At some point during the first Covid lockdown, I found my running mojo. Finding my mojo was unintentional, but for the first time in my life, I found a consistency and rhythm to my running which had thus far not existed.
In my 50s and for the first time since I was in my 20s, I ran a full no-walk 5k. Then, I ran a full no-walk 10k. I also managed to maintain running streaks extending well into double and then triple digits, only ending them because of debilitating injuries or thanks to a rogue appendix and an emergency appendectomy.
This year, I reached another long-term goal, managing a full one-year run streak. That streak continues today. Beginning on 16 February 2023, I have run at least one mile (or at least 1.6 km) every single day, a milestone and achievement I’d never dreamed possible. My run today — run streak day (RSD) 489 — places me tantalisingly close to RSD500. Absolutely crazy! But, I now know that I can reach that milestone, so long as I train smarter and run smarter. So long as I believe in myself. Mostly, I must believe in myself.
Since reaching my one-year runniversary in February, I’ve struggled to define my next running goals. Partially, I’ve simply been too busy with work to think much beyond the day-to-day grind. My daily runs have allowed me to empty my head and simply cope with the stress and mental exhaustion I’ve felt. Sounds silly, I know, but running helps me enormously with my mental focus. Anyway, initially and after I reached my first and primary goal in February, I next aimed to run a full no-walk 10k again, something I had not done since January 2022 when I twisted my ankle. The ice of Helsinki winter defeated me when my dull Icebugs and over confidence left me rather humbled. On 28 April, I ran a full 10k again, besting my previous fastest 10k time by a fairly decent margin. That was a rather unintentional achievement, and demonstrated to me that I am stronger now and a better runner now.
But, now what?
I’ll never be a Jasmin Paris as inspiring she is nor do I have any desire to become an ultra marathoner. But, I’ve had the Torremolinos Half Marathon on my mind since I passed a few runners in 2023 when we were on holiday in Spain. Plus, I really, really love running there, something I have enjoyed immensely on our holidays but found a new joy in this past year.
Years ago, I had signed up for the Helsinki Half, planning my training with the help of Hal Higdon and a healthy dose of ‘I have plenty of time’. Well… my training went off the rails when we were on holiday in Cuba and I never really resumed it after our return to Helsinki. I could have likely walked the half, but self-doubt and shame got the better of me.
That was then; this is now.
I have not yet signed up for that half in Torremolinos. But, I have signed up and officially began training for the Helsinki Midnight Run in mid-September, setting the goal of running it in one hour. Right now, my fastest ever 10k clocks in at 1:12:07. Clearly, I have some work to do, which began today with my first run with a clear training plan and targets.
And, then? We shall see. Borrowing from a book on writing, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, I’ll take it run by run, goal by goal. Today, I absolutely believe in myself much, much more than I did several years ago when I struggled to finish the c25k programme. Today, I know that I can do hard things. Particularly if I take it step by step, run by run, and week by week.
And, for now, I’ll start with that 10k. Then? We shall see…
The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. This was step one on my journey towards my next goals.
My training calendar from 2023. Green circles indicate a walk, yellow circles indicate a run and red circles indicate yoga. My current runstreak began on 16 February and has continued to today, runstreak day (RSD) 489.
My training calendar for this year, 2024, thus far.
This year has been anything but stress-free, let’s say. Finding moments of calm and allowing my mind to rest and find a peace have been… fleeting and exceedingly rare.
But, I’m extremely fortunate to have an amazing partner in life to help distribute the heavy loads and ease those burdens and fears, and who never fails to take my mind off the more weighty issues on any given day and helps me find moments of calm and something to smile or laugh about.
One of the highlights each day centres around our evening strolls. I so welcome these times spent together, exploring wherever we are regardless of scenery or season. And, there is something particularly welcome about strolls in the summer months in Helsinki, when the days are long and the evening light stuns. Each day and each sky offers a slightly different canvas, and one which provides an explosion of colour, a contrast so incredibly stark when compared with the blacks and whites and greys of the longer winter months and absurdly short winter days.
It’s so, so hard to recall what the opposing seasons look like when we are in the middle of one. We far, far prefer summer. Always.
The following three panoramas were taken [on a Nokia G42] on three separate and recent strolls, within the last week or so. Each image was taken from a spot which lies less than a 15-min jaunt from our building. And, we love each one immensely.
One of the things I love about these specific images are reflections of the sky and scenes above that lie on the water. Even with the ripples created by the many ducks who call these areas home, the reflections seem so crisp and so clear.
Most importantly, each time we go out and spend just a few moments during our strolls standing and drinking in these pockets of beauty and incredible views, I can feel the stress of life sloughing off and away.
Come December, these are the images I’ll hold in my mind’s eye and reflect upon, wondering ‘Was it all just a dream?’
My husband is a brilliant photographer. He also love birdies. We both do. And, we’ve come to love time spent wandering around our neighbourhood in Helsinki each evening, enjoying time away from our desks and computers, leaving devices in pockets and on silent mode, and just marvelling at the woodlands, views and creatures with whom we share this habitat.
For the last several weeks, we’ve been planning on taking our proper camera [Canon 250D with 70-300 mm nano USM lens] out with us on our strolls. My schedule and weather have conspired against us until yesterday. And, what an evening stroll it was.
We also saw multiple bunnies (wild hares) ranging from tiny to gigantic, various geese and duckies, and one very annoyed cat sat on its glassed in balcony.
The pictures below are from that stroll, and do not capture all of the lovely creatures we happened upon yesterday evening nor some of the more stunning moments they provided us. So many more moments with these beauties remain etched in our minds’ eyes, yet unpreserved by a lens. They are precious still.
Several weeks ago on our evening stroll, we turned a corner and caught sight of two goshawks flying side-by-side just above our heads, revealing their incredibly dappled underbellies. Several days ago, we witnessed the same heron we saw yesterday cautiously and painfully slowly manoeuvring itself stalking tiny fishes, which it then caught with its beak. Another day, the most gorgeous of great spotted woodpeckers landed mere feet from me on an evening run. Our neighbourhood fox has also trotted by us on multiple occasions more recently, wandering about looking for one meal of another.
This, my friends, is urban nature at its finest. This is Helsinki in summer, although we’ve seenall of these creatures in winter as well.
Evenings like this are why we love our neighbourhood so, so much. And, they restore us.
[Click on an image below to see the full versions and see the captions.]
Recently, on an evening stroll, I looked down on the path my husband and I traversed to find a single solitary feather, one with polk-a-dots of all things. It honestly took my breath away, stopping me in my tracks. It’s one of the few feathers I’ve ever felt compelled to pick up and bring home.
The feather I found in the woods near our flat, June 2023.
We did not see the specific bird this feather belonged to. But, we’re fairly certain it was once part of a Great Spotted Woodpecker‘s plume, one of many we’ve come to love in the woodlands near our home in Helsinki.
These creatures have visited our balconies for years, and we welcome their high-pitched somewhat annoying songs and signals, delight when we catch them flitting from tree to tree in search of food or finding their way back to their homes to feed their even more annoying fledglings. The trees around us are dotted with various occupied and abandoned holes this time of year. And, the woods are filled with their cries each evening as we wander on our evenings strolls. The only bird which gives me more of a thrill when spotted (no pun intended) is a hummingbird, and those tiny creatures do not venture this far north as far as I know.
But, woodpeckers and these spotted versions with splashes of bright red on their heads (males) and bums (both males and females) are abundant. We love them, affectionately referring to each individual bird as ‘Woodie!’ Yes, we are just that creative with our bird names.
Several years ago, as I sat reading on the balcony of our last flat one afternoon, one of these amazing creatures landed on the balcony railing a metre or so from where I sat, and pecked at some of the seeds we had laid out for them. He then eyed me as I eyed him. I say ‘him’ without really knowing at the time if it was male or female. [Now, I believe it was a male, given the bright red markings on his head and thanks to the various bird books we’ve since acquired and consulted.]
It was an incredible moment, and one which took my breath away just as much as that tiny feather found on the path more recently did. More so, I’d say. Just me and a woodpecker sitting on the balcony looking at one another. No other sounds mattered. Nothing else really mattered in that moment. Just the two of us, bird and human. The entire encounter lasted no longer than a minute, if that. But, the memory of it will last a lifetime. Years later, it thrills me still.
We’ve come to recognise the call of the woodpecker, noting when we hear it for the first time in spring and understanding that spring is near. We also know that when we hear it from our balcony, Woodie is letting us know that we need to put out the bird feeder. We imagine his calls gently letting us know that we’ve neglected our bird-feeding duties.
Catching glimpses of these creatures in the woods provides moments of hope and peace. And, most likely, a quickening of our heart rates. We hear them far more often than we actually see them. But, in the years since we’ve learned their specific calls, we have also identified the high-pitched screeches of their fledglings, awaiting their evening meals. We have caught the shadow of young ones, not quite happy in their holes and not quite ready to venture out. We’ve also spied a juvenile or two, who look as though they are just leaving their nests and venturing a bit further from their homes. Tiny, fat fluffly birds, pecking away at the trees and looking for a tasty morsels to sustain them.
Whichever creature lost its feather, I hope it is thriving, and the loss of that single gorgeous bit of its plume simply reflected a change in the seasons rather than an encounter with a predator. I keep looking up and down now on our evening strolls, not simply hoping to catch a woodpecker in flight from tree top to tree top. I also hope to find another, perhaps larger and more symmetrical polk-a-dot feather.
But, if I never find another feather, at least we have this one. It’s gorgeous. Perhaps even more so, but at least as much as the bird who shed to whom it belonged.
I love running. I really do. And, that surprises me. Still.
In July 2012, a crafting friend of mine was training for the Helsinki Midnight Run and invited me to join her on a run. Realising that I could certainly do with a bit of physical activity and understanding that I was far from in shape, I accepted her invitation. That first ‘run’ was more walking than running, but it was a start. Without much training and far from confident, less than two months later in September 2012, we finished that 10-k run dead last, neither one of us running the entire route, but simply focused on finishing.
Since then, I’ve logged a lot of miles (my SportsTracker app tells me, 11 203 km in total). But, it wasn’t until 2017 or 2018 that I really approached anything resembling consistency in my running habit, although winter running was still a bit more challenging. I was a run-walker, occasionally managing a 20- or 30-min run without walking, and a few very slow 5ks here and there.
Something shifted in 2020, however, moving from sporadic to consistent runs. By 2021, I became a daily runner, affectionately known in running circles as a ‘streaker’. [No, I am not a ‘naked runner’, also a term with a very different understanding amongst runners.] I blame Covid-19 — not testing positive, but the luxury of time in my schedule once commuting was no longer necessary, along with the desire and need to do something besides sit behind a computer all day every day, prompting me to go outside every day for a run. Run streaks — running at least 1.6 km or 1 mile daily — challenge and motivate me in equal measure, and have taught me that smaller goals help achieve much grander and seemingly impossible, unattainable ambitions.
Since 2021, running a full 10k was no longer impossible — I’ve achieved that once unachievable target. Just running daily for months on end, once unthinkable, is now normal; not running is abnormal. My current run streak, during which I have run on 118 consecutive days as of yesterday, is inching ever closer to my longest run streak (run streak day or RSD 173, which was halted thanks to a rogue appendix and emergency appendectomy last September). Barring injury or illness, my plan is to reach 174, hopefully reaching RSD 180, and then we shall see. Another goal is to run a 5k in 30 min or less (I’m currently inching closer, with new personal best of 33:07, down from ~42 min just a few years ago). My running goals shift, and that’s absolutely fine.
Had you asked me in 2012 if any of these things were possible, I’d have told you that you’re crazy.
None of this happened overnight. Comparing the woman who took those first tentative steps towards running in July 2012 to the woman writing this who kitted up for yesterday’s run astounds me. I see (and feel) how far I’ve come. It’s been an incredibly long journey, not just in terms of miles, but in terms of the mental battles I’ve fought on various runs, losing some, winning others. More than anything, I am much more confident in my ability to set running goals, forgiving (of myself) when I abandon or alter them regardless of reason, and knowing that not every run will leave me feeling awesome either about myself or the world. Some runs sucks, just like some days suck. But, I now know I can achieve the goals I set for myself, bit by bit, navigating peaks and valleys along the way, eventually reaching that destination I’ve mapped out for myself.
I’m currently reading Running Like a Girl, by Alexandra Heminsley. So much of her own journey resonates with me, from those first awkward runs to not knowing or understanding the specific lingo and language specific to runners, terms like pronation, wicking fabric, pace or hydration or fuelling needs, chafing, and the all-important but simple understanding that consistency matters and that it takes more than one run to make any progress at all.
Running has afforded me some mental space to process … shit. My own shit. I use that time on trails and paths working towards my running goals to also work through various problems and concerns in the rest of my life, to disentangle and leave behind the day’s woes. And, I yet to regret a run, even the bad ones. Weirdly, I also approach my daily life like I do most runs, particularly the harder ones. It’s all about the simple action of continuing to place one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, until I get where I need / want to.
But, running daily has also allowed me time to step away from everything else in life and this world, and simply focus on run the run I’m in, sometimes focusing on a single solitary kilometre. No comparison to others, beyond a comparison to myself. No competition or race, other than attempting to outpace myself.
My approach to running works for me, and demands I find my own path in order to reach that finish line, whatever and wherever it is.
And, these lessons have so much relevance to life as well. To my life specifically.
I have learned these last several years that I can do hard things. More so, the hard things seem less daunting more manageable and reasonable when broken up into smaller bits. Just as there have been days when simply getting out of bed has been hard, the hardest part of some runs has simply been kitting up or getting out the door. But, I also know that I can do all of these things, and then some.
Over time, hard things become easier. More accurately, I become stronger. Because I *am* stronger.
And, more than anything, this is why I love running.
My first ‘run’ from July 2012. [Thank you, Tiina!]Reading about running: my fav hobbyA 5k from July 2020A 5k from June 2023 (yesterday’s in fact)
As a long-time migrant, who’s lived outside her ‘home’ country nearly as long as she lived within its borders, I’m no stranger to existing in a space neither here nor there. Nor is this particular moment my first professional transition.
It is, however, the first time I’ve needed to truly redefine who and what I am at least in part, moving from a space and time in which I identified primarily as an ‘instructor’ of a very specific type to no longer laying claim to that title or identity. I am uncertain, about what role or position I will occupy in future, in addition to a great many other things. But, perhaps, removing the label ‘ & instructor’ from my email signature was yet one more difficult step in this rather lengthy transition.
Victor Turner referred to that betwixt and between reality that accompanies rites of passage within specific cultures as ‘liminal states’. We transition from one thing to another, but that period in the middle of opposing states leaves us hovering between identities, between what we were and what we will become. Typically, participants in processes and rituals have a label waiting for them to claim and occupy, although what that means for and to them might remain rather undefined and illusive.
I was an instructor until yesterday at 12.01 in the afternoon; I am not sure what I will become in the weeks and months to come.
Despite occupying an undefined liminal state, despite being what is referred to as a liminoid, a weird term applied to those of us fortunate enough to live in this post-industrial gig economy that demands multiple skills and talents, I am not one thing. ‘Instructor’ was simply one identity of many, and one which offered more than a paycheck, becoming an identity which was as much personal as it was intellectually challenging and rewarding in equal measure and unexpected albeit welcome ways.
I am a woman. I am a feminist. I am a wife, thankfully to a fellow feminist. I am a friend, as well as a daughter and in-law. I am a craftivist, a reader and a bibliophile. I am a writer, and I am a bloody good editor, although not of my own texts (who is, I wonder?). I am a runner, gratefully so. I am an anthropologist, more precisely a medical anthropologist. I am an American, despite questioning my ability at this point to physically live in my home country again for so many reasons. I am an activist. I am a lover of coffee and gin, depending upon the time of day. I am a birder, obsessed with tiny, loud baby woodpeckers and finding the nests of our neighbourhood goshawks. I am a migrant. I am a Deadhead. I am a science communicator. I am.
So many of these individual identities featured if not required transitions from one state to another, some instantaneous, others slow-burning transformations which took years. Others still feel like goals, as if I am in the process of becoming them. Some identities pervade my every action, whilst others happily occupy less-visible outward expressions. And, naturally, this list does not represent the totality of who and what I am.
There will come a day when I move beyond this liminality, and enter into a status and identity which will offer some new meaning and new status to me. What that will be, I do not know. When that will be is a nonspecific ‘eventually’.
Years ago, one of my mentors would answer the question, ‘How are you?’, with ‘I am.’
So, for now, I am…. Temporarily, I am becoming something else. And, that’s okay.
Normally, I’m quite content to spend time on my own or in the company of my little multispecies, multinational family, going days on end bonding with my freakishly fun kitten and The Cuban, foregoing the company of others, parties, large crowds and a busy disco card. As an only child, I learned early in life to find ways to entertain myself. In this home, there is no end to the entertainment on offer given my flatmates.
Despite my constant companions and sources of fun, support and love, I genuinely miss lunches with friends and colleagues. I miss being out and about in the world beyond our lovely neighbourhood. I miss interacting in person with people other than at the supermarket and postal office. I miss the three-dimensional world. I miss a lot of things I took for granted, much as I suspect we all do. It’s no comfort really that I am not alone in missing these things. Beyond a few lunches with friends safely distanced outside our flat and bumping into a friend or two in the neighbourhood, we’ve spent the last 17 months on our own. And, it’s seriously fucked with my mental health.
After the pandemic forced us all to spend more time on our own and largely exist within our own homes and following a rather heart-breaking early beginning to 2020 for other reasons entirely, I confess: my own ability to find hope and joy waned. So, I did what I do when depression and anxiety hit: I laced up and resumed running. Remaining rather inconsistent until March and April of last year, I improved, I logging more miles and steadily progressing more than I had in… years. July of 2020 found me getting out and moving each and every day, either walking or running, an accomplishment which seemed impossible just a few months previously. Following a foot injury in August, in October to cope with pre-election nervousness and stress, I attempted a running streak — a period of time whereby runners log at least 1 mile or 1.6 km on each and every run each day. That streak lasted until election day on 3 November — 33 days — when I freakishly stubbed my big toe and broke it whilst cleaning my desk of all things, leaving me pretty much unable to walk much less run, despite trying to lace up that day. [I made it down the stairs in our building before giving up and heading back up the stairs feeling rather defeated if not thoroughly silly.] Through that first streak, I logged about 112 km. And, you know, I was proud of myself. Gutted that the streak ended, but I gained so much confidence in the process and along the way.
It wasn’t until 1 January that I resumed running. And, again, I began a running streak. That streak was short-lived (15 days), however, since I incurred yet another injury. Too much, too fast, and another valuable lesson was learned: listen to your damn body, V.
For the remainder of the winter and early spring, once my foot (and pride) healed sufficiently, I resumed running, albeit more modestly this time around. With the deep freeze of February, my runs were short yet thrilling. My plan was simple: no training programmes or plans (like couch to 5k or 10k), opting instead to simply listen to and adjust the length and pace of my runs individually based upon what my body told me it could take each day. One run at a time. I started with 1-mile runs, supplemented with walk–run intervals, typically lasting no more than or just a bit more than 30 minutes. The runs lengthened incrementally, although some days all I managed was a measly mile. But, week on week, the distances grew and my confidence did as well. At some point, I decided that my goal was to comfortably run 5.1 km by my birthday when I turned 51. And, you know what? On 22 May – the day after my birthday – I did it! (I would have accomplished this on my birthday, but the weather that day was absolutely dreadful. So, the next day it was.)
And, this, my friends, is where it gets interesting. From 22 May until this past Sunday, 1 August, I did not miss a single day of working out – either logging a run, a walk or an Ashtanga yoga practice. Not. One. Day.
But, something else happened within this period: from 30 May through 31 July, I ran at least 1 mile or 1.6 km every single day. During that time, I also walked and/or practiced yoga each day as well.
Y’all, I am proud.
My running streak lasted for 63 days, meagre amongst streakers, but massive for me. And, really, the only person I’m competing with is myself.
The only reason my streak ended is because the second Covid-19 vaccine messed with my body a bit, leaving me feeling incredibly poorly on Sunday and Monday after the jab on Saturday. So, rather than risk injury and making myself feel even more miserable, I took two days off.
So, what did I learn?
First, the first mile always lies. It’s rather like depression, curiously – don’t trust anything that first mile says.
Second, ignore the voices of doubt. Running a full 5k is now something I know definitively I can do. It may not be a quick 5k. That little inner voice of doubt once silenced means nothing when it comes to getting to 5k.
Third, pace means nothing, although adjusting it can mean the difference between struggling and finishing strong. I no longer focus on checking my Garmin often to see how fast (or slow) I’m going. The less I look, typically the more surprised I am by how steady my pace is and how fast that last km becomes. I run by feel: starting as slow as humanly possible and focusing on my posture and foot falls, as well as my breath. Slow and steady and further beats fast and short, unless I am short on time, when I will push myself just to see how fast I can go.
Fourth, did I mention telling that inner voice telling me that I can’t to shut up?
Fifth, consistency. I knew each day that I would go for a run, even if it was short. Adjusting my plans or schedules or to-do list necessitating putting a run in there somewhere. I knew each day I would practice yoga after my run once I figured out that it was a nice way to get some stretching in. I missed maybe one day a week, but that was intentional. I knew that each day or at least most I’d go for a walk with my husband in the evening. And, whatever else I planned or needed to do, at least 30 minutes of my day was set aside to run.
Sixth, try not to have too many expectations for a run. The days when I expected my runs to rock were typically my worst. The days when I expected my runs to suck were typically when they were awesome. Weird. But, now I know.
And, finally, take support from wherever you can find it. There was one day recently in that last week when I was certain my streak was already over. Rain and thunderstorms plagued our neighbourhood all day and it wasn’t until about 9 in the evening that a window opened up. The rain wasn’t the issue; lightning was. My darling husband, knowing how much this streak meant to me and providing the support I needed, watched the weather and declared, ‘You’ve got a window! Go! Go for your run now!’ Quick change into my kit, I laced up and ran. And, it was sweet and glorious. (Thank you, Tweetie!) I’ve also received some incredible support from fellow runners and streakers, both individuals I know beyond running and individuals I’ve connected with virtually via various running groups and applications. We all need cheerleaders and I’m grateful to and for mine.
Here are a few statistics (‘STATISTICS!’, as my super supportive says) from this run streak:
Run streak days (RSDs): Kilometres (miles) run: Total distance (walking + running): Number of individual workouts: [Runs] [Walks] [Ashtanga yoga practices] Hours spent running:
The journey of a 1000 miles (or a run streak) begins with a single step (or, in this case, a single run). Thus, I’ve already begun my next run streak. Today, once I complete my run I will be on RSD2.
My first goal is to reach RSD64, to pick up where I left off. My second goal is to reach RSD100 for the triple digits. And, then, who knows? I’m also aiming to finish the year logging 2021 km total distance on foot (I’m at 1402 km as of today) and finish the year with more kilometres logged running than walking, although I’m allowing myself an out on this goal. Injuries, yo.
Running may not allow me to resume lunches with friends or bring this bloody pandemic to an end any sooner. I may offer me the peace of mind I crave knowing that my loved ones, whilst impossibly far away, are safe and out of harm’s way. But, running does afford me some sense of accomplishment and does give me a bit of a respite from obsessing over the news every few minutes and far more frightening statistics. Running certainly keeps me from doom scrolling. Running lifts my spirits, because it really is a form of therapy for me even during relatively carefree days (remember those?). And, that ain’t nothing.
So, rather than focus on the Covid-19 statistics, I’m focusing on my own stats. At least a little bit. And, it helps.
Streak on, streakers.
My year in review for 2020. Yellow = a run; green = a walk; and pink = yoga.
My activities for 2021 thus far.
When my streak began: 30 May 2021.
Running through June 2021 (133.94 km or 83.7 mi in total for the month).
Running through July 2021 (154.02 km or 96.2 mi in total for the month).
I couldn’t have a more amazing place to run, even if taking pictures whilst running is hard and results in some weird shots.
Even when it’s frozen, there is beauty in abundance.
Typically each winter, my husband and I escape to some far away, warm, loud southern destination. Truth be told, the darkness of December does something to our psyche and we embark on a quest to find the light (and to preserve what remains of our sanity).
Covid thwarted those plans this winter. And, we’ve been waging a battle with our minds to simply survive. We’re doing what we can to keep our spirits up and focus on the goodness in our lives.
Whilst we’ve made it to February and the days are lengthening day by day, we have not found much warmth this year. That’s alright. Because with the plummeting mercury, we’ve also had mountains of snow. And, Helsinki is supremely special when covered in white, fluffy, freshly fallen snow. We welcome that new snow, each time it swirls and each time it falls. We say bring it on. It just makes the light all the brighter when shining against the purest white, sparkling snow.
But, it is freezing out. If the temp exceeded -10C / 14F (without the wind chill, mind, which was closer to -20C / -4F when I headed out), I’d be surprised. But, with that colder air, we do get sunshine. And, oh my, friends. That sunshine is gloriously welcome. Give me freezing Arctic air over chilly and endless days of cloud cover any day, and twice on a Wednesday in February.
Because I am a runner girl, on my non-running days I tend to head out for at least a brisk walk. Today, was one of those days. But, more so, I had a plan today beyond just moving and getting some fresh air.
A few of our neighbours have created several community art projects, and I desperately wanted to try to capture some decent photos of at least one of them whilst it’s still around. So, I headed out today in three layers of winter gear to keep me warm and to enjoy that Arctic sun hanging low in the sky. I also kept my trusty Sony RX100 V zipped warmly inside my down jacket until I reached my destination, whilst also protecting my beloved and waning Nokia 8 close to my chest. And, I finally got some decent shots. [NB: On two previous recent outings with a similar objective, both my camera battery and phone died — it was so cold that neither could really take it for long at all. Lesson learnt.]
This ice ornament tree popped up more than a week ago, I think. Whilst out on a run, I spied a woman hanging ice ornaments in various shapes and sizes and colours on a completely bare tree. Those shapes and colours and ice-encased objects have increased seemingly exponentially since then to cover every branch within reach on one specific tree. Some are simply ice, whilst others have been coloured various shades and hues. Flowers such as tulips and carnations and roses along with twigs of pine and eucalyptus are also encased in ice. As a knitter, I was thrilled yesterday to discover that some bits of yarn have also now appeared. Each day, other passers-by stop and admire the ice ornaments and snap pictures of the tree, individual items and themselves with the tree. And, they smile. They stand and admire and smile. Those smiles are welcome. If I’m completely honest, I’ve redrawn my running map so that I can pass this specific tree every day now. It’s really just that lovely, regardless of weather and regardless of the presence or absence of sunshine.
Today, I also stumbled upon a little ice fort neighbourhood children seem to be constructing, one of whom was adding to the structure as I passed by and snapped a few pictures. It’s not very tall yet. But, I suspect it will be soon enough given that the temps are unlikely to rise too much for at least the next week to ten days. The ‘bricks’ are made using milk or yogurt cartons evidently, with tints and hues reminiscent of a rainbow. I didn’t realise until I returned home that a tulip was stuck into and frozen within one of the bricks. It’s thoroughly lovely, made even more special because it’s enticed children to take an active role in deciding its final composition.
These little community art projects are such a treat at a time when bits of joy and delight are most welcome if not utterly necessary. These little bits of random public art really do bring a bit of joy to my world. I suspect I am not alone judging by the faces of those I pass near each of these objects and based on a random conversation I had yesterday whilst stopping to take a few pictures.
An older gentleman I passed near the ice ornament tree commented that he’s seen so many things like this this winter, objects made from frozen precipitation by members of communities. Not just here in Helsinki, but in other places as well. He described stumbling upon snow graffiti for the first time when he was in Estonia recently. He seemed to think Covid is inspiring us all to find ways to entertain ourselves and bring a bit of goodness and loveliness to us and to share with others.
I think he might be right.
In Espoo, not far from us here in Helsinki, a few residents created some rather impressive snow art in a local golf course. And, earlier just after our first serious snow fall, the entire neighbourhood around our flat was dotted with snowmen and women and various large and small sculptures and creatures made entirely of snow.
Snow delights me. But, seeing evidence of others’ delight and their own interpretations of the loveliness of snow and other frozen objects reminds me that I am not alone. We, as members of a community, are not alone, even if we cannot gather or meet up at the moment. As we all isolate and socially distance from one another, we need and search for reminders that we are not in fact alone in our loneliness. And, these little reminders are so, so welcome. We might be collectively frozen in time, repeating endless days of remaining safe and hopefully healthy, working and schooling from home and via Zoom. But, we are not alone.
So, here’s to those who are creating these bits of brilliant frozen community art projects. And, here’s to all things frozen. Even if it’s time.
About a year or so after my husband—then, partner—and I moved to Helsinki from Moscow, my lovely mother-in-law Victoria spent several weeks living with us. We had previously met just after The Cuban and I met and decided we were meant to be together. And, I loved her immediately, which made her visit to our home in Helsinki infinitely less intimidating. Victoria is also perhaps the single sweetest, kindest and funniest human around, which made the days when my husband was at work easy to navigate despite our lack of a common language (she speaks Spanish, I still do not, shamefully). It also allowed me more insight into his roots and the woman who moulded him, and I loved him all the more because of it.
During that visit she remarked to my husband that he and I make a good team. He quipped back something along the lines that I was a team all unto myself, which was rather hilarious (and true?). I am nothing if not tenacious when I’m on a mission, and I’ve always be a bit more independent than is strictly necessary or good for me at times. I suspect that independence rendered it all the more shocking to those who have known me longest that I was going to marry some Cuban guy. No one, least of all myself, expected me to ever marry. But, marry I did.
But, Victoria, my lovely MIL, was and remains correct. The Cuban and I are a team. As time passes, we appear to be a single, interconnected unit, using the same phrase or reaction or even grunt of (dis)approval in certain situations and simultaneously.
And, today, as we celebrate 9 years married, I love us and what we are becoming. With each passing year, I love us, our life and this man who is my ultimate teammate even more.
The last year has been such a challenging time, not so much for our relationship, just simply as a year and a point in time. Naturally, we like all couples have had our moments of married non-bliss. But, we have endured those instances and recognised what brought us together far outweighs a single or even several unpleasant circumstances.
There are roller coasters we ride through life and there are also storms from which we all seek shelter. This past year, The Cuban and I have endured both the wildest, most terrifying and thoroughly wearisome rides and survived raging, damaging and turbulent storms, both figuratively and literally. And, we’ve done so together.
I go to bed each evening, even on those darkest of nights—perhaps more so on those when I feel most troubled—thanking my lucky stars that this man landed anywhere near my orbit. The odds were stacked so much against it ever being a possibility. And, it’s continually a source of awe to us that we landed where we did when we did. Timing was everything.
As we approached our ninth anniversary, and we both looked up precisely which anniversary it was for us, I found myself reflecting on what Team Cuba Sí, Yankee Tambíen means to me. Primarily, it just means that we bring out the very best in one another for one another. It’s not simply that we want to be better for one another, but that we genuinely are better because of the other. At least, I know he’s offered me the possibility of becoming a better person, by challenging me on my bullshit, encouraging me to grow and expand intellectually, and cheered me on as I both failed and succeeded throughout the past 15 years we’ve been together and 9 since we joined our lives legally.
I see the world differently with and through him, not because he asked me to; but, because I wanted to for him.
So, a year on, this is what I know to be true:
There’s no one with whom I’d rather be in quarantine and be forced to spend all of my time.
There’s no one who makes me laugh quite like he does, at times over absolutely nothing.
He is still my best friend, my moral compass, my sunshine on a cloudy day and my own personal hero and cheerleader.
And, when the storms rage and the night is darkest, I know that he’ll help me navigate to safety and provide a light to lead me home. Hell, he’d carry me and the umbrella if necessary. Because he hasn’t let me down yet when I’ve needed him most. I can only hope that I have not nor will ever fail him.
Since all bets are off on what the next year will bring, all I ask is that our little team flourishes and endures. This is home. It may not be particularly flashy or fiery (recent escapades next door aside) or exciting from where you sit, but it is just fine by me.
I’ve been thinking a lot about time lately, largely because it has so very little meaning these days. It passes, certainly. But, how we classify it seems all confused and out of sorts. For instance, I’m not sure if today marks the beginning of the last course to close out my fifth academic year (2019-2020) or the official beginning of my sixth academic year (2020-2021) teaching at the University of Helsinki. Why this confusion? Well the course that began today was originally planned for last spring, but was rescheduled due to Covid-19. Thus, we met for the first time today. Ambiguous time, right?
Thus, I’m straddling a weird place. Rather apropos for 2020, I suppose.
Regardless, as the time for that first ‘meeting’ of this specific course neared, I realised two things:
I’ll never not be a bundle of nerves on the first day of the academic year or just prior to meeting a new group of students for the first time. It doesn’t matter how often I’ve taught the material or how comfortable I feel with it, I’m a nervous Nellie on the first day and through the first few moments of a class. Perhaps given that this was my first real-time Zoom class, I was even more nervous.
This year more than most I am feeling so much solidarity with and love for every single teacher / instructor / professor I know at the moment. Whether their academic year features in-person, online or some hybrid format given Covid-19, and whether they teach the tiniest people or more seasoned and budding young scholars, educators everywhere deserve so much recognition and kudos as a special cadre of underappreciated superheroes in these times. I don’t know a single educator friend who is not a badass with the compassion of the Buddha to back up their mad skills. And, I know a fair many who are terrified for their students and themselves, which breaks my heart.
Today’s class went well enough all things considered. All of us are attempting to be a bit more forgiving and more patient with ourselves as well as with one another than perhaps we would be normally (speaking for myself here). We — students and educators alike — are all navigating strange times, and simply must deal with things as best we can and as they present themselves to us.
Hopefully, we all emerge from this surreal experience and academic year a little wiser and having met our individual and collective objectives as educators. And hopefully our students learn what we intended or planned for them and feel fortified and fulfilled, and ready to embark on whatever future awaits them.
I’m fortunate: my courses at least for the autumn term are entirely online. I would naturally prefer to meet my students in person. But, I’d much rather they and I remain healthy in these times. I genuinely hurt for those educators and students forced to enter situations in which daily they wonder if they are risking their own or their family’s health and well-being. No one should be forced into such a situation.
So, as Finnish school children and teachers across the country return, here’s to all of the educators entering the 2020-2021 academic year. In Finland, the United States and everywhere.
Be safe, y’all. And, I hope you feel supported and loved and recognised for your heroism and extraordinary efforts in continuing to inform, enlighten and educate your students. You’re value and worth are immeasurable and I for one and for what it’s worth salute you.
A Tropical Fish Out of Water 