road trip with waffles

Fields and forests, sleepy villages, old wooden churches with stained-glass windows. Narrow roads through empty wilderness. Hidden lakes, silent and silky under a grey sky. A stop at a cafe somewhere - they serve waffles with strawberry jam and icecream.

It's just me and an old lady and our summer tradition - a road trip. Happiness and nostalgia and longing, all stretching out on the road before us.

i'm salt liquorice and vanilla sugar

I love the different and surprising. I'm bored.

I make my friends laugh, I'm tired of people. I want to be alone and I'm lonely. I cannot understand the need to share anything at all on social media. I cannot understand the human race.

My hair is a mess of  colours - salt liquorice, chocolate, caramel and vanilla sugar. I'm infinitely curious.

"I am a lover without a lover. I am lovely and lonely and I belong deeply to myself." (Warsan Shire)

not somewhere else

I have a sore throat and should isolate myself. So I fight a sudden urge to go absolutely everywhere just to see people.

In cutoff denim shorts and woollen socks, I bring my laptop out on the balcony and proofread rainwear labels in the company of sea and sky.

I asked God why I'm not somewhere else. He said, "Because you don't really want to be."

desperate measures: banana pancakes

Cold rain lashing the windows. Woollen socks not keeping out the chill in primitive holiday cabins. Low moods. The summer being difficult again here in the almost-Arctic.

When heat and sweet smells are desperately needed, you take out a frying pan and make banana pancakes with vanilla sugar and fat, juicy blueberries from the forest.

can't see a marvellous comet

I'm in the middle of summer, in a canary-yellow sun hat and bare feet. I'm in sadness and happiness.

I breathe in pines, a thousand flowers, a quiet sea with thunder on the horizon. I cook dishes my mother has never tasted. I cut firewood for other people's children. I take my grandmother's ancient bike to the village and listen to the silence of the barley fields. I dip my toes in salt water and speak gently to someone who needs it. I drink coffee and lick chocolate off my fingers.

There is peace on the wind and restlessness in a hot sun. I want to see the world and learn. I'm wild with envy towards those who make their dreams come true, because I don't know how.

I want to be anywhere else. I want to stay here, watch the flowers grow, sing with the blackbird and the rosefinch.

I'm one of those who can't see a marvellous comet pass by because their sky is too bright.

daisies first, then breakfast

I planted daisies before breakfast. I walked in the rain, saw merganser chicks sleep in a huddle, dozed by the fireplace. I dreamed of impossible journeys.

fridge findings, three years later

Three years ago, on a boring day alone at the office, I did a stock take of the office fridge (see it here). Some interesting findings there (antibiotics with pickled cornichons, wasabi and Kahlua liqueur, anyone?).

As I'm having another boring office day alone, I felt it was time for an update. Clearly, hard times have fallen upon this company. These were the meager results today:

* 15 bottles of mineral water (small, lemon flavoured)

* 12 bottles of ginger beer

* 6 bottles of soft drinks

* 1 bottle of Czech beer (same one as three years ago?)

* 1 tin of olives (opened)

* 1 tin of lingonberry jam

* 1 tin of chili sauce

* 1 bottle of vinegar

* 1 bottle of lemon essence

* 2 cartons of lactose-free milk (small)

It would be a harsh (but not thirsty) few days if I was accidentally locked in at the office over the weekend.

my work among the fairies

From a cabin in the woods I travelled in to work and started by going out for lunch.

Today's work tasks, once that was done: sending a piece of wood to China, pondering the different meanings of the word 'agency" in three languages, putting a fairy in her place, spending 800 of my employer's euros, deleting a picture of my nails, wondering what cookies really are, sending a container on a journey across the globe.

seafarers and lullabies

Ordinary events by the sea: a man I admire sailed in and someone sang Mammas lilla gullgull - my childhood lullaby (of unknown and possibly ancient origin) which still makes me sleepy.

live laugh love kill me now

I'm sick of cheery, upbeat blog entries of the carpe diem, live laugh love variety.

Especially my own. How can these sick, sugary creations arise from such a cynical mind? It was understandably ten years ago, it's typical of that age. I see it - and snigger condescendingly at it - in the social media posts of friends who are of that age now.

But I'm old and wise. I should know how to spew out properly bitter and world-weary missives.

The problem is just that missives like that are even more annoying.

The middle road - and the one I love - is sarcasm. Thank God for sarcasm and black humour. I'm sure it was the first thing he provided Adam and Eve with, as a consolation, when he was forced to kick them out of Eden to face reality.

I need a blog moderator who shuts me down - and bans me from the internet instantly - the moment I let a "live laugh love" slip out. Unless it's sarcastic.

exhausted and spider-bitten

Summer is for intense living.

There has already been wine on picnic blankets, seagull chick rescue operations, thunderstorms, flower picking, reading six year old magazines, heatwaves, tantrums, crossword puzzles over bad coffee, lilac planting, blisters and spider bites, mojitos, primitive living, expensive chocolate cakes, lawn-mowing in way-too-hot weather.

I'm exhausted, is it autumn soon?

church bells, star-flowers, history

The forest is warm and pine-scented - welcoming me with birdsong, winding paths and summer adventures.

Happy and alone, I pick lilies-of-the-valley in the emerald light of sun-soaked birch leaves. The bells of a church at the edge of the forest are ringing, a strange and beautiful melody that echoes through the trees as I wander further and further away.

I find a cave, canals with silent water, remains of ancient stonewalls and a mysterious hole in the ground. My additional findings include a site where people lost their lives for my freedom, a pet cemetery and a secret garden, luxuriously overgrown with apple blossom and lilacs.

A hill nearby was the centre of the world for many people, many centuries ago. History sings in my blood as I pick the star-flowers I remember from my childhood.

I have to come back. This forest contains almost everything that I love: summer, exploration, history, nostalgia, dreams.

planting lilacs

Digging soil and planting lilacs, hot sun, salt water, a spider bite, barefoot in a hammock, feeling at home.

a country opening around me tonight

From a weekend in the wilderness, I will return to a reopened country on Monday morning.

I have managed ten weeks in a closed country quite well. My work life wasn't much affected. I did a course in personal protective equipment. I got a little lazier and fatter, did a little charity work, read old books, watched Netflix, cycled and walked, drank wine with my friends.

I lost a trip to Italy, missed the library but rediscovered my own bookshelf of old favourites, did some writing, almost lost someone dear to me, was stiff-necked just like the folks in the Old Testament, enjoyed Star Trek and Kalevala.

I have really missed café windows, thrift shops, dinners in candle-lit bistros and freedom.

But there is rest in staying still, when everybody else is staying still too. And new ideas are coming.

around the Högfors stove

We sat around the Högfors stove, you and I, the ancient iron radiating heat into a chilly May evening. The evening sky still bright outside the old cottage, dust in the air around us.

Death had passed by me, the world felt fragile but I had hope and faith.

"I haven't bought any new clothes since this whole thing started," I said and picked at a loose thread in my old sweater. "It's time for some brand new thrift shop bargains!"

"I might apply for a new job," you said and put more firewood into the stove.

"The fairy tales we read as kids were really scary," one of us said. "And yet they never bothered us! Nobody would let their kids hear them today."

"Money is not everything," I admonished. "I'm not talking money, I'm talking time," you protested.

"You have your own piece of road," I said. "You could establish a road toll."

"I put out the nets, with my nephews," you said, "and we got eighteen perch and ten pike. Even the pike are quite tasty, smoked."

"Should we swap houses?" you said. "If you put a sea over there," I said and pointed out the window.

"We're already swapping stories about our aches and pains," we wailed. "In a few years, it will be all about bowel movements."

I left with three smoked perch and sang an old gospel song loudly on my way home.

the importance of rocks

I like rocks. The large, mossy kind you find scattered all over Finland, granite or gneiss ones. I love walking with bare feet on course, sunwarmed rock or boulders covered in cool, velvety moss with tiny flowers in it. I love smooth, wave-kissed rocks sloping down to the sea.

Rocks were my passion as a kid. The kind of rocks you could climb on and crawl under, and create little nests between. I created of them entire fantasy worlds where I lived in a wilderness with wild animals and fairytale people all around, a bit like my hero Robin Hood. My mother had large flower beds in our garden and forbade me to walk in them, but there were smaller rocks scattered there so I jumped from rock to rock in exhilaration.

As a moody teenager, I walked into the woods on summer nights and climbed up on the largest boulder I could find, then sat there for ages brooding about my teenage troubles and dreams.


As an adult I often take a pretty pebble home with me from the beaches of the world, my one and only souvenir.

Perhaps it is no coincidence that my name means 'rock'.

"When my heart is overwhelmed, lead me to the rock that is higher than I" (Psalm 61).

a pandemic at my heels

Empty streets, cold wind, sunlight. I walk past closed cafés and struggling shops. A pandemic at my heels. The air smells of dust clouds and hand sanitizer but swans are shouting the arrival of spring.

After sunset, a single candle. Stars wander past my nest as I isolate myself with a glowing screen and foreign languages.

The world is closed.

darling books: the 'revenge' of the Galilean

  'You say he seemed out of his head?' said Demetrius, anxiously.
  'Yes - dazed - as if something had hit him. And out there in that archway, he had a sort of empty look in his face. Maybe he didn't even know where he was.'
  Demetrius' steps slowed to a stop.
  'Melas,' he said, hoarsely. 'I'm sorry - but I've got to go back to him.'
  'Why - you -' The Thracian was at a loss for a strong enough epithet. 'I always thought you were soft! Afraid to run away from a fellow who strikes you in the face before a crowd of officers; just to show them how brave he is! Very well! You go back to him and be his slave forever! It will be tough! He has lost his mind!'
  Demetrius had turned and was walking away.
  'Good luck to you, Melas,' he called, soberly.
  'Better get rid of that Robe!' shouted Melas, his voice shrill with anger. 'That's what drove your smart young Marcellus out of his mind! He began to go crazy the minute he put it on! Let him be. He is accursed! The Galilean has had his revenge!'
  Demetrius stumbled on through the darkness, Melas' raging imprecations following him as far as the old gate.
  'Accursed!' he yelled. 'Accursed!'

This favourite book of mine (The Robe by Lloyd C. Douglas) I found in a forgotten library in a musty Swedish attic. Later I bought my own copy on an island in the Pacific. It is a story of the Roman officer who crucified Jesus and won his robe in a dice game, and of the slave who tries to make sense of all this.

I don't think I've ever gotten so caught up in a book written in the 40s before. And it happens every time I go back to it. The writing is too good to ever feel musty and it puts a surprising spin on the familiar Bible stories without changing them.

Although it does have a lot of commas and exclamation marks. I guess they liked them, back in 1942!

oxygen deficiency and very long words

What I'm studying in pandemic times: 

EU certificates of conformity, risk assessment, how to choose your personal protective gear, noise exposure levels, liquified gas, why bactericides are not enough and how oxygen deficiency usually kills two people at the same occasion. 

All this in my third language. In which the first term bears the lovely name EU-vaatimustenmukaisuusvakuutus.

should have been in Florence

April is the cruelest month and my favourite - heat and ice, birdsong and wildness.

On the eve of my birthday I lounge in sunlight, with tea-green lamb's wool around me and coffee porter before me. I watch the boats on the bay and wonder if peace and strength are possible without love.

I should have been in Florence today, dizzy with wonder.

Whimsical clothing and the most boring textbook of all - today's odd combination. Life stands so still that I'm surprised the sun still wanders.