post-it note for February

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

To be me.

2007: the year of heartburn and nude modelling

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

all God's children

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

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

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

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

into the future with sinusitis and soufflé

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

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

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

a hopeless night like this, angels sang

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

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

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

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

if only I was travelling right now

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

Gilbert Chesterton (1874-1936)

little shop of harmony

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

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

the country that always has bad weather on its birthday

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

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

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

heaven's little coffee shop

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

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

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

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

the November miracle

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

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

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

someone more desperate than me

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

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

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

factory of wisdom and beauty

On a visit to my alma mater...

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

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

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

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

the revenge of the hotel receptionist

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

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

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

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

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

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

upset me, somebody

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

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

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

People just don't upset me like they should.

belles lettres

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

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

on stolen socks and snowbows

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

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

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

stay in the cold world

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

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

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

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

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

coffee break therapy

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

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

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

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

holiday beneath a McDonald's sign

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

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

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

there is comfort in the world

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

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

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

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

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

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