in quarantine with Aslan

New Year's Eve. Last night I shivered uncomfortably in bed, this morning a nurse stuck a cotton swab up my nostril and poked around in my brain. So this New Year's Eve I'm celebrating completely on my own, in quarantine just in case. Not something I usually do.

But I have halloumi pasta, a glass of whiskey and the complete Chronicles of Narnia. Aslan the lion is singing a new world into being as colours rain down and a beeswax candle is dripping.

 

The Lion opened his mouth, but no sound came from it; he was breathing out, a long, warm breath; it seemed to sway all the beasts as the wind sways a line of trees. Far overhead from beyond the veil of blue sky which hid them the stars sang again; a pure, cold, difficult music. Then there came a swift flash like fire (but it burnt nobody) either from the sky or from the Lion itself, and every drop of blood tingled in the children's bodies, and the deepest, wildest voice they had ever heard was saying:

"Narnia, Narnia, Narnia, awake. Love. Think. Speak. Be walking trees. Be talking beasts. Be divine waters."

never such a blizzard before

It was like a Christmas movie. The heroine puts her frail, elderly mother in the car together with all the Christmas gifts and takes off for the holiday celebrations with family. Only to be hit by a blizzard, take a turn a little too fast and ending up in a snow drift. Stuck, with spinning wheels.

That was how my Christmas started. I have driven cars in blizzards before and thought I knew how, but this one defeated me. I jumped out of the car in my long skirt and beautiful white coat. The snow was up to my knees and soaked through my boots. People stopped to help. Lots of people. (Faith in human kindness restored right there!) My little car proved exceptionally stubborn, refusing to budge even when large men fearlessly jumped into the snowdrift to shovel snow and push for all they were worth.

Had this actually been a Christmas movie, one of those men would have turned out to be the man I eventually married. Well, no. But we got the car out in the end. 

I drove the rest of the way to my sister's house, only a minute away. There was still zero visibility and I had to guess where the road was. I hit another snowdrift and almost buried the car in it. I managed to get it out with some difficulty. My mother wisely declined to comment, beyond an initial gasp. Then I had to slow down for the turn into my sister's yard. Stuck again. Family members cleared away loose snow to help. I managed the last turn and parked. 

I collected my mother and the Christmas gifts, peeled off wet clothes, asked my sister for a pair of dry socks, brushed icicles out of my hair with as much dignity I could muster. And sat down for a delicious Christmas dinner, smiling.

hyacinths and the not-normal existence

I bought a third hyacinth just to make sure the scent stays in my home over Christmas. The pandemic takes another chokehold on society and sometimes I gasp from lack of air, a little. 

Then I remember that a normal life in a normal society never appealed to me that much anyway. As a kid I made up games in the garden or in the woods, sometimes after dark, where I was an outlaw hiding in the wilderness or a rebel spy on an undercover mission. As an idealistic teenager I believed God wanted to send me on an adventure. So I starved in the jungle, viewed instant noodles as the pinnacle of luxury and slept in the company of cockroaches and water buffalos, in order to help God save souls.

Now I'm a settled citizen, with a regular income. I expect lunch to be more than noodles, a generous Christmas gift from my employer, a heated flat with a view, more than one hyacinth on the coffee table.

But I remember that God, probably while rolling his eyes, helped me through those days of lonely games in the woods and heroical starving among the cockroaches. Even my most cynical self suspects he didn't intend me to grow fat in a flat with a view, surrounded by hyacinths, for the rest of my life. Perhaps the uncertainty and frustration will drag me away from Netflix and remind me that I can't save souls but I could at least pay attention to them. There are good news to go tell.

darkness was upon the face of the deep

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.

(Genesis 1)

a month in outer space

December is like outer space: cold enough to freeze your heart in an instant, dark enough to obliterate hope. A billion tiny lights and a lot of emptiness.

What keeps my heart from freezing: those lights, prayers, sparrows, hyacinths, ancient traditions, the beauty of ice, concerts where choirs sing old songs in Latin.

Also, a daylight lamp, lots and lots of books and the anticipation of a chocolate-covered holiday.

oddly carrying a book

I like walking through town on a winter's night, late, when cars are parked messily because of the piles of snow everywhere and the sidewalk is only a winding path through thick snowdrifts. When all sounds are muted and there is that odd, cold smell of ice, the smell that must have come all across space from the other end of the galaxy. When streetlights illuminate a deserted world. When I'm covered in layers of clothing that hamper my movements and I constantly have to tug my hat further down over my unruly hair to cover freezing ears.

Even better, then, if I in my mitten-covered hand carry a book. I like the feeling of a book in my hand. I like the idea of reading books, sometimes even more than actually reading. Preferably I should be on my way home from a book club, with my head filled with profound thoughts awakened by books and book lovers. I like the feeling of being odd, carrying a real book around - I'm an anachronism and should be dressed in tweed and smoking a pipe. I like the possibility of a stranger looking at me and thinking, "There's another one! I thought I was the only one who still reads."

silk shirts in snow

November is a cemetery full of candles for the dead, one of them mine. A cold mist of weariness, stifling dreams. A creative flow slowing into a muddy, fetid pool. Snow turning to rain, dancing to backache.

It is also a warm bed, peppermint tea and fantasy novels to carry you off into worlds of spices and love. 

It is a burst of fighting spirit, hiking boots and silk shirts.

trams, haunted castles, the world

I travelled through most of Helsinki by tram last weekend. That was a good weekend.

Add to that a good friend, a murder mystery comedy play at the theatre, a cute café on a cold day, large bookstores, people-watching and world-watching and the kind of deliciously outerworldly clothes you only find in big cities. And a glass of wine in a haunted castle, bent over a book on local architecture.

The last time I was in Helsinki was just before the pandemic hit. I spent those days elbowing my way through dense crowds of people, all crammed together to enjoy a light show festival. Today nobody would even think of getting close enough to a stranger to breathe in their personal space. The city seemed a little more subdued. But eager to rise again.

I wore a face mask, and sometimes forgot it. That's the in-between time we live in right now. And I realised how much I have missed travelling, trams, the theatre, haunted castles, the world.

through a storm and almost to Sweden

I have made it something of a life principle. To leave Finland at least once a year for a trip to foreign lands. Sometimes it has been only a quick nip across the border to Stockholm or Tallinn (panicking, in December) or a visit to my second home Ireland which is not really a foreign land, but still.

I boast about doing this for the last thirty years, with an exception for the year I grieved for my father and couldn't seem to make it anywhere.

Last year, the time had come for an epic journey to Italy. Needless to say, the pandemic had other plans. Even this year, it didn't seem wise to do anything more than a couple of staycations. After all, Finland has plenty to see.

But I did get to cross an international border, thanks to my employer who took the work team on a mini-cruise across the pond to the Swedish city of Umeå. We didn't actually go ashore, there wasn't time. But I got to see the Swedish coast, which was being lashed by a heavy storm and icy rain. It felt like a victory after a year and a half of closed borders. 

The ferry is small but brand-new and boasts of being the latest in green technology. It has the most lavish and delicious seafood buffet I have ever experienced. Fortunately, I had worked my way through the caviar, salmon and prawn cakes to the sea buckthorn parfaits and white chocolate mousses of the dessert table before the storm started to toss the boat too seriously. I had also had my fill of letting my hair fly loose in the gales on the "sun" deck and breathing in the cold, salty air, with the exhilaration that only comes in the middle of a storm on the open sea.

I managed to win a quiz despite near-seasickness - my boss and I tied for first place - and then retired to the cozy bar for a white russian and some dozing. So this was my foreign adventure in 2021. Could Italy be much better? I doubt it.

last night, and all the stars are there

Just as it was getting a little too cold for another weekend in the summer cottage, I went back there one more time. 

My addiction made me go. Addiction to the silence of the old fir trees, silvery and dripping with cold rain, and to the hooting of swans gathered in the darkening bay.

The grass and the alder trees were going grey, looking weary and old. Birches were turning a cold lemon colour. The sea had the unforgiving shade of chilly steel, making me shiver just to look at it.

I did a bit of work, huddled up under a scratchy blanket with my laptop and feeding firewood into the stove. I pulled on a thick hoodie and cleared away the remnants of the bonfire we had on the beach the weekend before, the end-of-summer weekend. I read a novel, solved a few crosswords, wrote a little fiction, and slept the sleep of the blessed as the night chill crept back into the cottage.

That intense solitude, far from other people, never really feels like loneliness. But there is an aching melancholia in the autumn stillness when birds leave and everything goes to sleep for a long, frozen winter, when all life withdraws into a tiny core that is hard to see or hear. So I was delighted when my sister showed up on the second day.

That night was one of the highlights of the year, better even than the balmy summer evenings we have spent together in the same environment. Perhaps because of the September darkness, which descends so unforgivingly with absolute blackness and turns the cottage into a tiny beacon of light and warmth at the edge of a vast and unknown space.

We pooled our resources of chocolate, crisps, nuts and melon slices, uncorked a large bottle of sparkling lemon water. Then we squeezed into a narrow single bed to watch National Treasure, a favourite movie, on the laptop. Outside, the night was a black abyss but the fire spread a comforting warmth and the dog snored at our feet.

Before retiring to our own beds, we went down to the beach at midnight. We turned off the flashlight and let our bodies adjust to the icy darkness.

All the stars in the universe frolicked around us. The bay had gone still and invisible, ringed by forests. The atonal hooting of the many swans nearby turned into a concert of flutes and oboes and bassoons, its echoes travelling five miles to the opposite shore and returning unhindered, waves upon waves. A goose or two inserted a raspy contribution. Something that went unseen and unheard by us suddenly scared all these large birds and hundreds of them took flight at once. We could see nothing in the darkness and just gasped at the eerie sound of heavy feathers beating the air, as if the timpanist of this odd orchestra had suddenly got into his thunderous solo.

We retired to warm beds and happy dreams. When welcoming the autumn, it's best to do it with a sister.

how open and wide the sky

As a city-dweller I'm always awed when I'm dropped in the middle of the countryside. 

I'm amazed by the forest, the fields, the quiet villages that seem completely deserted even though they are not. Amazed by nature. How immense it is, how silent, how open and wide the sky, how empty and yet teeming with trees and plants of every size and description, bursting with life even when nobody is looking or noticing or benefiting.

How peaceful, how wild, how unstoppable and uncontrollable, how independent of man.

twirling between silver and gold

Chilly rain, lots of work, hair pulled away from the face. 

A taste for sugar, tired mornings, trying to get back on track. 

A motorcycle ride, Matisse and Gauguin, a yard sale with cupcakes.

And a coat in the exact shade between silver and gold, twirling around me like a superhero cape.

summer moments, the good ones

Reveling in summer heat by the glittering sea, sun and salt and blue nailpolish on my bare toes, as my mother naps in the cottage nearby.

Blueberries, strawberries, raspberries with cream and sugar, dark coffee in old mugs, singing "Happy Birthday" and meaning it.

Lighting a candle and watching a film, wrapped in a wool blanket older than me, while the rain pounds on the roof.

Falling asleep in the white nights of June or the pitch-black nights of August, in the peaceful silence of the forest.

Making banana pancakes while kitchen windows steam up from the heat of the frying pan, the smell of fruit and vanilla filling the air.

Making the same lame jokes as we've done for years, around a red table as twilight falls and the dog is trying to sleep.

Staring out to sea and the silhouette of the islands, knowing they are always there for me, holding on to my happy memories and my melancholia.

Walking along a tiny forest road, feeling the weight of the mystery, feeling the peace.

recurring dream #7

I had that dream again. The one where I go back to work in the Magic Valley, which I sometimes, but not very seriously, daydream about doing. It's almost twenty years since I left now.

The dream is always filled with people, sometimes a few well-known faces but often strangers. I'm usually running around trying to perform a lot of tasks in the lounge/bar and the kitchen, only occasionally going back to my real workplace behind the reception desk.

Sometimes the important people are there as well, the ones I long for and never will see again.

assortment of motorcycle people

Laptop on my lap, rain at my elbow, smudged mascara from last night, woollen socks, a glass of wine on the porch.

Last night, friends who arrived on a swarm of motorcycles: the blonde who quickly jumped off to hug me, the unsmiling physician, the nerdy one with the best jokes, the introvert who walks off in silence, the one who's learning a new life, someone's new girlfriend who seemed superhuman but really nice too, and a small boy who splashed in the water and giggled infectiously. 

Tacos in the evening sun by the sea. At twilight, volleyball and joy.

three hours north, three hours east

Road trip formula: three hours north, then three hours east.

Raahe with sleepy streets, part of a hardrock concert (we're not hardrock people) and the longest wall in Finland.

Kalajoki with endless sand dunes and wine on a picnic blanket while watching beachvolley. A night in an 18th-century house, breakfast in a cosy kitchen with rain outside, discussing life choices, wind power and whether everything that connects people is good, with a German stranger. ("Even radicalism? How about sharing a bottle of wine tonight?")

Kajaani with grey streets, a good cup of coffee, Eino Leino and a charming little castle with a bridge running straight across it.

Iisalmi with an exotic Russian hotel (breakfast in the company of saints), a stormy lake, an art exhibition in Europe's longest birch alley and a typical Finnish pub night with beer.

And the rest: winding roads through forests and fields and flowers, Kekkonen's little cottage, singing hymns in the car, a hot sun, many sweets. The only thing we argued about was carbohydrates.

I came home with a white lace skirt and sand in my car.

at a hazy distance from shore

A rare day in the lap of luxury: a big boat roaring out towards the outer archipelago, a blue sea still as a sheet of glass. 

An almost deserted island with open horizons in every direction, Sweden a hazy mist in the distance, the rest of Finland nearly as far away. 

The silence, the smooth rocks warmed by the sun. Strawberries, dark coffee.

glamour stopped me in the street

I'm back in the city of my wide-eyed youth. On this very path I walked home after my first day at university, thinking I had taken on something impossible. I hid nervously behind my only two friends in the world as a handsome man, an older student, stopped us with a bright smile and suggested we join him and his friends for a beer. We nearly fainted. Many years later, we still laugh at how we stuttered an excuse and ran off like the scared little girls we were. 

Right there and then, the whole wide world threw open its portals and let us glimpse a future filled with unknown phenomena and exciting people. Glamour and adventure beckoned alluringly as the cathedral bell tolled the hour above our heads.

So I set off, running across the cobble-stoned streets with never-ending energy, entertaining dreams of interrail in Europe and beautiful men. I was surrounded by people who knew impossible stuff and appreciated ancient books as much as I did. People who were nothing at all like me. And people who were as hellbent on having adventures as I was, but without my fear. Sometimes I was desperate and lost. Then I sneaked into the ancient cathedral to stand beneath vaults as high as the sky and wander around decaying tombstones, to be comforted by the air of centuries past and the quiet of many prayers. 

That world pulled me in, molded and strengthened me, then shot me off into the universe.

As I walk the same streets now, I'm there and here simultaneously. That long-lost excitement and hope whisper to me again and yet I've seen so much, good and bad. 

Be inspired by the nostalgia or choke on it? I can't decide.

for the straightforward pathway had been lost

I guess it's called middle age. When you realise you're not where you want to be and don't see a way to get there. That you're mediocre at best, and not the star you dreamed to be. That some very important things can't be fixed. That you'll never reach the mountains and have to make a path through the jungle.

On the other hand, I finally realised what The Divine Comedy is all about.

Midway upon the journey of our life

I found myself within a forest dark ...

when I should have

This is what today was like:

I slept late when I should have been up and working. 

I cleaned my house when I should have been in the office. 

I wrote emails in an empty office when I should have been buying strawberries. 

I bought strawberries and wine for myself when I should have been buying food for my mother.

I rode my bicycle around a rose garden when I should have been lifting weights at the gym.

I wrote my blog when I should have been asleep.

I regret nothing and it's Midsummer.

where the river flows backwards

Stepping with caution in a long, black skirt, up and down winding staircases of stone worn smooth, with walls too close and lintels too low. Breathing in the damp, medieval air and thinking I was made for this. Losing myself in the history of murderous kings and jealous duchesses and servants no-one remembers, feeling their sorrows. 

Sitting alone under ancient vaults, centuries groaning beneath my feet as I listen to the silence. Staring up at imposing, thick walls that have stood for seven hundred years and feeling that they are mine. Wandering like a ghost.

I'm finally reunited with my favourite castle, the one that stands by a river that flows backwards. I'm all alone and I'm home.

silk nightdresses and sweaters

Midsummer is trying to go to sleep with the sun shining in from the northwest. Waking up to too-loud birdsong and not knowing if it's day or night. 

Too warm in silk nightdresses, shivering under sweater and jeans in the afternoon. Facing up to mosquito armies in the woods and icecream queues in the city. Breathing in lilacs and clover. Burning the skin on your nose. Hot sun and cold winds.

Confused and weary, constant light, the intensity of a fleeting summer. Like every flower, I reach out frantically towards a bright sky and explode in bloom.

books, candles and wine bottles

I read a wonderful book last winter. It has magic doors opening from our world into an underground labyrinth filled with books, candles and wine bottles (what more could you wish for?), mystery, bees, time travel, books where you read about yourself, a sea of honey ... I could go on. 

I'll just give you a few excerpts from Erin Morgenstern's The Starless Sea:

Zachary picks a different hall to wander down, this one has shelves carved into the stone, books piled in irregular cubbies along with teacups and bottles and stray crayons. [...] 

There are so many candles that the scent of beeswax permeates everything, soft and sweet mingling with paper and leather and stone with a hint of smoke. Who lights all of these if there's no one else here? Zachary wonders as he passes a candelabra holding more than a dozen smoldering tapers, wax dripping down over the stone that has clearly been dripped on by many, many candles before.

One door opens into a round room with intricately carved walls. A single lamp sits on the floor and as Zachary walks around it the light catches different parts of the carvings, revealing images and text but he cannot read the whole story.

 ..

Zachary picks up her glass of wine from the table and takes a sip of it. It tastes like winter sun and melting snow, bubbles bright and sharp and bursting.

 ..

He takes a book from a stack near the wall and puts it down again. He wanders down a hallway lined with curving shelves so the books surround him at all angles, like a tunnel. He cannot tell how the ones above his head manage not to fall. 

He tries opening doors. Some are locked but many open, revealing rooms filled with more books, chairs an desks and tables with bottles of ink and bottles of wine and bottles of brandy. The sheer volume of books intimidates him. He does not know how one would choose what to read.

He hears more people than he sees, footsteps and whispers close but unseen. He spots a figure in a white robe lighting candles and a woman so absorbed in the book she is reading that she does not look up as he passes.

He walks through a hall filled with paintings, all images of impossible buildings. Floating castles. Mansions melded together with ships. Cities carved into cliffs. The books around them all seem to be volumes on architecture. A corridor leads him to an amphitheater where actors appear to be rehearsing Shakespeare.