see God and live

Returned to The Shack, the book about a man who gets to confront God about all the pain he's suffered. I reread it when I'm angry, anxious or just looking for meaning.

The movie is actually very good too.

in Ireland everything takes more than 15 minutes

Addition to the recap of 2018:

Ireland in April: A country looking more worn-down but with the same fabulous seafood and friendliness. I showed my friends my previous life.

Blackbirds in a Dublin park, rain and hot fires, wandering around my Magic Valley forever, watching sheepdogs at work, feeling absurdly happy on a cramped bus on a rainy morning, finding the sun over hot chocolate on a vast beach, having my first reflexology treatment, not finding a pub in Dublin but running straight into a Romanian midnight church celebration, crawling into the 5200-year-old Newgrange tomb, a music session on the happy west coast, the spectacular and strangely unknown Slieve League, terrible back roads where the speed limits are the most optimistic (not to say homicidal) in the world, a joyous Monday night pub crawl in Monaghan.

Quote of the trip: "Fifteen minutes there, fifteen minutes back." (I.e. my rather optimistic estimate of the time a particular walk would take us. My friends never believed me again.)

2018: the year of silver and the Ski Club

* New Year with the Ski Club that never skis.
* A Spanish evening with tapas, wine and wild dancing with hot-blooded people while the weather was being very Finnish outside.
* Sushi-making lessons from a teenager who had just bought a Kevlar vest.
* Election night watch party where we forgot to watch and booked a trip to Ireland instead.
* Ice hike and picnic alone on a deserted island - mushroom pie and coffee.

Ice hike

 * A military parade on a sunny, freezing day and an impressive air show by a fighter jet - exhilarating and my worst nightmare.
* A wild car chase to get free tickets to the theatre - the wonderful musical Billy Elliot in Finnish.
* Blind date with a window blind salesman. It was blindingly obvious that we weren't meant to be.
* Another non-skiing day with the Ski Club: luxury hamburgers with foie gras and dancing to dodgy music.

* Ireland in April: beaches, mountains and narrow Dublin streets, friends in various moods, dreams and Donegal.
* All-night drive to get home after a long journey, which gave a whole new meaning to the phrase "midnight madness".
* Birthday celebration, times two, on my balcony with traditional silver pear cake.
* May Day brunch on raw food with the Ski Club (still not skiing).
* A bucket of chicken shit that I carried into the main hospital to give to a friend.
* Autopsy that I attended in a carefully planned outfit.
* Ear massage (heavenly!).
* Poodle week with strawberries and gorgeous summer mornings.
* Anxiety pills that I gave away to a friend.

Not feeling anxious anymore

* First day of summer vacation: visit to the world's most boring museum.
* Tree-felling weeks with family and poodle.
* Midsummer with the Midsummer People in a cottage deep in a rain-soaked forest.
* Sing-along and beer at the micro-brewery with the Ski Club (need I say it? there was no skiing).
* Picnic in the park with the Ski Club on the hottest day of the year (33.7 degrees Celsius, not enough snow for skiing). A nap afterwards to sober up, on brown grass with a wild hare for company.
* Lots of summer floating on the sea (peaceful) and quality time with mother (not always peaceful). Heat headaches and a desperate search for cold water.
* Weekend in Helsinki with a friend, Bukowski and an electric fan. There was unbelievable heat, a hunt for a golden lion, dead presidents and a party with Hare Krishnas. We fled the city when Trump and Putin arrived.
* Encounter with (what might have been) a monster of the abyss, on a summer morning boat trip.
* Pergola planning for the garden by me and my equally non-planning, non-gardening sister.
* VIP tickets to a festival. Music, great food and wine, and everyone soaked in sweat. "Can you believe how much your employer invested in you?" gasped my plus-one.

* Barefoot pizza party on a tiny balcony during the thunder storm of the century.
* A dead squirrel and traumatized kids, all my fault.
* Guided excursions to a waste treatment plant (with its own Grand Canyon), a theatre, the City Hall, an opera cellar, the dangerous roof of the icehockey arena and the smelly locker room of the Vaasan Sport icehockey team.
* Badminton - my old Irish hobby became my new one this year.
* Two days shopping in the city that tends to give me suicidal thoughts. Not so this time. It gave me good coffee and quality time with friends.
* My first and last cooking class ever.

* Flirting with a vegetable vendor who took my pulse, right before I was given a book about a vegetarian lion - all while undergoing a health examination.
* Lessons in first aid.
* Large party with strangers only - I mingled with boat people and entrepreneurs and loved it.
* Turku visit with nuns, bad weather, happy memories and another party mingling with strangers.
* Christmas celebrations for nine hours straight, with thirteen humans and five dogs.
* New Year's Eve with friends, prayer, wine and fireworks - and the worst storm in recorded history.

Ongoing projects of the year:
* Getting silver hair - loving it.
* Volleyball - playing and watching with friends.
* Church - mostly avoiding it.
* Becoming a morning person and a bus person and a less lazy, unorganized person.
* Doing piano lessons on winter evenings and intense French studies through an app.
* Having party evenings with my nasty friends, other evenings with my good friend watching bizarre reality shows about au pairs.

Text is my thing

Miscellaneous:
* Frequent food: Carelian pasty, croissants, eggs and carrots.
* Freezing winter when wolf packs became the talk of the town, scorching summer when I watered squirrels and constantly stuck my head under the cold-water tap.
* Self-analysis of the year: "I am made of spiderweb and birdsong." And I have a deep anger, am more harmonious when responsible for someone, and need to get in touch with my body.

New experiences: Sing-alongs and autopsies, reflexology and traumatizing smear tests, wild boar steak.

being good on Epiphany

"And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good." (John Steinbeck)

It is Epiphany today. I dreamed I was being good last night. In some ways, I am. Good at some things. Sometimes a good person.

(In my dream I also executed people, but that only shows I'm good at unusual dreams, right?)

bubbly and the sign of the cross

As I waited for year 2019...

I ate, drank, let a little boy play with my hair, received the sign of the cross on my forehead as I prayed, got the mambo and the salsa mixed up but swinged my hips anyway, got the introverts to chat and sing some very weird songs.

Candles flickered on the window sill, a blizzard raged outside, the Backstreet Boys made us dance.

At midnight, we shivered on an icy balcony and sipped something bubbly pink as fireworks rained down stars on our heads.

I dedicated the first few hours of the new year to diving into the deepest secrets of a woman's life.

I may be lonely, it may be the last New Year's Eve on my beloved balcony by the sea - but I have friends and celebrations and life moves forward.

parties, darkness and parties

December was family parties, friends parties, office parties, darkness, too much sugar, badminton, laughing with strangers, three rainy and nostalgic days in the city that educated me, a very social Christmas.

deep thought over garlic

Every time I fry garlic, or take the first sip of coffee, or blow out the candles after a party, I feel a little more loved.

(for god likes girls and tomorrow and the earth) - e.e. cummings

saints and songs and gingerbread

I have watched the Nobel Banquet on TV and found inspiration among princes and sages.

I have loved the darkest time of the year, loved by nobody else, because it is so intense in its darkness. I have walked in rain and snow and eaten too much chocolate and it's not even Christmas yet.

This is December, when memories and a craving for ancient traditions tumble over me. I want to sing of tidings of comfort and joy and wonder as I wander. I want to see a saint with a crown of candles walk into a dark room. I want to hear hymns echo under high vaults and burst into tears. I want the smell of gingerbread and the taste of clementines and the love of people and gods.

I want to sing out loud, courageously as when I was six years old and surprised everyone by singing a solo about lighting a candle in a lonely house. I want to sleep for hours in my mother's house.

coming home, fourteen years later

I'm back in the Magic Valley, fourteen years after it changed my life.

Nobody here looks familiar - all my friends have moved on too. But the valley is as welcoming as ever, soothing my soul with its loveliness and sweet memories.

After a long day out in all this beauty and fresh air, I walk into the hotel bar, nervous. What if I recognise someone but they look straight through me? The thought is unbearable.

That fear is laid to rest when a man looks at me and exclaims: "Come here, stranger!" It's an old friend - the patron saint of magic valleys.

He spends the rest of the evening buying me drinks and talking to me. I stumble back to my hostel a little drunk, completely happy and at home.

daylight lamps, spiced tea

November is monochromatic coldness, too much to do, jackdaws, favourite boots. The dreaded, sunless month of dying, always dark. Sugar cravings, evening classes. Start of the party season with cake and mulled wine. Daylight lamps, spiced tea. A little worry and a great love for life.

November withers down, the essence of life is left. Find this treasure and be happy.

bus stop: Serenity

I have become a person who takes the bus.

The bus is noisy, a bit smelly, the windows are sometimes too dirty to see through and the heater is often on full blast, creating a tropic micro-climate that is not the best when you want to arrive at work cool and unruffled.

Above all, the bus is slow, winding its way through four or five suburbs. It never goes straight down any road if it can find a small side road into which to do a sharp turn, or an dodgy neighbourhood to circle. My fifteen-minute commute becomes at least forty-five minutes long.

Still, I cheerily greet the surly busdriver and find my seat in the back where I endure the jolting and shaking journey, surrounded by students and immigrants. Because the noisy bus is an oasis of calm. A no man's land. Work stress is left behind at the bus stop. I can do nothing about anything, just sit still and think, or not think, and watch people and things I've never seen before. And afterwards get a much-needed walk from the bus stop.

The bus turns my hyperactive brain off for a while.

the numb fingertips of Halloween

It always happens around Halloween, when you're in the middle of your busy, tired autumn and still far away from Christmas.

The first mornings of scraping ice off the car and skidding on frozen puddles. The first lungfuls of air that smells of winter and nothing else whatsoever.

The first sensation of fingertips going numb when you forgot your gloves. The first uncontrollable shivers under a parka not quite thick enough.

The first snow, delightful and shocking with its promise of a new season.
The last week in October - the time when autumn turns from mild to harsh. My fingers are constantly numb with cold but when other Finns moan about the long winter ahead, I only worry about getting the winter tires on my car. Once that is done - always a mad scramble at this time of the year, always a cold, cold task - I settle in to enjoy the challenging, mysterious, exotic, dangerous winter in the North.

the Carrie years, with a happy end

Map of the school where I spent my first teenage years:

It still gives me that haunted feeling. Endless corridors, filled with smirking faces, where I was chased by wild beasts. No place to rest or hide. The nightmarish place where all those corridors converged, a dark place that smelled of burned metal and where a loudspeaker was forever playing Europe.

Carrie, Carrie, things they change my friend ...

Classrooms behind locked doors, dull in appearance and spirit. Prison yards, struggling against graffiti, where my best friends stabbed me in the back. A cafeteria smelling of onions and fear. Nameless horrors everywhere.

Seeing it again makes me jump with joy and walk with a swagger. I survived! I went through hell and grew strong, and I will never, ever, let anyone chase me through a dark corridor again. What is there to fear, after this?

starlings and my lost voice

Starlings in the crabapple trees sing joy into my otherwise quiet world.

I'm looking for my voice. I go walking in woods where I'm sprinkled with gold, every tree a jewel.

The sun is at an angle, always staring me in the face. Storms are pushing wild water up against thresholds. Rustling of leaves, insistent winds. Red sunsets, too early. Crisp dawns with blue skies or dull greyness, later every day.

The cold creeps closer and I'm knitting another scarf. The darkness creeps further into my days and I feast on juicy red apples. I teach myself French, then Russian. I travel by bus and drink wine with my friends. I pray. I dress with care and learn to live my life in months. October smells of wet leaves and pencils.

Almost half a year until spring.

mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam

I dreamed of this back then, when I roamed the world and was feeling weary and homesick:

After a successful day at the office, taking an interesting evening class in the community centre in my hometown, the bright and airy building with the wonderful library and the cosy café in it. Being surrounded by people who speak my language, running into people I haven't seen for decades. Having coffee with a friend I've known forever, in that cosy café. Strolling around the library that was my second home as a kid.

Then going to visit my mother who welcomes me with more coffee and sandwiches, which we share with another random visitor, my nephew. Discussing everyday things (unpaid bills) with my mother and lofty things (macroeconomics) with my clever nephew. Feeling connected to past and future.

It's been a while since my world-roaming days and nowadays my dreams are mostly of new adventures. But today, as this particular dream came true, I was quite content with being right here - at home.

Childhood hoods

the good darkness

Cold rain, red and yellow trees, and people who are afraid of the dark. It is the heart of autumn.

I am not afraid of autumn darkness. There are worse darknesses out there, and so much light to create.

holding a man's aorta

For some reason, I'm standing in an autopsy room.

A man who was alive up until a few days ago, is lying naked on a slab with excrement on his inner thighs and his entire torso cut open. The sight is horrifying and utterly sad.

The only sane way to deal with it is to pretend that he is not real, just a very authentic-looking dummy. So that is what we do. The medical examiner and her assistant dig out the important organs one by one, cut and study them, while doing a running commentary to us two outsiders who have no medical experience whatsoever.

At one point, I get to hold the aorta so I can see for myself how calcified and hard it is. It's absurd. I'm holding a man's aorta in my hands.

It is fascinating. I'm thrilled about the experience. Not to mention relieved to find that I can handle the sights and smells without fainting. What a piece of work is man! What an intricate puzzle of complicated pieces that all function seamlessly together - until they don't. (And even then they can usually be fixed, even heal themselves.)

Even more fascinating is the fact that it is so clear, looking at this poor man, that he himself is long gone. Whatever the soul is, it has left the building.

Afterwards I enjoy the sun on my face. I feel happy to be alive, and away from the smell of decay. And I feel sad. We pretended that the man wasn't real and in a way he wasn't - but he used to be.

buses, biogas and kittens

September is the month when I stare sunset in the face, celebrate chocolate harvest festival and become obsessed with beanies and pulse warmers.

This year, it was also the month when I found a kitten on my balcony, looked into a biogas reactor and started travelling by bus.

not just in a grain of sand

I want to ...

visit Prague, Barcelona and Venice.

have endless cups of tea and then be rocked to sleep on the train from Helsinki to Beijing.

shiver with fear in the heart of Africa on a hot, dark night full of strange sounds, feeling very far from home.

sail up the Amazon river and see crocodiles, monkeys and other unpleasant animals.

drink beer in the colourful cantinas of Mexico and sleep on a Pacific beach.

look for my lost love on the streets of Sydney.

get lost in a maze of neon-lit alleys in any city in East Asia where I don't understand a word of the language.

lazily cruise Polynesia, the Stockholm archipelago and any other friendly archipelago.

explore New York, Oklahoma, the Dakotas and every other part of the U.S. A.

really feel India.

be drunk and in love among the glitter of Hong Kong

travel on a slow, small boat along the rivers and canals of the European continent, listening to chansons, boat horns, crickets and the popping of wine corks, passing underneath low-hanging branches that smell of honeysuckle and roses, close enough to the river banks to wave at playing children and hear the sizzle of meat from summer barbecues.


see every medieval castle and ancient ruin known to man.

I mix melancholia with excitement, bonfires with storms

August was:

Encounters with hedgehogs and eagles, carnival smoothies with a doctor, midnight car crashes far away, sea buckthorn berries, a bonfire in a storm.

Long talks and arbour planning by the sea. Inaction, weariness and a little worry. Crying over a dead squirrel and the discovery that I am very strong, sometimes.

Days alone in the wilderness with chocolate and Once Upon A Time.

As always at the end of summer, melancholia mixed with excited plans.

a woman like me, but stronger

There is a woman, like me but stronger, that lives in a tiny flat in a big city, with a handsome man and a scruffy mongrel.

Each day, the man and the woman take their weapon of choice and go out to fight the good fight together. They save people and make them courageous. The dog usually gets to come along. The woman comes home to write about what she has seen and send the words across continents. The man cooks mushroom pies that smells deliciously of garlic and sings old jazz tunes.

In the evenings, they climb out on the roof to watch the sunset and drink wine. There are candles and colourful blankets. She teaches him Nordic myths and truths while playing him songs in strange, important languages. He tells her things she's never heard before and reads classic novels aloud.

They travel and love.

There is a piano and they get lost in the music.

the summer of deep-sea monsters, never-ending picnics and plus-ones

July was:

The hottest summer for a hundred years, and an inability to move. A beach picnic with wine, another with cinnamon buns, a third with salmon and luxury beer on the hottest day of the hottest summer. Dozing in city parks on brown grass, on the run from my own home.

Busy work days in air-conditioned offices, lazy vacation days when I never moved from the beach. Floating on the sea, making plans to conquer my anger and frustration. Being surrounded by some of my favourite smells: the sea, a summer garden, garlic in the frying-pan.

A photography exhibition with Nick Brandt's awesome work and a weekend in Helsinki. Never wearing any shoes except sandals, occasionally. Swimming in silky-smooth seas, rescuing an ancient fishing net out of the water and meeting what might have been the Baltic version of the Loch Ness monster.

An expensive work party and lots of fun with the plus one that I should stop bringing with me. A pizza party barefoot on a dark balcony while a cataclysmic thunderstorm raged. A cute mouse carried into the forest in a bucket. Family and weariness and happiness and longing for rain.

to helsinki, to be inspired

We drive the 400 kilometres to Helsinki, the nations capital, to hang out on a lovely beach near the city centre and watch the beachvolley championships.

To eat a weird lunch of cabbage rolls, to sip cold beer under a chestnut tree while a group of Hare Krishnas are having a street party right in front of us.

To walk among oddly coloured houses, to feel the asphalt soften under our sandals in the sizzling heat, to seek refuge and good coffee in deliciously cool malls. To watch people with weird hair colours and weird attitudes. To wonder about the hieroglyphs painted on a door.

To spend a lazy, inspiring weekend in a heatwave, in a beautiful, quirky and cool city.

storm-gazer's day

Storm-gazing across a darkening bay, breathlessly waiting for thunder rolling across land and sky. Making a show out of it, lining up sunchairs on the beach and handing out icecream, squabbling over whether that there was actually a lightning or not.

Thrillers are being read, neighbours are chatted with, bitter coffee is drunk.

Another hot day moves lazily into evening, darker than usual as the rain finally arrives. I feel the thirst of the withering land through my bare feet. Dry grass sighs with pleasure under warm rain. We light lamps for the first time in weeks - tonight there will be no near-midnight-sun - and huddle up around a kitchen table to eat chocolate pudding.

I'm savouring family life. There are dark winter nights ahead with not much company except for that of books and dreams, but that's OK. For now, there is everlasting sun and people to love and plans to be made.

horizons and horseflies

July sizzles under a record heatwave. This is where I'm happiest: in a cool sea, under a hot sun, with nothing but silent horizons and dreams and languages around me.

I stay as close to the sea as I can. Staring at distant islands, getting grass stains on my shorts, finding myself. I cook for my mother, study birds with my sister, lend my car to my brother-in-law, play silly games with my nephew.

I forget that there are such things as shoes, cold rain, work, lattes, make-up, friends, indoor activities.

I get annoyed by such things as horseflies, the proximity to my mother and the fact that the sun is trying to kill me.

I'm not moving from my hiding place until July is over.

me and another language and a mock-orange

I sit on a bench in the park and smell the sweet mock-orange and practice phrases like parce qu'elle est jeune nous pouvons la comprendre and think that it doesn't matter so much that I sit here alone.

his eyes aren't the ocean

"His eyes aren’t the ocean; I’m not going to drown when he tells me he doesn’t love me anymore.
His freckles aren’t really constellations that I can trace my fingers against so I can feel the stars shimmering under his skin,
and his veins are not a map I follow to lead me back to his heart where I belong.
He is honestly just a sleepy eyed boy with dimples and crooked teeth.
But it’s really hard not to see the world in someone when in truth, to you that’s what they are. Your entire fucking world."

(There’s just something about you (H.S), Dumbdaisies, Tumblr)

pine resin and a sing-along

The month of June had:

A boisterous party with rain, barbecue, birch leaf wine and a lullaby, career changes and the man who always runs out in the middle of parties to save someone in distress.

A poodle week with summery walks and early strawberries.

Long days by the sea with pine resin, sweat and old lady-watching.

An icecream session with the clan and a sing-along in a microbrewery.

Watering the wildlife and translating gangster movies.

the five-hour dinner of the Midsummer People

His beard is long and he looks like a hipster, my friend who has decided to leave the field of theology for a possible career in law enforcement.

It's Midsummer's Eve and he is in charge of the barbecue. I'm keeping him company in a drafty barn where we are barely sheltered from the cold rain. I move closer to the heat of the grill. I'm not dressed warmly enough in my jeans and tee but the smell of sizzling meat is delicious.

The air in the barn is dusty and grey, a bumble-bee occasionally buzzes around us. We have not talked like this for years, not since our days of playing pool in a dark basement.

Our friends are already gathered around the table. The cottage in the middle of the woods is warmly lit and nobody cares about the cold rain outside. There are hot steaks, corn and haloumi, homemade birch wine and a runny sorbet. There are more strawberries than we can eat. Someone plays a lullaby on the guitar and someone cries and someone gets their clothes ripped off by kids on a sugar rush.

The meal lasts for five hours, with the usual breaks for naps, rescue missions and disappearances.

l'or de mon passé

Since I can't write, I will quote and steal for a while. For all Francophiles out there, here are the words to a wonderful song.


Je voudrais oublier le temps
Pour un soupir, pour un instant
Une parenthèse après la course
Et partir où mon cœur me pousse

Je voudrais retrouver mes traces
Où est ma vie, ou est ma place
Et garder l’or de mon passé
Au chaud dans mon jardin secret

Je voudrais passer l’océan, croiser le vol d’un goéland
Penser à tout ce que j’ai vu ou bien aller vers l’inconnu
Je voudrais décrocher la lune, je voudrais même sauver la Terre
Mais avant tout, je voudrais parler à mon père
Parler à mon père

Je voudrais choisir un bateau
Pas le plus grand ni le plus beau
Je le remplirais des images
Et des parfums de mes voyages

Je voudrais freiner pour m’assoir
Trouver au creux de ma mémoire
Des voix de ceux qui m’ont appris
Qu’il n’y a pas de rêve interdit

Je voudrais trouver les couleurs, des tableaux que j’ai dans le cœur
De ce décor aux lignes pures, où je vous voie et me rassure
Je voudrais décrocher la lune, je voudrais même sauver la Terre,
Mais avant tout, je voudrais parler à mon père
Je voudrais parler à mon père

Je voudrais partir avec toi
Je voudrais rêver avec toi
Toujours chercher l’inaccessible
Toujours espérer l’impossible
Je voudrais décrocher la lune,
Et pourquoi pas sauver la Terre,
Mais avant tout, je voudrais parler à mon père
Parler à mon père


(Céline Dion: Parler A Mon Père)

gardens, aioli and other things I don't write about

There are so many beautiful things I want to write about.

The way the evening sun falls across the garden right now. The whispering sound of birch logs burning in the fireplace. The fragrance of woodsmoke and a summer garden. The quiet peace between the trees, heavy and soothing as a warm blanket.

And more: The feeling of freedom last night as I cycled home through empty streets, a little drunk and a little in love with life. The smile on a new friend's face as we shared a bowl of baked potato wedges in aioli. The warmth of the sun as I drank coffee on my own in a quiet courtyard. The joy of painting my nails with chartreuse varnish. Receiving a phone call from my mother, thirty feet away, who wants to wish me a good day. Solitude and the meaningful looks between friends. Little details, colourful and funny.

But I don't write about all this. Because everyone is clamouring for attention and I would hate to be one of them. Because I'm tired of seeing written words falling flat.

the planet needs

“The planet does not need more successful people. The planet desperately needs more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers and lovers of all kind.”

(Dalai Lama)

pine resin day

Bare feet, smell of pine resin, hot sun and nettle burns.

The sound of wind in tall grass, a chain saw cutting through fresh wood. Pine branches scratching skin, coffee breaks with sugary donuts. Trees falling. A woolly poodle being carried to safety. An old woman, a young man and two people who are halfway, gathering up loose branches and pushing wheelbarrows.

Hot  skin, tepid water thirstily drunk, a delicious rest in cool moss.

background music

“You know, one of the tragedies of real life is that there is no background music.” - Annie Proulx

(Except that now there is, everywhere. And sometimes that is a tragedy. But I know what Annie meant.)

hot town, summer in the city

We wander slowly.

In fragrant parks where lilacs bloom. Along deserted back streets where seagulls attack us to protect their chicks. Past children who play a noisy game called "What Time Is It, Uncle Wolf?" To the beach, where we linger to play in the shallow water. On the busy seafront path, past the even busier icecream kiosk.

In the cool morning air, when the world feels new and promising as we buy strawberries at the fish market. In the heat of the afternoon, when the shade is delicious under linden and maple trees. At midnight, when the sky is still white and pink and we can pretend the human race has left the earth to swallows, hares, dogwalkers and poets.

It's my favourite season and I have the best of companions - a poodle.

no matter what mayhem

“I also believe that introversion is my greatest strength. I have such a strong inner life that I’m never bored and only occasionally lonely. No matter what mayhem is happening around me, I know I can always turn inward.”

(Susan Cain: Quiet. The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking)

the elders who loved me

How I remember them:

My grandfather, the farmer with a thousand stories and a love of open fields, had a pear tree in his garden with the tiniest and sweetest of pears. He once opened the door on his birthday to find that a capercaillie had wandered up on the porch and pecked on the door. He also taught me to play with matches.

My other grandfather, the farmer who had grown up poor, married above his station, fought in the war and knew how to make shoes, dressed in brown trousers with suspenders and sat in a rocking chair.

My grandmother, who had said goodbye to many emigrant brothers, studied English, knitted and went on guided trips. She always packed a sandwich lunch for me when I was going away.

My other grandmother, who during the war had run a farm (despite allergies) and raised children on her own, crocheted the most intricate blankets and doilies until rheumatism stopped her. She sat on her bed all day long, gave me sweets and listened when I played on her old pump organ.

What they all had in common: Love and a generous spirit. They are all gone, and I miss them all.

not so fantastic beasts and where to find them

I have whistled at a rosefinch, chased a seagull, been chased by mosquitoes, cooed at a baby hare and knocked down a wasp's nest. Not bad for a day by the seaside.

monthly report by the queen of denim

The month of May ...

There were weeks in the city: Hammering out thousands of subtitle two-liners, walking barefoot to the kitchen to make bitter coffee. I pulled down the blinds,visualized blindness and was blinded by a hot sun. In the office, I ruled the world of denim and wool - reconciling Swedish fashion dreams with Turkish deadline facts and putting a tea stain on a merino sweater. I got myself nerdy-cool glasses.

There was too much work. But there were also walks on the seaside path in hot weather, icecream with my icecream friend. There were parties on a balcony overlooking the bay, fueled by strawberry cider or pinot gris. I would have liked to drink wine and discuss God, world literature and the mysteries of science. Instead, we drank wine and discussed sex. Some of us sang along to the music - When you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong ... and sweet like a chic-a-cherry cola. That was OK too, because we laughed a lot and I declared myself as being "made of cobweb and birdsong". Other visitors gave me mango sweets in exchange for suspicious pills, or promised me boat trips.

There were weekends by the seaside: sun and sweet air, a hundred swans. An old lady who had to be watched over and occasionally fought with. A laptop full of jobs. Peace in my leaning ivory tower.

nice day for an autopsy

I happily ditched work and biked through sunny streets on a beautiful spring morning to attend an autopsy at the hospital.

Sometimes I suspect my curiosity is becoming a little too morbid.

a man's neck

“The line of a man’s neck can change your life. The way he digs in his pockets for change can make your heart groan and hands grow cold. How he touches your elbow or the button that is not closed on the cuff of his shirt are demons he’s loosed without ever knowing it. They own us immediately. He was a thoroughly compelling man. I wanted to rise to the occasion of his presence in my life and become something more than I’d previously thought myself capable of.”

(Jonathan Carroll: A Child Across the Sky)

some merpeople don't exist

"Sit like The Little Mermaid!"

Our pilates teacher is giving us instructions. "Imagine that you're mermaids, with your tail spread out like so. Mermaids and ... what do you call men with fish tails?"

Our little group of women and a couple of men goes quiet for a second as everyone ponders this. Then somebody says, in the voice of a patiently admonishing teacher, "Men like that don't exist."

I find this funny on many levels. But maybe I'm just trying to laugh myself out of a desperately painful body position.

on violets and swans

Violets are blue and sprinkled all over the lawn.

Swans are as plentiful as rocks and look the same as they slumber in shallow waters.

The year's at the spring and the spring is chaotic, jubilant, excessive.

My temper was red-hot with fury and is now sinking into a lime-green pool of peace.

what the wind does

I spent hours sitting by the sea today. After a day with no wind, I finally heard the west wind arriving across the sea.

It confused me for a bit, that a wind could just arrive so suddenly. But then I thought, "I have been indoors too long. This is what the wind does."

This summer, I will be outdoors with the birds.

a merrier world

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song over hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world." - J.R.R. Tolkien

you and me and the road to Hook Head

You have no idea how much it means to me - to be driving around the back roads of Waterford and Wexford with you on sunny, windy April days.

Avoiding potholes, looking for the first spring flowers, taking the ferry across the wide river Suir. Stopping for a baguette lunch in sleepy villages, seeking treasure on marvellous beaches at low tide. Asking for directions to Tintern Abbey. Rating garden gnomes for their ugliness, cooing over newborn lambs.

Wrapping scarves around our necks against the cold, putting on sunglasses and feeling the hope of spring. Looking for the devil at the eerie Loftus Hall. Almost getting swept out to sea by the wild waves around Hook Head lighthouse. Feeling at home in a country that is not our own.

All this, while asking each other the deepest questions in life.

walk on water, win this fight

I walk along a windy, endless beach of smooth sand, seashells and pretty pebbles. With me is one of my closest friends, not seen for years. We are less than an hour into our happy reunion and there is a slight tension between us - are we still close, has she changed, have I changed?

We watch surfers and playing dogs as she tells me of her plans to kill herself before her birthday next week. It seems so wrong, more than ever against the wild beauty of the beach in the sunshine, the tide just starting to come in.

When the April wind gets too cold we sit down in a café that is warm from sunlight, steaming coffee and the exuberance of families celebrating a sunny spring day. We drink hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows and talk in low voices about possible reasons for living.

It's completely absurd, but I have never felt so intensely alive.

choose to call it an epic

“Celebration when your plan is working? Anyone can do that. But when you realize that the story of your life could be told a thousand different ways, that you could tell it over and over as a tragedy, but you choose to call it an epic, that’s when you start to learn what celebration is. When what you see in front of you is so far outside of what you dreamed, but you have the belief, the boldness, the courage to call it beautiful instead of calling it wrong, that’s celebration.”

(Shauna Niequist)

when everybody sings at night

This is a time of boat trailers rattling by on my cobblestoned street.

This is a time when it's impossible to sleep because the nights are too white and because everyone sings: drunk men in the streets, partying neighbours, the birds, yourself.

It's a time for t-shirts and sunscreen, and for wool cardigans and thick socks. For the mad Walpurgis night. For cold picknicks on foreign strawberries and homemade mead with raisins. For lounging on beaches where the sun is hot, ice floes are melting on the water and sea smoke sends chilly vapours to the shore.

It's a time for dust in the city and mud in the country.

monday in Monaghan

"Don't taste the foam", I say. "Dip straight through to the dark liquid."

I am in Ireland again, at last, and this time I brought a few Finnish friends with me. We're on a road trip and ended up in the rather unknown little town of Monaghan, where we had to stop for the night.

It's Monday. Monday in Monaghan, and we're celebrating our last night in Ireland with a little pub crawl. One of my friends is trying Guinness for the first time and I'm giving her advice. Guinness can be a shock when you're not used to stout - it was for me, the first time, and I couldn't even finish my pint without adding blackcurrant essence to it. Now I'm thinking I should make Guinness my drink.

Monaghan is dark, quiet and secretive, a contrast to the wild coast of Donegal we experienced during the last few days. Already drunk on holiday feelings we have stumbled out of the guesthouse and into the nearest bar.

In Ireland (and probably everywhere else) you know you've found an authentic, non-touristy pub if the only patrons are a few men, seated at the bar, who turn around and stare when you enter. You know you've really struck gold if one of them, the resident drunk, greets you eloquently despite his inebriated state and the others tell you not to mind him. This bar in Monaghan does not disappoint. We reply cheerfully and drink our Guinnesses and Jameson's.

The next, and last, bar on our tour is even better. Dark as sin, Gaelic name, even more unembarrassed staring. A couple of us decide to shake things up a bit and order Bailey's on ice. The bartender couldn't have looked more shocked if we had asked for a pint of the Saviour's blood. That's all it takes for the locals to engage us in an intense discussion about the terrible spring Ireland is having and whether Finland's could possibly be any worse.

The Bailey's comes in slightly dirty glasses and is delicious. Our Monday night out in Monaghan is a roaring success.

the making of music

My mother, probably sometime in the 1940s, sat down at a pump organ, the kind that was rather common in Finnish homes, chapels and schools at the time. Her grandfather kindly taught her a few basic major and minor chords and she practiced putting them together. In the same way, she sat me down at our beautiful upright piano many years later and passed the chords on to me.

My father, when the mood took him, would sit down at the same chocolate-coloured piano and hammer out the sad-sounding tune to a hymn with the oddly happy title "Jag har inga sorger i världen".

I had already taken many lessons in classical piano (and hated it) but chords were a new world to me. Somehow I managed to figure out, before the age of the helpful internet, how to put them together and make music, starting out with a melody and the root note. I found some song books and taught myself to play.

When I moved away from home and the chocolate-brown piano, I bought a synthesizer with a little help from my father and took it with me to university.

A few years later, my music maker was an old, black upright in a back room of an Irish hotel. The hotel staff got used to me sneaking into the room in the evenings to practice everything from the Moonlight Sonata to hymns and pop songs. The music soothed me if I was upset and inspired me when I was restless and frustrated. The piano was eventually moved to the hotel's main lounge and occasionally, when I was feeling brave and not too many people were around, I played there too despite my fear of public performance.

Then, there were the quiet years.

Now, every Monday evening, I cycle through lashing rain or walk along icy back streets to the little bright room with the piano, clutching sheet music in my hand. My teacher meets me with a smile and many encouring words. Music has returned.

stop being an arrogant bitch

My whole life, just about, I have wanted to create. More specifically, to write.

My whole life, just about, this craving has frustrated me in some way or another.

As I get older, I increasingly doubt my ability to write well. But that is not really the problem. The problem is that I have nothing to write about.

Now I have identified the underlying issue, I think. I don't know how to write, because I have no-one to write for. An important part of me don't want anyone (at least not anyone I know in real life) to read it. Maybe because I'm afraid of judgment. Maybe because I have come to detest the ever-present attention-seeking everywhere, manifesting itself on social media, and would do anything not to succumb to the same.

Because I think that I'm better than all these pathetic attention-seekers.

And this arrogance stems from bitterness - over all the things that never turned out the way I hoped (expected!) them to do - and secret envy of others.

My self-prescribed medicine: learn to love myself and my life, such as it is, and humbly let people into my secret life of writing. Stop being an arrogant bitch.

have to be everything

“We are the girls with anxiety disorders, filled appointment books, five-year plans. We take ourselves very, very seriously. We are the peacemakers, the do-gooders, the givers, the savers. We are on time, overly prepared, well read, and witty, intellectually curious, always moving… We pride ourselves on getting as little sleep as possible and thrive on self-deprivation. We drink coffee, a lot of it. We are on birth control, Prozac, and multivitamins… We are relentless, judgmental with ourselves, and forgiving to others. We never want to be as passive-aggressive as our mothers, never want to marry men as uninspired as our fathers… We are the daughters of the feminists who said, “You can be anything,” and we heard, “You have to be everything.”

(unknown)

by the turf fire

For the best breakfast in Dublin:

Make sure it's lashing down rain of the coldest, most awful kind outside. Find an ancient, venerable café that has a marble-topped table right next to the fireplace with a fragrant, warming turf fire. Order organic porridge with blueberries, granola and honey, and a glass of orange juice. Read the paper and eavesdrop on upper-class people complaining to the manager about how the service no longer is what it used to be a hundred years ago. Feel the friendliness and goodwill of the Irish permeate the atmosphere, even so.

Sigh with pleasure as the heat from the fire soaks into your cold, weary body.

the country of deadly

I went to Ireland, again.

I found a country slightly more worn-down and a people even friendlier than I remembered. The coffee had improved slightly, in some places.

Everything else seemed more or less the same. Green hills, curiosity, sunny spells and scattered showers, radio morning shows in cosy kitchens or on commuter buses with rain-streaked windows, the best seafood in the world, Guinness in dark pubs, great bookshops, wild landscapes, B&Bs with flowery curtains. A feeling of home and adventure at the same time. All the world in one small country.

You're 100% Irish when punctuation really isn't your thing