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".