the sinner, the saint and the scholar

A nice girl raised in a church pew.
A tough one in red leather swearing out loud and knocking back vodka.
A bookworm with a degree in literature.
A hotel worker not afraid of bar fights.
A shy one who hesitates to open her mouth.
A flirty one who kisses men without teeth and boys with pierced tongues and everyone in between.
A hopeless dreamer.
A jaded cynic.
A depressed loser.
A life-lover whose dreams have come true.

All of the above came together once ... and this woman here came into existence.

the hero of all the stories

Behind the counter in the bookshop. An elderly gentleman - straight back and clear eyes - hands me a book he has found. It's about the fire that destroyed our city in the 19th century. Before I even have time to say hello, he tells me an amusing anecdote about the same fire.

I giggle at the story - no doubt a true one, down to the last detail - too nervous to remember it afterwards but delighted beyond words. My hero, my ultimate authority on history, the best teacher I ever had, the one who turned boring historical facts into breathtaking stories about adventures, heroes, villains and epic emotions and who made bored teenagers gasp with fascination - he is standing here before me again after all these years, telling me another one of these stories. This one for me exclusively.

This history teacher was also the one who always scared us all out of our wits. So here I stand today, adult and independent, and quake in my boots at a mere look from those sharp eyes. With a desperate longing in me to impress, to connect.

But he responds patiently, graciously, to my nervous attempts at conversation. And suddenly, though I feel so inexplicably young I realise that I must have grown up. I am asking questions and telling stories of my own to this man whom I never dared to speak to before except in reply to questions. I smile, bravely. He smiles back. I may be quaking now but after he is gone I will stand proudly, firmly, on my own two feet. Because some people demand so much of you that you find yourself living up to it - despite your own fears.

God is a DJ

To dance until the world spins around you. To feel the music in your bones and nothing else. To wonder if you are losing your mind and love the feeling. To fly to the moon. To be completely drunk and high and drowned and shaken up by life. To have no tomorrow. To see the world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower. To be pulled along with no control. To love. To know you are not who people expect. To meet God among the strobe lights and see him smile at you. To be the music and the motion. To be you.

the tarmac and the temple

The fragrance of the bird cherry blossoms, the first heat of summer, bikinis on the beach. I walk past with sandals and a book bag, drawn by the feeling of strange paths with tarmac heated by the sun. People ignoring me, birds screaming hello. Am I happy or desperate? Try to remember that people are generally nice. That there is kindness. Bare arms no longer chilled by spring winds, sweet whispers of exuberantly green birches. Tempted to buy icecream. I walk past a hotel - the place that showed me I am my own and make my own life. I hide in the peaceful woods - the sacred temple of my childhood. I lift my face to the breeze and look out over the sea - the horizon that tempted me with adventures beyond my wildest dreams.

Returned from my own, from the temple, from the horizon that I crossed more than once, I must now make my home on the wellknown shore once again. And still find the courage to awaken other dreams.

how long does limbo last?

Find myself trying to focus on Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark while wishing I were somewhere else entirely. Eating chocolates and thinking I shouldn't. Hoping and dreading friends will call.

A walk in the woods might set things into perspective. Even though I sometimes run into strange creatures.

vanity and vexation of spirit

Here is everything I know about my life today:

The milk in my coffee had turned. I have been in pain. I have done useful things that were useful only to me so do they count? I have decided to study French and to tell my friends when I feel bad. I hesitate between stepping out into reality and staying in to watch a DVD. The Jehova's Witnesses came by again and were really young and shy. Books do not tempt me today. I fell asleep to the sound of someone digging up my street. I am not good at this life thing. But I will keep doing it. I believe I will die at age 82 and go to heaven.

the night of two musics

Guided by candlelight I find my seat in a dark concert room and let my ears be caressed by the beautiful fragile voice of a female singer-songwriter. Her vulnerability and pain and careful hope floats in the air above me and if I were to laugh it would break.

Touched, I make my way home afterwards and yet there is a relief in leaving this intimate darkness and breathe the fresh nightly air. I can almost see the pain and hope of humankind. The streets are deserted and quiet but music of another kind reaches me from somewhere far away. It is irresistible...

I follow the sound to the International House. Its large windows are thrown open wide to let in the winter wind and spilling out in return is loud music of an oriental kind (I am guessing Turkish) with its distinctive dance across the half and quarter notes. It is shockingly different from the careful, precise music I have just heard. It is boisterous, jubilant, joyful - blaring into the quiet night with no respect for the House's decorous neighbours, and bouncing back as an echo against the sober Orthodox church building opposite. The House itself is almost shaking from many feet dancing on its wooden floorboards. People are hanging out the windows to catch a breath of fresh air before pressing back into the suffocating heat of the dancing crowd, shrieking with laughter. Children who should have been in bed long ago are playing outside without a care in the world.

I walk past twice - no, three times. Joy is swirling through the night and I am incapable of leaving.

this is not a poem because it doesn't rhyme

The ice is gone,
friends threw me a party,
new books are piling up,
spring is in the air and everywhere else.

I have learned a new way to write (this is not it),
I had a wonderful chèvre salad today,
I am learning the meaning of friendship.

A Czech woman called me on Skype,
my boss gave me time off,
soul is warming up,
dreams are getting intense.

Come here to me, desired and lovely things.

påsk must

Really must start updating this blog, read other blogs, be in and be out there. But first must wake up, stop bleeding, eat vitamins, set up goals, get a grip, drink more water, eat less sweets, do this do that, quit moping, feel loved.

soul and sea

Dreamed that the sea was free and dark and beautiful. Woke up and looked out the window and the sea was still bound in ice.

Not long now, hopefully. The ice is grey and wet and rotten, and melting away slowly. One good storm is all it takes and then I will see the waves roll in.

Then my soul will be free as well. Linked to the sea, I will defeat the ice of winter. There are forces at work that cannot be stopped.

not a good day for love

Day of ex's wedding. Was theoretically invited but knew I wasn't expected to go and didn't want to either. Drifted around in a shopping centre, lonely as a cloud. Ran into a could-have-been ex, shopping happily with his newly-wed wife.

Self-pity? Rage, more like. I'm sick and tired of everyone else's happily efter after. But most of all, I'm sick and tired of losing friends.

ice queen melting

The bay still under a cover of ice and snow, thick enough to ski on, but in my sheltered spot on a balcony I soak up the spring sun. It warms my cheeks for the first time since September. The Ice Queen is melting just a little, just a softening up of the outer shell while the birds are chattering in the bare lime tree. I lean back. Feelings frozen inside me for months overwhelm me.

may the force be with me

When I slam the volleyball down on the opposite side of the net and I really got it right this time and all my energy erupts in that single moment... I can hear a choir of angels sing. Peace and good will and God's favour.

in this very minute

News in the Sami language on TV, incomprehensible. Old pictures in my photo album, including one showing my smiling friend in front of a docked submarine at Pearl Harbor. I can remember the claustrophobic feeling inside it.

Me, the computer and a thick dictionary. A sudden urge to wear bracelets and I find two on my jewellery tree: a half-broken one with olive-green fake pearls and my most precious one in jasper and silver, made by an artist friend.

I live my life in broken moments like this.

what I give up for Lent: worrying

I need to: Learn more English, learn more French, learn more Finnish. Go over my notes from the course in self-defence. Love my friends better. Go see my parents more often. Write the dream. Get a dog. Stop worrying. Be loved. Eat less bread. Tell my neighbour what she needs to hear. Stop looking for attention. Grab attention. Love myself. Stop obsessing about myself. Eat more fruit. Go to the gym. Laugh. Go for longer walks. Be fascinated by the world. Stop to think. Laugh again. Experience the moment. Watch fewer DVDs. Play the piano and sing. Go to bed earlier. Feel less envy. Listen to more music. Dare to face my repressed dreams, if they are still there somewhere. Water the potted plants. Grin.

coffee and toffee and demons

Tired and lonely.

Beautiful winter, pristine snow, an important task that apparently only I could do, a new sofa, a father who cares, film "Australia" and a sudden urge to read The Songlines, friends that don't forget me, a thermos with coffee in the snow, God. Behold things to remember when despair strikes again as it always seems to do as the month of murder approaches.

Tomorrow I will go to the expensive coffee shop and have a large vanilla latte and a piece of toffee cake. Coffee and toffee, invaluable weapons in the battle against demons.

in a van through winter

Steering an impossible huge and heavy van across the plains of Western Finland, I try to shut out the chatter of my travelling companion and dream of Prince Charming.

Icy roads are okay as long as there is snow on the fields and forests to add a shimmer to an otherwise bleak landscape. I keep an eye out for elk and deer and try to decide on a radio station. The van is loaded with books but smells of apples and winter. My fingers are numb with cold and I turn up the heater a notch.

Sleepy villages and towns pass by with their wooden cottages and ugly '60s blocks. An occasional tractor blocks the road. Even here, in the middle of nowhere, people have chosen to live, even here there are schoolyards with laughing children. Imagine.

There will be no sun today either, and darkness is falling as we head home in the late afternoon. I slow down and turn on the full headlights. My shoulders are aching from the driving and from carrying heavy book cases in the cold but I am served coffee out of a thermos and life seems suddenly quite allright. I am driving through winter and I can smell the sleeping fields and the resin of the woods, and oh how beautiful is this country I am in.

darling books: i'm shack-shocked

When God invites you to spend a weekend at a shack where your daughter was violently killed - will you go? I know I would, after reading The Shack (by W.P.Young). If only to ask him to explain himself. And to watch him cook dinner.

This book shockingly turned my thinking upside down. With all the books I read, it doesn't often happen.

to the strangers in the church lobby

Faces that are becoming dear to me, sometimes I hate you. Sometimes you annoy me, frustrate me, look right through me when I need you to see me. Don't walk past me! Don't smile politely. I need you to really look at me, to ask me.

Faces of strangers, you are family. We share so much, let's share more. Let's listen. Let's care. When I am lonely, I will look around and see if you need me to ask. When I dry my tears I will say "are you okay?". When I'm exhausted I will reach out a trembling hand to steady you. In my weakness, I will try.

But I need you. To see me, to speak gently to me, to give me a shoulder to lean against for a minute. To love me when I'm not worth it.

Because I love you too, even when I hate you, my family of strangers.

harmonious day

Ordering in CDs by new, unknown artists and helping them spread their message.
Imagining that a book I sell will change someone's life.
Seeing the joy in an old woman's eyes when I get her a book that she has been looking for and never thought she would find.
Playing a beautiful song on the CD-player and seeing stressed-out customers pause to listen.

There is joy in working in a shop sometimes.

sometimes I sits and thinks, sometimes I just sits

Took a walk by the seafront in the January twilight and counted my blessings. My new golden boots left gold sprinkle in the powdery snow - or so I like to think.

This year has already brought new things. Golden boots. A chocolate tasting party where it took us 2 hours to get through five small pieces of chocolate. A new responsibility. Even a new admirer (though I still wish to be admired by someone else entirely).

And new sports clothes, for that New Year's resolution that I adamantly claim to never have made at all. But here it is: this year, I will be beautiful, rich and happy.

Pause for irony.

OK, OK. Too much, I know. So I will settle for being just beautiful and happy.

2008: the year I became an African

What I Did During the Year 2008: *After the Veuve Clicquot of the New Year celebrations faded out of my system, I had a runny nose and cynical mind. *Borrowed (for a few days) a terrier who hated postmen and barked at ice. *Couldn't hide from the dentist any longer (but 10 years is a personal best!). *Advanced in my digital development. *Had a dream where I found out I'm worth 1300 euro. Everyone was surprised. *Was pictured in the newspaper eating fish soup. *Forced the Little Shop of Harmony into the computer age (with a malfunctioning fax machine as my accomplice). *Worried that my jaw would fall off. It stopped feeling like it would when I stopped worrying. *Had dinner with a Limey. *Tried snowboarding. Only really managed to stay upright while clinging desperately to the gorgeous snowboard instructor. *Danced until midnight at an African wedding and then walked for miles through a wintry night in my party clothes to have a man teach me to play the mandolin. *Tried public speaking in a foreign language in front of hundreds of people. Almost died. Then felt like I'd gone to heaven. *Got my first parking ticket. *Spent a weekend getting foot massage, compliments and Russian poetry. *Limped around the island of Crete and discovered that what I love most of all is limping around foreign islands and really having the time to look. *Baked a cake. *Had the best possible Midsummer, laughing and dozing among friends and not having a care in the world except which man to choose as the most handsome. *Studied macho men at a metalsmithing fair, met real-life villagers at a local craft fair and genuine urbanites at an inter-city beachvolley tournament. *Ended a close friendship, restarted another. *Took on the responsibility of bringing Swedish literature to the Finnish people... at least some of it, to some of them. *Tried to teach a refugee girl not to dye her dog's fur yellow. *Decided to be happy. *Was denied membership in a church and felt more at home than ever. *Was totally culture-shocked, not to say culture-bowled-over at yet another noisy, chaotic African wedding. *Drove a van through the Land of Cool, Sweden, and tried to look cool. *Learned about mussels, black pasta, the EMO look, the life of rich EU brats, modern art that actually managed to move me, Flemish pubs, and how much I love my sister, during an intense Halloween in the capital of Europe. *Suffered defeat, over and over again, with the volleyball team. *Dreaded family Christmas turned out to be surprisingly OK, perhaps due to the presence of seven (7) dogs. *During the last evening of the year, was awarded the title of honorary African. By a non-African. *Made a fool of myself and it didn't matter one bit. And now, over to the next year... Wishing all of my blogging friends all the joy in the world for 2009!

excerpt from my diary

"What I like about weddings is that nobody is in a hurry; you eat & laugh & applaud each other & sometimes ignore the program in order to chat to someone & eat some more & send an sms to somebody you wish were there & take pictures of people & sit all by yourself and ponder life for a while & drink some coffee & all of a sudden 8 hours have passed... and then it's time to dance!"

Said by someone who doesn't hate weddings as much as she claims to.

in need of tuning

dissonance screeches through my life as notes of evil
I shake my head to clear it
but have to keep playing, keep playing
to reach that endnote of beauty

forgive me, I'm off key again

i am a fake Irish

Just realised that I spelled "whisky" the Scottish and not the Irish way in my last post. Shame on me. Nothing against Scotland, but I harbour a secret desire to be Irish.

Found a book about Ireland in a flea market today, published in 1957. I will probably read it eventually, but right now I just enjoy looking at the old pictures. Pictures of an Ireland that I never knew. Yet so familiar.

But I'm trying to survive Finland. This time of the year it is so dark and wet and miserable. An excuse to wear fake fur and bright colours, and to light candles and spend evenings on the sofa eating chocolates while I dream of hot whiskey by a smoky fire somewhere in the Irish mountains.

we work while God is playing pool

December 1st. A good day for arriving late at work, a Monday morning, and still find that even busy Christmas shoppers can make you smile. That searching for hard-to-find books and struggling with a credit card machine and talking to someone I used to laugh at 8 years ago is just what I needed today.

All is not lost, as I thought yesterday. Then, I decided that I am a hopeless case and that God is off drinking whisky and playing pool in a bar somewhere where women are not welcome.

babylon has its beauty too

Someone defined the deepest desires of my female soul today and I felt suddenly understood. My every cell sparkles with joy. I have a direction.

Beauty is not just a subjective point of view. Beauty is real, essential to life and available. As I have a right to exist as I am.

And: I can listen to a sermon whenever I feel the need to. And: it's been too long since I watched Babylon 5.

kiss and drive

"Kiss and drive" says the signposts marking the drop-off point outside Brussels airport. Stern policemen make sure that no car stops for longer than the time it takes to kiss your loved ones goodbye and unload your luggage.

I visited Brussels, the capital of Europe, with almost no knowledge about it beforehand. I saw the vast buildings that house the enormous, complicated administrative machinery of the European Union that is moved every once in a while to another city just to keep everyone (except us ordinary taxpayers) happy. But I also saw a lot of charming neighbourhoods and ate some excellent mussels with a glass of white beer.

In the city centre I also came across another sign that seemed to indicate a place where your dog can go when he needs to. Right there, on the pavement at a street corner. They are strange, these Belgians.

angels we have heard on a high

My colleague, the motherly old lady who brings homemade apple pie for the coffee breaks, looked through a supplier catalogue with me. We were discussing which angels to buy.

"The little chubby ones are a sure bet."
The chubby ones were more than just chubby, they were more or less completely round in shape, and weighed down with golden glitter. "They just walk off the shelves!" my colleague insisted and I nodded. Obviously, they couldn't possibly fly with all that extra weight. I hope they don't have to guard anyone.

"On the other hand, the weird modern ones are in fashion."
The weird modern ones are the ones with haloes askew, arms attached at odd angles and slightly crazed smiles, as if the twenty-first century is slowly driving them around some cosmic bend. They usually also have to carry around a giant heart or a string of stars made of barbed wire.

They all sit there on the shelf by the window among the scented candles, smiling crazily. Possibly the artificial cinnamon and lemon scents are going to their heads. Stoned angels. Sometimes I wish they would not all sit there looking at me.

russian wisdom: let it amaze you

"So long as man remains free he strives for nothing so incessantly and so painfully as to find some one to worship." Said Fyodor Dostoevsky.

Dostoevsky, whom I have not yet managed to read except in the form of WikiQuote, has also apparently said something along the lines of: "You have to love life more than its meaning."

Which I interpret as: don't wear yourself out trying to rationalize a meaning out of everything, because it's impossible anyway. Just live life as it is and let it amaze you.

So I try, out of a ditch of weariness and worry. There is actually something there: a song about snakeskin boots picked me up today, together with a large mug of spiced coffee. Maybe I'll even find someone to worship today.

on wild apples

A colleague at the Little Shop of Harmony who obviously feels I eat way too many biscuits at coffee break gave me a bag full of apples from her own apple trees.

I eyed them suspiciously because I buy my apples (and biscuits) at the supermarket. Supermarket apples are always perfectly round, even-coloured, flawless and come in little plastic bags looking almost clinically sterile. Actually, they look a bit like the biscuits except for the chocolate topping but don't taste as good. These apples were bruised, slightly overripe and with worrying little holes in them. When I opened the bag, a little fly flew out in a hurry.

Then I forgot everything else, even my horror of worms (not easily forgotten). Oh the fragrance! A smell not of supermarket plastic but of apples! Of autumn, dewy grass, woodsmoke, soil, berries, childhood, happiness, life.

They even taste good. I haven't found a worm yet.

mind games on the beach

Silvery balls land in cool sand on the beach. I enjoy the golden sunset over the still September sea but the game bores me. I feel myself drifting away from my friends' laughter.

I think:
this is autumn, at its loveliest
soon enough be cold enough for wool and fake fur
this little city by the sea, how lucky I am
could I love loud children who shriek like that
how many of my friends fancy that handsome man over there
why do I drift like this
someone please hold on to me
I'm probably just hungry
melted cheese sandwich with olives

my life with a metaphysical twist

September, and I have more friends than I ever deserve and will I do them justice?

I worry too much. I believe in God and still don't believe what he says. I trust him less than I do myself.

Two upcoming trips abroad, one that I will cherish and another that I dread a little.

I will go out and explore my own neighbourhood. The thirst for life keeps growing.

I am stuck in my fears and can never change. And yet, the force that I gave my life to is inside me and is stronger than the force of this world.

And please God, may people never stop buying books.

the trade was good today

You gave me an orange, I gave you coffee. You gave me an account of hospital life, I gave you a beach walk. You gave me a meaning for today's life, I gave you a sympathetic ear.

You left while singing I'm trading my sorrow, I'm trading my shame... I was left with a feeling of peace and joy.

random and August observations

* ABBA's music is silly and I wouldn't listen to it voluntarily. And when I'm forced to, I can't help but love it.
* I have a wrapped present and no-one to give it to.
* When we are old, my friend and I will climb a tree (like this) and drink Australian Shiraz and laugh at life's troubles.
* When I want to be left alone, I must remember to dress entirely in black. And I look good in black too.
* Making someone happy doesn't mean compromising your integrity - do it some other way.
* Pointless nostalgic, that's me.
* Books I'm reading at the moment talk about: shame; living life slowly; freakonomics; the Order of the Phoenix; death; death again.
* Story I want to write: The tale of a thousand lighthouses.
* Stuff I want to google but never get around to: the songs of Nordman and Thoby Loth; lyrics of Don't You Love Me No More; English words I should know; the plot of novels I've read and forgot; video clips of people I admire; blue IKEA furniture; guesthouses in Brussels; how to change the language setting of my blog spellcheck; the song I once sang in a storm about I'm alive, take a breath; the wanna-be Olympic athlete who once sat on me and tried to gouge my eyes out - did she make it to Beijing this year?
* Website I want to come across accidentally while googling the above: blog of long-lost love of my life.

(Picture by Inge Löök)

softness in the air around me

Back to the desk although it's not as beautifully located as this one (which is my summer desk).

Sometimes I'm glad I'm getting older. New tasks, new responsibilities and new people are no longer as frightening as they once were. Not only because I'm better at believing in myself. But also because I've realised I don't always have to take everything so bloody seriously.

And I have new shoes which make me walk on clouds, and a new pair of velvety trousers which make me believe the world is oddly soft and comforting after all.

black hole found

"Make your choice, adventurous Stranger;
Strike the bell and bide the danger,
Or wonder, till it drives you mad,
What would have followed if you had."
(C.S.Lewis)

I trespassed today. It was meant to be. I cycled to the end of a lonely road, past a rooster and three fishermen, and found myself by a fence surrounding an old abandoned factory. Conveniently, there was a hole in the fence.

There were huge buildings on the factory premises. Now, extremely large and weird constructions, like towers, radio masts and silos, that sit in the middle of nowhere, are spooky. There are few things that unnerve me as inexplicably as wandering through the woods, for example, and suddenly finding myself at the foot of a tall radio mast that hums eerily and seems completely alien. These strange buildings had the same effect on me. There was something that looked like a brick fortress with unexpected ladders leading up to tower windows that had been broken eons ago. Other constructions like great halls, covered in warnings about explosive substances. Suddenly, about a million birds hanging out on the roof came swooping down and almost freaked me out.

But to prove to them that I wasn't scared, I went closer.

And I found an open door. I took one look inside and backed away. There was one thing only in there - darkness. The kind of darkness that sucks everything into itself and lets nothing back out.

I was lucky to escape. And I succeeded where everyone else has failed. Ladies and gentlemen, I hereby present to you the first picture ever of a black hole.

the place where even bad weather is beautiful

Sun, rest, thunderstorms, playful puppies, good books, bad coffee, family, a fire on chilly nights, swimming in the sea, heat, sparkling water, writing by a candle, fields of gold, eagles, inactivity, wine, fragrance of childhood, home, barefoot in the grass, flying squirrels, wood-heated sauna... and lovely, lovely dreams that took me far beyond space and time.

That's what I call a holiday.

And maybe the best part: coming back to the city with a genuine impatience to restart my life. Not to mention an impatience to finally have a cup of real coffee.

dropping off the radar

What a mercy to be able to sleep all you want. Now all I need is a pile of good books and the wilderness. This girl is going offline for a little while.

tonight's song

This hand is bitterness
We want to taste it, let the hatred numb our sorrow
The wise hands opens slowly to lilies of the valley and tomorrow

The promise was, when everything fell, we'd be held

(Natalie Grant: Held)

jumbled riddles

Iron pills, Sunday blues, looking for love, so many people everywhere, microphone, desperately trying to create a cosmos out of my chaos, I want you to take care of me, pesto on bread, a friend's comfort, other people's dreams, African men in a dodgy car, grow up already, a kind word says more than a thousand pictures, no strength to write anything but lists.

Goodbye, weekend in June. If there is a saint named after me, let's celebrate her today.

a thousand times a million doors

The first sweetness of summer and my next-door granny fed me coffee so I'm on an overdose of caffeine and my heart is beating fast and there are paper-cuts on my hands from wrapping gifts in the shop and a stain of golden green on my index finger and I met a group of Methodists who didn't know I once caused their bishop great disappointment and I found a bootleg CD among my private collection and I hope nobody comes to put me in prison because I said that and I also found a picture of myself where I actually laugh and there are three such pictures in existence and I just want to be loved and Sting is singing "a thousand times the mysteries unfold themselves like galaxies in my head" and I KNOW -

lilacs and the good season

Not much writing being done at the moment. Tiredness is wearing me out. Too many people, too many emotions, too little love. My life is no longer only about survival, which gives me too much time to brood on more metaphysical matters.

Yesterday, I fell asleep crying and woke up laughing. There is hope for me yet.

The lilac is in bloom and the sweet fragrance is reminding me that the loveliest season is here. That life can be good and I should sit up and notice.

complementing compliment

Dialogue between friends:

Her: Your views on the complexity of the Trinity are profound.
Him: Thank you. You have beautiful arms.

The latter comment brought more joy to the receiver.

spinning into summer

I need to put my books aside for a while. I need to stop admiring my heroes for their strength and bravery and instead develop my own.

I need to spend more time in the sun. I need to carefully consider my priorities. I need to stop worrying and allow myself to live.

Work and people and escaping reality take all my time and energy. I'm spinning at the moment. Struggling to find my central balance.

And I fear the summer. But I will live, one hour at a time.

Crete concluded

It is easy to stare yourself tired at ancient urns in Crete. Afterwards it is nice to rest your weary ass in an equally ancient olive grove.

to Kydonia with love

I aim for the sun, and for sand in my sandals, and for the fragrance of foreign flowers. I will march to the beat of a different drum. I will bring my very own Greek god home with me. See you all when I return from my Odyssey.

a Thank You day

You smiled and stopped by just to tell me you haven't forgot. Today, that was all I needed. Thank you.

My foot is better and the weekend went by in a happy haze of sun, books, chocolate, wine, the inspiration of a fantastic friend. I feel creative.

the landing is never easy

Jumping, in volleyball, is really flying. At least when you put your heart and every little one of your muscles into it and forget about everything except hitting that ball. Feels like being up there in the air forever.

And then you land on your team mate's foot and you try not to land at all but inevitably feel your ankle twist. And hurt.

Happened to me yesterday, and now I hobble around with a cane as my new best friend. But people are giving me sympathy and chocolates and I get to lie on the couch and read books.

the risks of life and Thai soup

Snow and hot springtime sun.
I have received some information that I really didn't need or want, and other information that made me giggle like a maniac.
Sunday lunch at a hotel.
A new friend.
Dipped my purse in Thai soup.
A highly distressing disagreement in the family that almost made me run screaming out of the room and never return.
I have realised that there are some things your near and dear ones will never understand or accept about you.
And that you can never fully trust anyone, not even those you really, really want to be perfect and never let you down.

But that's OK. As long as I know. And as long as I still have hope and dare to try. Yes, it is a cliché but it is true: loving is worth the risk.

PS: I ate the Thai soup after dipping my purse in it. It was still tasty and my purse only smells a little of lemon grass.

to see a world in a cup of tea

Day two: A walk in town among Saturday shoppers, many familiar faces around.

Registered for a lottery where you can win travel tickets but ruined my chances with a sarcastic comment on the registration sheet. The sun was shining. The city always wears me out - all these people who seem to either be happier than you or need something from you.

But ran into an angel whom I invited for tea and chat to my place this evening. Thus I managed to avoid another Saturday evening alone. Inspired, I sent a text message to another lonely person and invited her too. We invisible people can at least have each other to look at.

The rest of the afternoon, curled up with a blanket in the sunshine on the balcony, reading about the olives, sheep cheese and thyme honey of Crete. Surprisingly peaceful mood. The visit to the Chinese restaurant on my way home from town might have accomplished that - I ordered some spring rolls for take-out and the little Chinese matron placed a steaming cup of green tea in front of me while I waited. The fragrance of the tea, the very un-Finnish red-and-gold wallpaper of the restaurant, and the murmured conversations of the few lunch guests briefly brought me to another world.

Sometimes that's all I need for happiness.

boring notes

Having a few weeks off from the shop, for "administrative" reasons. Suits me, since I'm exhausted.

Curious to see how I will cope with all this leisure time. From this perspective, day one, it seems like paradise, complete with books to read and coffee to drink. But I won't let myself be fooled - I know what the combination of too high expectations, a slight depression and an inability to wind down can do to me. I can already see signs, like the obsessive cleaning I did yesterday... definitely NOT my style.

So for some vague reason I decided to take notes and make a careful study.

Day One: Good so far. Slept in, big breakfast and lots of coffee. Watched a film (United 93. Cried). Some light-weight work at the computer so I can feel good about myself. Swore at the printer. Counted my money. Realised it's time to do the tax return and broke out in a cold sweat. By now it's late afternoon and I'm hungry and trying to fight the slight suspicion that the whole world is out to get me.

my habits contradict me

Wonder how many skewed images of myself I carry around in my head?

I think of myself as shy, reserved, even a bit anti-social at times. Somewhat lonely, not the type who surrounds herself with friends. But someone asked me how many new friends I have made during the last six months (which were pretty average months in my life) - and by friends meaning people I make an effort to meet up with again, or at least people I let through my carefully guarded mental barriers somehow. People who are not yet my close friends, but who I know share my desire to get to know each other better. And I am by no means the kind of person who tries, or even wants, to "make the whole world my friend".

I counted at least ten. That's nearly one a fortnight. Not bad for an anti-social loner.

The wise person I quoted a couple of blog entries back has also said that character is the sum of your habits. For example, you can't claim to be a kind person if you don't have the habit of being kind to others. Conversely, I suppose, I can't call myself anti-social anymore since it's clearly, by empirical evidence, not my habit to be anti-social.

This conclusion annoys me. Now I have to look at other habits and try to face the truth in what they tell me.

mix this

The sun in my eyes, dust in my lungs, snow on my boots. A desert storm, a blizzard, hot sunshine. Despair, hope, fresh thoughts, love. Welcome, spring of 2008.

party mood(iness)

On my way to a friend's wedding. I hate weddings. I hate all parties.

I'm the kind of person who, in the middle of getting dressed and putting on make-up, curls up in a corner and cries until the mascara is all over her face. Who suddenly hates her new dress and wishes fervently for a pair of worn jeans. Who swears under her breath all the way to the party and is tempted to just sneak into a pub on the way and hide until it's all over.

Once I get to the party, I can usually enjoy it. Or if not, at least sneer at it.

a thought born out of a whimper

Someone wise pointed out to me that there are things that distract people from living the life they were intended for, things that drive them around the same circle constantly. Wasting their life and missing the meaning of life. Guilt is one of these, fear another.

And craving for acceptance/approval/love. Now that's my poison. The need that sometimes makes me - an adult, independent woman - curl up in a corner and whimper, paralyzed.

The power of love is tremendous. Unfortunately also in the negative - if it has been denied you, it can ruin your life.

longjohns and heartbreak

An old lady comes to the shop with a donation of clothes to the second-hand store in the basement. She hands me a plastic bag full of what is apparently an old man's underwear, mostly long woollen underpants. Worn, but carefully washed, ironed and folded. She anxiously explains the trouble she has taken to ensure they are proper and clean, because she is sure someone could get a lot of use out of them still. As most of her generation, she has probably had to spend her life trying to make every penny last and nothing go to waste.

Not so in my own generation. I open my mouth hesitantly to say that we don't really take in underwear, especially not so worn, as nobody really buys them second-hand anyway. She adds, hastily, with what looks like tears in her eyes:

"They belonged to my late husband, you see. He passed away last month. These are good underwear. Do you think somebody could use them still?"

I stop the intended words from leaving my mouth. Instead, I thank her gently and take the bag from her. I can always send them with the next charity lorry going to the poorer parts of Russia.

It's the only thing I can do for her. I think I'm going to cry.

through life with wet feet

Wet feet after a walk home in terrible weather. Is there anything more demoralizing that wet feet? Maybe the knowledge that people love you and you desperately need that love and you are unable to accept it?

And yet, there is always dry socks waiting for you when you get home. And there is always somebody who will look at you with kindness and suddenly there is a warmth spreading through your heart... and your feet.

my nose and my heart still work

A man in our shop asked me to kiss him. His smell was so rancid that I almost vomited at the mere idea. He has a very polite way of telling me he loves me but it doesn't really help.

Another man comes in now and then. My boss giggles and gives me a meaningful look every time. I guess my face lights up.

bizarre urges an ordinary Wednesday

A cigarette and an Australian man. I ask no more.

the materialistic part of my existence

4 cardigans
2 shirts
4 pairs of trousers
5 short-sleeved tops
1 crocheted shawl
1 suede jacket
2 winter coats
4 skirts
1 dress
1 belt
books, table cloths, candles, shampoos, miscellaneous

I used to buy on average 3 pieces of clothing a year. The above is the sum of the last three months only - the time I've been working in the Little Shop of Harmony, with its second-hand store in the basement. The total sum of the above is only half of what I paid for my last pair of new jeans.

Now I buy stuff for a fraction of what it's worth, save the world's resources and support charity work, all while delighting in new (for me at least) clothes. Go fleamarkets!

blasphemer's scribble

Wrote down my blasphemous thoughts and then deleted them all. Not because I was afraid to express them but -

I will not publish this entry.

mad Yorkshire

Losing myself in a book, The Thirteenth Tale (Diane Setterfield). Finally, a book that takes you with it. And I realise I really should go to Yorkshire sometime, in real life. Seems to be all Bronte-land (not that I ever really liked the Brontes), windswept moors and brooding skies, frowning men and apron-clad housekeepers. People and manors equally gothic and at least one aristocratic family is haunted by madness. Perhaps Yorkshire doesn't exist outside of literature? I must find out.

When I'm not reading, I'm wondering where my life is headed. Are there more adventures or is the rest all disappointment?

post-it note for February

To stand up and be weird.
To dive, out of curiosity and boldness, into the depths that others shun on principle.
To let a yes be yes and a no be no.
To lift my eyes to the sky and laugh.
To throw, violently, off my shoulders all worries for what others may or may not think.
To love the icy winter rain.

To be me.

2007: the year of heartburn and nude modelling

At the turn of the year, one should always take a look at the year that has just passed. Because in seeing the whole picture, the painful days and the happy days come together and make sense in a way that couldn't be understood in the short perspective. Sometimes. Hopefully. Maybe not. But anyway... Year 2007: * did a magical tour of the land of my dreams, Ireland, the country that never fails to break my heart and heal it at the same time. Was awarded the honorable title of "Best Legs in Europe" by my friends in the Irish Drink 'Til You Die (And Hopefully Afterwards Too) Club. * survived the month of murder, March, with a smaller margin than ever before. But having survived this, I can survive anything. * learnt that unconditional love by something as small as a puppy can melt even a glacial heart. Even while doing pee-runs at seven in the morning. * spent two weeks in an idyllic village where I read up on alcohol legislation while feeding cats and contemplating the advantages of an urban lifestyle. * proved to the world that I know what a clostridium perfringens can do to you. In theory, at least. Nasty stuff. * worked at Heartburn Hotel where I smiled, deep-fried, fell in love with backpackers, served beer to macho men, got chatted up by someone who liked to call me Grandma (definitely not a turn-on!), defended the honour of the hotel against disrespectful holiday-makers, walked endless corridors sprinkled by hotel magic, drank coffee at 4 am, laughed at a thief. * was rescued by the police from a would-be burglar. * had a stalker. * went to a wedding and a baptism. * went on a cruise where I tried various weird salads and discovered Sweden is very cold early in the morning. * became an employee in the Little Shop of Harmony and tried to live up to the expectations. Not easy in the pre-Christmas rush. * worked non-stop without a holiday for eleven months. * wanted to go to church, hated church. * modelled (almost) in the nude for a photographer. * was miserable, was happy at times. Was too wired to rest, was afraid to listen to the silence.

all God's children

The angelic little shop where I spend my days attracts people from all the known parts of space.

Today there were, among others, a Romani (gypsy) family, an African student who asked if I could help to cook for his wedding, a lady with cerebral palsy and bright lipstick, an alcoholic who was convinced he is John Lennon, a man who came to sit in the back office of the shop for hours and draw pictures of UFOs, and two dear old Finnish grandmas who came (separately) to tell me about good old days and deceased husbands, and cry for a while.

I felt a bit like Papa Panov in the old folk tale, who was told Jesus would visit him but who was distracted by all the people who needed him.

Oh the suffering of the world. And the joy, and the magic.

into the future with sinusitis and soufflé

Year 2008 AD started on the Island, snow under my feet and Veuve Clicquot warming my stomach. The man who explains the stars to me wasn't there. But I had friends, cats, a victory in Trivial Pursuit and what more can one ask for than a long solitary drive back home through silent forests and across the magnificent bridge. Rihanna and Lauri Tähkä on the radio.

Later, sneezes and weariness and a cynical attitude. A dentist who praised my brushwork. My admirable father who took me to buy a camera so the sneaky salesmen couldn't make me cry. An adorable puppy who stayed a night in my flat and tried to find a way to kill and eat the newspaper delivery guy through the slot in the door.

I have already seen a good film and a bad film, been given chocolate by an (unwelcome) admirer, bought new (second-hand) clothes, missed the bus and had a fit of completely unreasonable rage, had sinusitis, had raspberry soufflé, held in my hand a splinter of the True Cross (stamped "souvenir from Jerusalem" on the back). Not a bad start to the new year after all. Bring on the rest of it!

a hopeless night like this, angels sang

A candle, a sadness, dredging the internet for a little comfort in the midnight hours. I am not what you want me to be, I am me.

Through the winter night outside, Christmas is drawing near. Peace on earth and good will to men - and my cynical, stony heart sighs a prayer. Because what else can it do?

I will fall asleep at last in a warm bed where dreams sing of happier times. I will not let go. And tomorrow, just maybe, a tiny shred of joy will surprise me when I realise that God himself felt this way once, for my sake.

"Courage is not always loud. Sometimes, courage is the tiny voice that whispers at the end of the day, 'I will try again tomorrow'". (unknown)

if only I was travelling right now

The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land.

Gilbert Chesterton (1874-1936)

little shop of harmony

I've never worked in a real shop before. Now I do. A bright, friendly shop selling brand new books and music, with a dark but cosy basement packed with second-hand clothes and trinkets. And an all-pervading atmosphere of friendly welcome, a "come in and we will change your life".

Moreover, I discovered that the Santa Claus who used to wander around Heartburn Hotel is a regular customer, buying the odd little trinkets he always left lying around the hotel. So now, folks, you know where your Christmas presents come from. At least the odd ones.

the country that always has bad weather on its birthday

As I prepare to go out in the darkness alone, cold rain in my face and wet slush under my boots, it amazes me sometimes that my people actually fought for this country.

But if I happened to meet someone who told me he is going to take it away from me, I would hammer him viciously with an icicle and stuff his mouth with the mushy grey snow.

Happy 90th birthday, Finland! Land of my birth, and probably my death, and object of my love-hate.

heaven's little coffee shop

Expensive lip gloss, an Irish newspaper especially imported for me, the friend who knows me best and causes me most grief.

A week spent discussing whether we go to heaven when we die, and what to do when (if) we get there. And then we discovered that heaven has branched out to earth, to a little café at the corner of Stortorget, Stockholm, where candles burn on ancient wooden tables among sweet-smelling hyacinths and peace embraces you as you order the chocolate cake with whipped cream.

Wandering around Stockholm, Venice of the North, where it seems nothing can ever go wrong.

Sleeping on the bottom of a ship, on the bottom of the sea, rocked gently by underwater waves. Until a Swedish teenager puked outside the cabin door. Then I was glad I was going home.

the November miracle

A good cry in somebody's arms, a diet of mostly salmon sandwiches, apples and Cookie Dough Icecream, a job offer, anguish, not enough daylight, wet slushy snow, shivering, an art exhibition, attention-craving, insight into my deepest wounds of the soul, more crying, flea-market clothes, sisterhood, forgiveness, increased understanding of the Nigerian accent.

That's my November so far, the condensed version.

But the most important thing I learned was the miracle of forgiveness. When I was sick of my own guilt, I could no longer be fooled by the humanist reassurance that my life is my own, hence right and wrong is defined by me, hence guilt is nothing but a lie forced on me by religious traditions. Then it arrived, the miracle. Forgiveness. And I was transferred from pain to peace in one single act.

someone more desperate than me

I have a cool, detached, neutral, non-upsettable attitude these days. Jaded. Not exactly by choice, probably just worn out my too many private emotions. Can't share the general shock caused by Finland's first real American-style school massacre. Why the disbelief that such a phenomenon should strike this safe little corner of the world?

Somehow, I can't feel surprised at all. Why not here? This is what the world is like.

But it proves my theory that there are so many lonely people out there whom nobody notices. Some of them would do anything, absolutely anything, to be seen and heard. The weird thing is that desperate acts and crazy tragedies don't happen more often than this.

factory of wisdom and beauty

On a visit to my alma mater...

My old university has an entirely new campus. I stare in awe. Faithful to the city planning trend of later years, an old factory complex built in red brick has, with the help of the latest in glass and steel structures, been converted to something that manages to look brand new and ancient, airy and cosy at the same time. It looks like a place where the coveted knowledge and wisdom is readily available and just waiting to inspire you.

During my time there, only a few years ago, the classes were also held in an old factory. The only difference was that it smelled of mouldy old carpets and the faint light from the small, dirty windows had to have assistance from glaring strip lights in the ceiling. Old pipes were sticking out of the walls and the furniture was the most depressive seventies' style. No wonder I never really managed to be inspired by the wonders of literature, at least not before I had safely managed to escape from there.

But now, here, the students actually look happy. The menu in the spanking new lunch cafeteria has an English translation at last and the food even tastes good. I gorge myself on game stew. Game stew! I can only remember eating rubbery potatoes and deep-fried fish in places like this.

A sure sign I'm getting old. At least I'm not muttering about the "good old days".

the revenge of the hotel receptionist

Someone did upset me. As I still do the odd shift at Heartburn Hotel, I had the bad luck of running into one of the truly despicable people that disgrace this world.

Arrogance, is it not the worst feature in a human being, be it conscious or subconscious? This particular man made ridiculous claims regarding the price of his room (yes, money is almost always the root of evil). We might have been able to reach a compromise were it not for the fact that he clearly thought I was so far beneath him that he could not react in any other way to my suggestions than laugh condescendingly. Good for him we were speaking on the phone; had he been standing before me, he would have had to try that laugh through my surprisingly strong hands squeezing the nasty chuckle out of his throat.

After years in the hotel business, I have noted that hotel guests in general are pleasant enough people. Better hotels tend to attract more unpleasant customers, for some reason. So I assumed I was more or less safe from these, working at Heartburn Hotel. But there is always the exception to the rule. This particular customer did not even have the excuse of being rich and snobbish... not that that is much of an excuse.

Customers everywhere have the right to complain, of course. But a complaint should, first of all, not be taken out of the air on some poorly founded reason. Secondly, there is a nice way and a nasty way of complaining. The nice way usually accomplishes more.

Here's advice to all arrogant hotel guests trying to get freebies by making ridiculous complaints: the hotel might bend to your will, in accordance with the principles of good customer relations. But hotel staff will not always, in spite of our smiles, take it lying down. The next time you avail yourself of our services, you might find that you have been placed on the black list. Or that, for some reason, only the smallest, darkest room is available, or that something in your food tastes funny, or that through an unfortunate accident, no laundry service is available just when you need it.

Because the Universe gets mad when you laugh at lowly receptionists.

upset me, somebody

I dreamt of playing a wooden trumpet that kept falling apart and laughing so hard that all my sorrow dissolved.

I turned around in my bed and dreamt of my stalker. I woke up furious.

I have powerful emotions in my dreams. I have violent eruptions of feelings in my imagination even when I am awake, making up heated arguments and upsetting events. In my real life, there is also emotion. But few ever get to witness it.

People just don't upset me like they should.

belles lettres

We read to know we are not alone. Sometimes I write to know I am not alone.

While the darkness falls like velvet outside, I light a candle for lonely writers everywhere.

on stolen socks and snowbows

A puppy stole my sock today and my sister gave me a shirt and I walked through my playground and childhood dream. I don't know any of the neighbours anymore but their cats and dogs come out to say hello.

The sun is very low in the sky, and brighter than in summer. First snowfall was yesterday but the sun shone then as well and a rainbow (snowbow?) rooted itself in the prison yard not far from my window. I couldn't get in to look for treasure.

My stomach hurts and I see the world through a massive fatigue. Nevertheless, I long for a friend and a glass of wine. I also want to mean something.

stay in the cold world

A friend tells me - with an indulgent grin - that I am considered a Nerd because I have actually read something by the new Nobel Prize winner in literature.

I stick my nose up in the air, proudly. Then so be it, I am a Nerd. I analysed a short story by Doris Lessing for a literature class at university years ago. (For truth to be told, the choice of author was not mine... and I did not particularly like the story.) I can hardly remember the story now and have to look it up on the Internet. It is called "To Room Nineteen" and tells about a woman who realises life did not turn out the way it was supposed to do, and now she feels stuck in a role that is not her genuine self. She secretly withdraws to a room in a little hotel - the only place nobody can find or disturb her, the only place she can be herself - only for a few hours at a time, and becomes increasingly addicted to these moments of solitude.

I seem to remember it was not a particularly pleasant story, witnessing the woman withdrawing gradually from reality until the only option is suicide. At the time, hungry for life, I shrugged it off. But now, years later, I suddenly understand how she felt.

The pleasure of escaping from the too harsh reality into a place of quiet solitude where nobody can make any demands on you. Necessary at times, but if you make this place your home you are in danger. Instead of gaining strength from it to go back out there, you stay back in a dreamy state and gradually lose interest in everything the outside world has to offer. And gradually, the anguish creeps up on you. When it becomes too heavy to bear, you have already cut too many ties to the real world to be able to make your way back, or even ask for help.

So I will force myself to go back out there. I will call a friend even when I am tired. I will say yes when someone challenges me. I will put down my book and attend volleyball training even when I have to walk through a snow storm to get there. I will keep drinking my coffee on the balcony, shivering in the cold but with the sun on my face.

coffee break therapy

Today I will not write about God although as the Good Book (almost) says, the keyboard speaks what the heart is full of.

I am in a new-old state of semi-unemployment as my season in Heartburn Hotel is over. But I am slowly learning to live one day at a time. How difficult it is! How afraid of boredom I am! What is so scary about silence and doing nothing at all, letting my own thoughts and state of mind creep up on me?

Pouring my second cup of coffee, I force myself not to take it back with me to the computer but instead venture out on the balcony. In the October chill, I shiver with my cup under a blanket and stare out towards the bay and the fantastic colours surrounding it. If I concentrate, I can hear the birds.

Surprisingly, what comes out of my subconsciousness is not the usual vague anguish but hope, some contentment, even a faint shiver of... joy.

holiday beneath a McDonald's sign

Autumn at 63 degrees north with explosive colours, bleak sunshine, fog, a cold that surprisingly bites your fingers.

I have searched the entire Internet for a trip southwards. Something simple. A flight out of our local airport, a hotel someone else has chosen, a destination not too far away, with a little sun and interesting things to see. But above all, not too many tourists. And therein lies the difficulty. Why can nobody on the entire Internet understand that I do not want to spend my hard-earned holiday surrounded by drunk tourists from my own country, loud music and McDonald's signs?

I go bleary-eyed looking for a holiday and my neck muscles are stiff. I need... a holiday.

there is comfort in the world

New sense of freedom and the sun shining on glittering sea when I woke. The daylight seemed a bit gentler than usual, with a hope for the future or was it perhaps the mercies of the past, like the voice of a lover whispering in my ear. I dug out an old skirt from the closet to wear with suede boots. Beauty makes the world beautiful and sometimes it's an act of will.

Sometimes I am too weak to be an adult. I want someone to take care of me, do the difficult things. Never seem to find the balance between making my own life and allowing God to lead me in ways of adventure I could never have found on my own. But then, that's life. The search, the struggle, the confusion and the comfort of not being alone with it all. And the sudden joys that shouldn't be there, logically.

I read stories on the Internet while drinking bitter coffee, I dream of a library full of books with more stories and I want to walk through the city and look at people in admiration or maybe buy something that makes me look different. Maybe I lack a purpose but if I bury myself in the details I don't have to look at the bigger picture and feel the anguish.

The hotel calls. On my first day of freedom, they want me back to do the bad shift. To hell with the money that will pay my bills this winter. I say, deliberately, no. Freedom is to be treasured, not thrown away.

The world is screaming "you are ugly, disgusting, worthless" and keeps whipping me with its impossible demands. Or is it inside me? Sometimes those gentler voices reach me and I drop out of the rat race, sobbing, and are laid to rest on a bed of clouds - where I could spend much more of my time if I only learned to listen to the right voices.

When we know so much better, why do we keep believing the lies? I can't answer that but I will think of it today as I wander through the city in my suede boots and remind myself that everyone is worth loving and that there is a good book in the library and a friend waiting for my company tonight.

last days of key management

The autumn sun shining brilliantly and I can't decide whether I'm tired or impatient to start the day.

Only a few more days at Heartburn Hotel and I might be missing it later but not now. I seem to spend all my workdays cleaning the kitchen and I'm sick of the smell of disinfectant and the rumble of the dishwasher. The hotel magic is evaporating.

I'm sure I will miss some of the people. The ex-football star and our philosophical discussions on the meaning of suffering. The blind Jehovah's Witness who seemed to be lost, too far from home. The mystery man wandering around in the middle of the night. Santa Claus silently staring into the fireplace. The international backpackers with their aroma of adventure, who make me want to pack my toothbrush, passport and diary and head south, east or west.

This summer may have been tough, tiresome and sometimes depressing, but I learnt. And I saw. I got to handle keys again.

resolve under a full moon

Full moon and I didn't sleep very well and wake up sneezing. Not the best of days.

I have decided to stop longing for someone to give me directions in life. I'm wise and mature enough to draw my own conclusions from what I have learned and seen with my own eyes. After a year or more of being too weary to try, I'm getting ready to stand up and take control again.

Maybe.

So I take time to think. I call my friends again. I kick my childish desire for attention in the face. I speak with my own voice. I snarl, threateningly: "Accept me, or else...."

eleven little things to come

I just want laughter, candles, unconditional love, chocolate, adventure, strong arms and a strong heart, whirlwind, a dog, wine, everyone I love, and the ability to experience all of this with fascinated wonder and maybe, sometimes, a little loss of control. That's not too much to ask, is it?

two family affairs

Sunday lunch with my first family who had to chase me through town because I was angry and upset without even realising it. Once seated at the table and dealing with potatoes and ham with Thai sauce, a great Calm descended on my tortured soul. Family hugs, puppy love bites and a stroll in the woods probably helped.

Then get-together with that other family, the church. How ironic, I though bitterly at first, the Lonely of Lonelies. What am I trying to pretend, surrounded by strangers? I could have cried - actually, I think I did.

But my ancient angel hurried up to me afterwards and hugged me while she told me the latest adventures of her bold cat. I had a laugh with the pastor and he offered me help. An African student had an invitation for me. And one of the youngsters walked me home.

Even in the midst of misery, may I have love enough for a kind word to someone else.

And after all of this, I'm not sure I'm in misery anymore.

the Swedish edge

I am starting to realise that I was born on the edge of the world. Not in the centre.

Here is a big country (OK, everything is relative) and its people, a fairly homogeneous crowd who look alike and think alike, watch the same TV programmes and like the same mild coffee, get drunk on Saturday nights and doubt themselves, vow to beat the Swedes at ice hockey and speak a quirky, complex Finnish language that nobody else can understand.

On the very edge of this country the Swedish-speakers, as fiercely Finnish as the rest but forever different thanks to their mother tongue, a little more sociable and outgoing, struggling for their identity, always unsure of what the other Finns really think of them, tending to turn inwards and squabble among themselves regarding the best course for ethnic survival.

The majority Finns feel annoyed by their stubborn insistence to press the Swedish language on everybody else who does not want it, but forget about them the rest of the time - or ignore them just to annoy them back. On holiday trips to the coast they feel it is kind of cute, this chatty language which permeates every aspect of local society and which is as ancient as their own but with an international atmosphere. The world seems to be stretching outwards from the Swedish-speakers' seaside towns.

The trainee in the hotel reception is experiencing this for the first time, newly arrived from her inland Finnish city. More language skills are required of her here and more travellers from all over the world smile at her across the counter. There are traditions she has only heard about and she feels as if she is half-way to Sweden. The locals, as Finnish as herself, address her in that weird language which she has struggled to learn in theory for years.

I, her workmate and shift supervisor, speak to her in a broken Finnish, read a local newspaper in Swedish and seem too sure of my place in the world considering the fact that I struggle with the language of my own country.

And I smile way, way too much.

vasa limbo

My emotions are too abundant and colourful to be contained in written words.
My emotions are, on the other hand, petty and insignificant even to myself.
One minute the world is full of meaning and even a grain of dust carries a story.
The next minute, the world is full of dust and nothing else.

To stop, and stand still, to find out who I am.
Or to go out and make my life?

not in motion

The door opens.
The edges meet.
Step through and you find yourself lost.
Stay where you are and you go nowhere.

Wayfinder Hasturi
a.k.a. The Mad Perseid
AFC 217


I'm going nowhere but I don't see any doors.

midnight in the house of good and evil

I won't deny that I am anxious, doing the night shift all alone in the hotel. The constant noise from the TV, the music channel, my only and not very comforting company - rappers exhorting half-naked girls to shake their booty somehow don't seem to understand my loneliness and weariness.

It's not so much that I'm nervous of the dangers of the night or scared of the darkness. OK, maybe a little, but I push that fear aside while walking the endless corridors and venturing into the dark corners when necessary. Even the overgrown jungle that goes by the name of "garden" doesn't get my pulse racing much. The drunken men staggering in after a pub crawl don't worry me either, although I make silent wishes that they won't linger in the hotel bar for a beer but crawl straight to their room and into bed.

Perhaps it's only my weariness, that ancient instinct of seeking the refuge of home when darkness falls. Or the loneliness. Or the heartbreaking fact that I can't seem to make myself love this job either, as I can't love any job no matter how much I try - and the consequence, the depressing realisation that life may always consist of a vague dread of daily life. Or nightly life.

not much of anything

The storm came too soon, before I had time to lay down in the grass. Not even a pretty storm. Just rain, rain, rain. So I sulk indoors.

Even my computer is betraying me. He turns himself off when he feels I've had enough of surfing or DVD-watching.

A man I don't even like much has decided he and I were meant to be together forever. So I keep switching my phone off to avoid calls. While I'm pining for someone I can't have.

Still, the rain has to stop sometime. There is a cup of comfort coffee waiting for me somewhere. And the library is full of books yet to be read.

july is defined by this dream

I want to lie down in sweet-smelling grass and look at the sky above me and not move an inch until the autumn storms sweep in. Then I will roll myself into a blanket and fall asleep in peace.

nerves in an empty city

A lone tourist wanders the streets. All the inhabitants have fled the city. Finns have a strange urge to live close to grass, wind, sun and even rain during the short but intense summer of the North, and so they pack the car full of spouses, kids, dogs, barbecue meat and beer as soon as they can get out of work on Friday afternoon and head out to a humble cottage somewhere along the coast or at a lakeside. Finns have also seen to it that they have the world's longest vacations, so nobody seems to be doing any work from mid-June to the beginning of August.

Except for me of course. Somebody has to be hospitable to the tourists. But I hear that call of the wild too. Today I was restless, sad, anguished even, for no obvious reason. I tried all remedies known to woman: food, chocolate, coffee, shopping, chatting, more coffee. But the only thing that finally helped was the park. Sitting down for fifteen minutes surrounded by grass, trees and sun and all my nerves took a holiday.

pieces of eight or nine

I have been tagged by Prince Kazarelth to list eight things about myself, but found it impossible. So here are nine...

* I have a juvenile mind. Long after my teenage years, like a teenage girl I look for affirmation from someone I admire at a distance - "my whole existence turning around a word, a smile, a touch". I may never grow up.

* I am addicted to chewing gum and get severe withdrawal symptoms.

* I gravitate between a somewhat failed academic career and a much more fun, but doomed non-career in the hotel world. Nobody understands why, or what I really want, least of all myself.

* I am the Ice Queen in a crowd, cheerful among friends and extremely moody in my own company.

* I have received serious death threats.

* I talk to God.

* I once found heaven on earth and then had to leave in order to preserve my sanity.

* In my music library, I mix dance with church hymns but especially love songs that celebrate life and strength of will.

* I cannot live in ugly places.

lux aeterna

No stargazing these days. This is what midnight looks like in the month of June. But to walk through the dew on a summer's night, picking flowers, to the symphony of all the birds... This is what I was made to do.

my bedmate, afternoon sun

Afternoon is the new morning. Just rolled out of bed, was going to make the computer play some pretty music while I hit the shower but here I got stuck reading the blogs of strangers and half-strangers.

Pulling three night shifts in a row and I'm almost not scared at all, alone in the gangster place all night. The shadows in the deserted restaurant deepen around 1 am but then the light gains ground again and I can hear the birds outside. Wondering at the weird people who wander around at 3 am.

This is one long day, lasting from Sunday lunchtime till Wednesday night perhaps, or whenever I manage to go to sleep in darkness again. In the evenings, groggily drinking my wake-up coffee, I feel I missed the transition of one day to another, because sleep is usually the boundary but sleeping in the daytime in a darkened flat only seems like an afternoon nap. Going to work close to midnight I remember that I was there this morning too and my brain fails to cope with this Weirdness.

a few tips from the Coach

"You're blessed when you're at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule.

You're blessed when you feel you've lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.

You're blessed when you're content with just who you are—no more, no less. That's the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can't be bought.

You're blessed when you've worked up a good appetite for God. He's food and drink in the best meal you'll ever eat.

You're blessed when you care. At the moment of being 'care-full,' you find yourselves cared for.

You're blessed when you get your inside world—your mind and heart—put right. Then you can see God in the outside world.

You're blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. That's when you discover who you really are, and your place in God's family.

You're blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution. The persecution drives you even deeper into God's kingdom.

Not only that—count yourselves blessed every time people put you down or throw you out or speak lies about you to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and they are uncomfortable. You can be glad when that happens—give a cheer, even!—for though they don't like it, I do! And all heaven applauds."

(Gospel of Matthew, The Message)

the corridor between the worlds

The ugliness of it, and yet the sparkling magic in the air. Which door should I open today?

I know there is an adventure here somewhere...

living in the dark corners of cosmos

The tranquil days at Heartburn Hotel are gone.

The holidaymakers with their kids, dogs and suntans are flooding in. The workers and businessmen who have spent weeks and months in the quiet of the hotel over the winter, smoking and reading the papers and ordering their steak and beer in the evenings, grumbling pack up and leave.

Some of them stay. A few of them I never see but the computer tells me they are there somewhere, in some obscure room in a faraway derelict building. The young ex-convict, a few hardworking builders who diligently leave early in the mornings and return for an early night, a few others.

Late at night I walk through the overgrown jungle that used to be a garden on my way to lock up the sauna building for the night. A roaring fire is lit in an old fireplace at the other side, behind the trees, and an old man with snow-white hair and beard is sitting there quietly staring into the flames. It is a peaceful sight. He is there almost every night. His days he spends cleaning the hundreds of windows of the hotel, a task to which he seems to dedicate his heart.

Except for his threadbare clothes, he looks like Santa Claus. Maybe he is.