climbed the highest mountains

I once heard this song referred to, by its singer, as "a gospel song with a restless spirit".

I'm listening to this song while walking through a world slowly turning into the sheer loveliness of spring. I still don't feel well. My mind is weak and under constant siege by nameless fears. I look at the tiny pills I take every night and wonder how I, the strong one, became dependent on these. These pills, people who reply to my anxious text messages on dark nights, and a woman with kind eyes who listens to my deepest secrets twice a month are the only things standing between me and a falling sky. That, and the Word of God.

I believe in the Kingdom Come
Then all the colours will bleed into one
Bleed into one
But yes, I'm still running 

But I still haven't found what I'm looking for

darling books: the isolated princess

"They are the Shaman, Medicine Man, or Witch Doctor of the tribe, the Prince or Princess in fairy tales, the True Knight or Defender of the Faith, like Don Quixote of Joan of Arc. Isolated by their seclusiveness and infrequency (around one percent of the general population), their idealism leaves them feeling even more isolated from the rest of humanity."

I'm browsing through one of my favourite books again, one of the few non-fiction ones I own. Never have I seen my own personality (and those of all my friends and acquaintances) described in such unerring detail.

The book is Please Understand Me II - Temperament, Character, Intelligence by David Keirsey, who bases his temperament studies on the Myers-Briggs personality categorization. I turn to this book every now and then to learn more about how I and others function as we do, and why, and to console myself that I am not, in fact, "isolated from the rest of humanity" - I am an INFP, briefly outlined above.

The book describes sixteen different personalities in great detail, including such things as their interests, orientation and self-image, as well as how they function individually and together with others in career choices, mating, parenting and leadership. Fascinating! Variations of the personality test and its interpretations can be found online but this book really seems to contain everything you need to know, ever, about yourself and others.

"[Idealists] forget very easily yesterday's negative, disagreeable events and tend to remember the positive and agreeable - they are always the romantic about both the future and the past, and always the cheerful dreamer in the public presentation of self ..."

Welcome to my world.

cupcakes and unexpected hazards

Combined three of my favourite things today:

1. Coffee and a cupcake
2. with my best friend
3. in the library.

Afterwards I went to the gym to work off some remaining aggression and depression. Witnessed a man doing complicated, rotating movements to exercize his neck muscles while standing on his head, not once but many times. It looked impressive and dangerous. I found that it is really hard to avoid staring when you're expecting someone's neck to break at any moment.

bent and broken

"I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape."

(Charles Dickens: Great Expectations)

butterflies, wolves and a few Neanderthals

I'm not a museum person. But I love losing myself in foreign worlds.

I had the afternoon off so I wandered into the Ostrobothnian Museum, where I haven't been for years. I studied the exhibitions in detail. Before long, I was far, far away in the last ice age, in the world of butterflies and wolves, in a cave with a Neanderthal man.

I have seldom pondered the fact that I live so close to a cave where Neanderthals lived. Or that I take walks on the impressive site of a major meteorite impact, or that my summers are spent in an archipelago that has been deemed a world heritage site because of the bizarre effects of the last ice age.

It is a fascinating thing, learning about history in one's own home town. I stared at black-and-white photographs from the market square and wondered if the man selling produce from his horse-drawn cart might be my great-grandfather. I recognized streets I last saw in my early childhood but sometimes dream about, irrevocably changed now. I even saw familiar faces on the museum dummies because they were made by friend of mine and and modelled on other friends.

I exit a boring old museum and feel as if I've been on holiday.

Europe's night out

Last Saturday night, I was dipping bread into cheese fondue with friends while watching and heavily criticising the European Song Contest.

Everybody loves and hates the ESC but it is a bonding moment between friends and the 200 million people watching the show. It is always so predictable and so surprising, with the daring dresses, the biased voting, the dancing monkeys, the pyrotechnics, the odd mooning, the false notes, the protests and the oddities never seen before.

Oh Europe, you are so very bizarre and so endearing.

two odd moments

Chilly morning air is streaming in through the open balcony door and I'm scrolling through my Facebook feed lazily while a man in work gear is stretched out on my floor, muttering to himself.

I'm sitting in a chair with blood flowing out of my arm into a little bag, while I'm laughing at a girl practicing Swedish phrases: "Jag ska byta din blöja!" ('I am here to change your diaper!')

a mother's day

What my mother talks about when she calls to chat:

* church services
* walking to the shop
* how hard it is to reverse the car out of the garage without denting it
* what is on her latest bank statement
* what she had for lunch
* when I will come to see her
* what is on TV

My therapist says I should tell my mother more about my own life. So I try. I love my mother, but being an adult daughter is so hard. I love my mother, but. I love my mother.

a curse on my kingdom

Today I borrowed a wifi, had an unhealthy lunch, drove in rush hour traffic with broken brake lights, decided to rearrange my bookshelf for no good reason and abandoned the project halfway through because it turned out it was terrible (books by colour? What an insanely insane idea. I'm staying off Pinterest from now on).

I also managed to do some work, wear new ankle boots, have some negative thoughts and comfort myself with the latest novel by Tana French.

By the way, it snowed. In May. Even in Finland, it should never snow in May.

It may turn out that I am the Ice Queen after all and have put a curse on my kingdom.

detailed life plan

Go to live in my favourite city.

Tools:
* Two books - The Message (Eugene H. Peterson) and The Stylist's Guide to NYC (Sibella Court). Maybe I'll bring a pocket version of Kalevala along for boring subway rides
* A humble heart, lots of love and merciful thinking
* A laptop and an observant mind
* A loyal dog
* The complete DVD set of White Collar
* A black coat, a pair of good jeans, glittery sneakers, a pencil skirt, black boots, a Nepalese hoodie, woollen socks knitted by my mother (for cold nights), a few bohemian tops, a good scarf and a hipster beanie
* Hoop earrings, sky blue nail polish, a bulky silver watch and an alluring scent
* Seven hundred songs + the lullaby my mother used to sing
* A return ticket

a study in freakosemantics

Crunched my blog through Wordtool to see what it thought important back in the day.

The year 2013, a time of zumba, expensive salads and statistics, liked these words:

Life and people, just one more, and summer office facts.

And 2014, the year of subtitles, smoothies and squirrel babies:

Around the world and back again (well, Germany-Sweden-outer mindspace counts, right?), the beautiful feeling of being home for summer, and the fact that something is just about to go places.

in a rain of slush, gravel and sparks

Do you remember that March day when we hitched a sleigh to a snowmobile?

You drove, one of my best friends sat behind you, and two of us rode in the sleigh. There wasn't really enough snow left so when we went along the forest road, the snowmobile pelted the sleigh with gravel and slushy snow. My friend and I shrieked and laughed at this torture. The metal runners occasionally hit a gravel patch and sparks flew.

Then we went onto the ice, staying close to the shore just in case. We stopped and had a lovely picnic on a little islet, turning our faces towards the sun. On the way back, there was so much melted water on the surface of the thinning ice that it completely drenched the two of us who sat in the sleigh.

I remember being scared that the ice wouldn't hold us. By the way you drove, occasionally changing course to get closer to the shore and making sure to keep up the speed, I could tell that you were worried too. But at that point in my life, I was used to danger. I had learned to let go of my fear, think "when your time is up, it's up" and feel the thrill in my every cell. That's what I did that day, too.

We came back as soaked as if we had actually gone through the ice, and  my toes were frozen. We dried ourselves and changed clothes in an ancient cottage on the Island and you told me the history of the place in a solemn voice. Your life had such a long history. I envied and admired you for that.

But that day, I was back together with friends I had not seen for a long time. There was history in our relationships. There was adventure, too. That was a very good day. I have a picture of us all there on the islet, grinning.

Do you remember it?

came for the book, stayed for the cookies

There are blue cookies served at the book release party.

I clutch my copy of the book in nervous hands and consider bolting. Despite the bohemian lace on my sleeves and the defiant sequins on my sneakers, my confidence is wavering. But the atmosphere at the adult education centre enthralls me - the curiosity and inspiration of people who are there to learn something for the fun of it. The old ladies from my book club are there. And there are blue cookies ...

Before my social awkwardness gets the better of me, an elderly writer whose books I read as a child pulls me into a deep discussion on fiction versus biography. Then I discover that the young woman munching on cookies next to me has a degree in English, like me, and an affinity for genuine Dublin pubs, like me.

Nothing is better than book lovers and blue cookies on a chilly spring night. I hear myself enthusiastically saying things like "When my life is in chaos, I need the feeling of purpose in a fictional story" and "My nail polish was supposed to be golden but as you see it turned out green!" to complete strangers.

pink bottles and the carnival of spring

It is the day when kids buy balloons and the city streets are filled with the thunderous roar of vintage car engines.

People walk through town in white hats with trenchcoats and low-denier tights, fancy dress or wildly coloured student coveralls with beer stains on them.

Icecream stands and summer restaurants throw their doors open and the first outdoor barbecues are attempted despite treacherous weather.

Kids scream with happiness, old couples hold hands, students are delirious and drunk.

I elbow my way out of the crowds angrily. Why does nobody want to hold my hand today? I buy pink bottles and my undeserved loneliness is comforted by blessed solitude.

the roughest winter yet

Things I never thought I would do, that I did during the past winter:

fall in love with a stranger
cut down on coffee and wine and not even miss it much
take anti-depressants
go to bed at 7 pm
see a therapist
ask to join a women's church group
stand in a breadline (for the company, not the food)
love my gym
have panic attacks
lose weight (alas, only temporarily)

receive excerpts from a psychiatric textbook by text message
take up knitting

if you're gonna jump, then jump far

We are losing our volleyball game, even though our team is playing really well.
We seem to be losing more often than ever, even as I feel my own strength growing and my skills improving. My hatred of losing stays the same.

Our team today is a motley collection of women that I play with every week and women I see twice a year (at these volleyball tournaments). There is a thin teenager who will probably be playing at national level in a few years and middle-aged amateurs like myself. This is what I like about volleyball: there are women who seem to be approaching sixty, and women who are short and fat, and they are still very good at this game that seems to favour the tall and powerful. Better than me. Maybe I can still play when I'm old and fat.

Our team picks up the serve - one of the weaker players fumbles with the ball but somebody else helps and the teenager hammers it over the net.

Some parts of my body are starting to fail. My hitting arm protests with pain and my knees hurt after half a lifetime of jumping. I need to stop playing volleyball and do something about this before my legs refuse to carry me anymore. As I focus on today's game, I know it is my last for a while. I won't really miss these tournaments - I always seem to leave them in a huff after yet another defeat.

The team sets up a beautiful opportunity for a spike. I forget my knees and my shoulder and jump like a cat. My spike is, for once, perfect. Hard enough to crush bones. It bounces off a defender's arms and comes back to me in an ideal arc. I jump again, halfway to heaven, and immediately make the kill. It is lovely. I feel stronger and better than ever.

We are losing the game and I'm sure I will walk away in a huff, on wobbly knees. But at the moment I and my team-mates are having too much fun to care.

from the Penny Diaries

Random facts from my formative years:

* Fastest timed clocked for going around the block on a kicksled: 4 minutes 55 seconds
* First line in first play (cast as Mary in the nativity play), said in a dreamy voice: "It's the angels, Joseph."
* First entry in first diary ever, age eleven: "Today I got to skip first period in school. School started at eight and I stressed so much that I started to feel sick. Later heard the others had had their weight and height measurements taken. (With Elise N., who is the strictest teacher in school.)"

* Favourite TV show: Brødrene Dal (especially when the intrepid Norwegian brothers went looking for the mysterious Professor Drøvel)
* Founding member of: The Secret Spy Club, Spying Club Adventure, Detective Club Adventure (anyone see a pattern here?)
* Genre of poetry I wrote: naïve romanticism
* What I sang for my first (and only) real solo, age six: "Adventstid kom till mitt ensamma hus" (Advent time, come to my lonely house)
* Musical instrument I took lessons in: the piano (for seven horrid years)
* Musical instrument I almost performed with in public once: the glockenspiel (but I was late for school so someone else did)
* Dream job: zoo keeper, cook
* Hobbies I took up: volleyball, writing, church

* What I loved: animals, advent calendars, coloured pens and scented erasers, drawing maps and walking fake dogs, hanging out with my big sister (especially when she took me to look at horses)
* Teacher's assessment after I wrote an essay on arms dealers who became victims of burglary, age twelve: "Your writing is grammatically correct and the subject matter is not the usual - you have your own view of problems."
* How I earned my first own money: babysitting a future pole-vaulting star

having cookies with Wolverine

I had another one of those evenings with Wolverine - I call him that because he is a loner, a bit haunted but powerful and caring.

He came to me on a cold April evening when he needed a break from reality. He brought chocolate cookies. I watched TV and knitted an ugly scarf while he sat  next to me, drinking cider. We talked about sick poodles and flatmates with OCD.

Then he went home.

wild city

I'm awakened in the morning by the screeches of seagulls and oystercatchers, and the first eyes I meet as I go out the door are those of a bold hare. Sometimes it's hard to believe that I live in a city.

where the heat burns your blue sandals off your feet

She wore a white labcoat and a hijab, a black scarf on her hair. Because her face was exposed, he averted his gaze, blushing as he did so. Uncertain where to rest his eyes, he let them fall on the plastic ID tag that hung around her neck; Katya Hijazi, Laboratory Technician. He was surprised to see her first name on the tag - it should have been as private as her hair or the shape of her body - and it made her seem defiant.
  Worried that the older man might think he was staring at her breasts, Nayir dropped his gaze to the floor, catching sight of two shapely feet ensconced in bright blue sandals. He blushed again  and turned away from her, trying not to turn completely but just enough to indicate that he wouldn't look at her.
  The woman's shoulders drooped slightly, which seemed to indicate that she'd noticed Nayir's discomfort and was disappointed by it. Reaching into her pocket, she took out a burqa, draped it over her face, and fastened the Velcro at the back of her head.

I don't like to read books set in a culture I know nothing about. Maybe I don't want to be disturbed in my lazy ignorance. Fortunately, I happened to pick up The Night of the Mi'raj by Zoë Ferraris and was too intrigued to put it down again.

I have seldom read a murder mystery so well written. I was thrown right into daily life in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, with its unforgiving heat, ordinary people with ordinary lives and strangely paranoid attitudes towards women. It made me feel almost at home, at the same time as I felt the terrible claustrophobia of being a woman there. Delicately written.