dawn darkest

Winter solstice and I am watching the dawn. Half past nine and we are only halfway to daylight. I wonder what they call this shade of blue?

All I want to do today is plant myself in a coffee shop and watch the Christmas shoppers.

good enough to smile at

Lambrusco and after-swim calm, Dido on the CD player and darkness outside. Persistent hunger and guilt. A candle and a few sparse Christmas decorations, an SMS from a friend. I should do laundry, wrap Christmas presents and get a good job. I want someone to love and that thrilling feeling inside. My money disappears and I can't stand any more good advice. I will take time to think. I pour another glass of wine and tell myself that life is here and now and it's good enough for now, good enough to smile at.

As soon as a good song comes on, I will make a dance floor out of my living room and forget the worries queuing outside my door. Because what more do I need?

I've always thought that I would love to live by the sea
to travel the world alone and live more simply
I have no idea what's happened to that dream
cos there's really nothing left here to stop me
It's just a thought, only a thought

But if my life is for rent and I don't learn to buy
well I deserve nothing more than I get
cos nothing I have is truly mine

(Dido)

laughing and killing in the Now

My adorable little nephew and my painfully cute little niece are trying to scratch each other's eyes out. I'm trying to keep them as far apart as possible but no distance is too great for sibling ire.

Still, how can anyone not love this little angels, however avenging they are? Children amaze me - they are always so in the Now. Everything is vitally important: a toy, a loose tooth, a best friend in kindergarten, the painful and exuberant waiting for Santa Claus - in this moment, this is all that exists in the entire universe. Every joy is without limits and every betrayal a mortal wound. There is no perspective- if your brother gets a slightly larger piece of the chocolate cake you wail over the injustice of the universe because you cannot understand that the next time the larger piece will be yours, or you will grow up and earn a larger salary than him so it all evens out in the end... The pain of childhood: you fight for your happiness at every moment and if you fail there is no consolation.

As an adult, I find myself for the first time thankful that I know not only the highs but the lows. By now, I know that what feels like the end of the world is not necessary that. I know that this too will pass.

I only wish it wouldn't apply the other way: I'm too well aware of the fact that the present joy will fade or be crushed. I have decided to fight this - my moments of joy and happiness I will savour as if it was my last day on earth. Because one hour of joy compensates for a day of sorrow.

I think my niece and nephew would agree, but they are busy killing each other right Now.

stormgazer, elf and other career options

Stormgazer. That's what I'm going to be when I've tired of being a candlestick maker. I'm practicing right now, in the comfort of my own armchair, while an autumn storm is hurling rain and rattling the windows. I don't recognise this December. Where is the snow? The cold? The glitter of Christmas Future? This is November still, outstaying its welcome, suffocating the season's cheer in its all consuming darkness.

I have been buried under a pile of work and existential angst. The smiles of some people helped me crawl out again - while the smiles of others, uncomprehending, only heaped more weights onto my burden.

But I am standing up again. Determined to be strong, true, beautiful, wise.

Stormgazer, yes. Or maybe I could be an angel. I have more career ideas now than when I was trying to make my choice on education and profession. If I could find a cheap flight to Middle Earth I would go there and become an Elf and talk to the trees. I stood in the forest one day not long ago and listened to the silence and actually hugged a tree (after carefully checking that I was alone). A strong, silent, comforting tree.

How I wished I could hear its song.

sad and weary satellite

One more time, a "no". Bizarre how such a small word can completely drain you of all energy.

So I keep wandering around the dark periphery, fighting the demons of bitterness and self-pity, enviously circling the glittering people who know how to smile and give and feel hope. They reach out to me, sometimes. But they don't know darkness and can never reach far enough. I can't blame them - who would want to risk leaving the bright centre to face the terrors here?

When I turn away from the brightness I notice that there are others out here. Lost souls with despair in their eyes, some even further out in the wilderness than I. Sometimes - just sometimes, when I can find the strength - I manage to clasp the hand of one of them, and we share our pitiful warmth for a while. If I could pull one of them just a little bit closer to the light, maybe it's all worth it.

dissenters welcome

Annoyed.

Some bloggers write interesting, provoking entries that beg for comments and differing opinions... and then they don't allow comments on their blogs except for those of their "team members" (a chosen few who they can trust to agree with everything).

That is like stating your controversial opinion and then covering your ears. "Lalala, I'm not listening!"

Cowards.

Anyone don't agree with this, feel absolutely free to comment!

a tale from the quest for China

One of my first friends ever was a little boy, full of energy and action and wicked little ideas.

He got it into his head that we would dig a hole in the ground in the backyard of his house. If we dug far enough, he convinced me, we would eventually emerge on the other side of the earth, which is China. "Really?" said I, eyes wide.

We had to be very careful though, because the devil lives underground, and he might find his way out through our hole. If he did, we would be in a lot of trouble.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this at all," I said in a slightly trembling voice.

"Don't worry," my friend reassured me and handed me an old ice hockey helmet. "If you wear this, he can't hurt you."

I fastened the helmet carefully, and as a typical representative of the weaker sex watched in awe as he enthusiastically worked the frozen ground with his little spade. His own helmet he carelessly left lying on the ground beside him. I admired his courage.

Ever since I was five years old I have  believed everything men tell me.  Lately, I have experienced doubt. But I still admire their courage.


Epilogue: We never reached China. Fortunately, we saw no sign of the devil either. My friend tired of the digging after a while and we went indoors to ask his mother for hot chocolate.

breathe just one more time

How astonishing it seems to me. That so many people survive an ordinary day. Survive disease, accidents, natural disasters, the evil of other people, the evil all around us, the dreariness of our little lives, the destructive obsessions of our own minds, the failure of our pathetically beating heart in the darkest hour of the night.

That even in the devil's bedroom we find a thing of beauty, something to laugh at through our tears, a human being to give a scrap of love.

That even in the hour of our death we fight with with teeth and claws and scream our last breath in a desperate will to live.

What an overwhelmingly powerful life source there must be somewhere.


"God formed Man out of dirt from the ground and blew into his nostrils the breath of life."
"I lie down and sleep; I wake again, because the Lord sustains me."

ode to Father Jack

I used to be a friend of the drunks. A random collection of red-nosed, old and middle-aged men who every day came to prop up the bar at the little Irish hotel where I worked. Some arrived as soon as the bar opened in the morning. They came to chat to each other, to watch a rugby game on the sports channel, to sit alone in a corner brooding, but most of all to drink. A few of them were drunk enough to fall off their bar stool by mid-afternoon but few of them did. Irish men have drinking stamina. Still, many of them had to be carried home when the bar closed.

At first, I carefully avoided them. I had experience of Finnish men who had attained the same state of drunkenness, their tendency to drape themselves over any female in a rather demanding way and whispering things to you that you'd rather not hear. But the Irish alcoholics were different. Their flattering comments to the young, female receptionist were suggestive but with an undertone of genuine admiration and it was difficult to take offense. Equally irresistible was their undisguised joy whenever somebody stopped to exchange a few friendly words with them.

Before long, I had made friends with all of them. On my way through the bar I usually stopped to say hello and ask them how they were. If I came in there on my day off, one or two of them would always buy me a drink and we would chat about anything and everything - if they were still sober enough for coherent speech and thought. My prejudice against the typical drunk disintegrated after a few of these chats and I was astonished at the things I discovered. These alcoholics had nothing in common with each other apart from the fact that they happened to live in the same village, but they all seemed to be poets, musicians, successful businessmen, skilled craftsmen, philosophers - nothing they usually boasted about, just a fact that emerged during the course of our occasional chats. Sometimes I thought that I had discovered a normal, archetypal drunk with a boring job and the usual, boring life details, just to discover that he knew more about the symbolism in Hamlet or some detail in my own country's history than I did. They were always interested in what I had to say, asked about my family, lent a sympathetic ear whenever I had boyfriend trouble.

I forget - they did have one more thing in common. A storm that had crushed them at some point in their life, an impossible obstacle that had stopped them in their tracks. Or just a debilitating feeling of loneliness. Whether it was really a dead end they had encountered or just a minor problem they hadn't dared to face, to me it seemed a terrible tragedy. Such talented people, hiding from life in the smoky darkness of a country pub.

I like my friends sober. But great wisdom and great mysteries have been whispered to me by the people nobody listens to anymore, through a cloud of alcohol fumes.

twilight and sleep

Twilight refuses to yield to daylight today. I don't want to get out of bed. Not lazy, just deep-down, body-and-soul weary. There is winter inside me and like the daylight that never came, the life inside me cannot be woken today. It's time to hibernate.

But beneath the greyness, the sea takes on a surprisingly turquoise-green hue.

the party-pooper's daydream

Fog is good. It blurs the edges and protects you from the harsh reality. There is an empty world outside my window, comforting as a wool blanket.

Going to a party tonight. One of those safe, alcohol-free birthday bashes with cake and tea, mounds of chocolate sweets, cheerful people who all know each other. Nothing wrong with it. But I feel a familiar antipathy rising within me. I will arrive and feel as if I'm a decade older and wiser than anybody else (not true at all but facts have nothing to do with it) and sit in a corner and be bored and wish for lightning to strike.

If I'm lucky I will find a fascinating person to whisper secrets to. Alternatively, I will be seized by recklessness caused by boredom and spend the evening scattering witty or absurd remarks around me, making people helpless with laughter. This behaviour is completely uncharacteristic for me but my longing for excitement sometimes backfires on me and acts like a powerful intoxicating drug. A cheap high.

Why do we always go to parties expecting a personal reward? Can I not go there with the objective to give? My idealism fights against my cynicism.

a candlestick maker with all the spices

I have decided I want to be a candlestick maker. I like the way it sounds - artistic, bohemian but safe.

I am a person who falls in love with words. I got tired of the taste of vanilla latte a long time ago but I still order it in my local coffee shop. Hopelessly addicted to the word 'vanilla'.

I can't eat very spicy food but I enjoy the taste of the spice names on my tongue. Just muttering "cinnamon, basil, pepper, nutmeg, saffron, rosemary..." to myself improves my mood considerably.

so close, so very invisible

I wish God would show himself. Apparently it's not his style. Sometimes I get the feeling he is right behind me - but I can't turn around fast enough to catch a glimpse.

another world, where I make stew

To have travelled. That is the greatest blessing and achievement of my life so far. When I think of my adventures in other countries, other life situations, they seem remote and unreal as memories of dreams. As if they happened to me, but another me, in alternate universes.

Intriguing. I sometimes have flashbacks to these alternate universes, unprompted. This morning, as I yawned and tried to talk myself into leaving my lovely, warm bed and get started on today's work, I suddenly saw myself in a large French country-house kitchen.

It's a hot July day, a few years ago, in the district of Champagne, France. Outside, a landscape of rolling fields of corn, wheat and vines, dotted by the occasional oil pump, is dozing in the heat of the sun. Inside the old stone house, it's cool except for the heat radiated by the generously sized oven where lunch for a dozen people is cooking. A young me is emerging from the narrow stairs leading up from the basement - a cellar where the damp is dripping off stone walls - with a few long baguettes, the genuine, one-and-only French bread clutched in her arms.

The chef, a broad-chested, husky-voiced Frenchwoman, is looking into the oven with a frown on her face. I deposit the bread on the wooden table and come to stand beside her. Together we gaze at the courgette stew in the oven, boiling over and spreading courgette juice laced with white wine all over the oven. I, who don't speak much French, make an effort and manage to put two words together to state the obvious: "Ça coule." It's running over.

"Oui. Ça coule," agrees the chef gravely. Together, we ponder the state of life, universe and the stew for a while.
This is the glimpse of a memory of a dream of another life in another world that I got this morning. I was delighted.

a gift of darkness for my dearest friend

My friend calls me, crying over the phone. I try to console but feel helpless. At least I can offer her my listening, and she thanks me for it.

"Ring me when you are in pain the next time," she urges me. I promise.

The next day, I am in pain and in the deepest darkness of the soul. But I don't call her, even though I know she would listen with sincere sympathy. I lie alone in the dark and cry. I withdraw like a wounded animal. How can I look for consolation from my friends? How would that help? I am scared to let them see me weep.

I must learn to share my pain. I know there is something healing in the process even though I don't understand it yet. A true friend needs to see the real you.

I may not call her next time I cry in the dark. But maybe the day after I will share with her a little piece of what is haunting me. As a start, a genuine offering from my heart. I will give her my most precious possession, the one I guard with my life. My pain and weakness. Because she gave me hers.

the upstairs guitar

One of the neighbours plays the electric guitar. I consider trying to drown the noise in the much more threatening noise of my piano - the guitar is not one of my favourite instruments. But I eventually decide that I like it when people make music.

Maybe I long for proof that I'm not alone in the universe.

having tea with the Africans

Fifteen African students in a city flat. Outside, snow is falling but inside tea is being poured and cake is consumed at an alarming speed. I'm one of the handful of white people present. The Africans are cheerfully complaining of the cold outside. They have met up for a Bible study and express their surprise at the fact that Finnish people live in a Christian country and have all the Christian values but are not remotely interested in God. A song is taken up and echoes throughout the apartment building - I try to push my Finnish "what will the neighbours think?"-reaction out of my mind. Everybody listens quietly and with no visible reaction to the speaker explaining a passage from the Bible, but afterwards, the discussion is intense. Good-natured smiles all around even when opinions differ.

Our host whispers to me that some of the newer students had never seen a white person before they came to this country. Some of the women shyly avoid even looking at the men, much less talk to them. In the beginning, I find it difficult to tell these people apart - somehow all black people look the same - but after a while, I notice significant differences. After all, a Kenyan probably has less in common with a Nigerian than I have with a Portuguese.

I can never really understand why Africans choose to come to Finland to study when they could go to, say, the UK. Finland is cold and dark for a large portion of the year. Nobody knows where Finland is. In Finland, you have to study not only Finnish but also Swedish - two minor languages, completely different. Finnish people are reserved. Finland is expensive.

I get no sensible answers to this question from any of them. Maybe I grasp an understanding anyway: Finland, from everybody's point of view except 5 million Finns, is... kind of... exotic. Precisely because nobody really knows where it is.

a hard day's blog work

There are always little things to be grateful for. A boring job, where you look for any excuse to take a break, with no boss watching over you and nobody else to talk to either, results in a frequently updated blog.

So I keep adding to the endless stream of more or less useful information available online. Stubbornly believing.

they always appear on Monday mornings

Some people are idiots. Idiots! How lucky I am to get one of them as my first Monday morning interaction. A student emails me her 50-page-thesis and asks me to language-check it for tomorrow. Tomorrow. As if my desktop wasn't already full of stuff that is due tomorrow. She mentions in passing that she tried to email it to me weeks ago but I might not have received it as her email program has been acting up. No, really? And she didn't think to check with me?

I take a sinful pleasure in telling her "no way". Not even this week unless I happen to take mercy on her. And I don't feel particularly merciful on a Monday morning.

At least there is lunch with my sister to look forward to.

soaking in beauty

Dazzling glorious morning with sunshine on snow.

Only a Sunday can be this beautiful. Sleep, a lazy look through the paper, cook breakfast, watch people in the harbour taking their boats up for the winter. The beauty of the outside world reflecting in my inner peace.

I never again in my life want to see anything ugly.