beloved blood of my blood

Family get-together.

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

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

feminist skies tonight

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

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

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

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

swearing and longing

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

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

Another day is well underway.

Prancer on ice

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

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

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

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

grow up and play

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

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

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

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

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

the thick ticking of the tin clock stopped

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

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

that weird goodness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

lovely, hateful pride

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

I wake up shaking in a cold sweat.

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

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

attitude control

Learn contentment.

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

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

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

kicked myself out of paradise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(A.E. Housman)

rocks and sea do battle

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

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

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

life is easy, as a celt

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

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

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

brave the danger and find your Eden

Country roads, take me home.

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

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

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

Yes! I am inVINcible!

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

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

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

stomach teaser

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

How do you make a lunch out of these?

Go out for pizza.

the unexpected family

A winter night survived with no significant insomnia.

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

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

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

a new ally and an old stubborn friend

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

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

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

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

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

magic starts the year

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

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

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

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

to friends present, absent and possible

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

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

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.