Viikonloppupäiväkirja. Weekend diary.

Perjantai
Näen unia, jotka voisivat olla Calvinon kirjoittamia (tai ehkä myös Studio Ghiblin animaatioista): kaupunkeja täynnä myrskyäviä kanaaleita, halkeilevia keltakivisiä muureja, kaikkialle leviäviä sydänpuita. En oikeastaan koskaan näe unta arkisista asioista tai käy tutuissa paikoissa; jos uskonkin olevani vaikka mummolan pihalla, tajuan herättyäni, ettei mummolassa ole hautausmaata tai karviaislabyrinttia. Päivän ajan palaan unien jälkiutuun, kuin äkkiä pieni määrä maagista savua laskeutuisi päiväkodin eteiseen tai bussiin.

Haluan sanoa myös: katsoessani muiden parisuhteita tiesin aina, etten koskaan vaihtaisi omaa elämääni yhteenkään niistä. Seison mieluummin yksin kalliolla saarella keskellä Baikal-järveä, istun junissa ja laivoissa ja lentokoneissa kirjojen kanssa, lakaisen lehtiä temppeleissä, imen itseeni luumunkukkien koko kauneuden.
Joskus kun mies kaivaa esiin pinon laskuja ja laskee, paljonko ensi viikolla saapuvasta palkasta jää rahaa ruokaan, katson häntä epäuskoisena ja tunnen kuinka todellinen minä irtoaa jonnekin kattoon. Hetken ajan olen varma, ettei tämä avioliitto voi toimia; päälleni kasaantuvat huolet, joita en itse kotiini toisi. Sitten lähdemme uimaan, mutta uimisen sijaan päädymmekin laskemaan vesiliukumäestä imitoiden Angry Birdsejä. (Vaikeinta on olla valkoinen lintu, hauskinta bumerangilintu.) Jäämme katsomaan vesipalloa. Kotona paistan falafelejä ja syömme niitä tahinin kanssa. Kissa kiertyy onnesta kerälle enkä muista, milloin minulla olisi viimeksi ollut niin hauskaa.

Lauantai
Olen melkein koko päivän yksin ja kirjoitan. En romaania, vaikka se kiehuu mieleni pohjassa. Kirjoitan väitöskirjan kommentoitua sisällysluetteloa ja apurahahakemuksen toteuttamissuunnitelmaa. Taon Angry Birdsejä, niin kuin aina kirjoittaessani virallisia asioita. Jos olen oikein epätoivoinen, pelaan muitakin pelejä. Joogavenytykset siirtävät niskasäryn päähän. Illalla käyn taas uimassa.

Sunnuntai
Viiden vuoden Kysymyksiä&vastauksia päiväkirja kysyy, milloin tein viimeksi jotakin hullua. Miten niin hullua? Teen luultavasti hulluja asioita koko ajan, mutta olisin ehkä vähän surullinen, jos ajattelisin ne hulluiksi. Käymme kirjamessuilla, kahmimme Basamin alennushyllyistä euron kirjoja ja ostaisimme palan metsää, mutta sitä ei voi ostaa kortilla. Ilahdun, kun tapaan ystävän miehen, jolla on oma kustantamo. Sieltä menemme bussilla Haartmanin hammaspäivystykseen. Olimme siellä myös tasan viikko sitten, ja mies ehdottaa, että kannattaisi varata valmiiksi aika ensi viikolle. Olen melkein pettynyt, kun päivystysjono on niin lyhyt, koska en ehdi kuin lukea Ikimetsäsäätiön esitteen ja kirjoittaa kaksi korttia, vaikka kirjoja olisi ollut vaikka kuinka monta. Ostamme M-marketista viisi pakettia teetä. Kotona teen palak tofua ja siemenleipää ja alan suunnitella matkaopasta muinaiseen Japaniin.

Friday
I have dreams that could be written by Calvino (or perhaps from Studio Ghibli animations): cities full of stormy canals, cracking walls of yellow stone, heart trees spreading everywhere. I almost never have dreams of mundane things or visit familiar places; if I believe to be for example at grandma's yard, when waking up I realize there's no cemetery or gooseberry maze there. During the day I return to the hazy traces of the dreams, like a tiny bit of magical smoke had suddenly descended to the front room of the kindergarten, or a bus.

I also want to mention: while looking at other people's marriages and relationships, I always knew I would never change my life to theirs. I would rather stand alone on a rocky island in the middle of lake Baikal, surround myself with books in trains and ferries and planes, sweep fallen leaves in temples, breath in the whole beauty of plum flowers. Sometimes, when my husband piles up all his bills in front of him and counts how much money we have for food, I look at him incredulously, feeling the real me floating somewhere on the ceiling. For a moment I'm sure this marriage can't last; worries I would never bring home heap up on me. Then we go swimming, but instead of swimming we glide on the water slide imitating Angry Birds. (It's most difficult to be the white bird and most fun to be the boumerang bird.) We stay to watch water polo. At home I prepare falafels and we eat them with tahini. Ludvig curls up happily and I can't remember the last time I had such fun.

Saturday
I spend most of the day alone, writing. Not my novel, although it's boiling in the back of my mind. I write the commented table of contests for my dissertation thesis and the schedule I'm going to carry it out for a grand application. I hammer Angry Birds like I always do when writing official documents.If I get really desperate, I play other games. Yoga stretches transfer neckache to headache. At night I go swimming again.

Sunday
The five years' Questions&Answers diary asks me the last time I did something goofy. What do they mean by goofy? I probably do goofy things all the time, but honestly, I'd be abit sad if I found things I do goofy. We visit a book fair, hoarding 1€ books from Basam Books' shelves, wanting to buy a plot of forest but that cannot be done by credit card. I'm delighted to meet a friend's boyfriend with his own publishing house. We continue to Haartman hospital's tooth emergency. We were there a week ago and my husband suggest we'd already book a time for next week. I'm almost disappointed for the line proceeding so fast, as I only have time to read the brochure of the forest foundation and write two postcards, although we would have had a big pile of books. We buy five packets of tea from M-market. At home I make palak tofu and seed bread and I start sketching a travel guide to ancient Japan.

Maailman äärettömyys. The infinity of the world.

Kävin muutama viikko sitten Iittalassa Hunaja-aitassa, jonka serkkuni on muuttanut suloiseksi Hyvän olon aitaksi. Karhuksi puettu serkuntyttöni teki kanssani pihalla naurujoogaa ja kerroin tarinoita äitinsä ja minun yhteisestä lapsuudesta.

Sen jälkeen serkut ovat tulleet jatkuvasti uniini, kuin muistuttaen jostakin kadonneesta. Yhtenä yönä kaivoimme yhdessä mummolan pihamaata ja löysimme karvaisia, kullanhohtoisia karhuretikoita. Viime yönä menimme uimaan Äimäjärvelle, jota ympäröivät salaperäiset kalliot ja luolat, ja joka muuttui äkkiä loputtomaksi uima-altaiden sokkeloksi.

Meillä oli hieno lapsuus! Saimme juosta ympäri metsiä noitina (minä olin Ire-noidan poika Aro) ja kissoina (minä olin Kisu Killisilmä, kissaäitini oli Limsasuu ja kissaisäni Jätskipää), meitä vietiin uimaan ja katsomaan mehiläisiä ja junia, ja kerran tai kaksi vuodessa lensimme jonnekin etelään, jossa oli uima-allas ja merenranta ja lämmintä ja kaikki aikuiset oli leppoisia, koska oli loma.

Mietin aamulla, olenkohan vieläkään toipunut siitä, että lapsuus loppui. Tietenkin olen monestakin syystä ihan mieluusti aikuinen – on kivaa päättää itse omista asioistaan – mutta kaihoan silti jatkuvasti sellaiseen olemisen tapaan, johon minulla ei ole enää pääsyä. Edelleen joku osa minusta on varma, että jonakin aamuna herään uudestaan lapsuudessani.

Eräs opiskelutoverini sanoi joskus, että monet valitsevat yliopistossa pääaineen sen mukaan, mikä heille itselleen on ongelmallista. Psykologian opiskelijoilla on usein jonkinlaisia psykologisia ongelmia, sosiologit ja antropologit pohdiskelevat omaa suhdettaan yhteisöön jne. "Mutta", sanoin, "mun pääaine on Japanin-tutkimus!"

Tuota muistellessani olen usein pohtinut, valitsinko Japanin-tutkimuksen, koska halusin aiheen, joka on mahdollisimman mielikuvituksellinen, mahdollisimman kaukana. Tänään oivalsin, ettei kyse ole ollut (vain) siitä: valitsin Japanin-tutkimuksen, koska minulle on ongelmallista oma suhteeni menneeseen ja tulevaan, maailmaan ja olemiseen ja kaiken väliaikaisuuteen. Koska jos saisin vapaasti olla niin kuin on minulle kaikkein luontaisinta, näyttäisin liikkumattomalta. Näyttäisin – mutta itse asiassa olisin suuressa sisäisen väpätyksen ja väräjöinnin tilassa, Tuntemisen ja Olemisen tilassa, jossa ajan ja asioiden lehdet pyörteilevät ympärilläni kuin syysmyrsky, osmankäämit hehkuvat ilta-auringossa, ohdakkeiden haituvat leijuvat tuulessa, pilvet vaihtavat loputtomasti olemustaan ja maailma (banshô 万象) valuu sisään ja ulos kuin hengitys. Minua pohdituttaa wabi-sabi (侘寂).

Olen valinnut sellaiset opiskelualat, joissa olen lähellä tuota tilaa. Olen opiskellut kuvataidetta, sanataidetta, Japanin-tutkimusta ja viimeisenä lastenohjausta. Kaikkien opiskelussa (näistä ehkä vähiten Japanin-tutkimuksen) on kuitenkin ollut ongelma: maailma (seken 世間) tunkeutuu minun ja Kaiken Hetkellisyyden Tilan väliin. Kaikesta tehdään teknistä ja se taivutetaan ihmisten maailman muotoon. Vaikka kuvataide, sanataide ja lasten mielet kulkevat sujuvasti tämän hetken ja ikuisuuden välillä, aikuisten kanssa täytyy asettua tilaan, johon minä en taivu. Todellisuuteni supistuu kiviksi ja täytettäviksi lomakkeiksi, maailman (万象) hengityksenvedot imeytyvät kiinni esineisiin (mono 物) ja heikkenevät kuulumattomiin. Ja kun se hengitys lakkaa kuulumasta, minä olen sisältä kuollut.

Tuuli myrskyttää
villisti pihan puita
Sudenkorennon
siiven iskusta alkaa
maailman äärettömyys

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A few weeks ago I visited my cousin in Iittala. She's transformed the former Honey Barn into a sweet Well-Being Barn. My cousin's daughter was dressed as a bear and did some laughing yoga with me on the yard. I told childhood stories I shared with her mom.

After that my cousins have constantly come to my dreams, like reminding me of something I've lost. One night we were digging my grandma's vegetable garden together, finding bear radishes covered with golden fur. Last night we went swimming at Äimäjärvi that was surrounded by mysterious rocks and caves, and that suddenly transformed into a maze of pools.

We had such a wonderful childhood! We ran around the forests as witches (I was Aro, the son of the great witch Ire) and as cats (I was Kitten Glimmer-eye, my cat mom was Soda Mouth and my cat dad was Ice-Cream Head); we were taken swimming and to see bees and trains, and once or twice a year we flew somewhere south where there was a pool and seashore and warm and adults were merry 'cause they were on a holiday.

Today morning I wondered if I have yet recovered the ens of my childhood. I like being adult for many reasons – it's nice to make your own decisions – but still I long for a way of being I cannot access anymore. Some part of me is yet positive that one morning I wake up again in my childhood.

A fellow student once pointed out that many people choose their major at the university based on what they find problematic in their own life. Psychology majors often have some kind of psychological issues, sociologists ponder upon their relationship to the community etc. "But", I said, "I major in Japanese studies!"

Recalling that discussion, I have often mulled over if I chose Japanese studies, because I wanted to study something imaginary, something very distant. Today I realized it has never been (only) about that: I chose Japanese studies, as I find my relation towards past and future, the cosmos, existence and impermanence problematic. Were I free to exist the way I find most natural, I'd seem completely still. I would seem – but actually I'd be in a great state of inner fluttering and flickering, in the state of Sensing and Being, where the leaves of time and things would be swirling around me like autumn storm, bulrushes blazing in evening sun, thistle pappus floating in the wind, clouds endlessly transforming their constitution and the world (banshô 万象) pouring in and out like breath. I ponder upon wabi-sabi (侘寂).

I've chosen to study subjects that keep me close to that state. I've studied arts, writing, Japanese studies and lastly child care. Whatever I have chosen, there has always been a problem (although least with Japanese studies): the world (seken 世間) intrudes between me and The State Of Impermanence. Everything becomes technical and bent to the shape of human world. Even though arts, words and children's mind can easily travel between present and eternity, adults seem to require some state of being I cannot bend into. My reality shrinks into stones and documents to be filled in, the respiration of the world (万象) is suck fast onto things (mono 物) and turns down. And once that respiration becomes inaudible, I will be dead inside.

My Khmer past meets my inner skeptic (and clubs her straight on the face)

I keep having dreams of Khmer Rouge, running through forests in eastern Cambodia, and Vietnamese guerillas. The sun is hot, the forest is hot, everyone's sweaty. At least I'm sweaty. And scared, like hell. We all carry guns. I don't know the name of my gun; probably I didn't know it then either. I wonder what I knew. Not much, as I wasn't very old. Maybe ten, maybe twelve. A boy, I was.

Dreams come from different plains, and it's often impossible to trace their origin. These dreams, however, the Khmer dreams, were awoken by reading Tiziano Terzani's book A Fortune-teller Told Me. It's an awesome book. The writer is a correspondent for Der Spiegel in Asia, having lived there for decades. Some time at 70's he meets a fortune-teller and is told not to fly on year 1993. He has almost twenty years to ponder if he should take it seriously or not, and on the last moment decides not to fly on that year. He even manages to deal with his employers that he will only write earthbound stories on that year. As an experiment, he goes to a fortune-teller in every city he visits, to hear his fortune told and to ask about the prophecy. It's absolutely intriguing to read how his scepticism slowly vanishes and how, by meeting monks, shamans, fortune-tellers, he finds new perspectives on existence.

Having studied and practiced Buddhist teachings for years, I have myself dwelled in a Zen temple in Japan and in a forest monastery in the south of Thailand, visited numerous temples wherever I've travelled, and practiced Vipassana meditation daily for years. On the path further from the western skepticism, my thoughts have often followed the same ways as Terzani's. And on my way I've encountered all kind of views to Buddhist teachings.

One of them, and in a way a really interesting one, is the attitude one regularly encounters among westerners who practice meditation. (I should say western men, as I've never met a woman who would say such things without hesitation.) It's the so called scientific approach to Buddhism.

The goal of Buddhist practice is to see things as they really are and through this knowledge be liberated of all suffering. Because no faith in any supernatural phenomena is called for, it suits perfectly for a person of "scientific" upbringing who realizes there's something wrong with the world but either doesn't want or isn't able to see through what he's learned to believe. (I use scientific in quotation marks, because often this worldview is quite far of those of the ever-experimenting scientists.) In a way there's nothing wrong with this: after all it's just one approach and not more right or wrong than any other. Problems arise, however, if one is not ready to let his inherited worldview go. And this does happen a lot.

The idea of Buddhism is that you do not have to, or should, believe anything that you do not experience by yourself to be true. In Pali canon three different kinds of wisdom are listed: one learned (sutamayā paññā), one reflected (cintāmayā paññā) and one experienced (bhāvanāmayā paññā). That is, you may hear something that sounds wise; you may ponder upon it and come to a conclusion it is wise; but you should not believe it unless you have in your own body-mind experienced that it is wise and true. Which is exactly what is often missing in Western thought. And not even just missing—totally underrated and looked down upon. (I could give a bunch of examples of this, but just think how little value your own account of your pains and sensations has when visiting a doctor.)

As a consequence, experiences not fitting to the "scientific" idea of what is true are ignored. The idea that our experiences mean nothing if they are not scientifically proved, is so deeply rooted to our understanding of ourselves and the world that we don't believe what we see or feel, if it anyhow strays from what we have been taught. And this inner skeptic with his/her nasty voice keeps telling us that our own, sensation-based experiences of reality simply do not count.

I often try to to hit this inner skeptic on a face with a club. That would serve her right. But at times she still manages to raise her head, informing me that nothing I experience is true unless a scientist proves it. And then I don't believe what is clear and in front of my eyes. And even more often, she tells me not to believe what someone else has experienced. Like I was the only one who can have a direct experience to things as they are!

It also happens that I keep quiet of things I know to be true, because they do not fit to this "scientific" idea of our world and it's frustrating to encounter other people's inner skeptics. And yet, not telling about it doesn't change it that I do remember my life before.

As you may already guess, it was in Cambodia. I was a child and I lost my mother in a bombing. I remember some places—shacks with metal roofs, the color of the ground, leaves on the ground. I remember how my mother was gone and I had to get by all alone; I remember the fear and how I looked for edible rubbish and tried to find a place to stay for a night.

Memories have come in bits. Two and half years ago, my parents sold the house where I grew up, with very little consulting or interest towards my feelings. After the usual sadness and anger, this woke up a terrible fear. I was so terrified I couldn't get anything done and had to take a sick-leave for two whole months. I was trembling. 'A fear of what, this strong?' I would ask myself. And one day, walking home from a nurse I was regularly seeing, I decided to follow the fear—just to feel it, instead of fearing the fear.

And there I was, in the middle of this bombed village, my mother gone, pieces of rooftops everywhere. Later, on a meditation course, I remembered much more.

But I also remember how, in this life, in 2007, I arrived in Phnom Penh airport. I remember the first ride on a motocycle through shacks and shelters homeless people had built for them on suburbs, and how I felt: I had come home. Yet I don't remember anyone else having this feeling on arrival: they were simply paralyzed of what they saw. (They all said the same thing, 'These people are, just, so, rootless.')

And now these dreams have come. While they are very vivid and I can sense and smell the jungle, see the sweat on the necks of guerillas, hear the sound of the faint wind on leaves of the trees, and the sun is bright, bright, bright—I still can't tell the plot of what is happening. I wake up in a hot jungle, slowly realizing that it is another life in a suburb of Helsinki and the room gradually takes shape around me. I get up and sit on a chair, waiting for the dream to disappear as they tend to do. But when I go back to sleep, it continues from where it was left.

I can even point the part of my body where these memories are stored. My Khmer past. I almost wish my inner skeptic would wake up and rationalize these dreams away. And she does try. But she can only give me weak arguments I know not to be true.

This leaves one question I'm not ready to answer yet. When I died—I was still a child then—I was born again in a wealthy country into a loving family with all the possibilities to do good. And not only that. I was lucky enough to be led back to the meditation technique that helps me to see things clearer. At times the true happiness beyond all the fear shows me signs of how happy one could be. Truly happy.

I am this lucky.

So, the question is: what can I do for those who stayed? Who didn't die fearing, but who had to continue living in fear. What?