Rain against clay

Rain beats down. Whips the surface with its merciless lash. This isn’t a soft, soothing Spring rain. Its touch is cold and harsh. Shivers run down the spine. Loneliness echoes hollowly in its howling.

The clay won’t hold much longer before it crumbles. The beautiful grooves, skillfully thrown into place, begin to wash away. Two vessels that had become one. A delicately carved coffee cup and a streamlined saucer found each other - and nothing else quite fit anymore. They were made for each other. One cannot exist without the other.

Just clay, in someone’s eyes. Fragile, replaceable. Yet for some reason, placed in the potter’s cabinet, front and center. Even though they weren’t finished yet. Still mid-process. Not yet fired, not yet glazed. Just dry, raw clay - waiting for something. Waiting under the potter’s gaze. On display, as said. Until another time came.

The time of the outdoor setting. On a summer terrace, they decorated the morning coffee table. For some odd reason, again under the gaze - these unfinished vessels.

Then the rest of the setting was cleared away. The howling autumn rains returned. Those two were left outside. Forgotten, someone said. The rain etched, and eventually broke them. They didn’t survive. Discarded, someone whispered.

But the one who designed them knew otherwise. Broken, forgotten perhaps - they were carried back in. The wheel was set on the table again. The clay was reshaped. The cup and saucer joined seamlessly, like softened clay. Cast again into one whole vessel.

Then into the hot kiln they went. For what felt - at least to them - like far too long. Again forgotten. Then coated with a sticky glaze, painted all over. Pushed through yet another unwanted phase. And as if that wasn’t enough, tortured again in heat.

When the autumn rains were covered in a blanket of snow, on one clear morning, they were placed back on the table. After washing, hot liquid was poured inside. For hearts gone cold in the middle of winter, a steaming drink was offered. What brightness in those eyes - awakened by the drink of love.

Love,

Pia

toxic self-talk diary

Have you thought about, when was the last time you gave yourself nurturing feedback?

I’ve been pondering a lot about being your own cheerleader and how that can affect everything you do.

We seek for healthy and balanced relationships with others, instead of toxic, twisted ones.

But the more I reflect upon my own self-talk I’ve realized how easily it is toxic and twisted with heavy demands that have no joy.

What exactly is it that I am demanding of myself?

A perfectly managed life in every area.

And take into account that it’s part of my personality that I always have some area of my life out of control and it is okay. 

So as a roadmap I have this list of rigid lifeless NO’s and MUST’s, with no celebration of the life that’s actually happening around me.

A perfectionist approach that kills all the joy before I even start doing anything.

Yes, I am a recovering perfectionist, so this shouldn’t surprise me.

But the way that automated self-talk is playing in my mind is so toxic, that I would never allow it as something that’s okay in my relationships with others.

And yet I am blindly obeying it, going through my lists of demanded perfection.

How does it look like for you to intentionally build a relationship with yourself, that allows you to enjoy your life as it is, today?

What lists of perfection do you throw into the trash bin when your mind creates drama and offers you the toxic list?

What is the simple thought that you commit to carrying that allows you to see the beauty in your life today, as it is?

Yes, you can build your life piece by piece, further from here, guided by pure joy.

But you find your way into that spot only through thankfulness of what already is.

Name one thing you’re thankful for today, just as it is.

And that’s where you start.

Real and raw joy is your guide along the way. 

I’ve learned a secret that toxic perfectionism and that bubbly joy are opposite powers.

Love,

Pia

etched into your palm

How should I say it? What I see when I look at your face. Maybe like this: I'm crazy about you.

You came to me again when nothing moved in my heart. When I was overthinking, trying too hard to understand. You released the anchors of my heart. How you did it, I don’t know. But something stirred within me, fiercely, and began to pulse through my veins.

The starry sky shone above us that night, when you took me along that narrow path lined with grass. The early morning dew clung to my hem. The soft cooing of doves filled the night around us. You opened the old forged gate, and before us unfolded a misty garden. You led me gently, dancing through rose-covered walkways. All my senses told me this must be a beautiful dream. Could reality ever be this sweet?

Then you pulled me close with your strong arm, and your gaze met mine. In your eyes, I saw eternity and faithfulness. Your truth nailed my heart to yours. I could only breathe deeply the air around us, as if intoxicated. I laid my head against your chest, and time stopped between us. Somewhere, a dove cooed again.

You wanted to show me something. You bent down the rose vines growing beside us so I could see under their shelter. Among the green stems, two white doves slept, curled into each other for warmth. A quiet coo echoed in the air once more.

When the morning sun brushed its first tones onto the brightening sky, you traced the shape of my body onto your palm. As you drew, I looked again into your eyes. How could I describe the burning fire glowing from them? That wildly strong love made my chest ache. It scorched my core like flames licking from the inside. Everything I had once treasured was now ash beside you.

I had never deserved anything like this. Eternal faithfulness and a wildly blazing love that broke down every barrier between us. A deep sacrifice, a confession of love so raw it wounded even you. Speechless, I danced the first dance of morning for you, on a dew-covered field. From your touch, my filthy dust had turned to golden shimmer in your palm.

Look, how beautiful you are, my beloved; look, how beautiful you are, your eyes are like doves.

Song of Songs 1:15

Love,

Pia

P.S. this poem like memoir I wrote years back and shared in my other blog in my native language, Finnish. Bringing it into life in English now is such a sweet moment, I wanted to share with you.

why a moment of you and a cup of warm tea can feel healing?

What I’ve been searching lately, has been the simple elements of everyday life that can feel healing. I changed several cups of coffee for cups of tea some time ago. I start my day with a cup of coffee, yes, but after that on a regular weekday I drink different kinds of flavours of tea. At home it's mostly green tea with mint and milk. In the office it's rooibos. Sometimes when Henkka brings souvenirs, it's açai cinnamon tea with or without milk. After drinking all those cups of tea I started wondering why a moment of you and a cup of warm tea can feel so healing? Here's what I learned as someone building safety after trauma.

1. A rhythm of daily tea ritual: how predictability signals safety

I’ve experienced myself how trauma disrupts a person’s sense of safety and control. A tea ritual, warm mug, a vibrant shade of black, red or pearly white and green whirling in the hot water, familiar scent, gives the brain something predictable. That tells the amygdala a.ka your threat detector:

this is familiar. we are safe.

2. Warm tea mug in your hands: warmth soothes the vagus nerve.

I never knew that holding a warm cup physically stimulates the vagus nerve. This nerve which I got familiar with just recently, is the nerve, which plays a vital role in calming your nervous system. And when I heard that it can help to move you from fight-or-flight into inner rest, I started making even more tea, haha. Cause I know rest is where healing happens.

3. A tiny moment of calm: small actions rebuild agency.

I’ve found myself often pondering how trauma so easily creates a feeling of helplessness or the sense of being out of control. It's been really life giving to notice how one simple, mundane act of choosing a tea, boiling water, pouring mindfully, it reminds you:

I can make a gentle choice. I’m not stuck.

4. Feeling the now of tea moment: sensation brings you back to the body.

I’ve come to understand how many of us who have experienced trauma live in their heads, stuck in loops of anxiety, shame, or overwhelm. And this is how tea engages the senses:

the warmth

the aroma

the flavor

the sound of the pour

This brings you back into your body, back into the moment, gently and safely.

5. A moment of peace with a cup of tea: slowness counters urgency.

When I learned about how trauma can cause both an active or frozen response as a default pattern, it gave me so much clarity of certain moments in my everyday life. When the trigger of hustle or freeze arises, we go fast, or stay tense, and we don't feel. Yet I was amazed at how easily a simple tea ritual invites you into slowness. And slowness says:

there’s no emergency. we’re safe now.

So yes, a tea ritual may look tiny on the outside. But for a woman post-trauma, it’s often a sacred doorway:

from fear into presence.

from chaos into calm.

from survival into trust.

Now, if you’d like, go make a steaming warm cup of tea, dear.

Love,

Pia

pearl diver

someone says

it can’t be worth much

so small and round like that

hardly any size at all

barely visible to the eye

another holds it in their palm

examines

and estimates its value

feels its surface and weight

drops their monocle

a couple thousand

but there is one

whose shadow lingers in the room

where it rests in its box

even after the sun

has sunk into the sea

he is the only one

who understands its true worth

to him

it is the only one in the world

because

he is the only one

who remembers its journey

through murky waters

and pitch-black darkness

the journey

to that place

that has been forgotten

that painful

dangerous path

lonely

and persistent

through dead waters

he is

the pearl diver

what if your fear wasn’t the enemy?

There’s a strange moment that happens when fear walks into the room.

You feel it, don’t you?

That deep discomfort.

That sudden smallness.

Like your body wants to run — fast.

Like your heart says, “Let’s get out of here.”

But what if… you didn’t run?

What if instead of rushing out,

you stayed?

Even when it’s uncomfortable.

Even when it feels like too much.

Even when everything in you says, “Please, just fix this or make it go away.”

This is the secret:

If you want to name your fear clearly,

you have to sit with it.

Yes, really.

You have to stay in the same room as your fear — and not leave right away.

Because this is the place where something beautiful starts.

Here’s the truth:

Fear is not here to hurt you.

Fear is trying to protect you.

It’s showing up because something feels unsafe — or unfamiliar — or too big.

But that fear?

It comes from a story.

Your story.

And when you stay — when you choose to breathe and stay —

you give yourself a chance to see what’s really going on.

So what can you do in that scary, messy, “I-want-to-run” moment?

Try this:

Set a small timer. Stay for just a few minutes.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Hold something warm — like a cup of tea.

Tell yourself: “I am safe. This is just a feeling. It will pass.”

Let the wave of fear come.

Let it rise.

Let it crash.

Let it go.

Then, something powerful happens:

You get curious.

You begin to ask, “What is this really about?”

Where do I feel this in my body?

What does it feel like?

What is my face doing right now?

What are the names of the feelings I feel?

When you start to wonder instead of run,

fear loses its grip.

It stops shouting.

And something inside you starts whispering instead.

That whisper?

That’s your truth.

That’s your power.

That’s your healing.

That’s when fear becomes not your enemy — but your guide.

So the next time fear shows up,

don’t panic.

Pause.

Welcome it.

And say,

“Okay, I see you. Let’s sit for a minute.

Show me what you’re here to teach me.”

You are safe.

You are strong.

You are already enough.

You are being held.

Love,

Pia

scar

The scar tissue of my soul lingers in the background of everything I do.

But what if I decide not to be ashamed of it?

Not ashamed of the fact that I am, in some ways, incomplete.

That I have broken and been pieced back together again.

That I have wounds which have, in time, healed — but left their marks.

What if I choose to see them as part of me?

What if I treasure everything I’ve been through as my greatest teacher?

Because of all that, I am exactly who I am.

Uniquely me.

I carry tools in my basket that others cannot even imagine.

Tools I gathered through the hardships I have walked through.

They are like badges of honor on my chest — marks of battles survived.

Because I am a victor, simply because I made it through the war alive.

Sometimes the scar tissue aches more.

Sometimes, I almost forget it’s there.

But it would be a lie to say the scars don’t exist.

And pretending would only make it sadder.

It would help no one.

I would only be polishing a mask to look like someone else — denying parts of the road I have walked.

And in doing so, I would be throwing away the treasures I have gathered along the way:

The understanding of human fragility and the ache of living.

The hidden grace and beauty tucked inside every shard of pain.

The healing that springs from the eternal embrace of love.

A beautiful mosaic, pieced together from broken fragments, might just be the best vessel to scatter glimmers of hope into the cracks of a shattered, despairing soul.

Wounds leave their marks — but as long as there is life, even ashes can hold the seeds of new hope.

When the fire that devoured everything is finally out,

the ashes can become fertile ground for something unimaginably beautiful to grow.

And so, with a soft smile on my lips,

I gently run my hand over the aching scar and whisper:

"You are beautiful.”

Love

Pia