lingonberry jam and death

Lingonberry jam is cooking on my mother's stove. It has a rich, spicy scent and the colour of blood.

Meanwhile, the radio is analysing the latest school shooting.

Today I have discussed kneepads in three languages, googled Hyderabad, watched a steeplechase, dressed in white lace and tea-green lamb's wool and had an odd urge to watch one of those slide shows of old.

I have also wondered how long my mother will live.

our city is spreading its wings

Wings are leaving the city, all the time.

That's what we call them, the 30 to 50 meters long wind turbine rotor blades. They arrive by ship, make a strange addition to the landscape for a while as they are stored in a field near the harbour, and then leave the city while stopping traffic with their special transports and flickering orange lights.

I've been seeing these giant hulks for years, patiently pulling my car over to make room when they come. I still catch my breath when I see them. Beautiful, eerie and impossibly large, they are going away to harness the wind. It moves me.

fridge poetry

chant: all you and delirious!
play with a sun, still as a storm

bitter goddess with shadow hair
diamond skin, bare feet, cool blood

dream of frantic symphony above
dress like a scream, misty red fashion
run on moon juice
hot tiny light in luscious language garden

blue peach girl
drunk on sky, mad rose in bed
elaborate ache whispers over fiddle boy
sad beauty said no here

live rain woman:
go watch water
love like a thousand lazy summers
and sing about a ship of honey

always a stranger

In the world I am
Always a stranger
I do not understand its language
It does not understand my silence

(Bei Dao)

discontent with a vanilla scent

I'm in a cosy corner of the balcony, high above the sea. So why is it so hard to feel content? When I have a pink sunset, a vanilla candle and a gorgeous gypsy skirt? When I'm loved by God?

whiskey and silver nails

I come armed with whiskey and silver nails.

Autumn has nothing on me as I turn my world into silver and get ready for change. I will go on a quest for love. I will tell shivering secrets and diamond truths to my friends. Let the weak say "I am strong" because grace is sufficient for me.

I will live from day to month and love the chilling skies. There will be music, libraries and the whispering of French words. I will let my voice be heard and laugh without fear of the future. I was born for this and I know how to dress the part.

God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. I will drink lots of water and grow in strength and wisdom.

I will walk down the street like a rock star, but with love.

raspberries, moths and the north wind

It was a summer of the north wind, of raspberries and moths. Of cool and empty offices, white paint and espresso. Hot sun and blue waters. Snacking on lentil crisps and getting out of the chilly wind. Stacking firewood, eating blueberries in the woods and making eye contact with birds. A summer of difficult emotions and the sweetest of sleeps.

And I saw a grey curtain of heavy rain advance against me after weeks of drought. I longed for it, smelled it, heard its muted whisper - then it came to me across the sea.

summer's end, always untimely

In my candle-lit cabin in the woods I prepare for the year ahead.

I rage against the dying of the light. I want to stay in the candle-light, silence, summer. In warm wind, laughter, salt water. In boat trips with sugar pig pastries. In being so close to nature that I feel it breathing. In the company of birds, poodles, people. In being so safe, so far from everything heavy and oppressing.

But the birds, poodles and people are moving on. Winter is coming. How fast and how unfairly!

It breaks my heart. But because I must, I make plans for the war ahead. I will conquer winter with music, spicy casseroles, wool, dancing myself tired, old and new wisdom. Above all, with love. This year, I will learn what it is to be loved by God.

It's a silent night in the woods. Tomorrow, I get into my Citroën and go to battle.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep. 
(Robert Frost)

this place loves me back

Raspberries, lots of coffee, the calm breathing of sea and forest.

The peace of a place where nothing happens all day and nobody is expected to accomplish anything. The sea breathes in, the forest breathes out.

I am all alone. I read, eat, watch DVDs, drink coffee, read and eat some more, take a slow walk, do some small tasks that I happen upon, stick my bare feet in the sea, have a glass of wine, pick some raspberries and eat them, doze in front of the laptop. There is nothing to be accomplished. The only thing I need to do right now is live.

I put music on and dance on the grass, wildly.

The clouds pass by, slowly. The light changes as the sun moves. The colours change. The evening is long, darkness won't arrive until close to midnight. The silence amplifies the small sounds - a bird landing on the roof, a twig breaking as the wind picks up. I won't see a human being for days. But I make eye contact with a bird and listen to my feelings and maybe God has a chance to say something.

My dreams stretch out toward the open horizon and beyond. I sing a song I just learned to the sea.

The air smells of pine trees and salt. This place loves me back.

In the cool of the evening, a fire crackles in the fireplace. I will soon sleep and only hear the fire and the wind and my own dreams.

gathering fuel

A fire near me, a cold night outside.

I'm missing some people and at least one dog, but I have an old lady next door who will go on a trip with me tomorrow. The birds are going quiet and I'm lonely.

Two weeks, a cosy cottage and all the books I need. The north wind is blowing. I'm sad.

Every accomplishment in my life was fuelled by a negative emotion. I will fly to the stars propelled by loneliness and sadness.

just the essentials, please

I crave velvety loose-fit trousers, cocktails, beachvolley weather, adventure and love.

barefoot in my dreamscape

"If you see a rock, tell me on which side."
"What do I say about a rock that is right underneath the boat?"
"What? You had one job!"

I'm in a tiny boat, singing "Row row row your boat" but the others say it's too cheerful: "Do the one from Titanic!"

On a desert island we have a picnic on the smooth rocks - coffee, crisps, "sugar pig" pastries. I could sit there forever, staring out at the summer sea. The heat, the smell of sun-warmed stone and pine trees. The wilderness. The cool, pure water where I immerse myself. Drops of salty water on tanned skin. My dreams, stretching out to the horizon and beyond. Everything is possible, everything is good.

I didn't bring any shoes on this trip. A barefoot life is part of my dreams.

when we were penpals

In ancient times, when there was such a thing as penpals, I had these:

* Fethanegest, an Ethiopian boy who wanted to study biology to become a doctor and who sent me a postcard depicting a Coptic saint coming back from a trip to hell.
* Sameer, a Druze boy who lived in a village in the Golan Heights, built his own house with his father as his bank and was excited about his cool car.
* Vania, a German church-going girl who became a friend.
* A Moroccan guy who just couldn't take a hint.
* An assortment of boring teenage airheads just like me.

Bonus pick from my correspondence box: My grandmother's postcard from a trip to Sweden where she got to meet "the Lapland doctor". Probably the only postcard she ever sent.

stuff I found along the road

Beachvolley with friends on a hot summer day. Evenings over a pint in a dark pub. Fixing my computer. Sunday brunch with cocktails. Hotels. Writing. Music and dance floors. Boho clothes. Being in a completely foreign environment.

These are things that make me feel good. Because they are completely my own, not inherited from family.

business and forest fires - so Swedish

I have breakfast, sandwich and yogurt, at Sweden's largest airport while I text with a friend I'm very upset with.

It's barely seven o'clock in the morning and too early for this sort of thing. But the energy of the large airport is inspiring. I watch the 7-Eleven staff restock shelves and the security guards mutter to each other. Swedes are different from Finns. They have a directness in looking at and approaching people.

I've always been jealous of people who get to live in Sweden. I have a very romantic view of the country. To me, Sweden is idyllic country roads lined with blooming fields and red cottages. It has lakes, horses, cute cafés around every corner. It has friendly people. It has an ancient history of kings and castles. It has traditions that still echo that ancient history. It has style. And my own language is spoken everywhere, unlike the country I live in.

After just a day in Sweden, I'm seeing my life differently.

Not just because I have been in Sweden on a whirlwind visit. I have also lunched in the botanical garden in Linnaeus' own city, attended a business meeting and barely escaped a forest fire. All of these experiences seem very Swedish.

forget about ships and skirts

The queen of denim is dreaming in 98 percent cotton, 2 percent elastane and waiting for shipping approval.

It is Friday afternoon in summer. The blinds are down, the office is empty. The overhead lights keep switching themselves off, not detecting any motion.

A courier should bring me a denim skirt but he seems to be lost in Helsinki. A man should love me but he seems to be lost in space.

I should go home and forget about ships and skirts.

happy among mosquitoes

Alone between the sea and the forest.

Alone, that is, except for the Canada geese I chase away from the beach, the seagull babies I'm trying not to chase away, a rare bird I'm trying to identify, and too many mosquitoes.

There is deep silence here in the middle of nowhere. But not a complete silence. There are the sounds of the sea, the birds, the rain on the roof. There are also faraway sounds of other people further down the coast, and the hum of my laptop. Maybe the silence is inside me.

I have a bad back and a cynical mind. I am less flexible than before, in body and spirit. But I may be happier.

this blog's biggest secret

My blog is secret and anonymous.

Not because I want to keep it from those who know me in person. But because I wouldn't be able to write if I knew that they were reading it.

I am the opposite of an attention seeker. It's definitely not good for my writing.

when dealing with betrayal and geese, wear Armani

Today was the kind of day when I ...

... sat in the corner of a restaurant and said to a friend, "Do you understand that what you did was a betrayal and completely unacceptable? That you stabbed your friend in the back?"

... went to collect firewood from a shed at the edge of the forest, dressed in Armani

... ran across a lawn, laughing like a madwoman, with six wild geese trotting lazily in front of me


(Note: My one and only piece of Armani clothing was bought for six euros at a flea market. I'm an anti-consumerist.)

lilacs and heatwaves

Writing, lilacs, a poodle, work, a good book, a fish market, angry birds, heatwave, brunch with friends, long walks in fragrant parks, back ache. This is the way a summer starts.