I try

Some days I try to write and I scare myself into silence.

mornings without a clock

Mornings without a clock, hours over cooling coffee, remembering strange dreams of hunger. 

Drowsy happiness with books, frustration and worry over persistent pain. Battling ache and age. Watching the sky, lighting candles. Blankets and a flickering laptop on the couch. Autumn turns into winter, the cold creeps in, evenings are dark and last longer than the days.

Staggering around doing small chores, venturing a few steps down the icy street, sometimes driving a cold car to the shop or to see people. Mostly half regretting it afterwards.

I'm no use to anyone and I'm learning that it's OK. My life is as slow as November.

surviving a knife on Halloween

November began in the hospital, a major surgery I wasn't at all sure I'd survive. They said it was routine but I wasn't convinced anyone could cut open my stomach without killing me. And it was Halloween after all, when the veil between living and dead is said to be at its thinnest ...

Surprised, I woke up. My body in chaos, missing a piece. Completely dependent on strangers for my continued survival. It was strange and not typical, the deep trust I felt. 

Pain, sometimes unbearable, came and went. I got used to that little hospital room, impersonal and comforting at the same time. Cared for, and alone, at the same time. I liked the metal rails of the hospital bed, so strong and good to hold on to for support, so cool a relief in pain. I listened to the loud beeping that rang through the ward whenever someone pressed a call button. I felt horribly wounded, and safe. Love poured in through my phone.

I was in the maternity ward, not having a baby but having my womb removed. At the other end of the corridor, tiny babies cried. At my end, an old woman cried.

I had an odd insight - I may have been born in this very same building, on an April evening long ago. My mother happy after a miscarriage the previous year, my father receiving a mischievous wink from me the first time he held me.

This time, grey daylight descended quickly into dark November evenings, like a blanket when you're desperate for sleep. 

At the end of nearly a week, I was discharged and expected to be independent again. My exhausted soul was still dependent. Still aching for the fierce, protective love of a father.

summer, only a very old one

In a suburban house, October is grey like the suburban dystopias I've read about in novels (usually psychological thrillers). Wind and rain shake yellow leaves, the neighbours have dogs and prams and curious gazes. An atmosphere of quiet bleakness and tedious lives. My vanilla-coloured vintage leather coat feels out of place among Gore-Tex and softshell jackets.

But there are also flowers surprising me in the garden, half-frozen and withering. Blackbirds, magpies, woodpeckers and pheasants among the smaller birds outside the kitchen window. Over-ripe plums dripping juice from a windblown tree. A roaring fire to ward off the chill in a house with empty rooms. Silence that feels like kindness.

A feeling - both sad and comforting - that I don't belong here.

In the rain, I carry an old dog down the steps and then walk slowly, slowly, as he limps after me to sniff along the side of the street. I don't care if my mohair sweater acquires mud and the smell of wet dog.

I go to the fitness center in a grey, square building, as ugly as the grey streets around it. A hopeless greyness that induces weariness. Grey rooms, quiet and mostly empty. A vague smell of sweat and industrial cleaner. Working out on the crosstrainer still feels good, after I plug music into my ears and open my phone screen to a weird Kindle novel.

I walk for miles in the neighbourhood. There are large woods to get lost in. New streets where young families are moving into modern houses. Old streets where old memories dance around me like ghosts from the Seventies and Eighties.

The weather clears up, the sky rises high and blue and icy. The sun is low but warm and tricks me that this is summer, only a very old one.

a French town of all times

It's so typical of France - a town that no tourist has ever heard of, full of impressive ruins from Roman times. A huge triumphal arch, a well-preserved large amphitheater ... I gasp with delight. I love Roman ruins.

We happen to stop for the night just as the town is hosting a large festival that no tourist has ever heard of either. Outside a church, bathed in golden sunlight on a warm July evening, we drink the local beer and listen to people chatting around us. Loudspeakers in the tree branches above us play classical music. The bartender is beautiful, too beautiful for a small French town.

Onward we drift, to another sidewalk café where we feast on galettes as darkness falls. Are we the only foreigners in town?

We decide to go to a concert at 10 pm, much too late for a weary traveller. The 12th century abbey is mostly dark. Only the middle part is lit. A few dozen people sit in a semi-circle around a small stage where musicians play 17th century music on viola da gamba instruments - music that only serious lovers of classical music have ever heard before, I suspect. I'm not one of them. I've never even heard of viola da gamba instruments before.

A mezzo-soprano's soft voice sends German words drifting upwards to the vaults. The shadows around us flicker, smelling of stone and history. I almost doze off, lose myself in time. Am I in an obscure Roman town, in a medieval abbey with Benedictine nuns, in 17th century Königsberg with exiled musicians, on a French road trip in the scorching summer of 2022?

We walk back to the hotel at midnight, through empty alleys lit by weak streetlights. Too high on the experience to feel fear. Footsteps echo between stone walls, a cat jumps out of our way, plane trees rustle in the wind.

in the Savoie, at last

Many, many years ago, when I was young and travelling but not always free to travel exactly where and when I wanted, I spent a few summer weeks working in Switzerland. 

I partly enjoyed it, partly felt insecure and stuck in a boring job. I dreamed of running away. Getting on a train, taking off for the mountains I saw from my window. I longed to explore, to go and see what's behind that mountain ridge, to wander in complete freedom to the ends of the earth.

The mountains I saw from my window were the Alps of Savoie, white and wild and mysterious, a wilderness in the heart of Europe. During thunderstorms you could hear them boom, like the galaxy's largest drum being struck. It reverbated in me.

Now I'm in Savoie at last. Not quite in the wilderness of those highest summits. But close enough. There are immense mountains and clear, blue lakes and a chill in the evening air.

We shiver with cold as we get out of the car. After two weeks in summer-hot France, it's a delicious feeling. The car engine ticks in exhaustion after a long trek on steep roads with hairpin turns. The cheap hotel, clearly meant for skiers, is quiet in off-season and smells of pine wood and adventures. As we splash happily in the outdoor pool, there is a sound of sonorous bells. A herd of cows is returning home from their grazing in mountain meadows. 

Wrapped in scarves we spend a long, happy evening in the restaurant around the blue flame of a fondue pot, sharing Savoyard wine and giggles. The food is hot and heavy, the comfort food of a chilly mountain night.

bad night, big city

When we arrive in one of France's largest cities, we get stuck in a loop - in heavy traffic - as the navigator stubbornly insists on a route that is temporarily closed. Night is falling over hot, narrow streets in a seemingly endless city filled with cars and exhaust fumes.

Irritated, exhausted and uncomfortable, the way only an introvert gets when she needs a private space to withdraw to, I arrive at our destination. A tiny flat with no air-condition and windows that can't be kept open because robbers would climb in straight from the street and kill us in our sleep. Somebody, who knew very well how unbearably hot this flat is, decided that I would spend the night here. During France's hottest summer.

First, I need to make awkward conversation with the half-strangers we will share the flat with. I'm hungry, but too warm and exhausted to find food. Getting into bed I have the feeling of my body dissolving into liquid, into salt water and blood leaking away to leave me a dry, dead husk. The night is the hottest I've ever experienced, unmatched even in tropical countries. It nearly brings me to tears of desperation. I'm trapped and dissolving in Lyon. 

Outside are the sounds of a large city - cars speed by, people shout. As my breathing and heart-rate slow down, my body temperature goes down a little too. Drinking water helps. So I sleep, exhausted.

The next day, we taste coussins of Lyon and explore pretty streets and awesome cathedrals and exciting Roman ruins. Lyon has two rivers and the biggest city square I've ever seen. Under the right circumstances, it could probably be a nice place to live. But I'm happy to leave.

ascending into the hall of the mountain princes

We're in the south of France, following our loosely planned travel route from Pau towards Carcassonne. The heat is shimmering over withering sunflowers and vinyards. The mountains of the Pyrenees follow us like hunking, hazy clouds on the horizon to our right. 

An idea is forming in my mind.

"I know the plan is to explore France. But ... how about a little detour to Andorra?"

It takes a few seconds for K to understand what I mean. Andorra, the independent and mysterious little principality hidden in the mountains between France and Spain, where nobody we know has ever been? In those few seconds, she already warms to the idea.

I'm a little doubtful myself. I'm nervous about driving in mountains and this is more than a little detour. Heights of 2000 meters, an unknown country. Still, it can be done in a day. And it's something very different - we have to google even the basic facts about Andorra. The microstate was founded by Charlemagne, officially became a democracy as late as 1993 and is ruled by two co-princes: a Spanish bishop and the President of France.

So the next day we set off. It's our first sunless day in France. Clouds hang low and grey as we follow the winding road towards the border, the only real road from France to Andorra. Higher and higher we go, past vast caves we wish we had time to stop and see. Hairpin turn after hairpin turn after hairpin turn. There is some traffic - the French and the Spanish apparently like to go shopping in Andorra because the prices on things like fuel and alcohol is lower.

Suddenly we're above the clouds. Around us lie a sunlit vista of treeless mountains. France is behind us, beneath a lid of clouds. We pass a border station without stopping.

The first thing greeting us is a shopping centre. A shopping village really, and ski resort, formed out of modern, colourful building blocks and followed by a long line of petrol stations. The uneven French road is suddenly a smooth, tidy highway. It continues higher, through a mountain pass. We pass a herd of freely grazing cows with cowbells on, then a herd of horses with similiar bells strung around their necks. We marvel at the tenacity of many cyclists doing high-altitude training on the steep road.

There are villages but they are nothing like the villages of France, where even the newer houses look old and cute. These are ski resorts with blocky chalets lined up on the slopes. Nothing looks old here, except the mountains surrounding us.

Andorra la Vella, the highest capital in Europe, hunkers down in a valley and the summer heat is oppressive. Most of the town seems to consist of one long shopping street filled with the most popular clothes stores. The language is Catalan but most of the people are French and Spanish visitors. Slightly dazed from the exciting journey and not a little jubilant, we find a table outside a restaurant, sit down and order goat's cheese salad and white wine. 

"We made it! We're in Andorra, of all the weird places on earth!" 

For me, the most poignant contrast is that I'm sitting in front of a shop selling expensive Karl Lagerfeld clothes. I'm wearing an old, faded t-shirt that I usually only wear at my cottage in the Finnish forests, the other end of the world (because it's too worn-out to be used in public). I packed it for the trip only in desperation because I simply did not have enough clothes suitable for the hottest summer in a century. I'm not ashamed to be seen wearing it here, though. It's a symbol - I came from the remote wilderness of the North all the way to the Principality of Andorra.

After lunch, we look around (not a lot to see except shops unless you count the beautiful mountains around us) and buy a lot of small items in different shops, paying cash in the hopes of receiving two-euro coins as change. Andorra is not a member of the EU but still issues its own euro coins, which are pretty rare. I finally find one of them among the French and German euro coins littering my purse. The only thing left to do is to enjoy an icecream, fill up our car with cheap fuel and go back to France - and we find a toll tunnel that makes the return trip surprisingly quick and easy.

I descend from the mountains back into beautiful France with some unnecessary items: a cheap linen top, a fridge magnet, a stick of lime-flavoured lip balm and, weirdly, a hash brownie.

the Atlantic and a new song

You may not think you'll miss the sea when you have fascinating mountains, historical river valleys, fields full of sunflowers and old castles to look at all day long.

But if you're born and raised by the seaside, reaching the coast feels like coming home. The light, the salty breeze, the seagulls, the smell of seaweed. It's easy to breathe. Your eyes find the blue horizon, your skin suddenly longs to be immersed in salt water.

You just have to find a beach, no matter how rocky. Walk barefoot into the outgoing tide. Breathe in the eternity of the open ocean. Look for the most beautiful smooth pebble. 

If it's La Rochelle, you also have to order mussles with white wine on the pier, browse creative shops and randomly walk into a church where an organist plays a song you've never heard before and instantly love.

da Vinci, Joan of Arc and the wonderful K

The Loire valley. Too many castles and palaces to count. A royal air. The murky, slow and sensous Loire river. A muggy heat that peaks at 43 degrees Celsius.

I have found the perfect travel partner in K. Like me, she enters a place of ancient history, sighs with happiness and settles down to read the basic information provided. She then takes all the time she needs to explore every nook and cranny, study the facts in the brochure or "histopad", admire the furniture and the views from the windows, plod up and down steep stairs to towers and dungeons. We have all the time in the world. We are equally awed by standing at Leonardo da Vinci's grave and being in the room where Joan of Arc met the future king of France.

K also understands the importance of putting on mascara in the mornings, in order to be ready to conquer the world, and the pleasure in ordering a glass of wine or a Ricard with the chèvre salad for lunch. 

And she drives the car.

My role in our holiday is to speak French and translate menus, look for cute bed & breakfasts and drink Côtes du Rhône out of the three-liter box hidden somewhere in the car. And admire the views, guess the song playing on the car radio and dream up wonderful places to visit.

The highlight of our days by the Loire: not the royal ramparts of Blois or Amboise, or the free rosé provided by one charming bed & breakfast hostess, or the views from Château de Chinon - but the coolness of the murky waters of the  mysterious Loire on one golden evening when we take off our sandals and wade in the shallows.

the Jura surprise

Sometime last winter, I was browsing through Google maps and happened upon the Jura Mountains, for no obvious reason except that I love mountains and Central Europe. I dove into Street View and followed a few mountain roads, sighing in pandemic isolation over views I would probably never see in real life.

This summer, I found myself in the passenger seat of a car at the foot of these mountains, near the French/Swiss border. The driver programmed the navigator with our destination - the Loire Valley in the middle of France. I peered at the suggested route, winding back and forth across the navigator screen. "Looks like it's taking us across the mountains." I'm a little nervous about driving in mountains. I  don't have much experience - Finland is pretty flat.

So we drove across the Juras. It was beautiful - steep, wooded slopes, valleys with cute villages. Good roads. A very surprising hilltop fortification (Forte l'Écluse) looming over the road. As surprising as my dream coming true - diving into a map and surfacing in France.

dragons and kings and dormant volcanoes

Three thousand three hundred kilometers, seven castles, four mountain ranges, three countries, two freedom-loving ladies, one car.

Happiness is getting into a car and driving through France (and small bits of Switzerland and Andorra) without any goal, just to see where you end up. 

We ended up in a heatwave, in the murky waters of the Loire, in the airy throne rooms of ancient kings, in the vicinity of dormant volcanoes, in a wild garden party with magnum bottles of wine, above the clouds on hairpin roads, in a concert with instruments we'd never heard of, in a cave with a chained dragon, under Roman triumphal arches, in medieval villages with loud cicadas and silent bats, in a hot city flat with no air-conditioning, at tables with strange and wonderful dishes, in the middle of our wildest dreams of freedom.

hot, hotter, holiday

The dream trip to France is drawing close and I'm a nervous wreck.

In the news from France right now: airport chaos, horrible heatwave and the pandemic running rampant again. And I hate packing and am afraid of flying and it will cost me half my savings.

And I'm going to France. Medieval castles, wine, cute villages, history. I am so lucky. Even if I have to view it from the window of my air-conditioned, covid-safe car.

planning a medieval route

Planning a medieval route through Poitou, Périgord, Languedoc ... Have lovelier words ever been written? 

France is my dream country. It has all the history, all the castles, all the wine. It's almost unfair.

the Chosen

Best TV series this year (or maybe for many years): The Chosen. 

Not only is it fascinating. I can almost feel it doing something good inside me.

wildlife, various approaches

One week of vacation between the sea and the forest. Mostly alone with my books and the laptop and the wildlife.

I'm tip-toeing around nesting sandpipers, chasing away swans, swearing at mosquitoes, carrying spiders out of my bedroom, laughing at blackbirds because of their haughty indifference when our paths cross.

no stepping on the ants

I was out walking with my mother, one of the first really warm days of spring. Our walk progressed at glacial speed, because my mother is old and frail. 

Walking extremely slowly gives you a new perspective on things, especially if you're not talking or listening to music. Your mind goes into a dazed slow-motion mode. It was so slow that I started to notice the ants on the path. So slow that I actually started to focus on not stepping on the individual ants on the path. 

That's really slow, in case you're wondering.

"There are ants here," my mother commented after a long, comfortable silence.

And I knew she was trying to avoid stepping on them too. That's the kind of person my mother is - gentle and kind to people and animals, even ants. When I was little, if we found a spider or wasp inside the house, we never killed it - we caught it and carried it out into the garden. Except if the temperature outside was freezing. In that case, the spider was lovingly deposited in the garage where it had a fair chance of surviving.

I'm a bit scared of spiders and wasps but I still can't kill one without literally losing sleep over it.

Animals stir up the tenderness in me more than humans do, generally speaking. That's why, when I had slowed down enough to notice the ants on that path, my subconscious mind registered them almost as individual souls that would suffer if I stepped on them.

At times I have felt vaguely ashamed of such sensitivity. Adult life in a busy world has taught me to stride along with speed and efficiency, not caring how many ants I crush under my shoes. I still carry spiders out into the garden, sighing with relief when they are far away from me, and I'm used to being ridiculed for it.

But then I watch strangers on YouTube rescuing trapped birds, or see my sister carefully carry a ladybird to safety, or realise that my mother is just as aware of the ants under her feet as I am. 

And then I remember that tender hearts will inherit the earth.

93 percent stardust

We have calcium in our bones, iron in our veins,

carbon in our souls, and nitrogen in our brains.

93 percent stardust, with souls made of flames,

we are all just stars that have people names.

(Nikita Gill)

lay me down on a bed of sheepskins

My new (second-hand) sofa is covered in sheepskins and very alluring.

It has been the scene of this year's spring and has hosted tears, covid, work, cold sunshine, tons of books, repetitive strain injury, The Chosen (this spring's favourite TV show), a birthday in semi-isolation. 

This spring, I have been spending money on: sofa, sheepskins, books, ergonomic keyboard, desperately needed new car tires, not so desperately needed bottle of green perfume, headphones, i.e. everything and too much.

On my semi-isolated, almost-recovered-from-covid birthday, I danced to Handel's hallelujah chorus, ate pizza with blackcurrant beer and wandered along the seafront with a friend, stopping to eat chocolate biscuits in the evening sun.

four days of melting ice

In the middle of juggling jobs, sorting out my car, sorting out a broken laptop, taking care of a needy mother, keeping myself fit, not neglecting friends, soothing my creative thirst, trying not to miss the best of springtime, planning three birthday parties and angsting over my life generally not going anywhere, I woke up one morning with a sore throat.

So I cancelled some of my work, cancelled parties, put everything else on hold, drew the curtains and holed up in a quiet flat. Realised I was exhausted, and not just from what may or may not be covid-19.

Realised that hiding in the dark, burrowing into blankets and sheepskins on the sofa with a book, knowing I won't have to see another person or make another decision for at least four days ... was desperately needed.

Four days, leading up to a birthday more than halfway through life, an unremarkable birthday to some but weirdly significant to me. What will I do with the rest of my life? I watch the birds, note that cranes and wagtails have returned. The ice is melting outside. I think of nothing in particular.

spiritual experiences of the traditional kind

I sometimes feel God by my side as I look at a starry sky, walk through a summer forest or hear a particular song just when I'm in need of comfort. 

But sometimes I have spiritual experiences of the traditional kind. Like kneeling at the high altar of a cathedral, crying.

behind a long border

The iodine tablets are sold out all over town. I feel a little embarrassed to be asking about them at the pharmacy but I don't object when one of them puts me on a waiting list - as number 35. I remember being very young and hearing about the fallout from Chernobyl drifting towards Finland. The danger is now real again.

My country shares a very long border with a suddenly very unpredictable neighbour. My father, whose father fought a war, used to be very suspicious towards our neighbour. I used to scoff. Now I understand. But my suspicions and fears are different than his. I fear radioactive fallout, cyber attacks, power cuts, being isolated and unable to get information. 

Like so many others here, I take out some cash, fill up my car with petrol, stock up my kitchen cupboards, buy battery chargers and battery-operated radios.

I feel a bit embarrassed about this too. Finland is in no danger - or are we? Nobody really knows, these days.

The armed forces are conducting a major practical exercise in town this week. It's been planned for a long time, has nothing to do with the new war in Europe. But when you watch news footage of that war, and then look up to see an army helicopter in the sky and armed soldiers in the street - something you never see around here - it's unsettling.

In this safe little country, suddenly we are nervous.

walking on broken glass

I walked on a path of crystal shards through the forest, with a warm sun in my face, and sang "feels just like I'm walking on broken glass". 

These are the days of that particular February phenomenon. The temperature is still around zero but the air can hit you with shocking mildness when you leave the house, making you reel for a moment as if you had just walked into the loveliest of June mornings. The sun is warm, birds are tuning up their first song of the year. 

But everything is still frozen. So you can walk through swampy forests, on rivers, on the sea itself. These are the days of exploring unreachable woods, seeing the city from the sea, walking out to deserted islands ...

I bring my shades and an oatmeal chocolate cookie, lace up boots made for walking on ice, and set out to discover the world.

oh, happy day on a winter night

Hot, spicy coffee from a flask. I set down the lantern I'm carrying and someone puts a sticky-sweet piece of carrot cake in my mittened hands. 

We're having a surprise birthday party on the porch, in the illumination of a dozen lanterns. The snow is thick under our boots, the forest cold and silent around the little house. The darkness of a winter night can't daunt the cheerful chattering around the cake. It is so cold that my toes are going numb but I ignore it - because birthday party in a blizzard! With pandemic and social distancing, you have to get creative. 

We sing "Oh, Happy Day" and among the half-strangers around me I suddenly recognise voices from my favourite choir, thirty years ago. I have known the birthday boy just as long, and his smile warms my heart like it has for decades. 

I hope the roads won't have snowed in before it's time to leave.

hazy at the edges

Butterscotch, caramel and vanilla is the colour of my hair these days. The world is too dry and hazy at the edges. How did it become so small? Are there still foreign and wonderful things out there, beyond my horizon of snowy fir trees and winter clouds?

I want to stay in bed, reading books.

frosty urban art

Art exhibitions usually do not touch me. 

Unless they immerse me completely in the atmosphere of an unknown world. Like an urban art exhibition in an abandoned, dilapidated  amusement park, in the heart of an arctic winter.

Lights flicker as I stumble through concrete tunnels, shivering with cold. Behind spotlights illuminating the splashy colours of graffiti all over crumbling walls, I glimpse sagging roof beams and broken electrical wiring. Cheerful, rusting signposts still advertise amusement rides. Over the dusty shelves of an old shooting gallery, an artist has made a statement by hanging toy bunnies by their necks from the ceiling. 

There are mouse droppings, broken glass and snow that has drifted in. And unexpectedly, small rooms full of pink fluff and fairy lights.

In the Haunted House, everything gleams under black light in the winding tunnels - stars and planets, skeleton hands and spiders, Oriental art and wrinkled posters shouting "Cancel Commercial Christmas".

Outside, narrow paths wind through thick snow from one building to another, every wall covered in exuberant graffiti artwork. An icy wind whistles between creaking doors and broken windows, the midwinter sunset twisting shadows. 

It is minus ten degrees Celsius and my fingers go numb when I take off my mittens to take pictures. It is glorious.

comfort songs, part two

Little bit of love
When you're down and out, your heart is breaking
Little bit of love
And with every single smile you're faking it
Little bit of love

I got a little bit of love

(JP Cooper: Little Bit Of Love) 

comfort songs

Then you came my way on a winter's day
Shouted loudly come out and play
Can't you tell I've got news for you
Sun is shining and so are you

And we're gonna be alright, dry your tears and hold tight

(Axwell & Ingrosso: Sun Is Shining)

2021: the year of seven red stars on the horizon

 * New Year in a quiet, pandemic-strangled world. Good company, fortune-telling, sparklers and home-brewed strawberry wine.

* New Year resolution: read more non-fiction books on history, science and psychology. (Failed.)

* Study circle on theology, society, politics, cultural movements and general trends through history, in a chilly church attic.

* "If your car was human it would be in a psychiatric hospital by now," said the guy who tried to fix it. He fixed it in the end, without quite knowing how. (Possibly through reverse psychology.)

* Exploration of the family tree together with a third cousin once removed ... or something (a.k.a. the friend who's always sworn we're not related despite sharing a surname).

* Cold, sunny February days with sunbathing and coffee on the balcony, bread-baking over open fire in a silent forest, walking for miles on frozen seas.

* Office news: an office puppy and a new desk overlooking a forest that has wolves and deer in it.

* Another lockdown, meaning lots of take-away lunches and squeezing in only six participants at my mother's birthday party. 

 * Colour Conference live online, with participants from 111 nations. I think I saw God.

* Weekend in Tampere with vintage cognac and a lovely motorcycle trip around icy lakes.

* Expert knowledge diploma in personal protective equipment.

* Hike around Kyrkösjärvi lake, feasting on cold pizza and hot coffee at a swampy lake with the sun and the birds.

* Three-day birthday celebration: hotdogs over open fire in a chilly sunset with friends, chocolate meatballs with other friends and a unicorn, luxury chocolate cake with family.

* "Vappen" spring celebration with mojito and a friend - in sun and snow, hence with sunglasses and woollen mitts.

* Barbecue in a fire pit under a mild May sun. Came home with two gargoyles.

* Loss of a warden tree (the linden outside my window). Instead, seven new red stars were lit on the horizon seen from my summer place (wind turbines).

* Boat trip halfway across the sea to Sweden on the first day of summer. Exploring a sun-kissed island, the sea smooth as a mirror, and felt that life couldn't possibly be any better.

* Hikes in the woods of Vörå and Pensala, getting hopelessly lost among the mosquitos and pondering the cruelties of war.

* Midsummer with the Midsummer People, barbecue, strawberries, croquet, deep talks and planting a clematis.

* Boat trip to the nearest island. Hot sun, dark-roast coffee and chocolate, swimming among a million tiny flowers.

* Summer with rosé wine in gardens, pizza and travel plans, grilled perch on sunny patios, ice-cold Russian winter movies in bed when it's too hot to sleep.

* Holiday in one of my favourite cities, reveling in good memories and walking too much.

* Summer morning cycling, excellent new habit that couldn't last.

* Alternative and delicious lunch break: greasy burgers among ancient ruins, then a museum and coffee.

* American visitors and fascinating cultural discussions on a sunset beach.

* Road trip to Kalajoki, Raahe, Kajaani, Iisalmi with friend. We sang our way through a landscape dotted with wind turbines, watched a beachvolley tournament among hot sand dunes, chatted to Germans, found an unexpected piece of Russia.

* One-day road trip to Bergö with mother, a ferry ride and homemade icecream.

* Motorcycle gang invasion in my quiet summer paradise. I treated them to tacos and a game of volleyball.

* Walk along an endless beach to an island but didn't find the ancient labyrinth I was promised.

* Motorcycle ride with hundreds of others, just to have a coffee.

* Park bench moment with another misfit, singing hymns out loud.

* Memorable evening in the wilderness with my sister, a movie and a starry sky.

* End of my fifteen-year-long mission as interpretation coordinator in church.

* Trip to Tampere again, with hardships when the car broke down. City life, MacGyver, a church service and a lovely garden with free apples.

* The year's only journey abroad: to the Swedish coast by ferry, in a storm. We looked at the foreign country through the rain-lashed windows as we feasted on seafood.

* Walk across a swamp. Happened upon a childhood friend not seen for years, then experimented with driving a quad bike.

* Weekend in Helsinki with second-hand shopping, Sherlock Holmes on stage, sightseeing by tram.

* The theatre again, for the second time in a week since I was feeling pandemic-deprived. Exquisite monologue by a young girl.

* Poodle-sitting weekend. Poodle getting old and deaf.

* Hair colour adjustment towards the colour of autumn fields.

* Stamp collection analysis. (Embarrassed to admit I have a stamp collection.).

* Three concerts in three December weeks, starved for music and old songs in Latin. With covid certificates and face masks.

* Christmas party with gourmet food, a wine glass that never ran dry and discussions about the possible advantages of gold teeth.

* Candle-making with office people and a cute collie.

* Adventurous Christmas in a blizzard of epic proportions, seriously doubting I would ever make it to Christmas dinner.

* First Christmas night and Christmas Day ever in complete solitude.

* Post-Christmas party with old friends and a man I thought I had stopped loving.

* New Year's eve with covid testing and quarantine.

General phenomena: Pandemic restrictions coming and going, face masks and vaccinations, looking after mother, lots of writing and reading and Netflix, tired summer and lazy autumn, middle-aged feelings.

Couldn't do (for at least half of the year): travelling, plays and concerts, church services except online, volleyball and pilates. But during the times that I could: 4 museums, 3 concerts, 2 plays.

New ideas: see all the castles in Finland and beyond, learn to braid my hair properly, learn to cook lentil stew, buy a SUP board.

Weird weather phenomena: ice storm (that I had to drive in, after peeling a thick ice shell off my car), snow storm with pink Sahara sand in it, thunder and lightning in snowy December.