I have managed to set my hair on fire twice. (Must have had some fun parties!)
As a kid: nearly drowned once, was chased by a pedophile another time.
As a carefree student travelling by bicycle in every kind of weather: close encounters with moving cars at least three times, with the ground a few more.
I was hit by a bus while walking, and survived.
Thank you, God.
Winter weather clues in the morning:
A cool bedroom: it's been a cold night. Slightly too warm: milder weather. A soft, blueish light: snow on the ground. The rumbling of snowplows or an eerie silence outside: lots of new snow. The sound of someone scraping ice off their car: frost. A bright light with the sky high as a cathedral outside my window: very cold. The sound of dripping wetness: thaw. Noisy crackling under the wheels of passing cars: thawed snow that has frozen over again. Dirty yellow air: a blizzard approaching.
This month has heaped miseries upon me. What I long for right now:
Joy, peace, Christmas, chocolate, the good old days when I curled up on the couch and wrote, my father, dinner with friends, dogs, childhood, weeks of rest surrounded by books, easy health, a feeling of invincibility, God, my university days, fastlagsbullar with lots of cream, the feeling of falling in love, the smell of turf smoke in an Irish village on a winter's day, birdsong.
2024 was the year I only just dragged my business through another crisis year, launched my skills on a foreign market, started training my mind for new trade.
I found a new gym and a real choir - and found my voice, after decades of silence. I took up volleyball again, against better judgment and wobbly knees. I gave up cheese and took strict control over my money.
The winter was six months long and everyone important to me seemed to suffer from serious illness. There was constant struggle and worry for a 90-year-old with broken bones, dementia and loneliness. She didn't really feel like my mother anymore. The spring was a bit easier, summer peaceful. Work and money ran out in the autumn, bringing stress along with new challenges and a new direction.
It was the year I read 137 books and (according to Spotify) listened to royalcore concert band classical and academic strut pop, once for a whole day straight. I rediscovered my love for the Swedish language.
Highlights:
* New Year with friends, pizza and prosecco.
* Graffiti art exibition in an abandoned warehouse in freezing cold - a ghost town and fairytale in one. The kind of art I enjoy. Wandered around wearing double-layer wool and winter boots. Spooky funfair games, broken dolls, fairy lights in discarded boots, monsters, urinals and everything spray-painted.
* Joining a choir, a version of the one I lived in and loved 30 years ago. Loved this one too. Good for the soul and the soul voice.
* Funeral of a beloved aunt, among many other beloved aunts and uncles. My sister and I attended, feeling newly orphaned. The old and wise took us in, embraced us in their love. A church with ancient avenging angels in the ceiling, coffee in venerable poet Topelius' home.
* Age signs: christening of my second grand-niece, laser treatment of my eye, my first ever permanent medication.
* Helsinki weekend with friends, wine, Finnish pentecostals, great food, a twilight walk in icy Eira, the National Library, hunt for the most atmospheric café.
* "Rainbow mass" that I attended out of curiosity.
* Last evening in the town's only (almost) real Irish pub before it closed for renovation. Joyful dancing with a friend, meaningful conversation with my brother.
* Deepening crisis in the garment industry, losing customers and suppliers, not amenably.
* Discovery, by my dentist, of my first ever tooth cavity since the late Eighties.
* Choir weekend with hundreds of singers, two fun concerts and an unexpected icecream break in the snow.
* Sand from the Sahara that rained down on my car.
* Trip to Larsmo to look at a boat and a spring flood. Played a car game that involved heavy accents and collision avoidance.
* South African evening with rusk, lots of interesting facts and the sales price of giraffes.
* Trip of the year, a week in Spain: the Alhambra, tapas, history, sun, swifts and oranges, and a decadent life.
* Birthday: a gorgeous Andalusian dawn with both sun and moon, a champagne party on a plane with a view over Atlantic sand dunes, a good friend and Washington Irving's fairytales, a dinner eaten standing up on a train going 170 kph.
* My first book fair: history, crime fiction, fantasy, and recruiting a published author to our book club.
* Two funerals in one day, involving many tears and the bishop of Burma.
* Dinner with cousins, aunts and uncles - lots of love, home and belonging. Much needed.
* Barbecue and angling lessons on a summer's eve. The fish didn't bite, fortunately.
* Picnics and brunches with praying women, easing this year's feelings of loneliness.
* Massive air show with fighter jets, tanker aircraft and serious-looking helicopters. None of them crashed, despite their complicated maneuvers and my predictions, but I was almost killed by the shuttle bus to the car park.
* Luxury brunch with best friend, under some stuffed deer heads. It started with mimosas and ended with a chocolate fountain.
* Midsummer with the Midsummer people, some old-new additions and a very pregnant cat. Sometimes it's a wonderful feeling to be surrounded by people who all went to the same school at the same time and know the same things.
* Various road trips with mother - a favourite pastime for us both. (I made it my summer project to visit as many summer cafés as possible.) Other trips, with various people, saw Kaskö and the famous greenhouse restaurant, Kokkola and a summer yardsale in the idyllic old town, and phenomena such as old church ladies, honeybeer and the only British warship ever lost to the enemy (i.e. the Finns, who probably were as surprised by this as the Brits).
* Bubbles, good food and sangria nightlife by the seafront, with my industrial cohorts K & K.
* Guided cemetery tours: this summer's educational project (alongside reading Leo Tolstoy's shortest novel, very short indeed). Learned, among many other things, that ghosts of musicians like to play Mozart's "Sleigh Ride" and that my home town has many interesting characters.
* A day spent sipping various drinks at various sidewalk cafés with various people - perfection!
* The Olympics in Paris: watching weird sports on a laptop in the wilderness cottage.
* Night of the Arts: a viking ship, tacos, secret orders, rich red wine and the usual magnificent chaos.
* Unusual nature observations: two hares in a boxing match, a baby cuckoo, egrets.
* Close encounter with a venomous snake: almost picked it up with my bare hands. Not on purpose.
* A fight lost against AI (bad AI-generated subtitling): also lost a lot of work, and a lot of work motivation, as a result.
* Fourth funeral of the year, this time finding family love among my mother's cousins.
* Dramatic end to the summer cottage season: after a long, lonely but wonderful summer, I came home in September by bus, my car by tow truck. I decided then that summer was definitely over.
* Mental trainer course: new career I suddenly decided to embark on, maybe. Fascinating subject, weekends with fascinating people, a lot of soul searching.
* Rock gig at the jazz club.
* Exploration of the very small town of Vörå - a mountain, fake Roman ruins, runes.
* A garage roof project I was called in to help with: complicated and kind of fun, with teenagers and single ladies and a darkening evening.
* Battle against cholesterol and against doctors who disagreed about my cholesterol.
* Battle against subtitling software, extremely demoralizing.
* Tampere weekend with sister: cafés, chasing famous donuts, a museum, Indian food, cozy evenings with cozy crime series, pear truffles from the best chocolate shop in the world.
* African birthday celebration in a blizzard, with power cuts and a pro cake.
* Software license, extremely expensive, bought from a nice Danish lady to kickstart my new career as a subtitler for Swedish TV.
* A night in a horror movie setting: me and a friend all alone in an unstaffed hotel, in the middle of nowhere, in a blizzard. I slept peacefully.
* Volunteering for a charity project: taking food and Christmas presents to suffering families, receiving beautiful smiles in return. Also found my way blocked by a gigantic horse.
* Christmas days: family celebration of the coziest kind, a dinner with former Afghan missionaries and TV producers, a brunch with firefighters and bohemians, and a trip to the last outpost on the Ostrobothnian plains where an eerie purple light shines over snow and traditional hymns are combined with mulled wine around a fire pit.
* New Year's Eve: my sister, a church service, a water/fire show and (the best part) a café. At midnight, I watched the fireworks alone and cried.
A difficult year is over.
Weary eyes, a desk lamp, a warm pool of light over scribbled notes and rebellious laptops.
A niche in a rock face overlooking the icy sea, battered by winds, rain or snow. Dark outside when I get up to work, dark again before I've finished.
Black jeans, silk shirt, December mood.
I take messy notes in tiny hand-writing. I have a lot of imagination. I carry around bread in my pocket. I am unique.
October rains, colours, turbulence.
I alternate between money trouble, breathing exercises, a class room, hypochondria, too much work, not enough work, panic, peace of mind.
There is not enough time to savour the blood-red-to-sunny-yellow maple leaves and the swooping, chattering jackdaws.
Education these days is modern and high-tech, I said to myself and brought my best laptop to class.
None of the other students did. The teacher distributed notebooks and pens. To learn a piece of information, she told us, you have to ponder it actively for at least 30 seconds - preferably by writing it down, talking about it and practicing it.
Hence the slow pace and the note-taking by hand, I presume. There is also talking and practicing. The teacher even speaks in a slow, soothing voice. It should drive me crazy.
But after the first hour, I found myself soothed into a pensive but alert state of mind - and remembering the information afterwards.
I'm back to studying - slowly - and I relish it.
Alone in the wilderness again. The moon is a wonky orange, the sea is spilled ink, the mist blurs the edges - a fairytale stage. Hundreds of honking geese take flight with a sudden thunder of wings, unseen in the dark.
The fire is roaring happily in the wood stove. I'm in the cottage, flimsy curtains drawn against the thick, black night. This fairytale stage is set for me and my writing. This is me.
I don't even care that my car is broken and I don't know how to get home.
Honking geese, berry cream cake, rain, earthy scents, warm sunset evenings, carnivals and fireworks, raw nostalgia and loneliness, hours of sleep in a silent cottage, plans and dreams, the forest.
August is emotional. Not just the end of summer - the end of the year.
After months of white nights here in the North of the world, there is always that night when you look up and see the first, bleak star blink into existence. One after one they come, then thousands and millions, as August dims the lights a little more for every night.
Before summer has turned to autumn, the entire Milky Way roars in silence across the sky, sometimes licked by tendrils of Aurora Borealis. It smells of ice and eternity.
I'm loved by God. I don't need additional love.
I carry faith (trust instead of worry), hope (joy and beauty) and love.
If I lose faith and even hope, love will still be there.
I don't have to live up to any norms and expectations, explain myself or submit to shame.
I will never marry. I'm set apart for something higher.
The kingdom of God is near and I'm bringing friends.
July dawns with hazy horizons, rain, fragrant clovers, a croissant with hummus and coffee, solitude and turbulent emotions in a quiet cottage.
A quiet dreamer - that was me during my university days. I spent lots of time in church and drifting around the city alone, and not enough time having fun or actually studying.
That's the mental picture I have of those days, anyway. I'm having to adjust it right now after refreshing my memory with the help of my old journals.
Apparently I also did the following:
* Took boat trips to islands far and near with friends (the city was by the sea), in autumn winds or icy spring sunshine. Shivered on boat decks, explored ruined monasteries and closed-for-the-season beach cafés, had sandwich picnics in windblown fields.
* Had very late nights at ancient pubs with vaulted ceilings, a bustling McDonald's or the fancy international café in the heart of the city. I dived deep into the minds of my friends, played cards or watched people.
* Arranged mega-parties in our flat with my more sociable flatmates. Weirdly, we seemed to attract a target group of mostly students of theology, later on also students of language, history and geology.
* Attended traditional events like the annual concert of the university choir, the high-brow Opening of the Academic Year and a poetry reading with mostly elderly, venerable upper-class people. My flatmates and I observed some old traditions in our own way, like reciting Runeberg on Independence Day, toasting Walpurgis Night with homemade mead, and smuggling in secret "little Christmas" presents. We also happily ditched these traditions when we couldn't be bothered, which made us feel bohemian and free.
* Celebrated spring on the ancient mountain, with all the other students. Sometimes in rain and tears, sometimes in a pretty dress and a smile.
* Toured with a dance team, recited a Runeberg poem in public.
* Was pulled into sledding competitions, bowling competitions, snowball fights, Pictionary tournaments. And every year, the volleyball tournament and lots and lots of volleyball.
* Tried Russian classes, the Fairytale Club, disastrous dates, alchemy classes (inadvertently), horse-back riding, dozing by the river in the arms of a handsome man.
* Ice-skated on the frozen river and drank coffee in a heated tent on the coldest of winter nights. Forced my long-suffering bicycle through deep snow, ice and dangerous traffic. Survived several traffic-related accidents with just a few scratches.
* Consumed pie and cider at long, lazy spring picnics. Stayed up all night with friends or gorgeous men to talk, drift through the city or watch the sunrise.
* Sang a lot, sang a few solos in my choir, gave up my dream of singing.
* Gate-crashed a formal party at the history student club and danced with gorgeous men in tuxedos (I think I was wearing jeans).
* Was hit by a bus once, accidentally set my hair on fire at least once.
* Travelled the world between terms and sometimes in the middle of them.
* Dealt with stalkers, thieves, pathological liars, drug addicts and obsessed lovers.
* Formed my world view and got a degree in something else.
* Said farewell to the city by circling above it in a tiny plane.
In my local off-licence I found a Riesling with the same name as the first friend I ever had.
The name is rather odd, for a boy and for a wine.
I'm drinking it with morbid curiosity and find myself missing him. I think I was seven years old the last time I spoke to him. I attended his funeral about ten years ago.
If I Had Three Lives
After “Melbourne” by the Whitlams
by Sarah Russell
If I had three lives, I’d marry you in two.
The other? Perhaps that life over there
at Starbucks, sitting alone, writing — a memoir,
maybe a novel or this poem. No kids, probably,
a small apartment with a view of the river,
and books — lots of books, and time to read.
Friends to laugh with, and a man sometimes,
for a weekend, to remember what skin feels like
when it’s alive. I’d be thinner in that life, vegan,
practice yoga. I’d go to art films, farmers markets,
drink martinis in swingy skirts and big jewelry.
I’d vacation on the Maine coast and wear a flannel shirt
weekend guy left behind, loving the smell of sweat
and aftershave more than I did him. I’d walk the beach
at sunrise, find perfect shell spirals and study pockmarks
water makes in sand. And I’d wonder sometimes
if I’d ever find you.
_____
Note from me: Love this poem because I'm kind of living this third life.
Living in a community, with idealists. It was autumn in Sweden.
I was nineteen and on the way to discovering what was perhaps my life calling - comforting, encouraging, praying - and at the same time feeling vulnerable and naive like a child. I discovered playfulness, unexpected physical strength, the importance of letting myself get close to others - physically, mentally, spiritually. I cried like I'd never cried before and realised how little I knew myself.
I had just left my childhood home, thinking I was independent and grown-up. But I was a bambi-eyed, scrawny teenager, weak and unaware of how much others protected me, even as I gradually learned how to look after myself. Perhaps it's the same for everyone at that age.
I grew like a flower during that chilly autumn, safe among people who loved genuinely and warmly. It was an environment I craved - and crave still, perhaps. Later I would realise how isolation and too much indepence always make me sink into apathy and despair.
It was a community of Christian missionaries, and some of the things we talked about seem odd now - not dangerously so, just odd. Like the sinfulness of pride, confessing sins to each other, dealing with the devil, prophesying. But I learned to be open and loving, accept differences, overcome brokenness, speak English, and let myself be loved by others when I least expect it.
Even with the cynicism that has come with the years, I can't seem to lose my faith in God, genuine love, hope.
It's a city of olives and oranges, of a thousand swifts darting around in the sky. The Arabic coffee is soot black and spicy, the sangría joyfully juicy. The April sun is delightful, the wine comes with tapas of tabbouleh or Manchego cheese or, obviously, olives.
We explore an immense cathedral, the burial chapel of monarchs, the heavenly gardens of the long-vanished Moors. We rest among roses, light-headed from their scent and the whispers of marble and fountains.
Feeling a little faint, I stand in front of the sarcophagi of legendary Isabella and Ferdinand. I shudder with fear and excitement when we get lost among the poorly lit alleys of the Sacromonte after dark, long after the tourists have left for the flamenco shows and the restaurants. Shadows are dark, dogs are barking in the distance, footsteps echo in the deserted, winding streets. Danger and the ghosts of gypsies stir the cooling air.
The red castle on the hill and the snow-covered Sierra Nevada summits float over us like a fata morgana. Seven hours is spent exploring the castle - we are, by now, seasoned castle explorers who won't leave any dungeon or turret unseen.
Europe has too many works of art and my head will soon explode. Andalusia is a cauldron of emotions, bullfights and scorching heat. And chilled, white almond soup in the shade is a wonder as great as the Alhambra itself.
No matter how wondrous the place I visit, I very rarely return. How could I, when there are so many wondrous places still unexplored? The sadness of leaving a place like Granada, a fairytale of spices and stories hidden in the mountains, knowing I'll never return .... adds to the magic.
I bury myself in Washington Irving's Tales of the Alhambra for days afterwards, refusing to let go.
Dust, doctors, death.
Stress, songs, shivers.
Cauliflower, consideration, cocktails.
Birds, boredom, books.
Worry, whiteness, wars.
History, halloumi, hope.
Misty grey fields and forests. Icy winds with snow crumbs swirling around. Deer grazing in open fields, looking for sustenance under half-melted, re-frozen snowdrifts.
It's March but spring feels very far away and in the backseat of the car, I shiver in my puffer jacket and wriggle my freezing toes. I have dressed for a choir concert, not for a long, poorly heated car drive.
Then, incongruously, there is an icecream truck. It's sitting there at a rest stop, open for business. Icecream trucks are a thing of the summer.
We screech to a stop and four adults tumble out of the car to buy huge icecream cones. The wind coming across the fields swirls more snow around us, to prove that it's still winter.
We laugh at it, shiver, and stuff ourselves with summer hope.
It's been a long, long day
Are we in heaven, heaven, heaven?
I want a playlist with only songs that mention heaven. Because my body hurts and my mind fears and hope is scarce ... but heaven is heavy with grace.
Every day I know that this might hurt but I don't care
This is heaven, yeah