ramblings

This past week has seen Helsinki ambushed by endless rain and strong winds. Winds that make tin roofs rattle and dry maple leaves sweep the pavements in waves.

Oh, October. All I feel like doing is curling up in an armchair inside and drinking Earl Grey and reading and maybe watching Downton Abbey. (I'm telling you, that show is dangerously addictive.)

Luckily for me, I'm on holiday for the week. So that's exactly what I'll do.

(And once I've slept enough and consumed my own body weight in tea, I might venture outside and slink into the nearest café with some friends. And maybe really relax, for the first time in months.)



Also, am I the only one who's been feeling kind of Christmas-y lately? I've had this song on repeat for the past three days and I have to exert all my willpower to keep from watching Love Actually. 

happy saturday

(Reading Auden

[you shall love your crooked neighbour / with your crooked heart]

and listening to this song and writing this infernal personal statement.

Thank goodness I have no school next week. 

If I'm lucky I'll catch the coattails of an Indian summer.)

i have nothing to add to this

To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and to endure the betrayal of false friends. To appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

(found here)

a bit of wanderlust

Oh if only all commercials were romantic, wanderlust-inducing short films.

things that are nice

Peonies. 

This song, and this one too. (And okay, one more for the road.)

Books that are so sublime I can't bear to watch the films made of them, because the book would never be the same for me again. (The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje is a prime example. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close will probably be another.)

Things that we owe to Shakespeare.

Stephen Fry on language. (I've recently discovered Stephen Fry's podcasts, which make me wish my trips to and from school were longer. They're still available for download on iTunes, if you're interested.)

This quote.

a new kind

This is a post that was difficult to write.

Again and again I drafted it in my head - when brushing my teeth or skipping down the library steps, I would think, Yes, that's what I want to say.

Then sit down and stare at the blinking cursor for a while. And after a few futile attempts at catching the edges of my thoughts, give up. And repeat the following day.

You see, lately I've been bored with myself. And that's not a nice type of boredom.

(I would consider myself quite proficient at dealing with boredom. There are so many things to be done and people to be met and books waiting for their spines to be cracked. But looking in the mirror and feeling distinctly disenchanted, that's another thing entirely.)

I've reverted to the point where I can't write a single thing without bringing on a mental avalanche of criticism. I look at myself or listen to myself and all I see and hear is hopeless inadequacy. (James Dean once said that if he were to be put in the same room with himself for five minutes, only one of them would come out alive. There is that.)

Of course, this is really nothing new. Self-loathing is to me as natural and indispensable as breathing.

But last spring my therapist urged me to start treating myself with kindness. To address myself with patience and, most conspicuously, with mercy.

And so I tried it out.

I would pick my heavy limbs up in the morning and say, Come along then dear. I would look into the mirror without cringing and I would pay attention to the things I did manage to do right. I would shrug my shoulders at my own infuriating habits. I would allow myself to be tired and needy, because we all are tired and needy sometimes, and it's essential to remember that these are not signs of weakness.

I took long walks and made sure to get enough sleep. I wrote. I was happy in a vacant way, afraid of breaking my fragile construction of calm.

And now, of course, we are back on track. There's nothing quite as belittling as endless university applications and crippling hours of exam revision. To be quite honest, I feel like a failure.

I know that right now I am taking a very narrow path very close to the edge. It would be all too easy for me to slip into my old habits of infinite self-hate again.

But quite frankly, and forgive me my narcissism, I deserve better than that. And luckily enough, I now also know better. I've seen the flip side and I know myself to be capable of kindness, of practicing a new kind of mercy.