Weary eyes, a desk lamp, a warm pool of light over scribbled notes and rebellious laptops.
A niche in a rock face overlooking the icy sea, battered by winds, rain or snow. Dark outside when I get up to work, dark again before I've finished.
Black jeans, silk shirt, December mood.
I take messy notes in tiny hand-writing. I have a lot of imagination. I carry around bread in my pocket. I am unique.
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.
In my local off-licence I found a Riesling with the same name as the first friend I ever had.
The name is rather odd, for a boy and for a wine.
I'm drinking it with morbid curiosity and find myself missing him. I think I was seven years old the last time I spoke to him. I attended his funeral about ten years ago.
If I Had Three Lives
After “Melbourne” by the Whitlams
by Sarah Russell
If I had three lives, I’d marry you in two.
The other? Perhaps that life over there
at Starbucks, sitting alone, writing — a memoir,
maybe a novel or this poem. No kids, probably,
a small apartment with a view of the river,
and books — lots of books, and time to read.
Friends to laugh with, and a man sometimes,
for a weekend, to remember what skin feels like
when it’s alive. I’d be thinner in that life, vegan,
practice yoga. I’d go to art films, farmers markets,
drink martinis in swingy skirts and big jewelry.
I’d vacation on the Maine coast and wear a flannel shirt
weekend guy left behind, loving the smell of sweat
and aftershave more than I did him. I’d walk the beach
at sunrise, find perfect shell spirals and study pockmarks
water makes in sand. And I’d wonder sometimes
if I’d ever find you.
_____
Note from me: Love this poem because I'm kind of living this third life.
Living in a community, with idealists. It was autumn in Sweden.
I was nineteen and on the way to discovering what was perhaps my life calling - comforting, encouraging, praying - and at the same time feeling vulnerable and naive like a child. I discovered playfulness, unexpected physical strength, the importance of letting myself get close to others - physically, mentally, spiritually. I cried like I'd never cried before and realised how little I knew myself.
I had just left my childhood home, thinking I was independent and grown-up. But I was a bambi-eyed, scrawny teenager, weak and unaware of how much others protected me, even as I gradually learned how to look after myself. Perhaps it's the same for everyone at that age.
I grew like a flower during that chilly autumn, safe among people who loved genuinely and warmly. It was an environment I craved - and crave still, perhaps. Later I would realise how isolation and too much indepence always make me sink into apathy and despair.
It was a community of Christian missionaries, and some of the things we talked about seem odd now - not dangerously so, just odd. Like the sinfulness of pride, confessing sins to each other, dealing with the devil, prophesying. But I learned to be open and loving, accept differences, overcome brokenness, speak English, and let myself be loved by others when I least expect it.
Even with the cynicism that has come with the years, I can't seem to lose my faith in God, genuine love, hope.
It's a city of olives and oranges, of a thousand swifts darting around in the sky. The Arabic coffee is soot black and spicy, the sangría joyfully juicy. The April sun is delightful, the wine comes with tapas of tabbouleh or Manchego cheese or, obviously, olives.
We explore an immense cathedral, the burial chapel of monarchs, the heavenly gardens of the long-vanished Moors. We rest among roses, light-headed from their scent and the whispers of marble and fountains.
Feeling a little faint, I stand in front of the sarcophagi of legendary Isabella and Ferdinand. I shudder with fear and excitement when we get lost among the poorly lit alleys of the Sacromonte after dark, long after the tourists have left for the flamenco shows and the restaurants. Shadows are dark, dogs are barking in the distance, footsteps echo in the deserted, winding streets. Danger and the ghosts of gypsies stir the cooling air.
The red castle on the hill and the snow-covered Sierra Nevada summits float over us like a fata morgana. Seven hours is spent exploring the castle - we are, by now, seasoned castle explorers who won't leave any dungeon or turret unseen.
Europe has too many works of art and my head will soon explode. Andalusia is a cauldron of emotions, bullfights and scorching heat. And chilled, white almond soup in the shade is a wonder as great as the Alhambra itself.
No matter how wondrous the place I visit, I very rarely return. How could I, when there are so many wondrous places still unexplored? The sadness of leaving a place like Granada, a fairytale of spices and stories hidden in the mountains, knowing I'll never return .... adds to the magic.
I bury myself in Washington Irving's Tales of the Alhambra for days afterwards, refusing to let go.
Dust, doctors, death.
Stress, songs, shivers.
Cauliflower, consideration, cocktails.
Birds, boredom, books.
Worry, whiteness, wars.
History, halloumi, hope.
Misty grey fields and forests. Icy winds with snow crumbs swirling around. Deer grazing in open fields, looking for sustenance under half-melted, re-frozen snowdrifts.
It's March but spring feels very far away and in the backseat of the car, I shiver in my puffer jacket and wriggle my freezing toes. I have dressed for a choir concert, not for a long, poorly heated car drive.
Then, incongruously, there is an icecream truck. It's sitting there at a rest stop, open for business. Icecream trucks are a thing of the summer.
We screech to a stop and four adults tumble out of the car to buy huge icecream cones. The wind coming across the fields swirls more snow around us, to prove that it's still winter.
We laugh at it, shiver, and stuff ourselves with summer hope.
It's been a long, long day
Are we in heaven, heaven, heaven?
I want a playlist with only songs that mention heaven. Because my body hurts and my mind fears and hope is scarce ... but heaven is heavy with grace.
Every day I know that this might hurt but I don't care
This is heaven, yeah
The apartment building is surrounded by other identical apartment buildings, fairly new and proper. The area is quietly pleasant and has absolutely nothing interesting to look at. It was built for people to grow old in, snug and warm and alone in front of the telly.
My mother's flat is nice, clean, with a wide collection of pretty trinkets. My father liked clocks. During his time there were 26 of them in the flat, 13 of which were ticking ones.
I lived there for a while, years ago, unemployed, unhappy, falling to pieces. I also stayed there during that awful week after my father died. I greeted a steady stream of visitors bringing my mother flowers, lay sleepless at night, listened to the ticking of those thirteen clocks.
But I also spent many cosy Christmas nights in the flat, with books, chocolates and that old Christmas record I always wanted to play, warmed by candles and a mother's love.
Still, I never left the flat without taking a deep breath of relief. Not because I wanted to leave my mother. I just wanted to escape the atmosphere of boredom and decay in that building.
The ticking of those thirteen clocks has nearly stopped. My mother will soon leave the building, to move into a home for the elderly. I cannot yet deal with my feelings about her aging and the prospect of sorting through all her belongings, which go back generations.
Instead, I write about the relief of never having to go near that apartment building again.
Arctic winter, so cold that cars and buses stop running even in hardy Finland.
An old lady is sent home from hospital and I try to arrange for diapers, grab handles, nursing homes and everybody's peace of mind.
I have a week off from work but not much rest. Except some precious, quiet mornings on the couch with a brilliant, icy sun, the Farseer trilogy and the last remnants of Christmas magic.
I join a new choir and practise the alto parts.
I feel I have done much of this before, but decades ago.
2023 was the year when I abandoned contact lenses, bleeding, zumba, ignorance of current events.
It was a year of special significance. A year when a fantasy novel (one I didn't even enjoy much) taught me that life is what it is, so ditch the shame and resentment and go do what you were created to do. Ditch the self-pity too and go help the people you can.
People around me suffered this year, so I worried, prayed, spent much of the summer alone. A poodle died, an old lady was hospitalized, the autumn was exhausting. But it was also a jubilee year, with a strong new focus and a tender heart.
Highlights:
* New Year with spumante in an island cottage kitchen and debates regarding divinely installed outdoor toilets and the evilness of Putin.
* April picnic with thick snow, warm sun, sausages grilled over a hot fire.
* First draft of my space opera (poor fiction written for my own enjoyment), finished after about three years.
* Celebration month and crafting my own philosophy while walking dusty streets and drinking wine by the sea.
* Helsinki weekend with my sister: the House of Nobility, the theatre, deep talk in vintage bar Kappeli surrounded by the Helsinki nightlife, an art museum, spring flowers and singing blackbirds, silk shirts, café visits just like in the 90s.
* Birthday alone in Helsinki: exploring the Fortress of Finland and reshaping my world on an almost-deserted island, warmed by the infinite horizon, a bleak sun, wine and history.
* A big surprise birthday party, two planned parties, and one balcony party to finish off the cakes.
* A chartreuse-coloured new car.
* Cruising in a convertible, playing "Cha Cha Cha" loudly, with my middle-aged friends, to the ridicule of the neighbourhood teenagers.
* Field trip to a sheep farm to pet the lambs, and to an old mansion to look at half-burned attic rooms and luxury spa areas.
* Meteorite explosion that shook me to the bones, late one night.
* Memorable chat with an AI about explicit phrases, historical novels and Slovenian caves.
* Last(?) zumba class ever, last(?) time bringing my old mother to the cottage by the sea.
* New air-conditioning, new fridge, new stove in my 60s flat.
* The cute town of Kristinestad, explored on a hot day with a funny friend. The cute town of Jakobstad, where further exploration was abandoned when we found the cutest café ever.
* Nightwish's last concert which I eavesdropped on, sitting on a rock in the woods on a warm summer night.
* Midsummer with old and new and marvellous Midsummer People, in the forest by a sea of reeds, with a barbecue and strangely-named cats.
* Volunteer assignment as interpreter at a church conference, where I battled social phobia and other demons and decided I might as well become a full-time warrior while I'm at it.
* Exploration of various forests, marshes and villages, sometimes in sandals and silk shirts where hiking boots and safari gear would have been more appropriate.
* Road trips with an old lady: the pavillion where Jean Sibelius got engaged in secret, an ancient meteorite crater, dark lakes with silky water, bohemian farmhouse cafés, faraway villages where we might have lived our lives had fate not intervened.
* Summer almost alone by the sea, with repetitive strain injury,
occasional visits by the motorcycle club and excavators and swimming elks,
and putting out the bonfire after everyone else had gone home and left
me.
* Music of the exquisite kind - in a church fragrant with incense on a hot, thunderous summer evening, in another church as the autumn darkness crept in and coloured lights twinkled in the churchyard.
* Night of the Arts, when I skipped the arts and holed up in crowded café to plan an Italian journey with my friend.
* Singing in a choir after 25 years of silence. First song: "The Sound of Silence".
* Italy, hot and lovely. Venice - falling into a fairytale and fantasy novel. Florence - crowds and art exhaustion. Cinque Terre - riviera life with beaches and fresa coladas. Pisa - an unexpectedly emotional evening.
* An autumn wedding where I arrived in summery silk, looked after an old lady, talked at length with a father figure from my youth.
* New book club with a minister and a pathologist, Of Mice and Men, Piranesi, and The Call of Cthulhu.
* A week and a weekend with the 16-year-old poodle, nearly blind and deaf and lame. Dark, early mornings dealing with his health issues, knowing it was time to say goodbye.
* Wintry November with snow, theatre, dancing at midnight, fancy restaurants, pub evenings, book club (another kind of pub evening), exhaustion from too much caretaking.
* Mysterious black hole appearing in my car.
* December with concerts, nostalgia and literally sickening amounts of chocolate.
* Warm and fragrant Christmas, plus complicated arrangement to fetch old lady with broken hip from hospital. Chocolates and Love Actually with the best people afterwards. Unexpected bliss.
* New Year's Eve with two people who had never met. And pizza with dark gin. And sadly noting that the days of magnificent fireworks are over. And still hopeful, a little.