... born that man no more may die, born to raise the sons of earth ...

Words drift past. Mostly unnoticed. Occasionally they knock me out with beauty and truth.

a good party and the best part

There is something delicious in stepping out on the porch, at a party where the music is ringing in your ears and the alcohol is buzzing hotly in your veins, and step straight into a snow storm.

To take a break from clinking wine glasses and loud music, burlesque dancers, the heat of many bodies and your companions' shouted conversation. To feel the icy wind go straight through your flimsy dress, to see your high heels make delicate prints in the snow. To wrap a soft cardigan around your shoulders and breathe deeply. To hear only silence. To smell the winter of the North.

like their mothers

“All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does, and that is his.”
(Oscar Wilde: The Importance of Being Earnest)

I have inherited my mother's, and her mother's, tendency to worry too much, suffer sudden indecisiveness and occasionally fall into despair.

Also their heartfelt smile, thick hair, curiosity, love of the English language, loyalty and soft-spoken independence.

stare, pry, listen, eavesdrop

“Stare. It is the way to educate your eye, and more. Stare, pry, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long.”

(Walker Evans)

a hundred years of blue and white

A hundred years of independence.

Happy birthday, Finland. Independence is valuable to us Finns on an individual level so a hundred years of it is worth celebrating.

I will mark this day by standing on a cold street listening to some pompous music. Then I will withdraw to a warm kitchen where gingerbread cookies are baking in the oven, teenagers are squabbling and an old lady is knitting socks in the corner.

In the evening, I will watch the president's ball on TV with a friend and decide to never have another gingerbread cookie again.

At some point, I will listen to Sibelius' "Finlandia" and cry.

red, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heart

My favourite yellow-reddish colour, as seen today:

The sky at sunset, reflected in ice. The candles and the coloured light bulbs chasing away the darkness. The sweet strawberry drink I'm clutching between cold fingers. The dying embers of my creativity. And the stubborn glow of my joy.

My blood is a flood of rubies, precious stones ...

(Title from the song "Yellow Flicker Beat" by Lorde)