Juxtaposing

On Sunday after church I walked home through the graveyard in Heinola, the small town where my mum’s relatives live. This is actually far from morbid, as it is beautiful and serene there. The sunlight plays through the leaves of birch trees, casting moving shadows on the dirt walkways and old gravestones. Merry splashes of colored flowers dot the markers, and green watering cans hang next to spigots for the caretakers’ ease.

When we were little, my sister and I would wander through the rows of graves and read the names, picking out ones we liked, laughing at the ones that sounded old-fashioned or meant something entirely different in another language. We found Russian names, Swedish names, and Finnish names. She’s actually already reserved the name Alina, in case she has a girl one day, so I can’t use that one! I tried to remember which one I had picked out, but as I wandered down the path lined with names like Yrjö, Aino, Kaarle, Eemil, Alexanteri, Helmi and Hellä, nothing struck me as familiar. I do recall once, that in a graveyard on the border between Finland and Norway, I found the Saami (Lapplander) name Jouni Aslak, and quite fancied it; perhaps not enough to actually name my kid that though!

There is one grave at the cemetery that sticks in my mind, even more than those of my great-grandparents that I never met (but for in black and white pictures inside an old red family album). There is a small iron cross nestled at the foot of two tall pine trees near one of the entrances. Maria Wilhelmina Franberg, born in May of 1878, died in October of 1879, it reads in an engraved oval. I have often wondered how this little baby died, to whom she was born, and how it is that there are almost always flowers at her tiny cross. I think children come and place them there, much like my sister and I did once upon a time during our summers visits.

Why I’m telling this, I’m not quite sure. Perhaps it’s because in the midst of a beautiful sunny day I found the little grave oddly touching, and oddly sad, heralding the briefness of life and at the same time the continuity of it; paradoxes juxtaposed like gravemarkers in the midst of blooming flowers. Life. Death. Life.

The Diagnosis

"Tut, tut," the doctorman said with a shake of his head, "The prognosis is not good." He shuffled through his sheaf of papers and the test results.

"Give it to me straight, Doctor, I can take it." I braced myself for the worst, clutching the wooden arms of the chair I sat in so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

"Which do you want first, the bad news or the not-so-bad news?" he looked at me seriously above his half-moon eyeglasses.

"None of it sounds good, but give me the worst news first." I took a deep breath.

"Ok, the bad news. There's no cure for what you have." I felt my shoulders sag in disbelief. These are the words I had dreaded since I had begun to notice my painful symptoms some years ago.

"You have a chronic condition that can be triggered by many things. Among the most painful are long distances, long periods of separation, and on a smaller scale memories, letters, and telephone calls that remind you of said distance and separation." He looked at me, to see how I was taking it.

"Put simply, your condition is called 'Missing, to feel the absence of.'"

"What?!" I interrupted him quickly, "You mean to tell me that these pangs I suffer, this constant hollow in my chest, is because I feel the absence of people?!" I was not quite sure what to do, should I believe this quack in the white coat?

"Yes, you miss people you love." Reality hit me like a ton of bricks; truth is hard to run from.

"And you said there was some not-so-bad news?" I asked timidly, scarcely daring to move.

"Yes. You can find temporary respite from your condition when you visit your loved ones, and they visit you. I recommend frequent travel, a good Skype connection, and if your means can support it, a personal airplane." He saw my skeptical glance, and quickly wrote out my prescription in a scrawling hand.

Email loved ones, 1x a day.
Skype parents, 1x a week.
Visits to dear friends, duration--at least 1 week, 6x a year.
Hugs, minimum 8x a day, for comforting heartache.

Condition improves if frequency of medication is increased. Patient may need to consider moving closer to loved ones if severe symptoms continue. If this is not possible, patient may need to marry into money or frequent flyer miles, last resort, rob a bank. (I knew he was a quack!)
Return for check up in three months.

An Essential

Perhaps, just perhaps, some of you wonder about this country that I live in. It is a peculiar place that for all purposes I currently call "home." While avoiding the topic of home itself, which is complex for someone like me, I will make an attempt to share some tidbits of this distinctive people and their habits. So, with nothing but the desire to expand your horizons, let me enlighten you today on one topic that is essential and taken for granted in a Finn's existence.

The sauna.

Aah, here is a word you have heard before, and indeed, it is possibly the only Finnish word that is spoken worldwide. But maybe your mind's eye does not see it quite the way mine does. I see a wood-paneled room, with wooden benches, low lighting, a hot stove with rocks, and a convenient bucket full of water with a ladle beside it. The idea is to throw water over the rocks, creating steam that fills the room with heat around 80-90º Centigrade. Now, add the sweating nude people sitting on little towels, and the picture will be complete. On the first round, I personally like to sit in the sauna until the sweat drops off of my fingertips before I race outside into the lake to cool off. If I'm with cousins, we compete to see who can stand to stay in the longest! In urban settings, you have to be satisfied with the shower in the tiled washroom that is usually next to the sauna. In the winter, you can race outside in the -15º weather and jump into a hole in the lake ice, or roll in the snow. (I can recommend the icehole, as it is quite refreshing and addicting!)

These rooms can be found in all homes, all new apartments, in apartment complexes where they are shared, in swimming halls, on beaches, in hotels, in recreation centers, and at summer cottages. It is said that past Finnish presidents even met with their cabinet members in the sauna! It is a great place to relax, to think, to get clean, to talk, to just be (if you can stand it!). For the record, my parents' hometown hosts the World Sauna Championships every August, but those temperatures are just ridiculous!

My favourite sauna is at our summer cottage. It has all of the above-mentioned aspects, except the stove is an old wooden one that requires plenty of firewood and time to heat up; there is also a huge water boiler next to it, a random assortment of collected shampoos and soaps, and even a lace curtain in the window. The sauna (with a sleeping chamber next to it) was the first building constructed at our summer cottage when my mother was still a child, and I love the front porch that runs along the length of it and the smooth door handles and wall hooks made from twisted tree branches. Situated right next to the shore, it is but a hop, skip and jump from the sauna door to the water's edge!

Now, don't you want to come visit and sit for sweaty spell? :)

A Model Head of Hair

"I leave myself in your hands," I told her with a grin, as I sat in a black leather swivel chair, covered with a drop cloth and facing a mirror. These are risky words to say to anyone, but to say them to a hairdresser is even riskier. And to say them to a student hairdresser with a big show coming up is even crazier! But yes, I did it.

My cousin is finishing her hairdresser's education, and I agreed to be one of her models for her final show. With a vague idea of acquiring short and blonde locks, I resolved to say goodbye to my long tresses as I entered the salon. While they--the teacher, the students--talked above my head and decided on colors and styles, with a few opinions inserted by myself, I let my eyes roam around the room. The girl on the other side of my mirror brightened her haircolor to a firey combination of reds and oranges. Someone with Pippi Longstocking hair was getting styled with an outrageous catwalk 'do. A few gentlemen were getting their heads cut and styled, and the main topic of discussion was the coming show and the music selection for the runway. I discovered that I would have to walk across a small stage come showtime...

Snip, snip, my hair dropped onto the red tile floor. I grinned at the stylist. Then in the middle of the process, the teacher suggested some extra color, a bit of turquoise or pink near the front. By this point, I had decided to let them get as creative as they wanted, so I agreed. When else would I get to have turquoise hair?! So, after cutting and dyeing and washing (aaah, bliss to have someone else wash your hair), more snipping and finishing touches, the end result was: striking. It is so different from my previous style, that this morning my train friends would have walked by without recognizing me if I had not called out to them!

Check the gallery for the photos!

For Estera

I settled myself comfortably on the curb, next to an old cigarrette stub and a wad of gum, under the gaze of the afternoon sun, and facing the post office from where I'd just emerged excitedly with a sizeable package under my arm. Just as excitedly, I opened it and found individually wrapped bundles that raised my curiosity levels to dangerous heights. Inside this treasure box, I found Polish candies and chocolate bars, bath bubbles, napkins, a gorgeous orange tunic with a shawl (I saved the best for last!), a beautiful green card, and a familiar picture frame with an old photograph that transported me back to junior year of college. As I munched on one of the chocolate-covered wafers and laughed out loud delightedly with each new discovery, I cannot describe the deep thankfulness and joy I felt. I am thankful for those memories of college, but I am even more overjoyed at the friendship that we share today, across distances and letters and prayers.

The picture frame sits near my desk now, reminding me of the treasure of friendship, and the treasure of Estera. Thank you!

Things I have done...

Enjoyed drenching sunshine. Woken up without an alarm clock. Watched artistic movies. Read. Biked around the lake. Sat on a wooden swing with friends. Sunbathed on the roof. Grilled outside. Participated in events on the spur of the moment. Worn summery clothes. Talked to sister and parents. Wondered. Met new people. Marveled at the appearance of leaves on trees. Smiled at purple flowers growing. Watched an old depot go up in flames in the city center. Washed winter coats. Painted my toenails. Tasted my first ice cream cone of the summer. People-watched in the park. Been thankful.

And still am thankful for the colorful moments that comprise life.

May Day Moment

My evening saunter last night took me down by the lake, just as the glowing sun was setting over the grey treeline on the opposite shore. My cousin was full of tales from her weekend, which she proceeded to share with me one after another. She took me to one of her favourite spots by the shore where we sat under a pine tree on some lichen-covered boulders that sloped into the shallow water. A small pale slice of moon hung high in the clear sky, while the sun bid us farewell in a blaze of orange and red, also painting the lightly rippling lake surface with rose, purple, light orange, pale yellow, azure, and navy blue in such poignant and beautiful hues that I could scarcely trust myself breathe. Painted in pink light, we sat there until my fingers turned cold, then walked home.