with that terrifying sound, an insight

So, this week I have been subtitling a movie from the 1940s, taught myself to knit, finished a project I began twenty years ago (cross-stitching; I'm so not going there again!) and learned something new about myself.

Not a bad week.

A physical therapist told me that he was going to "crack" my back. I was familiar with the concept, in theory, and it sounded scary. Despite my apprehension I leaned into his strong arms, took a breath and relaxed completely.

It surprised me, all of it. The terrifying sound my back made, the fact that it didn't hurt, and the fact that I leaned back to let him do it to me again. Most of all, the feeling of putting myself willingly into the hands of a stranger who could hurt me badly. (He didn't). I suddenly realised that, despite my cynicism, I have a natural capacity for putting trust in people. I never do it blindly - after assessing the risks, I quickly make the decision and act on it with very little hesitation.

It felt like a strength, a courage that I never realised I had. In a life of much weakness and fear, it felt like being handed a gift.

the yarn of equinox

Equinox is when the sun sets behind the power plant.

Equinox is when I decide to try something new. I read The Friday Night Knitting Club, buy needles and yarn on a whim and arm myself with YouTube knowledge on how to cast on.

There are days, even after such a winter of horrors, that I feel my strength and joy return - more genuine for being so harshly tested. The crucible for silver and the furnace for gold, but the Lord tests the heart. I'm sure there are still anxiety attacks on the horizon but I can face them and live. So I go out and buy yarn.

Equinox is when hope returns. Earthy green, hearty and healthy like my yarn. Welcome home.

hungry and fearless

"may my mind stroll about
hungry and fearless
and thirsty and supple"

(e.e. cummings)

things to do. maybe

* get a dog
* register on a dating site again
* figure out the bluetooth system in my car
* buy skis
* get that boring bank and insurance thing done
* get a bicycle
* go to my favourite pub with a friend who likes beer
* get my ailing shoulder sorted out
* start playing the piano again
* brush up my French
* get better at living
* find the love of my life

skidding for peace

Some days all you need is to drive your skidding car through thick snow in a picturesque neighboorhood, just because you like looking at cute houses in snow-covered gardens, while listening to an audiobook about girl-power and chocolate. There is peace in that.

Don't stop, because you'll get stuck. And don't run over the hare taking a nap in the middle of the deserted street.

pizza and raspberry truffle day

Pizza and raspberry truffle chocolate, whiskey and a candle. It's that kind of day.

It's also whirling snow and raindrops on the windows, a novel about birds and lies, the smell of fresh laundry, white-grey daylight. Fear and shame. The hateful drilling of renovation works downstairs and the neighbour's Brazilian child screaming. The blessed quiet when the afternoon wears on and a little bit of hope.

It's the five hundred songs of my life, zumba class and ending the day on a pill and a prayer.

things dangerous to come to

“To see things thousands of miles away, things hidden behind walls and within rooms, things dangerous to come to, to draw closer, to see and be amazed.”

(unknown)

my bones are too whole for my heart

A bird is watching me like a hawk from the linden tree. I think it is an actual hawk.

Meanwhile, the weather does that in-between thing with snow, rain, slush, ice and overall greyness. They say the hospital is swamped with people who have slipped on wet ice and broken bones, and people suffering from the winter vomiting bug. I walk down slippery sidewalks with caution, feel the tug of spring in my soul and think of the doctor I'm in love with, the one who pronounced me healthy and strong, the one who probably hasn't thought of me since. He is somewhere out there examining fractures, prescribing x-rays and pain killers, handing out soothing smiles.

I don't know where to find him, not even after haunting hospital corridors, cafeterias and parking lots like a madwoman. I may need to try breaking a bone.

the trilingual town that has no zoo

In the days of my great anxiety, when the mere thought of travelling makes me shiver, I have learned to love my town.

Here are warm cafés smelling of butter and sugar, here is every fifth person a student and everyone is remarkable, here is a hospital where handsome doctors take care of anxious people.

Here is wine and innumerable distractions and a vast library. Ice vistas stretching towards a distant horizon, parks where sparrows chitter. Back streets smelling of garlic and melted cheese. People chasing dogs chasing hares. Admirable people distributing lentil soups to alcoholics. Streets named Rauhankatu and Stora Långgatan.

Here, bosses treat you to pizza from the Eighties and someone gives you cake left over from a secret order meeting. You feel at home in a small gym hidden away in an international hotel. Everything is bilingual or trilingual. Here are back alleys where boats are stored in winter, cannons and second-hand shops. Wood smoke on the wind. Wind turbine blades stopping traffic. Friends and sisters who want to have lunch with you. Here nobody wears the same, green winter coat as you do.

The only thing missing is a zoo.

in the courtyard of summer

When looking forward is difficult, I look forward to sitting in a certain courtyard.

It is sheltered from the wind and heated by the sun. Around it are old houses and a tall tower made of red brick, looking incongruous and mysterious. I have kicked off my shoes and my feet are bare against warm cobble-stones. I sit in the shade and I have someone with me and a large mug of coffee. Maybe even chocolate cake.

any excuse to enter a hotel

TV topics I browsed during half an hour on the cross-trainer at the gym:

* Norwegian relationship advice
* Over-moist pasta
* Sheepdogs who sheep-surf
* Whining hockey wives

Actually, it wasn't half an hour. It was 28 minutes exactly. Then I stumbled off to find the nearest café.

Tiny and windowless is the gym I go to nowadays. Hidden away in the middle of a large hotel. I enjoy walking through the airy lobby in my not-so-posh gym attire, past theatre-goers and foreign businessmen. I like the quiet emptiness of the gym, the daytime TV and the possibility of meeting foreigners.

I cross-train anxiety and worry and try to learn how to breathe again.

the sun has lost its coldness

The blackest darkness, the time when we go to work and return home in darkness, has left us.

We have entered the time of the white desert - afternoons with a blinding sun over a vastness of snow and ice. 

The time of comfort when the sunlight warms your cheek, even if just a little, and despair turns to hope and skiing is wonderful.

extraordinary, perhaps

“Breathe, my friend. You are not old, you are young. You are not a mess, you are normal. Extraordinary, perhaps. In the blink of an eye your life will change. And it will continue to change for decades to come. Enjoy it, embrace it… be grateful for the ride. You are not old, you are young. And faith will get you everywhere. Just you wait.”

(Abby Larson)

my cup runs over

I may be standing in the midst of darkness, but I see a hundred shining paths leading out.

I feel the sun begin to warm up. The ducks in the icy pond look at me with something like sympathy. My friend's sofa embraces me with peace as we laugh over memories of the blond French child I once babysat and couldn't stand.

Birds are twittering everywhere and no sound could make me more hopeful. I have a new shoulder bag in Persian blue and I can walk for miles. My phone beeps with compassion.

My fumbling hands pick up a favourite book, The Shack, and I feel loved. I may be walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, but goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.

liquorice tea and a criminal

When you're down and out, go on a road trip with a large mug of liquorice tea.

I did that. Actually, I drove a friend a hundred kilometers so that he could attend his own trial for battery. I also ate a hamburger, talked to a friend not seen for years, and walked through an abandoned park while the sun did something good to my soul.

Then I collected the criminal and his suspended sentence and drove back.

tastes of folly and bewilderment

“My story isn’t pleasant, it’s not sweet and harmonious like the invented stories; it tastes of folly and bewilderment, of madness and dream, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves.”

(Hermann Hesse: Demian)

a tale of two cities

This winter has been strange in so many ways.

One of them is how slow the days have become, not in a bad way. I have time to feel the chilly wind against my skin, to enjoy the softness and warmth of wool mittens, to watch the shifting clouds. To sit quiet and peaceful, doing nothing except watch people around me instead of hurrying home to distract myself with entertainment.

Today I sat in the expensive Fazer Café, sipping a latte macchiato with beautiful foam art and discussing mental problems with a wise woman under the golden glow of trendy light bulbs.

Then I wandered, slowly, along cold and grey streets with a hulk of a man beside me. Each step felt balanced and peaceful, despite the troubled heart inside both of us, despite the wind slapping snow in our faces. Twilight fell as we meandered through an empty park and stopped to greet a pair of enthusiastic dogs.

We ended up outside a small church where a few quiet people already waited. Several more gathered as we stood there, all patiently waiting and chatting in low voices. This was the city's breadline. People with worn clothes and worn faces, unassuming and cautiously friendly. When the church opened its door, we were served hot soup with sandwiches, and food bags were distributed. I'm not poor enough for breadlines so I didn't take any food, except some soup which I paid for, but my friend eagerly accepted his share.

The contrast with the glamourous café was startling, but the atmosphere in the dark church was welcoming. We all sat there, huddling in our winter coats despite the warmth, eating tasty lentil soup and exchanging a few words with the strangers next to us. A new world to me, populated by brave people.

Another strange dimension to my strange winter.

this frightening winter

A big, green tweed coat and woollen sweaters whose sleeves cover my hands, a beanie pulled low over messy hair, thick mittens, muddy boots.

This is how I look, this frightening winter. There may or may not be a slightly crazed gleam in my dark eyes - eyes that keep looking for the dawn.

colourful bottles

I think I might be getting my breath back. Slowly.

I dream of sitting down in front of a fridge filled with colourful bottles - illuminated, sparkling with beauty - waiting for something to catch up with me.

I ask people for help and I get it. This I will not forget.

in the valley of the shadow of death

I take walks along the seafront where a cold sun is reflected in ice. Grateful for the light, I pull my scarf tighter against the January wind and listen for birds among the pines.

I huddle in my Nepalese hoodie under a single lamp in my flat, the winter darkness outside vast and eternal. There is comfort in the way my phone sometimes chimes to announce a Messenger message and I scroll down my Facebook news feed way too often. I listen to my neighbours argue, their screaming child, the lift coming and going. I memorize words in foreign languages and play WordFeud.

I try not to worry about the night.

My body feels lethargic and odd, my mind leaps to sudden panic. But when there is not terror, there is gratefulness and deep love.

I fall asleep to midnight TV shows where people talk about sharks and business plans, broken trucks and Chinese factories.

And I think of you, your steady hands and your mild voice.