black hole found

"Make your choice, adventurous Stranger;
Strike the bell and bide the danger,
Or wonder, till it drives you mad,
What would have followed if you had."
(C.S.Lewis)

I trespassed today. It was meant to be. I cycled to the end of a lonely road, past a rooster and three fishermen, and found myself by a fence surrounding an old abandoned factory. Conveniently, there was a hole in the fence.

There were huge buildings on the factory premises. Now, extremely large and weird constructions, like towers, radio masts and silos, that sit in the middle of nowhere, are spooky. There are few things that unnerve me as inexplicably as wandering through the woods, for example, and suddenly finding myself at the foot of a tall radio mast that hums eerily and seems completely alien. These strange buildings had the same effect on me. There was something that looked like a brick fortress with unexpected ladders leading up to tower windows that had been broken eons ago. Other constructions like great halls, covered in warnings about explosive substances. Suddenly, about a million birds hanging out on the roof came swooping down and almost freaked me out.

But to prove to them that I wasn't scared, I went closer.

And I found an open door. I took one look inside and backed away. There was one thing only in there - darkness. The kind of darkness that sucks everything into itself and lets nothing back out.

I was lucky to escape. And I succeeded where everyone else has failed. Ladies and gentlemen, I hereby present to you the first picture ever of a black hole.

the place where even bad weather is beautiful

Sun, rest, thunderstorms, playful puppies, good books, bad coffee, family, a fire on chilly nights, swimming in the sea, heat, sparkling water, writing by a candle, fields of gold, eagles, inactivity, wine, fragrance of childhood, home, barefoot in the grass, flying squirrels, wood-heated sauna... and lovely, lovely dreams that took me far beyond space and time.

That's what I call a holiday.

And maybe the best part: coming back to the city with a genuine impatience to restart my life. Not to mention an impatience to finally have a cup of real coffee.

dropping off the radar

What a mercy to be able to sleep all you want. Now all I need is a pile of good books and the wilderness. This girl is going offline for a little while.

tonight's song

This hand is bitterness
We want to taste it, let the hatred numb our sorrow
The wise hands opens slowly to lilies of the valley and tomorrow

The promise was, when everything fell, we'd be held

(Natalie Grant: Held)

jumbled riddles

Iron pills, Sunday blues, looking for love, so many people everywhere, microphone, desperately trying to create a cosmos out of my chaos, I want you to take care of me, pesto on bread, a friend's comfort, other people's dreams, African men in a dodgy car, grow up already, a kind word says more than a thousand pictures, no strength to write anything but lists.

Goodbye, weekend in June. If there is a saint named after me, let's celebrate her today.

a thousand times a million doors

The first sweetness of summer and my next-door granny fed me coffee so I'm on an overdose of caffeine and my heart is beating fast and there are paper-cuts on my hands from wrapping gifts in the shop and a stain of golden green on my index finger and I met a group of Methodists who didn't know I once caused their bishop great disappointment and I found a bootleg CD among my private collection and I hope nobody comes to put me in prison because I said that and I also found a picture of myself where I actually laugh and there are three such pictures in existence and I just want to be loved and Sting is singing "a thousand times the mysteries unfold themselves like galaxies in my head" and I KNOW -

lilacs and the good season

Not much writing being done at the moment. Tiredness is wearing me out. Too many people, too many emotions, too little love. My life is no longer only about survival, which gives me too much time to brood on more metaphysical matters.

Yesterday, I fell asleep crying and woke up laughing. There is hope for me yet.

The lilac is in bloom and the sweet fragrance is reminding me that the loveliest season is here. That life can be good and I should sit up and notice.

complementing compliment

Dialogue between friends:

Her: Your views on the complexity of the Trinity are profound.
Him: Thank you. You have beautiful arms.

The latter comment brought more joy to the receiver.

spinning into summer

I need to put my books aside for a while. I need to stop admiring my heroes for their strength and bravery and instead develop my own.

I need to spend more time in the sun. I need to carefully consider my priorities. I need to stop worrying and allow myself to live.

Work and people and escaping reality take all my time and energy. I'm spinning at the moment. Struggling to find my central balance.

And I fear the summer. But I will live, one hour at a time.

Crete concluded

It is easy to stare yourself tired at ancient urns in Crete. Afterwards it is nice to rest your weary ass in an equally ancient olive grove.

to Kydonia with love

I aim for the sun, and for sand in my sandals, and for the fragrance of foreign flowers. I will march to the beat of a different drum. I will bring my very own Greek god home with me. See you all when I return from my Odyssey.

a Thank You day

You smiled and stopped by just to tell me you haven't forgot. Today, that was all I needed. Thank you.

My foot is better and the weekend went by in a happy haze of sun, books, chocolate, wine, the inspiration of a fantastic friend. I feel creative.

the landing is never easy

Jumping, in volleyball, is really flying. At least when you put your heart and every little one of your muscles into it and forget about everything except hitting that ball. Feels like being up there in the air forever.

And then you land on your team mate's foot and you try not to land at all but inevitably feel your ankle twist. And hurt.

Happened to me yesterday, and now I hobble around with a cane as my new best friend. But people are giving me sympathy and chocolates and I get to lie on the couch and read books.

the risks of life and Thai soup

Snow and hot springtime sun.
I have received some information that I really didn't need or want, and other information that made me giggle like a maniac.
Sunday lunch at a hotel.
A new friend.
Dipped my purse in Thai soup.
A highly distressing disagreement in the family that almost made me run screaming out of the room and never return.
I have realised that there are some things your near and dear ones will never understand or accept about you.
And that you can never fully trust anyone, not even those you really, really want to be perfect and never let you down.

But that's OK. As long as I know. And as long as I still have hope and dare to try. Yes, it is a cliché but it is true: loving is worth the risk.

PS: I ate the Thai soup after dipping my purse in it. It was still tasty and my purse only smells a little of lemon grass.

to see a world in a cup of tea

Day two: A walk in town among Saturday shoppers, many familiar faces around.

Registered for a lottery where you can win travel tickets but ruined my chances with a sarcastic comment on the registration sheet. The sun was shining. The city always wears me out - all these people who seem to either be happier than you or need something from you.

But ran into an angel whom I invited for tea and chat to my place this evening. Thus I managed to avoid another Saturday evening alone. Inspired, I sent a text message to another lonely person and invited her too. We invisible people can at least have each other to look at.

The rest of the afternoon, curled up with a blanket in the sunshine on the balcony, reading about the olives, sheep cheese and thyme honey of Crete. Surprisingly peaceful mood. The visit to the Chinese restaurant on my way home from town might have accomplished that - I ordered some spring rolls for take-out and the little Chinese matron placed a steaming cup of green tea in front of me while I waited. The fragrance of the tea, the very un-Finnish red-and-gold wallpaper of the restaurant, and the murmured conversations of the few lunch guests briefly brought me to another world.

Sometimes that's all I need for happiness.

boring notes

Having a few weeks off from the shop, for "administrative" reasons. Suits me, since I'm exhausted.

Curious to see how I will cope with all this leisure time. From this perspective, day one, it seems like paradise, complete with books to read and coffee to drink. But I won't let myself be fooled - I know what the combination of too high expectations, a slight depression and an inability to wind down can do to me. I can already see signs, like the obsessive cleaning I did yesterday... definitely NOT my style.

So for some vague reason I decided to take notes and make a careful study.

Day One: Good so far. Slept in, big breakfast and lots of coffee. Watched a film (United 93. Cried). Some light-weight work at the computer so I can feel good about myself. Swore at the printer. Counted my money. Realised it's time to do the tax return and broke out in a cold sweat. By now it's late afternoon and I'm hungry and trying to fight the slight suspicion that the whole world is out to get me.

my habits contradict me

Wonder how many skewed images of myself I carry around in my head?

I think of myself as shy, reserved, even a bit anti-social at times. Somewhat lonely, not the type who surrounds herself with friends. But someone asked me how many new friends I have made during the last six months (which were pretty average months in my life) - and by friends meaning people I make an effort to meet up with again, or at least people I let through my carefully guarded mental barriers somehow. People who are not yet my close friends, but who I know share my desire to get to know each other better. And I am by no means the kind of person who tries, or even wants, to "make the whole world my friend".

I counted at least ten. That's nearly one a fortnight. Not bad for an anti-social loner.

The wise person I quoted a couple of blog entries back has also said that character is the sum of your habits. For example, you can't claim to be a kind person if you don't have the habit of being kind to others. Conversely, I suppose, I can't call myself anti-social anymore since it's clearly, by empirical evidence, not my habit to be anti-social.

This conclusion annoys me. Now I have to look at other habits and try to face the truth in what they tell me.

mix this

The sun in my eyes, dust in my lungs, snow on my boots. A desert storm, a blizzard, hot sunshine. Despair, hope, fresh thoughts, love. Welcome, spring of 2008.

party mood(iness)

On my way to a friend's wedding. I hate weddings. I hate all parties.

I'm the kind of person who, in the middle of getting dressed and putting on make-up, curls up in a corner and cries until the mascara is all over her face. Who suddenly hates her new dress and wishes fervently for a pair of worn jeans. Who swears under her breath all the way to the party and is tempted to just sneak into a pub on the way and hide until it's all over.

Once I get to the party, I can usually enjoy it. Or if not, at least sneer at it.

a thought born out of a whimper

Someone wise pointed out to me that there are things that distract people from living the life they were intended for, things that drive them around the same circle constantly. Wasting their life and missing the meaning of life. Guilt is one of these, fear another.

And craving for acceptance/approval/love. Now that's my poison. The need that sometimes makes me - an adult, independent woman - curl up in a corner and whimper, paralyzed.

The power of love is tremendous. Unfortunately also in the negative - if it has been denied you, it can ruin your life.

longjohns and heartbreak

An old lady comes to the shop with a donation of clothes to the second-hand store in the basement. She hands me a plastic bag full of what is apparently an old man's underwear, mostly long woollen underpants. Worn, but carefully washed, ironed and folded. She anxiously explains the trouble she has taken to ensure they are proper and clean, because she is sure someone could get a lot of use out of them still. As most of her generation, she has probably had to spend her life trying to make every penny last and nothing go to waste.

Not so in my own generation. I open my mouth hesitantly to say that we don't really take in underwear, especially not so worn, as nobody really buys them second-hand anyway. She adds, hastily, with what looks like tears in her eyes:

"They belonged to my late husband, you see. He passed away last month. These are good underwear. Do you think somebody could use them still?"

I stop the intended words from leaving my mouth. Instead, I thank her gently and take the bag from her. I can always send them with the next charity lorry going to the poorer parts of Russia.

It's the only thing I can do for her. I think I'm going to cry.

through life with wet feet

Wet feet after a walk home in terrible weather. Is there anything more demoralizing that wet feet? Maybe the knowledge that people love you and you desperately need that love and you are unable to accept it?

And yet, there is always dry socks waiting for you when you get home. And there is always somebody who will look at you with kindness and suddenly there is a warmth spreading through your heart... and your feet.

my nose and my heart still work

A man in our shop asked me to kiss him. His smell was so rancid that I almost vomited at the mere idea. He has a very polite way of telling me he loves me but it doesn't really help.

Another man comes in now and then. My boss giggles and gives me a meaningful look every time. I guess my face lights up.

bizarre urges an ordinary Wednesday

A cigarette and an Australian man. I ask no more.

the materialistic part of my existence

4 cardigans
2 shirts
4 pairs of trousers
5 short-sleeved tops
1 crocheted shawl
1 suede jacket
2 winter coats
4 skirts
1 dress
1 belt
books, table cloths, candles, shampoos, miscellaneous

I used to buy on average 3 pieces of clothing a year. The above is the sum of the last three months only - the time I've been working in the Little Shop of Harmony, with its second-hand store in the basement. The total sum of the above is only half of what I paid for my last pair of new jeans.

Now I buy stuff for a fraction of what it's worth, save the world's resources and support charity work, all while delighting in new (for me at least) clothes. Go fleamarkets!

blasphemer's scribble

Wrote down my blasphemous thoughts and then deleted them all. Not because I was afraid to express them but -

I will not publish this entry.

mad Yorkshire

Losing myself in a book, The Thirteenth Tale (Diane Setterfield). Finally, a book that takes you with it. And I realise I really should go to Yorkshire sometime, in real life. Seems to be all Bronte-land (not that I ever really liked the Brontes), windswept moors and brooding skies, frowning men and apron-clad housekeepers. People and manors equally gothic and at least one aristocratic family is haunted by madness. Perhaps Yorkshire doesn't exist outside of literature? I must find out.

When I'm not reading, I'm wondering where my life is headed. Are there more adventures or is the rest all disappointment?

post-it note for February

To stand up and be weird.
To dive, out of curiosity and boldness, into the depths that others shun on principle.
To let a yes be yes and a no be no.
To lift my eyes to the sky and laugh.
To throw, violently, off my shoulders all worries for what others may or may not think.
To love the icy winter rain.

To be me.

2007: the year of heartburn and nude modelling

At the turn of the year, one should always take a look at the year that has just passed. Because in seeing the whole picture, the painful days and the happy days come together and make sense in a way that couldn't be understood in the short perspective. Sometimes. Hopefully. Maybe not. But anyway... Year 2007: * did a magical tour of the land of my dreams, Ireland, the country that never fails to break my heart and heal it at the same time. Was awarded the honorable title of "Best Legs in Europe" by my friends in the Irish Drink 'Til You Die (And Hopefully Afterwards Too) Club. * survived the month of murder, March, with a smaller margin than ever before. But having survived this, I can survive anything. * learnt that unconditional love by something as small as a puppy can melt even a glacial heart. Even while doing pee-runs at seven in the morning. * spent two weeks in an idyllic village where I read up on alcohol legislation while feeding cats and contemplating the advantages of an urban lifestyle. * proved to the world that I know what a clostridium perfringens can do to you. In theory, at least. Nasty stuff. * worked at Heartburn Hotel where I smiled, deep-fried, fell in love with backpackers, served beer to macho men, got chatted up by someone who liked to call me Grandma (definitely not a turn-on!), defended the honour of the hotel against disrespectful holiday-makers, walked endless corridors sprinkled by hotel magic, drank coffee at 4 am, laughed at a thief. * was rescued by the police from a would-be burglar. * had a stalker. * went to a wedding and a baptism. * went on a cruise where I tried various weird salads and discovered Sweden is very cold early in the morning. * became an employee in the Little Shop of Harmony and tried to live up to the expectations. Not easy in the pre-Christmas rush. * worked non-stop without a holiday for eleven months. * wanted to go to church, hated church. * modelled (almost) in the nude for a photographer. * was miserable, was happy at times. Was too wired to rest, was afraid to listen to the silence.

all God's children

The angelic little shop where I spend my days attracts people from all the known parts of space.

Today there were, among others, a Romani (gypsy) family, an African student who asked if I could help to cook for his wedding, a lady with cerebral palsy and bright lipstick, an alcoholic who was convinced he is John Lennon, a man who came to sit in the back office of the shop for hours and draw pictures of UFOs, and two dear old Finnish grandmas who came (separately) to tell me about good old days and deceased husbands, and cry for a while.

I felt a bit like Papa Panov in the old folk tale, who was told Jesus would visit him but who was distracted by all the people who needed him.

Oh the suffering of the world. And the joy, and the magic.

into the future with sinusitis and soufflé

Year 2008 AD started on the Island, snow under my feet and Veuve Clicquot warming my stomach. The man who explains the stars to me wasn't there. But I had friends, cats, a victory in Trivial Pursuit and what more can one ask for than a long solitary drive back home through silent forests and across the magnificent bridge. Rihanna and Lauri Tähkä on the radio.

Later, sneezes and weariness and a cynical attitude. A dentist who praised my brushwork. My admirable father who took me to buy a camera so the sneaky salesmen couldn't make me cry. An adorable puppy who stayed a night in my flat and tried to find a way to kill and eat the newspaper delivery guy through the slot in the door.

I have already seen a good film and a bad film, been given chocolate by an (unwelcome) admirer, bought new (second-hand) clothes, missed the bus and had a fit of completely unreasonable rage, had sinusitis, had raspberry soufflé, held in my hand a splinter of the True Cross (stamped "souvenir from Jerusalem" on the back). Not a bad start to the new year after all. Bring on the rest of it!

a hopeless night like this, angels sang

A candle, a sadness, dredging the internet for a little comfort in the midnight hours. I am not what you want me to be, I am me.

Through the winter night outside, Christmas is drawing near. Peace on earth and good will to men - and my cynical, stony heart sighs a prayer. Because what else can it do?

I will fall asleep at last in a warm bed where dreams sing of happier times. I will not let go. And tomorrow, just maybe, a tiny shred of joy will surprise me when I realise that God himself felt this way once, for my sake.

"Courage is not always loud. Sometimes, courage is the tiny voice that whispers at the end of the day, 'I will try again tomorrow'". (unknown)

if only I was travelling right now

The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land.

Gilbert Chesterton (1874-1936)

little shop of harmony

I've never worked in a real shop before. Now I do. A bright, friendly shop selling brand new books and music, with a dark but cosy basement packed with second-hand clothes and trinkets. And an all-pervading atmosphere of friendly welcome, a "come in and we will change your life".

Moreover, I discovered that the Santa Claus who used to wander around Heartburn Hotel is a regular customer, buying the odd little trinkets he always left lying around the hotel. So now, folks, you know where your Christmas presents come from. At least the odd ones.

the country that always has bad weather on its birthday

As I prepare to go out in the darkness alone, cold rain in my face and wet slush under my boots, it amazes me sometimes that my people actually fought for this country.

But if I happened to meet someone who told me he is going to take it away from me, I would hammer him viciously with an icicle and stuff his mouth with the mushy grey snow.

Happy 90th birthday, Finland! Land of my birth, and probably my death, and object of my love-hate.

heaven's little coffee shop

Expensive lip gloss, an Irish newspaper especially imported for me, the friend who knows me best and causes me most grief.

A week spent discussing whether we go to heaven when we die, and what to do when (if) we get there. And then we discovered that heaven has branched out to earth, to a little café at the corner of Stortorget, Stockholm, where candles burn on ancient wooden tables among sweet-smelling hyacinths and peace embraces you as you order the chocolate cake with whipped cream.

Wandering around Stockholm, Venice of the North, where it seems nothing can ever go wrong.

Sleeping on the bottom of a ship, on the bottom of the sea, rocked gently by underwater waves. Until a Swedish teenager puked outside the cabin door. Then I was glad I was going home.

the November miracle

A good cry in somebody's arms, a diet of mostly salmon sandwiches, apples and Cookie Dough Icecream, a job offer, anguish, not enough daylight, wet slushy snow, shivering, an art exhibition, attention-craving, insight into my deepest wounds of the soul, more crying, flea-market clothes, sisterhood, forgiveness, increased understanding of the Nigerian accent.

That's my November so far, the condensed version.

But the most important thing I learned was the miracle of forgiveness. When I was sick of my own guilt, I could no longer be fooled by the humanist reassurance that my life is my own, hence right and wrong is defined by me, hence guilt is nothing but a lie forced on me by religious traditions. Then it arrived, the miracle. Forgiveness. And I was transferred from pain to peace in one single act.

someone more desperate than me

I have a cool, detached, neutral, non-upsettable attitude these days. Jaded. Not exactly by choice, probably just worn out my too many private emotions. Can't share the general shock caused by Finland's first real American-style school massacre. Why the disbelief that such a phenomenon should strike this safe little corner of the world?

Somehow, I can't feel surprised at all. Why not here? This is what the world is like.

But it proves my theory that there are so many lonely people out there whom nobody notices. Some of them would do anything, absolutely anything, to be seen and heard. The weird thing is that desperate acts and crazy tragedies don't happen more often than this.

factory of wisdom and beauty

On a visit to my alma mater...

My old university has an entirely new campus. I stare in awe. Faithful to the city planning trend of later years, an old factory complex built in red brick has, with the help of the latest in glass and steel structures, been converted to something that manages to look brand new and ancient, airy and cosy at the same time. It looks like a place where the coveted knowledge and wisdom is readily available and just waiting to inspire you.

During my time there, only a few years ago, the classes were also held in an old factory. The only difference was that it smelled of mouldy old carpets and the faint light from the small, dirty windows had to have assistance from glaring strip lights in the ceiling. Old pipes were sticking out of the walls and the furniture was the most depressive seventies' style. No wonder I never really managed to be inspired by the wonders of literature, at least not before I had safely managed to escape from there.

But now, here, the students actually look happy. The menu in the spanking new lunch cafeteria has an English translation at last and the food even tastes good. I gorge myself on game stew. Game stew! I can only remember eating rubbery potatoes and deep-fried fish in places like this.

A sure sign I'm getting old. At least I'm not muttering about the "good old days".

the revenge of the hotel receptionist

Someone did upset me. As I still do the odd shift at Heartburn Hotel, I had the bad luck of running into one of the truly despicable people that disgrace this world.

Arrogance, is it not the worst feature in a human being, be it conscious or subconscious? This particular man made ridiculous claims regarding the price of his room (yes, money is almost always the root of evil). We might have been able to reach a compromise were it not for the fact that he clearly thought I was so far beneath him that he could not react in any other way to my suggestions than laugh condescendingly. Good for him we were speaking on the phone; had he been standing before me, he would have had to try that laugh through my surprisingly strong hands squeezing the nasty chuckle out of his throat.

After years in the hotel business, I have noted that hotel guests in general are pleasant enough people. Better hotels tend to attract more unpleasant customers, for some reason. So I assumed I was more or less safe from these, working at Heartburn Hotel. But there is always the exception to the rule. This particular customer did not even have the excuse of being rich and snobbish... not that that is much of an excuse.

Customers everywhere have the right to complain, of course. But a complaint should, first of all, not be taken out of the air on some poorly founded reason. Secondly, there is a nice way and a nasty way of complaining. The nice way usually accomplishes more.

Here's advice to all arrogant hotel guests trying to get freebies by making ridiculous complaints: the hotel might bend to your will, in accordance with the principles of good customer relations. But hotel staff will not always, in spite of our smiles, take it lying down. The next time you avail yourself of our services, you might find that you have been placed on the black list. Or that, for some reason, only the smallest, darkest room is available, or that something in your food tastes funny, or that through an unfortunate accident, no laundry service is available just when you need it.

Because the Universe gets mad when you laugh at lowly receptionists.

upset me, somebody

I dreamt of playing a wooden trumpet that kept falling apart and laughing so hard that all my sorrow dissolved.

I turned around in my bed and dreamt of my stalker. I woke up furious.

I have powerful emotions in my dreams. I have violent eruptions of feelings in my imagination even when I am awake, making up heated arguments and upsetting events. In my real life, there is also emotion. But few ever get to witness it.

People just don't upset me like they should.

belles lettres

We read to know we are not alone. Sometimes I write to know I am not alone.

While the darkness falls like velvet outside, I light a candle for lonely writers everywhere.

on stolen socks and snowbows

A puppy stole my sock today and my sister gave me a shirt and I walked through my playground and childhood dream. I don't know any of the neighbours anymore but their cats and dogs come out to say hello.

The sun is very low in the sky, and brighter than in summer. First snowfall was yesterday but the sun shone then as well and a rainbow (snowbow?) rooted itself in the prison yard not far from my window. I couldn't get in to look for treasure.

My stomach hurts and I see the world through a massive fatigue. Nevertheless, I long for a friend and a glass of wine. I also want to mean something.

stay in the cold world

A friend tells me - with an indulgent grin - that I am considered a Nerd because I have actually read something by the new Nobel Prize winner in literature.

I stick my nose up in the air, proudly. Then so be it, I am a Nerd. I analysed a short story by Doris Lessing for a literature class at university years ago. (For truth to be told, the choice of author was not mine... and I did not particularly like the story.) I can hardly remember the story now and have to look it up on the Internet. It is called "To Room Nineteen" and tells about a woman who realises life did not turn out the way it was supposed to do, and now she feels stuck in a role that is not her genuine self. She secretly withdraws to a room in a little hotel - the only place nobody can find or disturb her, the only place she can be herself - only for a few hours at a time, and becomes increasingly addicted to these moments of solitude.

I seem to remember it was not a particularly pleasant story, witnessing the woman withdrawing gradually from reality until the only option is suicide. At the time, hungry for life, I shrugged it off. But now, years later, I suddenly understand how she felt.

The pleasure of escaping from the too harsh reality into a place of quiet solitude where nobody can make any demands on you. Necessary at times, but if you make this place your home you are in danger. Instead of gaining strength from it to go back out there, you stay back in a dreamy state and gradually lose interest in everything the outside world has to offer. And gradually, the anguish creeps up on you. When it becomes too heavy to bear, you have already cut too many ties to the real world to be able to make your way back, or even ask for help.

So I will force myself to go back out there. I will call a friend even when I am tired. I will say yes when someone challenges me. I will put down my book and attend volleyball training even when I have to walk through a snow storm to get there. I will keep drinking my coffee on the balcony, shivering in the cold but with the sun on my face.

coffee break therapy

Today I will not write about God although as the Good Book (almost) says, the keyboard speaks what the heart is full of.

I am in a new-old state of semi-unemployment as my season in Heartburn Hotel is over. But I am slowly learning to live one day at a time. How difficult it is! How afraid of boredom I am! What is so scary about silence and doing nothing at all, letting my own thoughts and state of mind creep up on me?

Pouring my second cup of coffee, I force myself not to take it back with me to the computer but instead venture out on the balcony. In the October chill, I shiver with my cup under a blanket and stare out towards the bay and the fantastic colours surrounding it. If I concentrate, I can hear the birds.

Surprisingly, what comes out of my subconsciousness is not the usual vague anguish but hope, some contentment, even a faint shiver of... joy.

holiday beneath a McDonald's sign

Autumn at 63 degrees north with explosive colours, bleak sunshine, fog, a cold that surprisingly bites your fingers.

I have searched the entire Internet for a trip southwards. Something simple. A flight out of our local airport, a hotel someone else has chosen, a destination not too far away, with a little sun and interesting things to see. But above all, not too many tourists. And therein lies the difficulty. Why can nobody on the entire Internet understand that I do not want to spend my hard-earned holiday surrounded by drunk tourists from my own country, loud music and McDonald's signs?

I go bleary-eyed looking for a holiday and my neck muscles are stiff. I need... a holiday.

there is comfort in the world

New sense of freedom and the sun shining on glittering sea when I woke. The daylight seemed a bit gentler than usual, with a hope for the future or was it perhaps the mercies of the past, like the voice of a lover whispering in my ear. I dug out an old skirt from the closet to wear with suede boots. Beauty makes the world beautiful and sometimes it's an act of will.

Sometimes I am too weak to be an adult. I want someone to take care of me, do the difficult things. Never seem to find the balance between making my own life and allowing God to lead me in ways of adventure I could never have found on my own. But then, that's life. The search, the struggle, the confusion and the comfort of not being alone with it all. And the sudden joys that shouldn't be there, logically.

I read stories on the Internet while drinking bitter coffee, I dream of a library full of books with more stories and I want to walk through the city and look at people in admiration or maybe buy something that makes me look different. Maybe I lack a purpose but if I bury myself in the details I don't have to look at the bigger picture and feel the anguish.

The hotel calls. On my first day of freedom, they want me back to do the bad shift. To hell with the money that will pay my bills this winter. I say, deliberately, no. Freedom is to be treasured, not thrown away.

The world is screaming "you are ugly, disgusting, worthless" and keeps whipping me with its impossible demands. Or is it inside me? Sometimes those gentler voices reach me and I drop out of the rat race, sobbing, and are laid to rest on a bed of clouds - where I could spend much more of my time if I only learned to listen to the right voices.

When we know so much better, why do we keep believing the lies? I can't answer that but I will think of it today as I wander through the city in my suede boots and remind myself that everyone is worth loving and that there is a good book in the library and a friend waiting for my company tonight.

last days of key management

The autumn sun shining brilliantly and I can't decide whether I'm tired or impatient to start the day.

Only a few more days at Heartburn Hotel and I might be missing it later but not now. I seem to spend all my workdays cleaning the kitchen and I'm sick of the smell of disinfectant and the rumble of the dishwasher. The hotel magic is evaporating.

I'm sure I will miss some of the people. The ex-football star and our philosophical discussions on the meaning of suffering. The blind Jehovah's Witness who seemed to be lost, too far from home. The mystery man wandering around in the middle of the night. Santa Claus silently staring into the fireplace. The international backpackers with their aroma of adventure, who make me want to pack my toothbrush, passport and diary and head south, east or west.

This summer may have been tough, tiresome and sometimes depressing, but I learnt. And I saw. I got to handle keys again.

resolve under a full moon

Full moon and I didn't sleep very well and wake up sneezing. Not the best of days.

I have decided to stop longing for someone to give me directions in life. I'm wise and mature enough to draw my own conclusions from what I have learned and seen with my own eyes. After a year or more of being too weary to try, I'm getting ready to stand up and take control again.

Maybe.

So I take time to think. I call my friends again. I kick my childish desire for attention in the face. I speak with my own voice. I snarl, threateningly: "Accept me, or else...."

eleven little things to come

I just want laughter, candles, unconditional love, chocolate, adventure, strong arms and a strong heart, whirlwind, a dog, wine, everyone I love, and the ability to experience all of this with fascinated wonder and maybe, sometimes, a little loss of control. That's not too much to ask, is it?

two family affairs

Sunday lunch with my first family who had to chase me through town because I was angry and upset without even realising it. Once seated at the table and dealing with potatoes and ham with Thai sauce, a great Calm descended on my tortured soul. Family hugs, puppy love bites and a stroll in the woods probably helped.

Then get-together with that other family, the church. How ironic, I though bitterly at first, the Lonely of Lonelies. What am I trying to pretend, surrounded by strangers? I could have cried - actually, I think I did.

But my ancient angel hurried up to me afterwards and hugged me while she told me the latest adventures of her bold cat. I had a laugh with the pastor and he offered me help. An African student had an invitation for me. And one of the youngsters walked me home.

Even in the midst of misery, may I have love enough for a kind word to someone else.

And after all of this, I'm not sure I'm in misery anymore.

the Swedish edge

I am starting to realise that I was born on the edge of the world. Not in the centre.

Here is a big country (OK, everything is relative) and its people, a fairly homogeneous crowd who look alike and think alike, watch the same TV programmes and like the same mild coffee, get drunk on Saturday nights and doubt themselves, vow to beat the Swedes at ice hockey and speak a quirky, complex Finnish language that nobody else can understand.

On the very edge of this country the Swedish-speakers, as fiercely Finnish as the rest but forever different thanks to their mother tongue, a little more sociable and outgoing, struggling for their identity, always unsure of what the other Finns really think of them, tending to turn inwards and squabble among themselves regarding the best course for ethnic survival.

The majority Finns feel annoyed by their stubborn insistence to press the Swedish language on everybody else who does not want it, but forget about them the rest of the time - or ignore them just to annoy them back. On holiday trips to the coast they feel it is kind of cute, this chatty language which permeates every aspect of local society and which is as ancient as their own but with an international atmosphere. The world seems to be stretching outwards from the Swedish-speakers' seaside towns.

The trainee in the hotel reception is experiencing this for the first time, newly arrived from her inland Finnish city. More language skills are required of her here and more travellers from all over the world smile at her across the counter. There are traditions she has only heard about and she feels as if she is half-way to Sweden. The locals, as Finnish as herself, address her in that weird language which she has struggled to learn in theory for years.

I, her workmate and shift supervisor, speak to her in a broken Finnish, read a local newspaper in Swedish and seem too sure of my place in the world considering the fact that I struggle with the language of my own country.

And I smile way, way too much.

vasa limbo

My emotions are too abundant and colourful to be contained in written words.
My emotions are, on the other hand, petty and insignificant even to myself.
One minute the world is full of meaning and even a grain of dust carries a story.
The next minute, the world is full of dust and nothing else.

To stop, and stand still, to find out who I am.
Or to go out and make my life?

not in motion

The door opens.
The edges meet.
Step through and you find yourself lost.
Stay where you are and you go nowhere.

Wayfinder Hasturi
a.k.a. The Mad Perseid
AFC 217


I'm going nowhere but I don't see any doors.

midnight in the house of good and evil

I won't deny that I am anxious, doing the night shift all alone in the hotel. The constant noise from the TV, the music channel, my only and not very comforting company - rappers exhorting half-naked girls to shake their booty somehow don't seem to understand my loneliness and weariness.

It's not so much that I'm nervous of the dangers of the night or scared of the darkness. OK, maybe a little, but I push that fear aside while walking the endless corridors and venturing into the dark corners when necessary. Even the overgrown jungle that goes by the name of "garden" doesn't get my pulse racing much. The drunken men staggering in after a pub crawl don't worry me either, although I make silent wishes that they won't linger in the hotel bar for a beer but crawl straight to their room and into bed.

Perhaps it's only my weariness, that ancient instinct of seeking the refuge of home when darkness falls. Or the loneliness. Or the heartbreaking fact that I can't seem to make myself love this job either, as I can't love any job no matter how much I try - and the consequence, the depressing realisation that life may always consist of a vague dread of daily life. Or nightly life.

not much of anything

The storm came too soon, before I had time to lay down in the grass. Not even a pretty storm. Just rain, rain, rain. So I sulk indoors.

Even my computer is betraying me. He turns himself off when he feels I've had enough of surfing or DVD-watching.

A man I don't even like much has decided he and I were meant to be together forever. So I keep switching my phone off to avoid calls. While I'm pining for someone I can't have.

Still, the rain has to stop sometime. There is a cup of comfort coffee waiting for me somewhere. And the library is full of books yet to be read.

july is defined by this dream

I want to lie down in sweet-smelling grass and look at the sky above me and not move an inch until the autumn storms sweep in. Then I will roll myself into a blanket and fall asleep in peace.

nerves in an empty city

A lone tourist wanders the streets. All the inhabitants have fled the city. Finns have a strange urge to live close to grass, wind, sun and even rain during the short but intense summer of the North, and so they pack the car full of spouses, kids, dogs, barbecue meat and beer as soon as they can get out of work on Friday afternoon and head out to a humble cottage somewhere along the coast or at a lakeside. Finns have also seen to it that they have the world's longest vacations, so nobody seems to be doing any work from mid-June to the beginning of August.

Except for me of course. Somebody has to be hospitable to the tourists. But I hear that call of the wild too. Today I was restless, sad, anguished even, for no obvious reason. I tried all remedies known to woman: food, chocolate, coffee, shopping, chatting, more coffee. But the only thing that finally helped was the park. Sitting down for fifteen minutes surrounded by grass, trees and sun and all my nerves took a holiday.

pieces of eight or nine

I have been tagged by Prince Kazarelth to list eight things about myself, but found it impossible. So here are nine...

* I have a juvenile mind. Long after my teenage years, like a teenage girl I look for affirmation from someone I admire at a distance - "my whole existence turning around a word, a smile, a touch". I may never grow up.

* I am addicted to chewing gum and get severe withdrawal symptoms.

* I gravitate between a somewhat failed academic career and a much more fun, but doomed non-career in the hotel world. Nobody understands why, or what I really want, least of all myself.

* I am the Ice Queen in a crowd, cheerful among friends and extremely moody in my own company.

* I have received serious death threats.

* I talk to God.

* I once found heaven on earth and then had to leave in order to preserve my sanity.

* In my music library, I mix dance with church hymns but especially love songs that celebrate life and strength of will.

* I cannot live in ugly places.

lux aeterna

No stargazing these days. This is what midnight looks like in the month of June. But to walk through the dew on a summer's night, picking flowers, to the symphony of all the birds... This is what I was made to do.

my bedmate, afternoon sun

Afternoon is the new morning. Just rolled out of bed, was going to make the computer play some pretty music while I hit the shower but here I got stuck reading the blogs of strangers and half-strangers.

Pulling three night shifts in a row and I'm almost not scared at all, alone in the gangster place all night. The shadows in the deserted restaurant deepen around 1 am but then the light gains ground again and I can hear the birds outside. Wondering at the weird people who wander around at 3 am.

This is one long day, lasting from Sunday lunchtime till Wednesday night perhaps, or whenever I manage to go to sleep in darkness again. In the evenings, groggily drinking my wake-up coffee, I feel I missed the transition of one day to another, because sleep is usually the boundary but sleeping in the daytime in a darkened flat only seems like an afternoon nap. Going to work close to midnight I remember that I was there this morning too and my brain fails to cope with this Weirdness.

a few tips from the Coach

"You're blessed when you're at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule.

You're blessed when you feel you've lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.

You're blessed when you're content with just who you are—no more, no less. That's the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can't be bought.

You're blessed when you've worked up a good appetite for God. He's food and drink in the best meal you'll ever eat.

You're blessed when you care. At the moment of being 'care-full,' you find yourselves cared for.

You're blessed when you get your inside world—your mind and heart—put right. Then you can see God in the outside world.

You're blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. That's when you discover who you really are, and your place in God's family.

You're blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution. The persecution drives you even deeper into God's kingdom.

Not only that—count yourselves blessed every time people put you down or throw you out or speak lies about you to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and they are uncomfortable. You can be glad when that happens—give a cheer, even!—for though they don't like it, I do! And all heaven applauds."

(Gospel of Matthew, The Message)

the corridor between the worlds

The ugliness of it, and yet the sparkling magic in the air. Which door should I open today?

I know there is an adventure here somewhere...

living in the dark corners of cosmos

The tranquil days at Heartburn Hotel are gone.

The holidaymakers with their kids, dogs and suntans are flooding in. The workers and businessmen who have spent weeks and months in the quiet of the hotel over the winter, smoking and reading the papers and ordering their steak and beer in the evenings, grumbling pack up and leave.

Some of them stay. A few of them I never see but the computer tells me they are there somewhere, in some obscure room in a faraway derelict building. The young ex-convict, a few hardworking builders who diligently leave early in the mornings and return for an early night, a few others.

Late at night I walk through the overgrown jungle that used to be a garden on my way to lock up the sauna building for the night. A roaring fire is lit in an old fireplace at the other side, behind the trees, and an old man with snow-white hair and beard is sitting there quietly staring into the flames. It is a peaceful sight. He is there almost every night. His days he spends cleaning the hundreds of windows of the hotel, a task to which he seems to dedicate his heart.

Except for his threadbare clothes, he looks like Santa Claus. Maybe he is.

red silk unwinds me

Now that I have got myself a Chinese red silk bathrobe and summer is finally announcing its arrival, I will make myself an almond coffee and watch an old John Malkovich movie.

voices down the corridor

Walking down an empty corridor, an endless row of similar doors on each side. Worn and stained carpet. A faint odour of mildew. Murmuring voices behind some of the doors.

Reminds me of a dream. But this is real, this is a hotel.

Getting to know all its rooms, its nooks and crannies, is acquiring control. Knowing the good rooms, the ones to avoid, the one that smells, the one with the funny wallpaper, the one that has been converted to storage space. Deciding which one I would stay in if I had the chance. I walk down the corridor with purpose, jingling my master key.

I know what writer Paul Theroux meant when he wrote about the hotel he managed: "Shared by so many dreaming strangers, every room was vibrant with their secrets... the left-behind atoms and the residue of all the people who had ever stayed in it... Assigning people to such rooms, I believed I was able to influence their lives."

My brother, after millions of business trips, claims that hotel rooms are cold and dreary. But for me, knowing intimately how alive and vital an organism the hotel is and being in the middle of it, the rooms are a quiet and peaceful refuge. Hurrying into an empty room to look for something, I often pause to breathe. Occasionally, on quiet days, the staff sneak into one to watch TV while the boss is away. Sometimes I have been allowed to stay overnight and enjoyed the luxury of marble bathrooms with soft towels and expensive, complimentary cosmetics, or been amused by the bygone-era-atmosphere of rooms too old to be sold to paying customers.

Weary business travellers, elated families on holiday, backpackers, couples in love, people who move in groups, drifters with nowhere else to stay, people with hope in their eyes and others with despair in their entire being. All away from home, for good or for bad, and I can only imagine their feelings and experiences in these rooms.

It's true, in a hotel you really see it all. Cosmos packed into a corridor with doors leading... who knows? And I hold the master key.

five reasons for pianopoeting

Five reasons why I blog...

* I can gush about things others are tired of hearing about already
* I can whine
* I can scream the anguish that I otherwise wouldn't dare to show
* I can confront while avoiding confrontation
* I can meet some of the beautiful people out there...

I am also now an integrated member of the information society.

the janitor is worried

I defrost and deep fry, insert commas in people's writings, send letters saying "pay us or else" and I try to remember to turn the sauna on in time.

I mix three languages and improvise to balance the till. I tell an old lady that she can't see the sea from here. If I forget to give a receipt for the beer bottle I sell, the place might lose its licence.

The janitor is worried that I will leave too many lights on when I lock up for the night but he is not worried at all that one of the gangsters will steal money from the wide-open safe in the wide-open office.

I don't understand any of this either. It's a hotel. All the explanation you need.

i desire strawberries and a chef

Hotel kitchens are sexy.

It's a place where you step into a hot smell of spice and the even hotter stare from macho chefs. A real feminist would have a fit of righteous fury over the lewd remarks that chefs are experts at delivering to any unsuspecting female straying into their male-dominant territory.

But alas, I'm too in love with men to be a successful feminist. It's a game. I'm locked in a cage with a bunch of playful and handsome tigers and I have to be strong, smart and beautiful to survive. If I win the game, a chef will prepare a gorgeous feast just for me, with strawberries for dessert and a promise of more.

A strong, smart, beautiful man who can cook for you. It's enough to make even a feminist swoon.

To my eternal disappointment, this particular hotel kitchen is empty. A surly woman functions as a part-time cook and she is no fun at all.

I still hang out in the kitchen a lot. Listening for the echoes of happier times when food was hot, flirty, dangerous, exhilarating. Waiting and hoping for a genuine chef to arrive.

last thing I remember I was running for the door

Fell through a trap-door in the universe and find myself working in a hotel again.

If that's what it is. It's a place where the janitor is the boss, the building is a former refugee camp and half the receptionists don't speak decent Finnish. Mysterious Russians are the brains behind it all. It has the run-down look of an old gangster movie about it. And a huge bird, a magpie, has built a nest just outside the reception window. I've only seen one magpie in it yet though there should be two. "One for sorrow, two for joy..."

in the company of the warrior princess

Visited the Island. Xena the Warrior Princess lives there nowadays. At least I think it's her, although she is blonde and wearing wellies instead of sandals.

When I arrive after the long drive through forest and across the shockingly tall bridge, spring has painted the sea in glorious colours. The Warrior Princess is changing the tyres on her car and tells me about her upcoming wedding, the wedding she doesn't have the time to plan because she is (more or less single-handedly) restoring the old cottage where she lives.

"The safe feeling of being loved by someone... that is all I really need." The adventurer who tells me this once travelled alone through the darkest parts of Africa and will let nothing stand between her and her dreams. Against everybody's advice, she has almost torn the cottage apart to restore it to its original, beautiful shape. It's still complete chaos, but this girl can make even chaos look welcoming. There are three beautiful cats in the middle of it. One of them is sitting on the laptop.

The car is left standing with only two tyres attached because Xena has spotted something in the attic of the old barn that she absolutely has to investigate right away. So we climb around the ancient attic where the floor threatens to fall apart beneath our feet at any moment. The interesting object turns out to be half an old table and we haul it downstairs at the peril of our own lives.

An elderly man, a genuine soft-spoken Islander and expert on hand-crafted doors, arrives to look at an old door that Xena has found and wants put into the cottage. These old Islanders must be quite shaken up by this blonde tornado that has swept into their little old-fashioned community. Despite this, I have a feeling they can't help but love her. At least they have something to talk about. She has already engaged dozens of them in helping her repair her boat, give advice on the restoration work and tell her all about the history of the Island.

We snack on sandwiches and cheese crisps among the sawdust in the cottage before Xena gets back to sandpapering the walls and trying to persuade me to buy the cottage next door. The idea is too much for me to contemplate.

Driving back across the bridge to the mainland, I'm exhausted as if I had lived a lifetime in one evening.

a little pale and weary

The little Pleasantville (but in pastel colours) where I am temporarily residing is surrounded by a much more authentic village, old little wooden cottages (most of them beautifully restored and now containing all modern conveniances) interspersed among wide fields.

A chilly wind is still blowing across this brownish-grey landscape but the still-weak April sun is persistent and the colour green will soon be taking over. I try to forget my worries and enjoy the sun on the patio, comforting coffee mug in my hand. One of the cats, tiny Mjau, is chasing the first butterflies around my feet.

I am pale, weary. Not sure if I dare believe in a happy summer. Not convinced life has a meaning. But definitely certain that I will take this bleak day and make the best of it - nothing great, probably nothing much worth remembering, but the best I can do. It is enough.

alien in Pleasantville

To the two sleek, grey cats I was a complete stranger who just walked into their house and took out a tin of cat food. They didn't seem to think anything was amiss, just told me loudly how hungry they were.

To the nice, middle-class neighbours in this nice, middle-class residential area, who all have pastel-coloured houses and 2.4 children playing in cute little gardens, I was definitely a complete stranger. I breezed in with a dodgy car, urban sunglasses and a foreign-looking man in tow for a two-week house-sitting. Instead of bringing two toddlers to the park and having a gossip with other mothers in mud-stained clothes, I stay inside typing on a laptop with manicured nails or take the car into town for a latte.

Staying in someone else's house, someone with a stereotypical family life, and my own, quite boring lifestyle suddenly seems eccentric.

not just a pretty face

After a hard day's work of attacking everything that moved and a few things that didn't, exhaustion finally slowed Demolition Dog down enough for an almost decent portrait.

a terrorist in my home

I have a guest staying over the Easter weekend. He is very charming, extremely sociable and somewhat demanding. This morning, he woke me up at 7 am because he needed to go to the bathroom and didn't want to go alone. He won't let me go alone either.

Attempts to catch him on camera failed miserably as he is extremely fast. He always seems to be "exiting stage left". Or right. Or viciously attacking the camera.

As the pictures show, he is something furry and black who likes to demolish newspapers, towels, human toes and anything else that happens to cross his path.

Some would call him a puppy, but personally, I'm convinced he is a cross between a crocodile and the Terminator.

the essence of March

It's not a brain.
It's not vomit.
It's not Cookies'n'Cream icecream.
It's a picture of the dreadful month of March at 63 degrees North.

Melting, filthy snow. Thank God that month is over.

Actually, there might be some vomit mixed in there too.

survived the month of murders

March is the last month of sleep for growing things, says my mother. She always buys a sack of good soil in March and replants all her many potted plants. In April, it's too late, because by then the plants have woken from their winter sleep and started their growing season. And they don't like to be disturbed, pulled up by the roots and shoved into a new pot with new soil, once they have started growing. Or so she claims.

March here at 63 degrees North is a grey and wet affair. The crystal beauty of winter ruined, like a wedding dress that's been dragged through mud. Spring still hesitating behind the corner.

Like my mother's plants, I am half asleep, weary after a long winter, too sluggish to hope for the sun. I survive, barely. My history teacher in school once told me that March is the month of murders and I can see why.

It always seems to happen in March. Half dead, I'm pulled up by the roots and shoved into something new, if only a new way of thinking. It always hurts, no matter how absolutely essential it is for my survival. After a desperate struggle to adjust, I slowly start to notice the spring sun, the world turns on its hinges and my growing season has arrived.

I realise it's more or less too late to replant my own potted plants by now. I go out and buy some shockingly yellow daffodils.

not a very pious prayer

God, are you looking this way?

Was it you who woke me up this morning? Did you see me fight my way out of the anguish to get ready for another day? Were you trying to say something when I blocked out the words of everyone? Was it you who dragged me out the door? Did you try to get my attention with a ray of sunshine that made me wince? Were your words whispered in the mumbling of strangers in the street? Were you insistently making my phone ring when I tried to turn it off? Was it you who made me pull out my hair and shed tears of frustrated longing? Were you paying attention when I screamed? Are you the one who walked past me and made eye contact? Did you block my way and force me to look at you?

Are you laughing at me or are you saying my name, over and over again? Am I trying to get your attention or are you seeking mine? Am I cursing your name or desperately scrambling to get close?

I fight you. I cry for you. I hate you. I love you.

You shake me. Shock me. Force me. Deny me. Teach me. Protect me. Die for me. Cherish me. Love me. Love me. Love me.

a planet came looking for me

When I looked out towards the sea this evening there was the crescent moon with Venus again. If that is really Venus, that is - I should find out but my mind is too weary to go look for facts that I should know. Another thing to feel guilty about.

The sky was beautiful, that crescent and planet against the pink-gold sunset, and I was surprised to see it because I didn't deserve it. I have been languishing here in my grey prison for weeks with neither the energy nor the will to break out and I have come to expect nothing more. Sometimes I ask God and all other powers there be to do something, to break down these walls, but in the next moment I accept that he will do nothing of the kind because I can't, won't, help myself. Sunken into a stupor, I have accepted that grey walls are what I will be seeing for the rest of my life.

But then. The gentle light of a crescent moon, a shard of lunar glass. A rich cascade of sunset colours too valuable to waste on someone like me. A planet who has broken orbit and travelled closer to the earth just to show me that there is brilliance in the universe that I have yet to discover. They refuse to be ignored. Jolted out of my private room of misery, I stare in disbelief.

Just for me?

in the valley of the shadow of death

The silence is deeper than ever. Deafening. The dust settles slowly.

Death is still way ahead. I'm only walking in its shadow.

staring too long into the abyss

Staggering at the edge of the abyss, see it staring back at me. Is it reality I'm losing or is reality not real? If I step through the looking-glass, will I be more alive?

This world keeps ignoring me. Fine. See what I care. After a life of frugality, I will throw away my last penny on temporary comforts.

I just want to be alive.

beloved blood of my blood

Family get-together.

Wayward brother smelling of alcohol.
Two grandmothers trying to find common ground, one a globetrotter and wine connoisseur, the other a traditional, stay-at-home teetotaller.
A five-year-old doing his utmost to look under women's skirts.
Everyone embarrassed about what to say to the young cancer victim.
Siblings who never see each other trying to think of something to talk about.
Young cousins breaking each others' toys.

Surprisingly, a warm feeling. Family. Home. I belong. Count your blessings. And for God's sake, distract that five-year-old.

feminist skies tonight

Venus and the crescent Moon together in the sky. Two symbols of womanhood.

Perhaps I have just been reading too much feminist literature. Fretting over the injustices of the world in general towards women. The burden weighing more heavily still on my frail shoulders.

Be beautiful (read: skinny), be sexy and available and show a lot of skin, be not-too-smart, behave as females have been expected to behave the last couple of millennia. Raise your daughters to be cautious, wary, conformist, insecure, enemies of their own body and feelings. Make sure they feel worthless if they do not conform to all of the above.

On the other hand, the sign in the sky tonight may just be telling me to move to Turkey.

swearing and longing

Up before dark. Strong coffee. Translate political commentaries from the weird language of Finnish to the bizarre language of Swedish. Swear. Email sister in despair. Eat chocolate.

Longing to go to the second-hand book shop. To the jeans shop. To the American-style coffee shop.

Another day is well underway.

Prancer on ice

A day-long hike or a short Sunday stroll. When the ice on the bay is thick enough, people bring their kids, sleighs, skis, dogs, kites and ice-fishing kits and head out, irresistibly drawn to the open vista and the possibility to explore the little islets.

Yesterday was mild and sunny enough even for me to venture out, wrapped up in layers of wool and armed with my sunglasses.

I love people-watching, but even more so, dog-watching. One of the dogs, the largest one, turned out to be one of Santa's reindeer. Posing nonchalantly for a tabloid photographer, he ignored the stares from passers-by. Occasionally he was filled with enthusiasm and trotted away towards the open horizon, his keeper helplessly dragged along by a long leash.

So now we know what Santa's reindeer do the rest of the year. Modelling.

grow up and play

Volleyball. Unimportant, friendly local game. Nerves, nevertheless. Pacing the corridors before the game, worrying about a cramping muscle, checking for the fifteenth time that the water bottle is filled.

She forgets to be her usual fearful, take-no-risks woman and throws herself on the floor and against walls to save the ball.

Normally shy and wary of drawing attention, she nevertheless blocks out the spectators and yells, laughs, and swears under her breath. Not afraid of being the tall one, the dangerous one near the net. Not shy to show off bare legs even though they cannot compete with those of the teenage bambi on the other side of the court.

Open, loud joy when the team succeeds. Makes a face when she completely misses an easy ball but shrugs and concentrates on the next. Graciously accepts good advice from the more experienced. Savours the triumph of getting an applause of her own. Hates the opposing team but forgives them and shakes hands afterwards.

If I learn to laugh and yell out loud, to deal with nerves, to accept criticism and defeat, to make friends, to give everything and in return feel the full force of life here and now... then it doesn't really matter that we lost that game.

the thick ticking of the tin clock stopped

Some days my life is in sepia and cold winter light seeps through the window. I am low. Almost floor level.

Time has stopped. I crave life but it is denied me.

that weird goodness

Contrary to popular belief, good people do exist. I am forced to believe the testimony of my own eyes and ears.

I am an optimist and have always believed that there is goodness in all of us. Experience, on the other hand, has shown me that selfishness or indifference wins the battle in most of us. We are too weak to be good.

Christianity says God can be strong in our weakness. Lovely thought, but reality is different, right? Even an optimist has to be a realist.

But there they are, impossible to ignore. The genuine. People who are not afraid to admit their faults but do not crave sympathy. With my sharp eye for falseness, I pick out their weaknesses and look for any signs of pretense. People who are tired from the daily battles but who push their problems aside for a moment to give full attention to my needs. Who draw on a mysterious strength to give me what I ask for, and sometimes what I am too scared or proud or stupid to ask for. Who knock out my defenses with that smile, the authentic, caring, wise smile.

Even an optimist can be a cynic. That smile will wear itself out, I think, just try to keep it up for a while and see it fade. Only for some people it does not. Day after day, year after year, they keep caring, giving, helping, loving. Sometimes they cry from exhaustion. Sometimes they voice their doubts and despair. But the next day they stand there again, hands outstretched, smiling.

I am speechless with astonishment. It is not possible, not in this world. A mere human cannot do this and I never believed in superhumans.

All of these people that I have dared to ask, say the same thing. God. Not a mysterious force, no rituals, just God as a person, giving freely, just a prayer away. Just demanding your entire life in return. But what a life. What a freedom, being who you really are.

lovely, hateful pride

In my dream, control slips out of my hand. I am humiliated, shamed, before the person I admire the most. Nightmare at its worst.

I wake up shaking in a cold sweat.

Later the same day, I see him, the admirable one, at a distance. Beautiful, confident, but with nothing false about him.

I am proud and willful, a woman with backbone. But to have someone see me as I am and still love me... If it were him, maybe I would dare.

attitude control

Learn contentment.

Coffee brewing.
Blueberry scent on my skin.
A pile of good books.

Another battle won in the digital world. I can overcome my prejudice about myself. I am still going somewhere!

The world is white-grey instead of green-grey but I will learn to love it.

kicked myself out of paradise

In my magic Irish valley, walking through the woods as darkness falls.

As a city woman, I have not yet grasped the idea of being home before dark. The path is uneven, miles from streetlights and neon. Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams. A rustle of deer or wild goats among ancient oaks, but I am too melancholy to be afraid of dangers. This is home, the hearth of my heart - how can one have lived in these mountains and not feel their breathing for the rest of her life?

Yet, a visitor. A tourist in my own dreams. A few days to wander these woods and gaze at the lakes and then leave.

The wishing well is a dark pool beneath the ghostly tree where wanderers through the ages have tied pieces of cloth, strings of beads, shards of their lives. I dip a finger in the cold mountain water and say "may this valley always be home. May I keep coming back".

Even though it tears me apart every time I do. I could have stayed here for the rest of my life, and it would have killed me. The other dimension of this magnificent peace is a maelstrom of conflict and powerful emotions, a black hole where you lose control, lose yourself. Intoxicating experience, like that first shot of a powerful drug, the immense pleasure of taking leave of reality. But after that you have to stop, force yourself to stay real and sane, take yourself away from there. Because you know you have to survive.

I hear a low rumble in the mountains, an explosion in a mine miles underground. The shriek of a deer makes me jump. But I see the lights from the inn, the promise of warmth and village gossip and hot whiskey by the fireplace. I wipe away the last of my tears. I may not ever allow myself to stay. But I will keep coming back.

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

(A.E. Housman)

rocks and sea do battle

At Europe's oldest lighthouse in the southeast of Ireland, the sun was shining and strong winds threatened to blow us into the sea. Intrepid, we braved the danger. Felt the spray of the waves lashing against the rocks and had to make a run for it when a wave tried to drag us into the abyss.

At this site, Irish monks used to light beacons to guide ships as far back as a millennium ago - to the delight of my ferocious ancestors, the Vikings, who were happy to find such a warm welcome among the people they were about to plunder and kill. It seems to have paid off for the monks, though, as they were spared. Or so the story goes.

In the stormy seas around the lighthouse, rescue services were searching for seamen recently lost at sea. The steady rocks did not tremble even when the roaring waves crashed into them. The bedrock, the ocean, the sun. I am small and fragile.

life is easy, as a celt

After nine fabulous days in that alternate universe, Ireland, I still have not landed in Finnish reality. Not that I want to.

I'm still in Irish mode, taking life easy, trusting that everything will be well if I can just chat to nice people over a glass every now and then. Smiling at strangers, making jokes. Fearing nothing.

Walking along endless beaches, in the rain, content. Even happy.

brave the danger and find your Eden

Country roads, take me home.

Narrow roads with plenty of potholes, where an unsuspecting sheep could be standing around the next corner, where everyone drives with reckless abandon. This is Ireland. Being a passenger in an Irish car is a roller-coaster ride, scary but absolutely exhilarating. Going around a hairpin bend at breakneck speed, close your eyes and clutch at your seat, give up your hope of living another hour. It helps if you are a little bit drunk, but not unfrequently the driver is too. The trees close in around the car. Suddenly, a mountain vista opens up.

This time, we took a taxi to go 45 kilometers. An expensive way to travel, but public transport would mean a travel time of three hours on a roundabout route. The country roads took us up over the mountains. I had had the foresight to check the weather report to make sure the mountain pass was open since anyone could see that the mountains were covered in snow, but hadn't counted on the fact that the taxi driver was Nigerian and had no experience of driving in icy conditions...

We survived. And the mountains and the snow and the silence were breathtaking and beautiful. Skidding into the valley on the other side, we discovered everything was green and the birds were singing in the sun. I swear, the garden of Eden is located in Ireland.

Yes! I am inVINcible!

PianoPoet, also known as the Technology Ignoramus, has fought a mighty battle against said technology. Five hours in front of the computer, consulting four manuals, making countless installations and uninstallations, ripping out a cable in fury, making a tuna sandwich as comfort food, spitting at the computer and forcefeeding a memory card (and almost, accidentally, some tuna) into an unwilling phone - and her matchmaking skills triumphed at last and the phone and the computer found each other and became loving partners.

Doesn't PianoPoet look rather cross-eyed? But the result is here: a picture. More to follow soon, hopefully. I might even let you see my other eye (yes, I have two).

The next battle is already looming at the horizon: PianoPoet will look up a nice vegetable dish in her never-used cookbook, buy ingredients and cook it.

stomach teaser

Items in my fridge:
Honey
1 lemon
Sun-dried tomatoes
Pesto sauce
Milk about to go off
Mouldy cheese
1 1/2 slice of dark bread
Homemade apple jam

How do you make a lunch out of these?

Go out for pizza.

the unexpected family

A winter night survived with no significant insomnia.

Monday morning with a familiar worry in my gut, but the comfort of a loving church family in my memories of Sunday. Someone looked at me as if I meant something. I was there, present, in the Now, in my jeans and flattering shirt and warming cardigan. Snuggled into a church pew, leaning back with my feet up, as comfortable as possible, to listen and take a part in everything the family has been up to this week. A hug, a smile, a friendly touch, an atmosphere where forgiveness was palpable. God in the pew right next to me.

With a lot of help from my friends I will get through this day as well, and the help is there, a rock beneath my trembling feet.

A phonecall from a bureaucrat that caused a wry smile. A chat with one of the widows across the balcony railing, leaning out into the bleak, rare sunshine of a Finnish winter. The beauty of the view and of casual neighbourly friendship. The constant fear of opening my email, vulnerable to the harshness of the world and its demands on me. The loneliness and the hope. One day at a time, hope wins.

a new ally and an old stubborn friend

How emotions and hope soar in the blue sky one day and take a nosedive the next. I never did like rollercoasters.

I finally joined the 21st century and bought a new phone. My shameless delight knows no limits. How can one not be instantly successful in life if one has a phone like those on TV?

I also shoved my existential panic to the side and booked myself on a flight to the land of my dreams, of storms and peat fires and hot whiskey, of gangsters and everyday poets; Eire, the Emerald Island... Ireland. I have heard it calling to me every day for three years, ever since I left the embrace of its brooding mountains.

"Will you come back?" my family and friends ask me with worry in their eyes. Yes, that's the plan. It's only for a week. My mission in Finland (whatever it is) is not completed.

I'm not sure I sound convinced. How Eire always tears at my heart.

magic starts the year

A New Year celebration by candlelight, looking out across the dark water and ceaseless fireworks, in the comfort of darkness and the company of old friends who are not afraid of my weird soul... I didn't even have to cook. It was peaceful. One of the best New Year's Eves ever, one where I didn't have to pretend to have fun either.

Now, the year has turned and settled into gear. The familiar worry in my gut makes itself known again. What will happen? Will I be able to cope? I'm so tired of being afraid.

Today, I watch the shifting fog. Today, I will manage. Just for today. Tomorrow can take care of its own troubles. One step at a time. I will get there.

The fog shifts again and the skyline is suddenly clear - except for the tall power plant with its mystical chimneys, my wellknown landmark, which is suddenly gone. Invisible. By some feat of magic, someone made it disappear. Only the smoke is still rising out of the emptyness. I laugh out loud in sheer surprise.

to friends present, absent and possible

Wishing everybody out there joy and contentment and all good things in 2007!

May you wake up each morning and see a light; be it blinding or just a glimmer.