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?’
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.
Most likely, if you’ve seen any of my recent posts to Facebook you understood that something is in the air. And it’s not just the pollen that accompanies the change of seasons in Southern Finland.
tl;dr version: I recently submitted a formal application for a fixed-term position of University Lecturer in English at the University of Helsinki. I was not shortlisted and my last day in the classroom will be 5 June.
If that news shocks you, you are not alone. So, what’s going on? Why did I apply for a job I have been doing since August 2014, you ask? And, what the hell happened?
There’s a story here, y’all. And, I’ll try to clarify as much of it as I can.
The university has gone through some restructuring, a part of which involved creating several full-time, fixed-term teaching positions which will largely be responsible for offering courses on transferrable (or soft) skills, courses such as those I developed and currently teach. Until now, I have assumed a role akin to an adjunct faculty member rather than through a formal appointment or contract. Each year, normally in February, my boss and the PhD programme coordinators would negotiate how many courses they wanted to offer for the following academic year and on what specific topics. Then, I would take a look at that list and decide how many courses I could feasibly take on. [And, yes, I would normally take on more than I should because… well, students want/need the courses and I love teaching them. If you’ve known me for any amount of time, you also know that I’ve always overestimated what I can reasonably achieve. Whatever.] It’s honestly worked rather well and allowed me an enormous amount of flexibility in deciding my own schedule.
Anyway… the exact structural changes within the university are rather complicated and the specific details were largely rather unimportant to me until now. But, those changes impacted my life and especially my role at the university in quite a few ways, which were just weird and, honestly, slightly terrifying once the next steps became clear. Now, that terror has become a gut punch.
Primarily, it meant the woman who recruited me to teach at the university would no longer be my ‘boss’. Processing that is hard, because Leena has been not just a dream to work with, but also the most supportive, compassionate and protective-in-a-necessary-way direct supervisor I’ve ever had. She’s often protected me from myself. [See above about reasonable and translate that to my work plans.] I’ve had some great bosses, y’all. [Some of you are likely reading this and thinking, ‘Yo! What the hell, V?!’ No offence to you, truly. But, if you worked with Leena, you’d understand.] She’s not just my advocate and sounding board, she’s a great friend as well. Not teaching for her seems just… weird (and, right now, wrong). So, I chose not to process that reality until I absolutely had to. Thankfully, I’ll still get to work with her albeit in a different capacity. I’ll continue revising for the university community, which is part of her division as well. Silver linings and all, right?
The truly terrifying realisation for me, however, alongside with not working for Leena, was my future as an instructor at the university. Throughout the application process, and whilst awaiting word on my professional fate, I have had a lot of students in individual courses and will continue to do so through the first week of June (I have 6 courses to finish, each with at least 14 participants). Knowing how to respond to their queries about future courses is beyond my capabilities. I know neither their options nor until this week did I know my own fate as their instructor. If nothing else, this application process resulted in a thorough understanding of just how much I love what I do, and how much it now defines me. The self-reflection has been enlightening and powerful.
Anyway, I did everything I could to put together what I had hoped was a convincing case for ‘why me’ and what I have to offer this professional community that has been my home since 2014. I was supported by seven incredibly kind and rather embarrassing praise-filled letters of support: three from colleagues at the university and four from former students, one of which was sent to me unsolicited. The deadline for submission was 19 April, and following my own advice to students, I submitted on 18 April.
Alas, two days ago, my worst nightmare became reality, and I knew with certainty that I would no longer be an instructor of transferable skills courses to PhD candidates at the University of Helsinki. The reason? I did not finish my dissertation and receive a PhD.
I do not mind telling you that it was and remains a complete gut punch. I was and am heartbroken. If you’ve followed this journey of mine since 2014, you likely also understand that I have loved my role as an educator and mentor. Walking into classrooms this week has been brutal, y’all.
This entire process, though, has left me weeping on multiple occasions. Not just the rejection itself, although that still is enormously painful. What’s filled me with hope as well as with an undefinable sense of gratitude is the people who have had my back and the extraordinary kindness and lengths so many have gone to in showing their support for my candidacy, either by simply being there for me or actively supporting my application. From the gushing letters of support and recommendations to reviewing bits of my CV, cover letter and/or teaching portfolio, often multiple times, to simply offering a friendly bit of advice or strategically timed word of encouragement, I am left transformed. I will forever struggle to meet my own high standards for myself; but, y’all seriously left everything out on the field for me. And, I’m honestly speechless.
What’s next?
I honestly don’t know.
Well, first I’m finishing up the remaining courses I have committed to for this academic year. I owe that much to my boss, but more so to the students who signed up for those courses and to myself. I’m leaving everything ‘out on the field’ in these courses, y’all, and going out with a bang. I also have a mountainous backlog of feedback to send to past students, and maybe I’ll finally empty my inbox.
Beyond that, I don’t know. I’ll continue revising and try to sort out other more practical concerns as well as soon as I can.
I’m also going to do some healing of my shattered heart. The waves of emotions are tsunamis right now, and my I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit angry. So, I’ll be processing my feelings alongside working out what comes next.
I will close with a few lines from my cover letter. These passages perhaps more than any others encapsulate my feelings on that role I had and loved:
… Because I benefitted from careful mentoring on these precise skills from my own mentors, the idea of paying it forward compelled me. Thus, I agreed to take on a few courses in autumn 2014, a fortuitous decision in hindsight, and one which fundamentally changed my life and my identity. To put it simply, the last nine years have been the most rewarding of my career and my life… To my mind, my greatest professional success has been witnessing current and former students flourish. In return, this also grants me a priceless gift. Creating dialogues with students—some of which last for a single course, many of which extend beyond the PhD defence—and watching them blossom as they challenge themselves to step outside their academic comfort zones have rewarded me immeasurably…
18 April 2023
I haven’t even begun to understand how much I’m going to miss the view from various classrooms nor how much I’ll miss standing up in front a room full of eager young scholars. But, I will. And, still, I have zero regrets.
The view from Porthania, P667, a classroom in the City Centre I know incredibly well.
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.
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.
It wasn’t until late in the day that I realised it had been two years to the day that we discovered our beloved feline, Cheeky Che Fufu, the Princess of Darkness, had developed kitty titty cancer. That particular gut punch was vividly relived after stumbling upon an image of her from exactly one year ago when she was still clear-eyed and sassy. It’s been roughly six months since we said our final farewell, a realisation that left me unsettled me and heartbroken all over again. Che Fufu’s been on my mind a lot lately, and her memory has thrown phantom shadows of her around my desk as I’ve worked. Whilst I am enormously grateful to our newest family member, the Tiny Terror that is Squeaky Pollito Pito Frito Fu, and his persistent play and silliness along with kitty hugs the likes of which I’ve never really known, I will forever be a member of #TeamCheFufu.
Simply put, I miss our darling beautiful girl.
With her in my mind and an incredibly heavy heart, my husband and I set off on our evening stroll yesterday evening, me silently shedding tears behind my sunglasses and my husband also lost in his own thoughts and concerns. We decided just after setting off that we wanted to try to get in a good long stroll. I think we both needed it. So, we headed for that tiny uninhabited island not far from our flat, Seurasaari, to see what we could see. Little did we know that Finland had plenty of treats in store for us, perhaps at a moment when we needed them most.
The light. The glass-like water surrounding Seurasaari. The sun gently sliding below the horizon over the water creating a kaleidoscope of colours. The shadows cast against trees at impossible angles, both bending and expanding the light in unexpected ways. And, so many reflections and images in every direction. At times we seemed so far in the woods only to be pulled back into the city as we looked across the bay in the direction of the city centre. The deeper we traversed, however, the more our moods lifted. And, the less our worries, concerns, heartbreak and woes weighed us down.
Thank you, Helsinki. We forget sometimes just how insanely beautiful you are. On days like these, there’s a certain restoration in simply getting out and moving about. Perhaps that was your intention all along.
The Cuban and I have diligently stuck to our evening strolls for several years now, our moment each day when we step away from gadgets and the rest of the world and meander around our hood and bond, chatting about whatever tickles our fancies on that particular day. Since June and the last of my lectures from the 2019-2020 Covid-thwarted academic year, I’ve been rather committed to walking and/or running in the morning and in the evening.
In an attempt to manage my own stress and find my long-absent running mojo, I began taking walks or running in the morning as well. It’s been awesome, and helpful, and definitely helped me learn to love running once again. (Mind, I still hate running when I’m doing i; but I LOVE it immediately upon completion, and look forward to lacing up and heading out for my ritual of cursing running so that I can declare my love and devotion to it immediately afterwards all over again. Yes, it is a thoroughly dysfunctional relationship.)
Given this commitment, however, in June, despite missing several days of walking and/or running, I still managed to log just over 200 km, one of my best months ever since I began keeping stats.
Yesterday, I topped 300 km for July. And, with a few days left in this month still to run and walk, and with at least two more runs planned, plus our daily evening strolls, I may yet reach 350 if I get out there as much as I have been. [Insert joke about Sod’s Law and/or best intentions. Go on.]
I suspect once my teaching obligations at the university resume next month, I won’t have nearly enough time to continue this little experiment. But, I’m well-chuffed at the moment. To have been afforded the luxury of time (and no injuries other than a few blisters yet, touch wood) and decent weather to embark upon, this peripatetic experiment has been a gift. Instead of the hour I’ve set aside each morning, maybe I’ll cut the time down to half an hour. We shall see. For now, I’ll enjoy the time I have.
As much as I love our evening strolls, my morning meanderings have also offered me a chance to step away from the screen and consider and process so many things on my own. And, that’s allowed me to be a bit more present with The Cuban when we are out and about. And, allowed us the opportunity to explore our surroundings a bit more together.
My next goal is within reach, although I have no definitive timeline for its completion. But, I’ll get there.
One step at a time.
A scene from favourite evening stroll and walk from July.
Like everyone else in the world, Covid-19 has altered our world. We have socially isolated ourselves since 13 March, which seems like a lifetime ago. A friend who lives in our neighbourhood has stopped by a few times briefly for visits reminiscent of Romeo & Juliette’s balcony scene without the drama. But, aside from those chats, we have interacted with no one other humans beyond the supermarket staff and each other, our darling kitten and nature for the last 8 weeks or so. The uncertainty and weight of these times, along with various reactions to it are, overwhelming at times.
Yesterday, this guy visited one of the feeders we hang from our second-floor flat’s balcony. Our views largely consist of other buildings. But, we are close enough to woodlands that many birds visit our balcony daily. This gorgeous creature is a more recent and our most precious guests.
A family of woodpeckers visited our former flat daily throughout the spring and summer months. Since moving about 1.5 years ago, our only real regret was not seeing or hearing those woodpeckers outside our balcony, despite moving less than ~1 km from our former flat. We’ve missed that family, and their lovely little chirps as they fed on the treats we left for them. The appearance of this guy last week made my heart sing. And, was so utterly random. At one point as I watched the tits and finches feed whilst sipping coffee, he just appeared. Time stopped. And, the weight of the world lifted. For whatever reason, hope was restored. At a time when I needed a reminder of the good in this world, I was reminded that the tiniest of joy can and often do appear when you least expect them.
Yesterday, Woody — because all woodpeckers are ‘Woody’ to us — showed up to delight The Cuban, who quietly gasped, quickly ran to grab our fancy-ass camera and then crept as close as he could to snap this and many more pics. The look of pure delight on his face nearly made me cry.
Moments like these are so, so precious. And, we are beyond grateful for them. I’ll be taking a few moments each day now to simply sit at our table stare out the window and watch the birdies. No wonder Pollito Pito Frito Fu does this daily.
Covid-19 has not impacted us directly. The curve here in Helsinki and Finland remains relatively flat. But, since most of our families and friends are scattered across this world and far from us, we feel that distance more acutely these days. As accustomed to this as we are, the knowledge that we can do absolutely nothing to help those we love or be there for them is crushing. At least we have the technology now to stay in touch with everyone. And, to share our concern, unease and uncertainty as well as our hope with all those we hold near and dear as well as all of you.
Solidarity, y’all. Be safe and be well. And, thank you for sharing your views from across this gorgeous world. We are all in this together
This was my first read during women’s history month, and with the full awareness that we are increasingly edging our way towards a reality in which choice no longer exists.
I absolutely think everyone — and I do mean everyone — should read this book. Make it mandatory reading in sex education classes as a minimum.
It’s no secret that I am staunchly and firmly pro-choice. And my life has largely been possible because I’ve been free to make decisions regarding my own desire to reproduce. Had I not had some options open to me, it’s very much unlikely that I’d have gone to graduate school or landed in Moscow or met The Cuban. What an astounding reality and one I’m so grateful I don’t have to contemplate for long.
I’ll never question any choices any other woman makes regarding what she chooses to do with her own body. Those are decisions she must live with as I live with my own decisions. And I will never stop fighting for the young women who follow me so that they will have all of the choices they need available to them.
Abortion should be legal, and safe and rare. And the only way that becomes a reality is if we stop trying to regulate women’s bodies. And my favourite bumper sticker is still this:
‘How can you trust me with a baby if you can’t even trust me with a choice?’
A Tropical Fish Out of Water 