before, but decades ago

Arctic winter, so cold that cars and buses stop running even in hardy Finland. 

An old lady is sent home from hospital and I try to arrange for diapers, grab handles, nursing homes and everybody's peace of mind.

I have a week off from work but not much rest. Except some precious, quiet mornings on the couch with a brilliant, icy sun, the Farseer trilogy and the last remnants of Christmas magic.

I join a new choir and practise the alto parts.

I feel I have done much of this before, but decades ago.

2023: the year of Venice and a chartreuse-coloured mid-life crisis

2023 was the year when I abandoned contact lenses, bleeding, zumba, ignorance of current events. 

I started out weak from surgery but recovered. My car - my first one ever - was broken for almost four months and I sold it with no regrets the moment it was fixed. I rode the bus and kept two companies afloat single-handedly (or so it sometimes seemed to me) during a crisis year. I read 126 books, drank wine with my friends, went to concerts and the theatre, went to the gym not often enough, joined a church group to find God, joined a choir to defrost my voice. Despite all this, I spent a surprising amount of time alone.

It was a year of special significance. A year when a fantasy novel (one I didn't even enjoy much) taught me that life is what it is, so ditch the shame and resentment and go do what you were created to do. Ditch the self-pity too and go help the people you can.

People around me suffered this year, so I worried, prayed, spent much of the summer alone. A poodle died, an old lady was hospitalized, the autumn was exhausting. But it was also a jubilee year, with a strong new focus and a tender heart.

Highlights:

* New Year with spumante in an island cottage kitchen and debates regarding divinely installed outdoor toilets and the evilness of Putin.

* April picnic with thick snow, warm sun, sausages grilled over a hot fire.

* First draft of my space opera (poor fiction written for my own enjoyment), finished after about three years.

* Celebration month and crafting my own philosophy while walking dusty streets and drinking wine by the sea. 

* Helsinki weekend with my sister: the House of Nobility, the theatre, deep talk in vintage bar Kappeli surrounded by the Helsinki nightlife, an art museum, spring flowers and singing blackbirds, silk shirts, café visits just like in the 90s.

* Birthday alone in Helsinki: exploring the Fortress of Finland and reshaping my world on an almost-deserted island, warmed by the infinite horizon, a bleak sun, wine and history.

* A big surprise birthday party, two planned parties, and one balcony party to finish off the cakes.

* A chartreuse-coloured new car.

* Cruising in a convertible, playing "Cha Cha Cha" loudly, with my middle-aged friends, to the ridicule of the neighbourhood teenagers.

* Field trip to a sheep farm to pet the lambs, and to an old mansion to look at half-burned attic rooms and luxury spa areas.

* Meteorite explosion that shook me to the bones, late one night.

* Memorable chat with an AI about explicit phrases, historical novels and Slovenian caves.

* Last(?) zumba class ever, last(?) time bringing my old mother to the cottage by the sea.

* New air-conditioning, new fridge, new stove in my 60s flat.

* The cute town of Kristinestad, explored on a hot day with a funny friend. The cute town of Jakobstad, where further exploration was abandoned when we found the cutest café ever.

* Nightwish's last concert which I eavesdropped on, sitting on a rock in the woods on a warm summer night.

* Midsummer with old and new and marvellous Midsummer People, in the forest by a sea of reeds, with a barbecue and strangely-named cats.

* Volunteer assignment as interpreter at a church conference, where I battled social phobia and other demons and decided I might as well become a full-time warrior while I'm at it.

* Exploration of various forests, marshes and villages, sometimes in sandals and silk shirts where hiking boots and safari gear would have been more appropriate.

* Road trips with an old lady: the pavillion where Jean Sibelius got engaged in secret, an ancient meteorite crater, dark lakes with silky water, bohemian farmhouse cafés, faraway villages where we might have lived our lives had fate not intervened.

* Summer almost alone by the sea, with repetitive strain injury, occasional visits by the motorcycle club and excavators and swimming elks, and putting out the bonfire after everyone else had gone home and left me.

* Music of the exquisite kind - in a church fragrant with incense on a hot, thunderous summer evening, in another church as the autumn darkness crept in and coloured lights twinkled in the churchyard.

* Night of the Arts, when I skipped the arts and holed up in crowded café to plan an Italian journey with my friend. 

* Singing in a choir after 25 years of silence. First song: "The Sound of Silence".

* Italy, hot and lovely. Venice - falling into a fairytale and fantasy novel. Florence - crowds and art exhaustion. Cinque Terre - riviera life with beaches and fresa coladas. Pisa - an unexpectedly emotional evening.

* An autumn wedding where I arrived in summery silk, looked after an old lady, talked at length with a father figure from my youth.

* New book club with a minister and a pathologist, Of Mice and Men, Piranesi, and The Call of Cthulhu.

* A week and a weekend with the 16-year-old poodle, nearly blind and deaf and lame. Dark, early mornings dealing with his health issues, knowing it was time to say goodbye.

* Wintry November with snow, theatre, dancing at midnight, fancy restaurants, pub evenings, book club (another kind of pub evening), exhaustion from too much caretaking.

* Mysterious black hole appearing in my car.

* December with concerts, nostalgia and literally sickening amounts of chocolate.

* Warm and fragrant Christmas, plus complicated arrangement to fetch old lady with broken hip from hospital. Chocolates and Love Actually with the best people afterwards. Unexpected bliss.

* New Year's Eve with two people who had never met. And pizza with dark gin. And sadly noting that the days of magnificent fireworks are over. And still hopeful, a little.

slow moves in messy hair

Sleepy homesickness, slow moves in messy hair and woollen socks. The office on those silent last days of the year when Christmas is still in the air. Almost alone.

Fir trees in snow outside the window, shifting from dark to golden pink, to greyish white, to dusky blue, to dark again. Christmas lights, leftover chocolates. End-of-year statistics, last-minute shipments. Lonely colleagues between empty desks at the other end of the office. Lazy chats over mugs of coffee.

I'm reluctant to let go of glittering lights in dark snow, cinnamon scent, angelic voices, traditions of centuries, magic of millennia, Christmas in the North.

the accidental bombmaker

Things I brought to the recycling centre, probably causing speculation among the staff regarding my life choices:

1 rusty car exhaust pipe

10 injection needles (most of them used)

2 tiny capsules of butane gas

1 packet of painkillers

miscellaneous small electronic gadgets

I had just been clearing out some old junk at home. But while driving to the centre, I visualised a scenario where the ancient gas capsules exploded, turning the injection needles into deadly shrapnel aimed with precision by the rusty pipe at unsuspecting victims, and wondered if anyone would believe that I hadn't actually intended to build a bomb.

melt into it

While others struggle with this winter darkness, I melt into it, gratefully. Books, sleep, heated blankets.

a shout into forever

“You mustn’t live so lightly, 

spin your stories, tell your tales. 

Let them dance across the oceans 

and set the wind upon your sails. 

For every truth found on your travels 

and in the pits of your despair, 

is a shout into forever 

of ‘I existed, and I cared!'”

-e.h

hot, exhausting, fabulous Italy

A hot autumn week in Italy. Train rides where I wrote in my old-fashioned journal, stared out the window at fields and hills, and sometimes got into heated debates with my companion. 

The food was wonderful, the coffee even better and the gelato to die for. The heat was no joke and the amount of tourists in some places was unbelievable.

Venice, Florence, and then on to Cinque Terre - village-hopping by train with lots of tourists, but more space to breathe than in crowded Florence. We walked around picturesque villages on this rocky coast, cooled off in the sea. Sun, sand and salt water eased our weary souls and aggravated the blisters from walking over 20 000 steps per day. A fresa colada on a hilltop overlooking the sunset over the Mediterranean was a dreamscape. From the train we glimpsed the white marble mountains of Carrara.

Pisa was squeezed in on our last night. The aim was too see the damn tower and then crash into a hotel bed. But we world-weary travellers were taken by the strangeness and awe surrounding that leaning tower and the basilica. The smooth marble and the green lawns were cool and peaceful late in the evening. We lingered - deep in thought, weariness and a little melancholia. We laughed at tourists taking mandatory pictures of themselves in funny poses with the tower. Then we laughed and took those same pictures of ourselves. 

There is an odd comfort and warmth in sharing the same ridiculous joke with strangers from all corners of the earth.

A leisurely meal at an outdoor restaurant as the warm darkness fell and the lit facade of the tower leaned towards us. We shared spritzes and the best moments of our journey before walking back slowly and discovering that Pisa is an unexpectedly charming city.

As if Italy wasn't enough, the plane that took us towards our home in the North flew over all the tallest Alps - mountain lakes, rivers, summit snow glittering in the sun - and continued over Prague and the meandering coastlines of the Baltic Sea. I got my money's worth from this European trip.

the day we nearly missed Botticelli

After Venice and love at first sight, Florence gave me an overwhelmed feeling - too hot, too many people, too noisy traffic, the Duomo too immense, the Uffizi Galleries too vast with too much to see, too much walking. 

And yet - who wouldn't want to be overwhelmed? 

We had a too-strong drink under the watchful eye of Michelangelo's David, at the site of the Bonfire of the Vanities. Gaped at the thousands of people queuing for hours under a lethal sun to enter the Duomo. Did a few Italian lessons on Duolingo over iced cappuccino on the Uffizi café terrace. Realised, after 3.5 hours of walking through the Uffizi, that we missed the Botticelli room and had to backtrack to the beginning. Stood before the graves of Galilei, Michelangelo and Machiavelli. Found the shirt of Saint Francis of Assisi. Had a pain in the neck after gazing in wonder at too many painted ceilings. Had knees that literally buckled from too much walking. Kept walking anyway, driven by hunger for more wonders, to the Ponte Vecchio, Porta Romana, Palazzo Pitti. Admired a street performer singing "La donna è mobile". Almost got run over by a police car pushing recklessly through a crowd. Almost got run over by one or several horse-drawn carriages. Ate cannoli. 

And finally, had a glass of wine in a deserted B&B while watching the comings and goings in a back street, discussing how the world overwhelms you - with its wondrous art and its infinite masses of people.

all the dark alleys where we got lost

The cynic in me saw damp and mold, rotting buildings and dirty canals, millions of tourists, gondoliers with fake smiles, plastic trinkets sold in old squares. 

The rest of me ignored the cynic and fell in love with this fairytale maze of alleys, canals, bridges, history. Venice, the city that looks more or less like it did in the 16th century. The strange city with no traffic except boats: boat taxis, gondolas, transport barges, ambulance boats, police boats, luxury yachts and immense cruise liners further out, and people's everyday boats everywhere. The city where darkness pools black in back alleys and smaller canals, just outside the colourful lights of cafés and bistros - so dark that the stars can be seen in the middle of the city.

The crowds of people and pigeons, both of which got too close for comfort sometimes, in the vast Piazza San Marco. The expensive old cafés around the open place, a classic orchestra playing newer tunes, thousands of tourists taking selfies. The impressive campanile that crashed down to earth once, the intricate decorations on the ducal palace, the odd cupolas of the basilica and its Byzantine wonders out of my reach.

The stretch of designer shops from the waterfront along winding streets up to the expensive hotel terrace where we dropped of fatigue, drank Aperol spritz in the shade and watched gondolas, some with men singing dramatic songs in them.

The narrow alleys leading from a tower on Piazza San Marco, past a cannoli shop we couldn't resist, past old-fashioned payphones, to a square where tourists milled around and blue lights from spinning toys glittered in the air, on to the Rialto Bridge with its densely packed tourist crowds, shops, entertainers and glimpses of the Grand Canal.

The quieter square where we had gelato among pensioners reading the paper in the shade of old trees and a small boy gave us sweets. The heat of the midday sun and the cooler shadows in cobblestone lanes.

The deserted back alleys where we got lost in the dark, a little scared, until the staircase of Contarini del Bovolo suddenly rose before us, shining like hidden treasure.

The corner of yet another unknown square where we sank down in a corner to drink water and eat over-sweet cannoli - lost again and with the maps app out of sync. Darkness was falling but friendly cafés shone bright and children played around us, there were voices and the tinkle of glasses.

The quiet San Zaccaria where a priest said Sunday mass under Bellini's altarpiece. The Orthodox church where three ladies sang a hymn. The wild peals of church bells echoing between stone walls and bridges, loud and unapologetic.

The quirky bookshop Acqua Alta, hidden somewhere in the maze, with its gondola filled with books and steps made of books leading up to a viewpoint over the canal - and the narrow aisles so packed with tourists you couldn't breathe.

The morning we got up before dawn and watched the stars shine over the promenade by the lagoon, its choppy turquoise waters now dark. Sitting on the deck of a vaporetto in a cool breeze as the morning light crept in, travelling slowly up the Grand Canal. Past palaces, some beautifully restored, some worn down by centuries of neglect and mold. Intricate windows, little jetties, dark canals leading into the maze of alleys behind. Crystal chandeliers glittering under vaulted ceilings in some of them, rotting shutters hiding others. A man watching the sunrise from a top balcony of his palazzo. The boats everywhere - water taxis pushing past at high speed, tiny private boats with outboard motors, small barges carrying wine cases, vegetables, building supplies, garbage. Gondolas tied up waiting for the tourists to wake up. The white Rialto Bridge almost deserted at this hour.

Before I boarded the train to continue exploring the rest of the world, I ate my breakfast sitting outside the station, watching the boats on the canal and thinking I never wanted to leave at all. How many mysteries and old stories did I leave behind?

autumn's to-do list

Go to Italy, buy a fridge magnet, read Of Mice and Men, sing in a choir, make myself strong, pray, live now.

to know the earth as poetry

Some of us don't want

to be tough alpha leaders.

Some of us just want to write

and wander

the garden

and breathe in the sky

and nourish and nurture

and quietly create

new pathways

and live our

lives as our art.

To know the earth 

as poetry.

(Victoria Erickson)

three strengths and a weakness

I can walk alone through dark woods. 

I don't kill spiders if I can avoid it. 

I can do hard and holy things even if it breaks me. 

My heart is growing softer, bleeding too easily, and I don't know how to survive it.

glittering moments in July

A guinea pig, swimming in a dark lake, linden flowers, sushi with mango, an Eighties' version of Trivial Pursuit, and baffling a physiotherapist with my handgrip strength.

midsummer: boredom wanted

Midsummer - the fragrance of a thousand flowers, blackbirds and chaffinches and everybody else singing for me. The world's greatest show, pulling out all the stops whether anyone is watching or not. I never want to lose this sense of wonder. I never want to miss this feeling of grace.

Midsummer week had it all. I watched two elks swim across the sea and climb wearily out of the water. I called excavators to dig up a leaking waterpipe. I worried about the sudden revolt in neighbouring Russia. I witnessed death stalk my family and wondered if I would get a call saying someone had been taken. I celebrated Midsummer with old friends - eating grilled chicken, fish and potatoes, strawberries and chocolate, drinking homemade birchleaf mead. The sweetest taste lay in the old memories and undying friendship - and in beating the boys at darts.

Midsummer with extra everything, including mosquitoes. 

Now I've withdrawn to my summer paradise, alone, to see if I can still find the old me somewhere. The one who writes blog entries and feels wonder and feels the heat of summer despite a chill in my heart.

then, a party or two

Expensive champagne, food, a pink hat, lilies that smelled of cinnamon. A roaring toy dinosaur, roses, a big surprise party. Kitsch vases from the secondhand shops, pictures from my childhood, stories from my wild youth, a unicorn, a weird teddybear lamp. Friends who said loving words and laughed at my jokes and knew my passions and quirks.

So much for spending my birthday alone. I have never in my life felt so seen and known and loved.

stand here upon your ground

On my birthday, I sat sulking in a café in Helsinki. I was alone. On my birthday. 

The hotel breakfast had been worse than average, the coffee undrinkable. The sunny weather had turned into icy winds and a little drizzle. My feet and back ached after too much walking the day before - my body felt old. I am old, I thought bitterly. And I have nothing to show for my life so far, and I'm alone. On my birthday. While people I knew were taking holidays in Tuscany or Cape Town and torturing me with sunny pictures on social media. I had gotten no further than Helsinki - cold and not exactly exotic, only a few hours away from home.

My sister had spent a couple of days with me (but had to go home earlier than me), and my friends were gearing up to celebrate me when I got home. But I was forgetting all about that for the bitterness of being alone, right now, on my birthday.

I had a vague plan to catch the ferry to the little castle islands of Suomenlinna, a wonderful place in the summer. Not so wonderful in April, in icy drizzle and high winds. I didn't really want to go.

I went anyway, thinking I would have a quick look around and catch the next ferry back. The islands were still grey, no spring green yet in sight. Thousands of geese had invaded the place, cackling gleefully when I stepped in the poo they left everywhere. A few tourists wandered around, looking lost. I got lost too - it was off-season and signposts were missing. Incredibly annoying.

Finally I found my goal, the King's Gate which I remembered from previous visits, decades ago. Specifically, an old inscription there had stayed in my mind: "Posterity, stand here upon your ground and never rely on outside help". 

There I stood upon my ground, in a beautiful spot normally crowded with tourists. At the Fortress of Finland. All alone (on my birthday) except for a couple of geese. The sun came out.

I found a deserted beach with an incredible view over the Baltic Sea. Sheltered from the wind, warmed by the sun, it was actually enjoyable. I ate the salad I had brought. I swigged Sangre de Toro directly from a (mini) bottle and got pleasantly tipsy. I talked to the sparrows that looked for crumbs around my feet. A friend called to wish me happy birthday, and sweet messages were pouring in on my phone. I looked out over the sea, sun glittering on waves, and suddenly saw adventures and hope and a long summer ahead.

When I caught the ferry back, hours later when the drizzle returned, I had explored the castle and every exciting little footpath on the islands. I had also sat for ages in the sun, writing my journal and making plans for the future and gotten a tan. I had had the absolute pleasure of being alone, on my birthday, and loving it.

weeping with the fig

I gave all my potted plants new soil. Then I got it into my head that I wanted to know more about them. But instead of looking up the best way to treat them, I looked up their names and their native regions. Madagascar is overrepresented in my living room.

I don't think plants have souls but they are definitely living beings. I don't talk to them. It doesn't cause me much heartache if they wilt and nearly die before I remember to water them. But sometimes I have to cut the top off my weeping fig, which reaches to the ceiling, and it ... well, weeps. And then I weep too and apologise. So we have a good cry together.

a day to remember, and to forget a little

Crazy birds sang so loudly in a tree on a streetcorner that I forgot everything else. A ragtime tune suddenly took me back to a long-forgotten TV show that I watched as a kid. The sun made the melting snow look like an inviting duvet. And I remembered that I knew a few words in Polish.

the greenfinch and the unexpected memories

Today I remembered how my father taught me to say totta kai when I was very young. And how on an early spring day once I spent hours on the porch, with binoculars and a bird book, until I had identified the greenfinch that sang so loudly from a pine tree.

Strange how memories suddenly fall on me without warning. I'm not sure what to do with them, sometimes.

jubilee for a warrior queen

This year is supposed to be good. Wine, road trips and roses, strawberries with cream and sun, friends and dogs and feeling loved.

I sink into my sofa to read books, too tired to take on the world. I pick out a journal in soft leather to document my year of jubilee. I read the Book of Job:

Put your ear to the earth - learn  the basics. 

Listen - the fish in the ocean will tell you their stories.

 

I'm missing a part of me and I walk alone like a warrior queen, magnificent and sad, with a diamond core.