in bed with the fight club boys

I should go to bed. So I can wake up early tomorrow and revel in the fact that I can stay in bed all day.

Later this week I'm going to visit a friend who recently moved to a cottage in the country and bought a cat. She wants to get into the whole farm life thing. What fascinates me the most is that she claims the inspiration for this came out of watching Fight Club. So my back-up plan for tomorrow (if I fail to stay in bed) includes watching that same film and see what it does to me.

Picture courtesy of IMDb

the love war: Twitter and a prayer

A guitar player is loved by all and I can't seem to hold on to him.

I'm a self-pity maestro. But I do not go gentle into that good night anymore. A dream of New York, impossible or not, is the only fuel I need to power my rage.

Against meaninglessness, I employ studying. Against self-accusations, practical plans to improve myself. Against apathy, exercise. Against depressive introspection, decisive action to help the lonely. And against all the darkness of world and soul, I deploy my entire arsenal of music, candles, writing, chocolate and wine, DVDs, fantasy novels, gypsy necklaces, vintage clothes, text messaging, Twitter and a little prayer.

I force myself to stare intensely at the beautiful and weird things around me and love them, for f's sake.

high heels in the clouds

I don't want children. I don't want to buy things (apart from the occasional piece of vintage clothing, a nice latte, and books of course). I'm closer to 40 than 30 and shun the thought of settling down. So what DO I want?

I want to dress in short skirts and high heels, hang out in glitzy cocktail bars or smoky pubs with cool people and I want to see horizons I have never seen before. But I also want the people I love. And the thing I absolutely cannot do without: a stunning view from the window and an inspiring soundtrack, so I can dramatically toss my hair back and look like I'm having an epic life.

 

In the middle of it all, I want peace of mind.

I know what I did last May

Couldn't believe my luck in having a prison view and a royal neighbour (2006)
Hung out in a deserted hotel kitchen, hoping for a chef and strawberries (2007)
Rested after limping around the island of Crete looking for the Minotaur (2008)
Contemplated sour milk and Jehova's Witnesses (2009)
Pretended to be foreign and compiled my own dictionary (2010)
Walked to the end of the world, again, in the company of eagles and snakes (2011)
Analyzed the call to prayer while lounging by a pool (2012)

this magic this drunken semaphore

Sangria and Snow Patrol make an excellent combination. I'm just saying.

tried, tested, didn't fall off

The annual Vehicle Inspection.

The inspector attaches a hose to the exhaust pipe of my car, carefully checks every light - he even finds the switch for those extra lights I never figured out how to turn on! - and notes down numbers on the performance of the brakes and the suspension and a hundred other things. He raises my car on a ramp and somehow makes the ramp shake violently. He seems satisfied when the car doesn't fall off. He manually turns the front wheels, looks under the bonnet, checks underneath the chassis. He even tries the horn.

I stand in a corner of the hall where five cars are being inspected at the same time. It takes a while. Finnish inspections are probably the most rigid in the world, we Finns are always obsessed with safety rules and regulations. The Porsche next to my humble Citroën seems to attract some admiration from the inspectors. A beat-up old Nissan in the back sits abandoned while its owner is waiting forlornly next to it. A Chrysler causes some confusion when the inspector can't find a switch he is looking for and has to call for help from the others.

In the parking lot outside, teenagers are trying to pass a motorcycle manouvering exam. In a sudden flash, I remember coming here many years ago with my driving instructor in the hopes of getting my driving license. I was so nervous I almost threw up. I failed the first driving exam but eventually passed. Thank God I learned to drive when I was seventeen! Now, approaching middle age, I would never dare. Would probably never pass the exam either.

But my car passes the test today and I drive off happily. The inspector manages to remove the hose from the exhaust pipe just in time.

three languages and one Volkswagen

"There's a traffic camera up ahead. And my phone says you're driving too fast."

I'm  in the back seat, playing with the navigator on my phone. My friend lifts an eyebrown but eases up on the accelerator. Rain is smattering on the windshield. My three friends are chatting in Finnish, Swedish and English. One of them is telling us about an autopsy she will have to perform tomorrow, one she is not looking forward to as the body is four weeks old and decomposing fast. The other is unemployed but will volunteer at a alcohol rehabilitation centre this weekend. The third one is being quiet, worn out after a trying day at the nursing school and from taking the language tests she needs to pass as a foreign student.

The heater in the old car is on full blast despite the temperate spring weather outside. I look out at the grey, wet streets. The automated voice in the navigator is reminding us, unnecessarily, of the turn coming up. She sounds a bit annoyed; probably hasn't got over the fact that we ignored her instructions a while back in order to take a detour.

This is today, this is May rain and four friends in an old Volkswagen, and an invaluable stretch of time.

"You give me miles and miles of mountains and I'll ask for the sea" *

* Damien Rice: "Volcano"

security breach in the ivory tower

Me half-dressed, barely out of bed. An unpacked suitcase lying open on the floor. Potted plants, unwatered for the week I was away, withering and snowing yellow leaves all over the dusty floor. Bed unmade and clothes lying in untidy heaps.

He doesn't call before he comes to visit, I hate it when people don't call first. Sends me a text message in the lift on his way up to the fourth floor. I barely have time to throw on a pair of jeans, run a hand through my hair and frown at my un-made-up face in the mirror. It's his first visit in my flat - okay, that's my own fault, as I should have asked him over ages ago instead of just arranging coffee dates all over the city.

Clearly, he's taking matters into his own hands and deciding it's about time I let him further into my life. Grudgingly, I have to admit this: A real man, annoying and admirable. So, I let him see the basic version of me, with no make-up, and of my home, not tidied up for visitors. If he can take it, he's passed another test.

over-rated, overdressed and overstated

This week's musical obsession: Rob Thomas: Wonderful. 

Look at me, I'm made of wonderful, wonderful
I'm all easy breath and steady walk, steady walking
But underneath I'm barely moving on, it's like I'm nothing
All the ways they have to make me 
smile and then they go and break me

Wait, I think I feel like hell
No, I can't be myself
And I can't be nobody else
But if I could
Would you love me then?

go life!

On this blog, in 2011, these were the words mostly used (click picture to enlarge)...

It amuses me to note that Wordle completely by random seems to pair words very accurately to describe my life or preferences. Examples:  Finland watching, night better, next dance, city first, now live, without man, want always, TV never used, boring feeling, make believe, beach date.

between the Mediterranean and a quiz show

In Turkey, you can also...

...get tired...

...smile back at the Mediterranean...

...study various forms of agriculture...

...and when you get even more tired, you can watch incomprehensible television.

the sun smiles in Asia Minor

In Turkey...

...you can walk along ancient walls and feel delicious in being alone and in the sun...

...crawl around impressive dripstone caves with sundry tourists and old Turkish women looking to relieve their asthma...

...feast on pastries and coffee by the pool...

...and walk where Cleopatra once strolled by Mark Anthony's side.

in the bazaar

"FIVE EURO!" the shopkeeper bellows, almost into my ear. Well, my own fault as I stopped right by his shop while he is trying to attract attention from the people milling about the street market.

Other vendors are yelling about their products as well, mostly in Turkish. It's the Friday market in the bazaar quarters and the narrow streets are crowded with stalls selling fruit, vegetables, spices and knick-knacks. The spring sun is warm but not too hot, and most of the stallkeepers look exactly like you imagine a Turkish grandma coming in from her farm to sell her aubergines and oranges. I almost step on a live chicken lying tied up on the ground and quickly avert my eyes.

I stand on a corner, next to the loud shopkeeper, and discreetly change the battery in my camera. Trying to not look like a tourist, failing abysmally.

 

writing my way to God

"The gospels and all the sacred texts of all religions were written in exile, in search of God's understanding, of the faith that moves whole peoples, of the pilgrimage of souls wandering the face of the Earth. Our ancestors did not know, as we do not know, what the Divinity expects from our lives - and it is out of that doubt that books are written, pictures painted, because we don't want to forget who we are - nor can we."

Paulo Coelho: Eleven Minutes

a large coffee and some fascinating company, please

Most beautiful thing seen today: calla lilies, deep purple ones and sunny yellow ones. Or the man sitting at the café table opposite me, laughing.

The café we frequent has never been my favourite. It is too bright, too open, too bland. But it does have nice pastries, ordinary but interesting people to analyze in giggling whispers, and, most importantly, the coffee is not too expensive. It's not the kind of coffee shop I used to go to alone, back when I had money - flavoured lattes, boho chic students, ambiance, lifestyle magazines to peruse.

But this one is OK. It has him in it.

incredibly close and decades away

It's 4 o'clock in the morning. Everyone is in their pajamas and looking bleary-eyed. Nobody can remember whose stupid idea it was to throw a surprise party for Jonas on his birthday, the surprise element being the part where we dragged him out of bed in the middle of the night, stuck him under a cold shower and then presented him with cake and presents in the common room.

A good time was, however, had by all. Including Jonas (at least after the shower was over). Nobody worried about the fact that we had to be up early in the morning for bible study class. After all, we were young, history-makers in the making, and loved each other to bits.

This is one of the weirdest things in my life. To have people in your life that you have had no contact with for almost 20 years (most of them) but who were so close then that you still remember the sound of their voice. That particular look on their face when they were upset or excited. Their dreams, shared in an almost frightened but hopeful whisper, and sometimes their most shameful secrets. The comfort of their presence when you were puking your guts out in a stinking third-world toilet, and they were puking right next to you. The weak laughter you shared in your lowest moments. The fierce hugs they gave you when you asked their forgiveness for letting them down when times were rough. Their unconditional love and help when you were at the end of your rope.

This common room, in the middle of the night - and in that stinking third-world toilet - is where I learned about friendship.

at least I'm not in handcuffs

Bought a washing machine of my very own for the first time ever. So now I feel old and settled in my ways and tied down my mundane possessions (washing machines are not easy to pack up and move when inspiration hits).

The machine's drain hose was too short so I bought an extension but could not figure out how to attach it. So now I have to cry a little and feel useless.

Had to have a tetanus shot since it's apparently been ten years since my last one (after that unfortunate incident with the feral cat). So now my arm is paralyzed by pain (am I actually having a localized case of tetanus? Interesting. I never heard of anyone who's ever had tetanus) and I am hardly capable of even dressing myself.

So, being old, weepy and crippled, it's time to settle down with a box of chocolates and watch White Collar. Finally, an excuse.

foolproof insomnia remedy

Sometimes, when I can't sleep... I set the alarm that I normally use for my wake-up call in the morning to sound right away. It never fails to trigger one thought, and one thought only, in my head: Lovely, lovely sleep. And off I go into dreamland.

friends who like pasta

One friend gives instructions on what to do with the onions. The other measures pasta and sings a song we once made up, many years ago. Suddenly it's like we are back in that student flat and nothing has changed.

And nobody whines about vegetarian diet or LCHF. Thank God for true friends.

defrost moment

Sometime in April, my body and mind wake up. It's a surprise every year.

The human being isn't meant to live in temperatures below 10 degrees Celsius (50 F). Any colder than that, you can't relate to nature. Smells disappear, sounds are oddly muted, and the air itself becomes an enemy to be fought off with many layers of clothing.

The first time of the year that I feel the air against bare skin and it doesn't make me shiver, something inside me lets go and I feel like crying from relief. The world is friendly again.

the slow-down balcony

I stand on the balcony, a glass of water in my hand, listening idly to my neighbour chattering about her grandchildren... thinking vaguely about all the other things I could be doing with my precious day... The winter seemed endlessly grey and sunless, but when the spring sun finally arrives it blinds everything with its merciless brightness... I seem to spend half of the year longing for light and the remaining half squinting and fumbling for my sunglasses...

I feel, to my surprise, a languid contentment that shouldn't logically be there, as I look out over an empty back street, an eerily deserted prison yard, a quiet seafront promenade and the vast expanse of the bay...

Two ladies, out for a stroll along the street below, look up as the sound of my neighbour's voice carries down from the fourth floor balcony. The woman with the four chihuahuas walks by, expertly juggling her dog leashes. Someone drives his expensive Mercedes very slowly to avoid being rattled by the cobblestones. A pair of crows are constructing a nest in the still winter-bare linden tree. A couple take their bicycles out for the first time on newly ice-free streets. A thrush is searching the wet grass for last year's berries. Far away, there is the clanging noise from bridge construction work.

I should be in a hurry to make an excuse to my neighbour and go back inside to do something useful or at least fun. But, for someone who dreams of the electrifying chaos of New York avenues, I'm oddly bewitched by the quiet peace in deserted, small-town back streets. My heartrate slows down and I can't move...

sarcasm saved my life

I would like to write something witty and/or poignant.

Oh well. When all else fails, there is always sarcasm.

war, eggs and lack of guitar players

Winter and spring are waging a furious war on each other. Every night, snow falls and the wind is icy. During the day, a relentless sun burns away the snow, not even leaving wet patches on the sidewalks. I pull the blinds against the brightness but still get headaches.

It's Easter. Time off work, a busy time in church (and I waver between wanting to take part and not), evenings watching TV or reading fanfic, egg hunting with young nephews. The guitarist of interest is off playing gigs in crowded clubs too far away.

I think about: why I only feel like myself when I'm alone.

my past in many Aprils

Russian letters and horror movies (2006)
Blackened snow and Terminator puppy (2007)
Redefined character and involuntary holiday (2008)
Sea dreams and good intentions (2009)
Diamond core and CSI:NY (2010)
Auto-destruct and ancient castles (2011)
Turkish perils and moving power (2012)

coracesium and the seven perils

I'm going to a place where they say the sun smiles. A place by the Mediterranean Sea where people have lived for 20,000 years, where Alexander the Great passed by and Cleopatra visited, a port of pirates.

I'm not looking forward to it. Even though it's a holiday in the sun and I, the wandering star, haven't been beyond a hundred miles from home for two years. Maybe home has killed my love of adventure. I'm afraid of Turks (for no good reason, I just don't know any). I fear that the flight will be horrible and I will arrive feeling sick and realise that the hotel is awful. I'm worried that my travel companion, my elderly mother, will fall sick or be robbed.

But most of all, I'm scared that I will get there and experience that wonderful adventure of being in a new and foreign place where I've never been before - and that I will be completely, utterly indifferent. I'm terrified of discovering that nothing has the power to move me anymore.

brave new world that has such people in it!

An assortment of customers in the Little Shop of Harmony:

Jukka. My least favourite customer. Probably because he rarely pays for the clothes he picks up in the second-hand basement and seems to think he makes up for it by leaving an extremely smelly piece of his own clothing somewhere instead. He is arrogant, ungrateful and shouts at me when I refuse to give him things for free (forgetting that I gave him something out of pity only the day before). But he does have some entertainment value. He sometimes wears an orange wig and pretends he is John Lennon. He picks up Christian tracts and hands them out to people in the street. He carries around an old guitar which he never plays. Sometimes he asks me to kiss him (which I also refuse). And sometimes he shocks some of the staid, too-dignified customers that definitely need to be shocked out of their own world every now and then.

The war veteran. Almost 90 years old and he pedals for miles on a tricycle every day, usually in camouflage-patterned clothes (I wouldn't have thought that would be a veteran's first choice in fashion but maybe he can't afford to buy something else). Nearly deaf but fluent in two languages, always polite and ready for a chat with anyone. "Time to go home and count the kids", he jokes and it cuts me a bit to the heart because I witnessed the pain in him a couple of years ago when his beloved wife passed away after a long illness and I know his only child only rarely visits him. He has trouble with his heart and every time he leaves I wonder if this is the last time I see him, and I already know I will miss him.

Eeva L. A proper lady. Comes by every day, sometimes twice, and usually buys something from the basement - a silk blouse, a nice scarf, something expensive-looking. Always wears a skirt and heels, in winter a fur coat, plenty of make-up to hide the fact that she is over 60. In a town where elderly ladies usually are of the mousey kind, she stands out. She runs some kind of cosmetics business from her home and sometimes mentions needing all these nice clothes for business meetings, but my colleague warned me not to take everything she says at face value. She is quiet and has a beautiful, warm smile.

Old man Kanervikko. Smells of moth balls and his clothes look a hundred years old. Whenever he comes in through the door, I sigh because I know I will be listening to his chatter for at least twenty minutes unless I make an excuse to go off and do something else. But he needs someone to listen to him, so usually I stay for a while. He comes to buy some book recommended on the Christian TV channel (which he watches devoutly even though he is not a church-goer) and enthusiastically tells me about that book or some other he has read recently (i.e. within the last thirty years). However, chatting to him is usually rewarding, as sooner or later he will say or do something unintentionally funny. One day, he told me he had snuck out to buy a book while he was supposed to be baby-sitting his grandson - after making a deal with the boy not to tell his parents. "But I met the parents as I was leaving", he adds with a guilty giggle. Today, he took off his hundred-year-old hat, and small pieces of what looked like toilet paper fell out and snowed all over the floor. He picked them all up without a break in his chattering, stuffed them back in the hat and put it back on.

shine, don't shrink

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."


(Marianne Williamson, from A Return to Love)

that star, dancing out of reach

Being creative is fun and easy. But getting to that fun and easy part is such hard work. The main problem is prying oneself away from all those distractions.

According to Nietzsche, it takes a bit of chaos as well, of which I have plenty.

"Man muss noch Chaos in sich haben, um einen tanzenden Stern gebären zu können" 
(One must have chaos in oneself in order to give birth to a dancing star).

The lesson I have learned, though, is that creation is done one small step at a time. Even God couldn't do it all in one day. It's about building that cathedral.

midnight in the cemetery

The picture says it all. Three street bums making an evening of it with a bottle of whiskey. Right? Well, not quite...

The setting is this: A wooded valley between the mountains. Thousand-year-old monastery ruins with a cemetery where ancient headstones, overgrown with blackberry and ivy, lean eerily in the silence of deep midnight. The shriek of some nocturnal animal far away echoing through the valley. An enormous, starry autumn sky overhead. It's straight out of a Gothic novel or a classic horror movie. It's stunningly beautiful.

In the middle of the cemetery, the tiny Priest's House is a roofless ruin dating back to the 12th century. There are ancient headstones in here as well. We place a candle on the dirt floor and huddle up within the narrow stone walls, sharing whiskey, stories and jokes. We are new friends from countries far apart who feel a connection and have bonded as an adventurous, easy-going gang. We have shared a fun-filled summer and know that this summer has come to an end and soon there will be good-byes - probably forever. As the autumn night grows colder and the stars wander across the sky we curl up even closer to each other under a pile of wool blankets. One falls asleep, another worries quietly about ghosts, and I lie awake looking at the stars. It's a perfect night. Beauty, adventure, friends from faraway countries. Midnight in the cemetery, completely safe and at peace.

blood, sweat and tears of laughter

"I have blood all over me and I don't know whose it is."

The aftermath of a particularly vicious volleyball game can be disturbing for sensitive viewers. But I washed the blood off me and reflected on the fact that I had almost died on that court - of laughter. And we lost the game.

mom always said there's safety in numbers

One of those days. One of those days. At work. Hard to smile at customers, even more difficult to check emails and tidy the shelves, and absolutely unthinkable to get started on all those orders I need to put together. Brain working sluggishly at half-speed. Back aching from slouching in front of the computer, browsing anything even remotely interesting on the internet and being bored by all of it. Counting hour-long minutes until I get to close up shop and go home. Desperately in need of inspiration, excitement, a fairytale event crashing unexpectedly into my dull life.

One of those days when settling down to enter sales figures into a spreadsheet is the only thing that can soothe my troubled mind.

a stray comment

"We got engaged during a holiday in Athens, with a stray dog as our only witness. Now that dog is dead."

girl talk

"I was just kidding, you don't actually look like a teenager."
"You're saying I look middle-aged?"
"Well, what are you trying to prove with those ear-rings anyway?"

evening to dye for

This will be the day that I dye (my hair). But before that, time to head over to best friend's place with bottle of wine and the FaceBook film.

moving mountains long before we knew we could

I was born an idealist. A romantic. ( Oddly enough, as my parents were of the rather pragmatic, down-to-earth kind. ) I believed in all that stuff: Everything has a meaning, there is a God and he speaks, life is a wonderful adventure, the universe has patterns and symbols and miracles, there are mysteries to solve and treasures to find and a soulmate somewhere out there who will love me until death do us part. And if you do the right thing, the inevitable result is happily-ever-after.

As many born idealists, I am now a hardcore cynic. ( Realists seldom turn cynics as disappointments don't knock them down the same way. )

One sunny morning recently, as I was walking to work, the thought struck me: "Is this the reason I often feel at odds with myself?" I have looked at the facts - broken hearts, meaningless tragedies, an absent God, betrayals, hopelessness, the unbearable tedium of daily routine - and created an armour of non-belief and distrust around me. But no matter how appropriate and safe, even true, this armour seems, it fits me ill. It pinches, itches, chokes me. It's not me.

So, truth does not fit me? Maybe it's not the whole truth, just the surface of it. ( Ironically, that is a rather idealistic thought. ) Maybe there are some patterns and miracles after all, a few beautiful mysteries and a few people capable of loving and maybe even a God somewhere. And none of us have yet seen the whole picture, so who's to say Good and Right won't prevail in the end after all. I'm not saying I believe yet. But sometimes I'm willing to try, very cautiously, a little bit.

Because the world needs idealists and romantics. We are the ones who make others see these things. We are the ones, in an otherwise empty and ugly world, who believe these things into existence.

declaration: as of this day

Could we start again please? I will marvel over the miracle of being loved by you, just as I am. I will not suspect that you look at me with disappointment, indifference, resentment or ill will. I will not blame you for bad experiences in the past. I will not assume that you have given up on me or my possible future. I will not try to live up to any standards. I will absolutely refuse to think that I am a failure. I will lay down my burdens. I will live as if here and now is all there is. I will believe that anything is possible, even that I can change. I will expect wonderful things to happen today because you are right here beside me. I will love you absolutely, infinitely, madly.

and may all your St. Patrick's days be green

Lá Fhéile Pádraig Shona duit go léir, taitneamh a bhaint as an seisiún!

lion kings, a P45 and talent in the tavern

Random excerpts from correspondence from the Western civilisation...

"Can you cook? I doubt it though ..."
"Me and my lion king are fine."
"Your P45 and a cheque will be on the way according to Ms. R"
"May I just say that she put on a lot of weight too ..."
"This girl is ok but there is an abyss between me and her."
"I am the new Rita!!!!"
"One day my mother just took a little bit of money and escape to Europe because 'they' wanted to kill her. 'They' are the same that wanted to kill my brother and me ... no comments!!!"
"You are young, European and clever so you have too many choices."
"She and her girlfriend are very nice and friendly. For me is a very strange situation."
"Irish people don't talk about that ... all is 'grand'."
"I'm sure that after countless hours of talking we would have been ... no wiser."
"I think Patrick has gone quiet altogether. God love him."
"You may find me crazy but in my imagination I associate you with the image of a novelist. Did you ever consider writing?"
"Already had about 55 marriage proposals!"
"I'm shocked you even know a word like 'nipples' but mine are still very much intact."
"I'm not fleeing from the family to have them follow me!"
"The girls thought there was no talent in the tavern and wanted to go home."
"There is something going on that I can only call an exodus."
"How could we EVER fancy him??"
"He looks blurry and talks absolute blabla."
"We have 60 Irish priests staying in the house. I still try to make up a confession I'd like to do but it's hard being perfect me."

rescue a teenager today

Walked past the school I always walk past in the morning. Saw the same teenagers I always see hurrying to their first class or morning assembly or whatever they have to hurry to in the mornings. Actually, I always seem to meet different teenagers every day, how many students can there be in that school really?

Anyway, apart from my usual, semi-subconscious reflections - how glad I am not to be an awkward, scared teenager in school, how slightly envious I am of these kids with their glossy skin and bright futures - I suddenly got angry. At my own time in school, specifically those years (thankfully, only three) when the classrooms and crowded corridors were a war zone with potential enemies lurking everywhere. Where were the adults who were supposed to help, guide and protect? No teacher seemed to give a damn about a suffering fourteen-year-old. Parents offered help but when a stubborn kid claimed she could handle any problems on her own, they didn't press the issue. Bloody hell. A teenager can't cope with everything, no matter how convincing she sounds. They should have asked again, and again. Taken matters in their own hands and protected the kid, changed the world for her. Against her will if necessary.

What did I learn from this? That you'd better handle things on your own, because nobody else will be there for you. That there must be something wrong with me because I didn't succeed in making everybody love me when I was that shy fourteen-year-old. That it's a good idea not to be yourself, because who you are doesn't cut it.

Things can hardly be much better for teenagers now, in these days of even larger schools and fewer teachers and counsellors. It chills me to the bone when I think about it. As I walk past that school, suddenly all I see is lost souls going to their doom.

the bliss of the Irish

"Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive 
But to be young was very heaven"

Not a film star on a yacht in Monte Carlo. A hotel receptionist on a pier outside a modest little Irish town. But oh so happy. The quote could represent her whole existence right then.

(The quote is from William Wordsworth: "The French Revolution". I learned it not in studying English poetry, which I was never very good at anyway, but because it was splashed in bold print across the front page of a major Irish newspaper one day. The reason for the Irish press waxing lyrical? Ireland had made it to some semi-final in some football world cup, or something like it - unprecedented in that particular sport. Only the Irish would celebrate such a (to me) mundane thing by quoting poetry in the headlines of the day. It is so true what T.E. Kalem said about the Irish people and the English language:

"They court it like a beautiful woman. They make it bray with donkey laughter. They hurl it at the sky like a paint pot full of rainbows, and then make it chant a dirge for man's fate and man's follies that is as mournful as misty spring rain crying over the fallow earth.")

before your snow castle melts

The month of March. When you are a child.

The sound of the wind in pine trees as dusk falls over the neighbourhood, the soggy grey snow beneath your boots, the smell of wet earth emerging slowly, the mildness in the air piercing the cold that has lasted so long, the light sky in the evenings, the first migrating birds returning, the feeling of promise.

You play your fantasy games in your melting snow castle, getting a little wet and cold as twilight descends. You have your own world which stretches further than the stars and knows no limit to hope and dreams, but you also have the safety of hearing the familiar voices of the neighbourhood. Soon, your father's car will pull into the driveway and you will run to him. And your mother will call out that supper is ready. Somewhere, a dog is barking.

Later in life, your dreams may break and you may learn that March is the month of murders. But if you have had even one of these evenings in childhood, you have a treasure that cannot be taken from you.

breath and death and the difference

Not breathing, that will be the death of me.

Well, obviously. But, really.

You shouldn't speculate about your own death. I'm not superstitious, but words do have power and you set things in motion when you talk about them (self-fulfilling prophecies and all that). But it's after midnight and I'm feeling a bit rebellious and a bit tired of playing by safe rules and I will die some day anyway. Right now it doesn't worry me in the slightest.

There is nothing physically wrong with me. I can run and jump for hours. Yet sometimes I have to control my breathing so as not to hyperventilate, just because I'm weak or not well or just generally anguished. Sometimes my body stops breathing and then remembers to restart at the last minute (with a reassuringly powerful effort, admittedly). I tend to panic in water so am a drowning victim waiting to happen. My father died because his lungs stopped working.

A very spiritual friend of mine once told me breathing is connected to one's spirit (spiritus in Latin means breath). Or perhaps to God's spirit, the one who is also called the Breath of God and is compared to a wind (Ruach Elohim). My friend suggested getting to know this Spirit. He may have a point.

What I really think? That I'm out of breath because I have been running for so long - hunted by pressure to be someone else, and desperate longing, and a terrible fear of not being loved. One day, I hope to be able to stop and catch my breath.

When you pick me up and carry me. Then I will feel as if I can breathe for the first time in years. Safe.

fight this!

While we are on the subject of grassroot movements... Have a look at this. Let's make one person famous - not because he deserves it but because it will save 30 000 children.


KONY 2012 from INVISIBLE CHILDREN on Vimeo.


"Never doubt that a small group of committed people can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." (Margaret Mead)

what happened to Sun Tzu?

There are some Sherlock Holmes fans even in my little city. I was forced to google #believeinsherlock, apparently a worldwide campaign, after finding little post-it notes here and there. This one was stuck to the cover of a book I happened to pull out from the shelf of a bookshop. (I'm not sure how Holmes and Watson felt about Sun Tzu?)

I am ever the fan of underground movements and bohemian campaigns, little assaults on the commonplace. Not to mention the feeling that this backwater town is somehow connected to the rest of the world.

pink day

I know it's hard to believe but I actually dressed in pink today. I own two pieces of pink clothing, both glimpsed here. Here's the Pink Cougar on her way to a coffee date with a young and innocent man.

He seemed to like it. I definitely liked it. We discussed calories, skinny models, unwise excuses to use for taking a sick day, failed marketing strategies, perfume and sweat, how far you are willing to go for your work, evening shifts and a Turkish soap vendor named Ali.

the Sisterhood of M

Three friends glued together for life thanks to a spacious city-centre flat with uninspiring rooftop views, a welcome-all attitude and a quirky wig-making landlady. University and a lively, strange city and a beautiful river within walking distance.

An intellectual one with a sharp mind, a logical leadership style, social skills edged with straight-forwardness, and a tendency towards anxiety. A romantic charmer with boundless exuberance, vulnerable openness, a taste for traditions and an urge to make friends with everyone and explore absolutely everything. And then the third one who is not in this picture, the rather confused one in the middle who envied them both and loved them both and learned to live thanks to them both. Strangely, she was the only one who was never homesick. That one was me.

just in case I ever leave

I am committing Finland to memory for future reference.

I pay attention to the way the ice crunches under my boots as I walk to work in the morning sun. The way my neighbours say hello as we pass in the hallway. How my mother smiles when I walk into her flat. How the Finnish language flows into intriguing verb forms. How regular customers in the shop always greet me in the same way. How my best friend texts to ask me if I'm also watching NCIS right now. How the view outside my window is always stunningly beautiful, no matter the weather. How my internet connection is never down (how could it, when I have four different ones?). How I can experience Arctic temperatures when I go out and still walk barefoot in my flat.

How I feel safe - in walking through dark streets in the middle of the night. In placing orders at work and knowing I won't get it wrong. In trusting that my stove won't break down as I cook dinner, or if it does, that I can make a call and someone will fix it before I die of starvation. In knowing that if I get sick someone will take care of me and it won't break my bank. In being able to predict how people think and act. In always having someone nearby to talk to.

In essence, Finland is Home and Safety. So how much is Freedom worth?

and a mustard seed afterthought

mustard seed thirteen (a.k.a. coming home)

Could there be two more beautiful places on earth to leave your heart? Between Sea and Fire there is nothing but Peace.

say I am wonderful

I look at an old picture of myself in ill-fitting clothes and cannot understand how I could love myself back then. Did I? Could I at all identify myself with my own body?

At some point in my life I acquired a dress sense which is now such an integral part of my identity that I feel almost physically ill if I wear something that doesn't fit me. Some people say they dress how they feel. I dress how I want to feel (not that it always works).

There should be nothing but beauty in the world. I work on that. I want to add to it.

nouns of March

Shocking diaries and Andromeda adventures (2006)
Abysses and shadows (2007)
Kiss resistance and wet feet (2008)
Jasper bracelets and angel choirs (2009)
Blizzard shopping and American wisdom (2010)
Crowded minds and sunset colours (2011)
Supermarket miracle and dream fuel (2012)

as one incapable of her own distress

Over a lazy Saturday coffee I try to list good things that have emerged out of my seven Finnish years of tribulation. There are indeed a few. And today, there will be a road trip through sunny snowscapes with good friends and a good man I hope to sit next to. At our destination, there will be cake.

And when I feel down, I am comforted by the thought of curling up on my sofa with a glass of wine and my latest TV-series addiction. Pathetic, yes. But there is also an element of fueling my deepest desire for change until it cannot help but take off - or possibly blow up in my face (but worry about that later).

the supermarket where Superman shops

So many pictures in this blog nowadays. It used to be a plain-text, boring old blog. Shouldn't really overdo it.

I just fell in love with pictures this winter.

To balance all the pretty dreamy images, here is kitchen-sink-realism: A mugshot of the supermarket where I reluctantly go to shop for eggs and bread. The one with the unbelievable queues to the check-outs, which give you time to study all the normal and weird people around you. The other day, an old man couldn't find all the euros he needed to pay for his groceries and an impatient businessman in the queue behind him stepped in to pay the balance. That never happens in cold-hearted, cold-climate Finland. When the old man tried to thank him, the businessman actually said: "Pay it forward." I almost proposed to him on the spot.

mustard seed twelve (a.k.a. the English Dream)

a beautiful shame

"Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you."

(G.R.R. Martin: A Game of Thrones)

mustard seed eleven

mustard seed ten

stuck in the middle with you

What would a baby think if she had the capacity, a week before her first Christmas? That the milk carton will look the same more than 30 years from now? That three dark-haired children of strength and tender hearts will be very different? That the Seventies are really cool-nerdy?

Maybe the one and only thought is, and will ever be, "look at me, Daddy".

darling books: beauty says, all will be well

"Eve was given to the world as the incarnation of a beautiful, captivating God - a life-offering, life-saving lover, a relational specialist, full of tender mercy and hope. Yes, she brought a strength to the world, but not a striving, sharp-edged strength. She was inviting, alluring, captivating."

Rereading the best book I ever read on what it is like to be a woman (Captivating by John & Stasi Eldredge). How can anyone know so much about what I'm like? What I was meant to be and what went wrong?

Makes me a bit shaky.

mustard seed nine

kicksleds and monsters

Normally somewhat pessimistic, I knew it was going to be a perfect day from the minute I picked up some fresh donuts from the supermarket and drove out to the Island. Maybe it was because of the brilliant sunshine over white snow and the ideal winter temperature, just below freezing.

The Island has an ancient mummers tradition of sorts on Shrove Tuesday. It's mad, bad and dangerous to know... Young people get dressed up as monsters and walk around the village, making noise and entering a few houses. The general idea is to attack random people on the way, drag them into the ditch and "wash" them with snow, a cold and rather unpleasant experience for the victim. A crowd of children of all ages and some adults follow them around, drawn by morbid curiosity, and every now and then the mummers turn around and attack their followers. It's not exactly safe - I saw and heard complaints of scrapes and bruises, ruined cellphones, and witnessed children shaking with terror or cold or both. At one point I was trying to comfort my friend's toddler who cried as he saw his mother dragged off by two monsters while another approached him to rub some snow into his face.

And still, all the children were completely exhilarated afterwards. The adults bought hot dogs at an improvised concession stand and muttered about things getting way out of hand, but the same was muttered last year and the year before that and still everyone is eager to keep this tradition going exactly as it is.

I was trailing after the monsters like the others but was spared any attacks. Maybe because I am a stranger in this village where everyone knows everyone. But I was as exhilarated as the rest. It's a strangely scary feeling, standing passively still and avoiding eye contact as gangs of masked monsters - who never utter a sound - advance on you, while children run away and adults shift nervously but never resist as they are randomly and rather violently dragged off the road for punishment.

And the rest of it - moving around the snowy village roads on a kicksled with a toddler bedded down in sheepskins and wool blankets, passing ancient cottages and sleeping fields, golden sunshine giving way to blueish dusk and starry skies, hearing the locals chatter around me, warming myself by a gas barbecue outside the community hall, going home to hot chocolate and traditional Shrove Tuesday "klimp" soup and pastries with the Warrior Princess and her elderly aunt - it was all just perfect. As I knew it would be.

mustard seed eight

gonna have a riot

Heading out to the Island, where they apparently have their own quirky take on Shrove Tuesday celebrations. My friend's only clues were a vague "well, they hit people on the head" and a worried "I really can't guarantee that you won't break any bones".

But there is actual sunshine today, the bright "promise of spring" kind, and a dripping sound of melting snow on the windowsill. So I go bravely.

mustard seed seven

age and smoke detectors

I just had a terribly middle-aged thought: I should check the batteries in my smoke detector.

To counter-balance this thought, I now need to go do something teenaged. But it's late and I really just want to go lie in bed with my knitting and my hot-water bottle.

mustard seed six

waiting for future nostalgia

A slight thud, and then the wind howls in through the balcony door. I jump, startled. I was googling pictures of Irish guesthouses and my mind was far away in the milder climates of the Emerald Isle. But in February in Finland you don't let a door remain open if a stubborn winter wind has managed to tug it open, so I reluctantly get up from the sofa.

On the balcony, powdery snow is whirling around. I look across the dark, ice-locked bay and hear the wind rush through the night. The small city is already sleeping. I pull my sweater tightly around me but my feet, despite woollen socks, are already going cold. This is real winter in the North... and while I might wish with all my heart to be somewhere else, cry myself to sleep longing to for other horizons, this is home.

And someday soon, I will be homesick and heartbroken - for this. There is a bizarre hope in that thought.

mustard seed five

mustard seed four

mustard seed three

mustard seed two

mustard seed one

the kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed

I have decided to visualize my dreams, even the ridiculous ones and the ones I don't believe in. Because when you do, you sow a seed. And seeds grow whether you believe in them or not.

So in no particular order, the seeds will show up on this blog. In a year or two or ten or forty, hopefully they will have grown into a lush forest of life.

transcendence, or how God tries to woo me

* Birdsong in the mornings when I walk to work or open the balcony door - even in midwinter, even when it's 25 degrees below freezing point.
* A day off, lounging on the couch with a coffee mug. Watching spring clouds or a bleak winter sun - sticking close to the horizon - move across the sky, taking their time. In no hurry anywhere, just being what they are: glorious.
* A bathtub, candlelight and Bach.
* Ireland.
* Taking a break from a grey, anguished, everyday life and sitting down at a café table. Being comforted by caffeine and a sugar rush, watching people walk by and having important thoughts just come to me. Or even just retiring to the dismal staff room at work and pouring myself a cup of hot black coffee, feeling as if this is a tiny moment of grace.
* Pubs.
* Ancient vaults surrounding me as I feel centuries of human life rush by.
* Music that overwhelms me, classical and modern at once.
* A walk through a foreign landscape.
* A smile and a touch from someone admirable.
* Experiencing the flow of creating / learning / doing something I'm good at / spiking a volleyball.
* A long drive, alone with music.
* Summer evenings by the sea, with a bottle of wine.
* The moment when I realise that someone knows exactly how I feel.
* The feeling of rebellion and freedom and being strong - I might have to explore that one further.

rule-breaking break-taking

Happiness is having a job where you can check FaceBook or chat with a friend or do something else completely non-work-related once in a while, even when your boss is watching. Even when you are not sure whether he/she will approve.

Being so sure of your own irreplaceability. Or just not worrying. Not feeling defensive. Being free.

moving literature in a cold climate

With thirteen cardboard boxes and a Swedish man... I aimed my car north and prayed its French engine would hold together in 23 degrees below freezing temperature. When you work with books, these are things you do sometimes.

It kind of feels good, transporting literature somewhere, despite the acute physical pain when you have to get out of the car into the Arctic weather.

In our sister bookshop in the town further north I loaded and unloaded boxes, discussed upcoming releases with the Swedish sales rep and my colleagues, had lots of coffee, took a good look around the bookshelves, checked FaceBook when there was nothing to do, had lunch in the Indian restaurant next door with my new boss and the sales rep. During the book talks I found myself uncharacteristically drifting off - into pointless daydreams of another life. What is wrong with me? Isn't this the life I should be dreaming of?

februarying

* Bureaucracy-battling and fun-needing (2006)
* Blueberry-scenting and attitude-controlling (2007)
* Post-it-noting and me-being (2008)
* Winter-hiking and coffee/toffee-strategizing (2009)
* Beach-harmonizing and Tesco-shopping (2010)
* Neighbour-watching and Observer-reading (2011)
* Shivering and father-figure-obsessing (2012)