Summers and solitude, winters and wistfulness. God, Arctic snow and strawberries.
October rains, colours, turbulence.
I alternate between money trouble, breathing exercises, a class room, hypochondria, too much work, not enough work, panic, peace of mind.
There is not enough time to savour the blood-red-to-sunny-yellow maple leaves and the swooping, chattering jackdaws.
Education these days is modern and high-tech, I said to myself and brought my best laptop to class.
None of the other students did. The teacher distributed notebooks and pens. To learn a piece of information, she told us, you have to ponder it actively for at least 30 seconds - preferably by writing it down, talking about it and practicing it.
Hence the slow pace and the note-taking by hand, I presume. There is also talking and practicing. The teacher even speaks in a slow, soothing voice. It should drive me crazy.
But after the first hour, I found myself soothed into a pensive but alert state of mind - and remembering the information afterwards.
I'm back to studying - slowly - and I relish it.
Alone in the wilderness again. The moon is a wonky orange, the sea is spilled ink, the mist blurs the edges - a fairytale stage. Hundreds of honking geese take flight with a sudden thunder of wings, unseen in the dark.
The fire is roaring happily in the wood stove. I'm in the cottage, flimsy curtains drawn against the thick, black night. This fairytale stage is set for me and my writing. This is me.
I don't even care that my car is broken and I don't know how to get home.
Honking geese, berry cream cake, rain, earthy scents, warm sunset evenings, carnivals and fireworks, raw nostalgia and loneliness, hours of sleep in a silent cottage, plans and dreams, the forest.
August is emotional. Not just the end of summer - the end of the year.
After months of white nights here in the North of the world, there is always that night when you look up and see the first, bleak star blink into existence. One after one they come, then thousands and millions, as August dims the lights a little more for every night.
Before summer has turned to autumn, the entire Milky Way roars in silence across the sky, sometimes licked by tendrils of Aurora Borealis. It smells of ice and eternity.
I'm loved by God. I don't need additional love.
I carry faith (trust instead of worry), hope (joy and beauty) and love.
If I lose faith and even hope, love will still be there.
I don't have to live up to any norms and expectations, explain myself or submit to shame.
I will never marry. I'm set apart for something higher.
The kingdom of God is near and I'm bringing friends.
July dawns with hazy horizons, rain, fragrant clovers, a croissant with hummus and coffee, solitude and turbulent emotions in a quiet cottage.
A quiet dreamer - that was me during my university days. I spent lots of time in church and drifting around the city alone, and not enough time having fun or actually studying.
That's the mental picture I have of those days, anyway. I'm having to adjust it right now after refreshing my memory with the help of my old journals.
Apparently I also did the following:
* Took boat trips to islands far and near with friends (the city was by the sea), in autumn winds or icy spring sunshine. Shivered on boat decks, explored ruined monasteries and closed-for-the-season beach cafés, had sandwich picnics in windblown fields.
* Had very late nights at ancient pubs with vaulted ceilings, a bustling McDonald's or the fancy international café in the heart of the city. I dived deep into the minds of my friends, played cards or watched people.
* Arranged mega-parties in our flat with my more sociable flatmates. Weirdly, we seemed to attract a target group of mostly students of theology, later on also students of language, history and geology.
* Attended traditional events like the annual concert of the university choir, the high-brow Opening of the Academic Year and a poetry reading with mostly elderly, venerable upper-class people. My flatmates and I observed some old traditions in our own way, like reciting Runeberg on Independence Day, toasting Walpurgis Night with homemade mead, and smuggling in secret "little Christmas" presents. We also happily ditched these traditions when we couldn't be bothered, which made us feel bohemian and free.
* Celebrated spring on the ancient mountain, with all the other students. Sometimes in rain and tears, sometimes in a pretty dress and a smile.
* Toured with a dance team, recited a Runeberg poem in public.
* Was pulled into sledding competitions, bowling competitions, snowball fights, Pictionary tournaments. And every year, the volleyball tournament and lots and lots of volleyball.
* Tried Russian classes, the Fairytale Club, disastrous dates, alchemy classes (inadvertently), horse-back riding, dozing by the river in the arms of a handsome man.
* Ice-skated on the frozen river and drank coffee in a heated tent on the coldest of winter nights. Forced my long-suffering bicycle through deep snow, ice and dangerous traffic. Survived several traffic-related accidents with just a few scratches.
* Consumed pie and cider at long, lazy spring picnics. Stayed up all night with friends or gorgeous men to talk, drift through the city or watch the sunrise.
* Sang a lot, sang a few solos in my choir, gave up my dream of singing.
* Gate-crashed a formal party at the history student club and danced with gorgeous men in tuxedos (I think I was wearing jeans).
* Was hit by a bus once, accidentally set my hair on fire at least once.
* Travelled the world between terms and sometimes in the middle of them.
* Dealt with stalkers, thieves, pathological liars, drug addicts and obsessed lovers.
* Formed my world view and got a degree in something else.
* Said farewell to the city by circling above it in a tiny plane.