hello to the howling wind

Say goodbye to the sun for about half a year.

Say hello to the howling wind, the darkness advancing a mile every day, the icy rain. The fairground colours of golden birches and red apples in dewy gardens. The greyness that is the extreme form of grey (if there can be such a thing). Welcome the coldness and the snow that can kill you.

Only the strong of heart survive Finland. The welfare system will probably shelter you from the physical dangers - but the darkness will play tricks on your mind. You are in a film noir, a horror flick, but it's real.

Finland will stun you with its extreme nature, its merciless beauty, its harsh and ugly loveliness that demands to be loved.

This is an adventure. If you survive the winter, you are a hero. Take a deep look at all the beauty around you and enjoy the ride.

with a mother's voice in my ear

I was walking through dark October streets, dry leaves rustling under my feet. An ice-cold rain started to fall. It quickly turn to hail that peppered my cheeks so hard it hurt.

I was talking to my mother on the phone, so I turned up the hood on my padded jacket - a big hood, warm and wide. I kept walking, feeling warm and sheltered and in the company of my mother. It was an extraordinary feeling. I could have walked for hours - and I did.

God and the July sun

It's on the loveliest days of summer that I plan my life.

When my bare skin is heated by a July sun and chilled by blue waters, when the vista around me is sky and sea and forest, when I'm deeply immersed in nature, when I feel safely at home and excited about new adventures at the same time. Then I dream and plan for the year ahead.

This year, my plans were modest and extravagant: I would learn what it is to be loved by God. To really feel it. How free and fearless I would be when that love was literal truth to me!

But in the icy winds of October, I go looking for that love and it's as far away as the July sun.

In theory, I know it's there. Sometimes I feel it - when I allow myself to feel it instead of try to earn it.

But I need to have it deep inside my body, immerse myself in sky and sea and forest.

The world is too cold for that.

I read and I pray, and maybe I'm inching closer, but my skin is still cold to the touch.

ice, darkness, apples

October is colour, ice, darkness, apples, candles, boots, sweaters, jackdaws, rain and the first snow, light boxes, trying to find the right temperature, blankets, heat packs, weariness, sneezing, and a harvest celebration around a chocolate fondue pot.

a metaphor made me write this

Birches are dripping gold, maples are weeping blood.

The forest is silence and the air is ice.

October is a tiger, red-gold and beautiful and silent, stalking at a distance, waiting for its prey to slow down.

myths unfold in the city tonight

There is strangeness in the city.

A prime minister holding court in a tiny café, a tree full of messages, an apartment building on fire, a mysterious man climbing the tallest chimney and refusing to come down. And there was a New Yorker on my bus. Whatever next?

lingonberry jam and death

Lingonberry jam is cooking on my mother's stove. It has a rich, spicy scent and the colour of blood.

Meanwhile, the radio is analysing the latest school shooting.

Today I have discussed kneepads in three languages, googled Hyderabad, watched a steeplechase, dressed in white lace and tea-green lamb's wool and had an odd urge to watch one of those slide shows of old.

I have also wondered how long my mother will live.

our city is spreading its wings

Wings are leaving the city, all the time.

That's what we call them, the 30 to 50 meters long wind turbine rotor blades. They arrive by ship, make a strange addition to the landscape for a while as they are stored in a field near the harbour, and then leave the city while stopping traffic with their special transports and flickering orange lights.

I've been seeing these giant hulks for years, patiently pulling my car over to make room when they come. I still catch my breath when I see them. Beautiful, eerie and impossibly large, they are going away to harness the wind. It moves me.

fridge poetry

chant: all you and delirious!
play with a sun, still as a storm

bitter goddess with shadow hair
diamond skin, bare feet, cool blood

dream of frantic symphony above
dress like a scream, misty red fashion
run on moon juice
hot tiny light in luscious language garden

blue peach girl
drunk on sky, mad rose in bed
elaborate ache whispers over fiddle boy
sad beauty said no here

live rain woman:
go watch water
love like a thousand lazy summers
and sing about a ship of honey

always a stranger

In the world I am
Always a stranger
I do not understand its language
It does not understand my silence

(Bei Dao)

discontent with a vanilla scent

I'm in a cosy corner of the balcony, high above the sea. So why is it so hard to feel content? When I have a pink sunset, a vanilla candle and a gorgeous gypsy skirt? When I'm loved by God?

whiskey and silver nails

I come armed with whiskey and silver nails.

Autumn has nothing on me as I turn my world into silver and get ready for change. I will go on a quest for love. I will tell shivering secrets and diamond truths to my friends. Let the weak say "I am strong" because grace is sufficient for me.

I will live from day to month and love the chilling skies. There will be music, libraries and the whispering of French words. I will let my voice be heard and laugh without fear of the future. I was born for this and I know how to dress the part.

God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. I will drink lots of water and grow in strength and wisdom.

I will walk down the street like a rock star, but with love.

raspberries, moths and the north wind

It was a summer of the north wind, of raspberries and moths. Of cool and empty offices, white paint and espresso. Hot sun and blue waters. Snacking on lentil crisps and getting out of the chilly wind. Stacking firewood, eating blueberries in the woods and making eye contact with birds. A summer of difficult emotions and the sweetest of sleeps.

And I saw a grey curtain of heavy rain advance against me after weeks of drought. I longed for it, smelled it, heard its muted whisper - then it came to me across the sea.

summer's end, always untimely

In my candle-lit cabin in the woods I prepare for the year ahead.

I rage against the dying of the light. I want to stay in the candle-light, silence, summer. In warm wind, laughter, salt water. In boat trips with sugar pig pastries. In being so close to nature that I feel it breathing. In the company of birds, poodles, people. In being so safe, so far from everything heavy and oppressing.

But the birds, poodles and people are moving on. Winter is coming. How fast and how unfairly!

It breaks my heart. But because I must, I make plans for the war ahead. I will conquer winter with music, spicy casseroles, wool, dancing myself tired, old and new wisdom. Above all, with love. This year, I will learn what it is to be loved by God.

It's a silent night in the woods. Tomorrow, I get into my Citroën and go to battle.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep. 
(Robert Frost)

this place loves me back

Raspberries, lots of coffee, the calm breathing of sea and forest.

The peace of a place where nothing happens all day and nobody is expected to accomplish anything. The sea breathes in, the forest breathes out.

I am all alone. I read, eat, watch DVDs, drink coffee, read and eat some more, take a slow walk, do some small tasks that I happen upon, stick my bare feet in the sea, have a glass of wine, pick some raspberries and eat them, doze in front of the laptop. There is nothing to be accomplished. The only thing I need to do right now is live.

I put music on and dance on the grass, wildly.

The clouds pass by, slowly. The light changes as the sun moves. The colours change. The evening is long, darkness won't arrive until close to midnight. The silence amplifies the small sounds - a bird landing on the roof, a twig breaking as the wind picks up. I won't see a human being for days. But I make eye contact with a bird and listen to my feelings and maybe God has a chance to say something.

My dreams stretch out toward the open horizon and beyond. I sing a song I just learned to the sea.

The air smells of pine trees and salt. This place loves me back.

In the cool of the evening, a fire crackles in the fireplace. I will soon sleep and only hear the fire and the wind and my own dreams.

gathering fuel

A fire near me, a cold night outside.

I'm missing some people and at least one dog, but I have an old lady next door who will go on a trip with me tomorrow. The birds are going quiet and I'm lonely.

Two weeks, a cosy cottage and all the books I need. The north wind is blowing. I'm sad.

Every accomplishment in my life was fuelled by a negative emotion. I will fly to the stars propelled by loneliness and sadness.

just the essentials, please

I crave velvety loose-fit trousers, cocktails, beachvolley weather, adventure and love.

barefoot in my dreamscape

"If you see a rock, tell me on which side."
"What do I say about a rock that is right underneath the boat?"
"What? You had one job!"

I'm in a tiny boat, singing "Row row row your boat" but the others say it's too cheerful: "Do the one from Titanic!"

On a desert island we have a picnic on the smooth rocks - coffee, crisps, "sugar pig" pastries. I could sit there forever, staring out at the summer sea. The heat, the smell of sun-warmed stone and pine trees. The wilderness. The cool, pure water where I immerse myself. Drops of salty water on tanned skin. My dreams, stretching out to the horizon and beyond. Everything is possible, everything is good.

I didn't bring any shoes on this trip. A barefoot life is part of my dreams.

when we were penpals

In ancient times, when there was such a thing as penpals, I had these:

* Fethanegest, an Ethiopian boy who wanted to study biology to become a doctor and who sent me a postcard depicting a Coptic saint coming back from a trip to hell.
* Sameer, a Druze boy who lived in a village in the Golan Heights, built his own house with his father as his bank and was excited about his cool car.
* Vania, a German church-going girl who became a friend.
* A Moroccan guy who just couldn't take a hint.
* An assortment of boring teenage airheads just like me.

Bonus pick from my correspondence box: My grandmother's postcard from a trip to Sweden where she got to meet "the Lapland doctor". Probably the only postcard she ever sent.

stuff I found along the road

Beachvolley with friends on a hot summer day. Evenings over a pint in a dark pub. Fixing my computer. Sunday brunch with cocktails. Hotels. Writing. Music and dance floors. Boho clothes. Being in a completely foreign environment.

These are things that make me feel good. Because they are completely my own, not inherited from family.