
Unhurriedness
“When I was a child, the whole family would sit in the living room from early evening and watch the blue moment. Only when darkness had completely descended did my mother turn on the lights. As we watched the blue landscape change to black darkness, we were completely silent. No one spoke, neither adults nor children.” This is what Pirkko said while I was gluing newspaper pages from the 1950s to the wall of the Mynä-Mynä-Maa production room. Her story touches me deeply.
I remember when I came to Finland in October 1985 and the blue moments enveloped me in an unprecedented sense of peace. Winter began immediately. The lakes froze and snow soon fell. The darkness was never oppressive, but rather produced a magical feeling of light and protection. I never got wet, even though I spent a lot of time outside. I fell in love with Finland in the winter, and the unprecedented lack of haste probably played a part in that. I didn't see people running around in vain. We always had time. We left well in advance and were very quiet during our free time. There was plenty of space between people. Thoughts that were rarely spoken out loud had all the more weight.
I first encountered rush hour in Finland in Helsinki in the winter of 1988. I still remember how funny it felt when people ran to the bus or metro, after a couple of years in the Finnish countryside I learned how much you can accomplish and how big loads you can carry when you move forward without rushing.
The summer of 1987 had been cold and rainy. The summer went down in history as a major drought year. The entire growing season was disrupted, and in the end, the grain was threshed at the same time as the potato harvest. In many places, conscripts came to help with the harvest. When the ground was so wet that combine harvesters and tractors could not reach the fields, everything possible was done to harvest as much of the crop as possible by human effort. Even at the training farm, long days were worked, but there was always time for a coffee break. And there was no running, neither to the field nor from there. And finally, at the end of October, the crop was harvested.
At first, Helsinki residents who ran for whatever reason seemed strange, until a few weeks later I found myself running to the metro, even though the next one was leaving in five minutes. In Helsinki, the rush was surprising in many places, people even ran at night. Helsinki experienced Finland's greatest boom period during its independence. Is it a coincidence that a couple of years later the economic miracle came to a standstill and the deep recession of the 1990s lay ahead?
Of course, nothing could have been done to prevent the collapse of the Soviet Union, but perhaps if Helsinki hadn't been so obsessed with speed, perhaps the landing could have been softer? Less damaging? More humane?
I remember when I came to Finland in October 1985 and the blue moments enveloped me in an unprecedented sense of peace. Winter began immediately. The lakes froze and snow soon fell. The darkness was never oppressive, but rather produced a magical feeling of light and protection. I never got wet, even though I spent a lot of time outside. I fell in love with Finland in the winter, and the unprecedented lack of haste probably played a part in that. I didn't see people running around in vain. We always had time. We left well in advance and were very quiet during our free time. There was plenty of space between people. Thoughts that were rarely spoken out loud had all the more weight.
I first encountered rush hour in Finland in Helsinki in the winter of 1988. I still remember how funny it felt when people ran to the bus or metro, after a couple of years in the Finnish countryside I learned how much you can accomplish and how big loads you can carry when you move forward without rushing.
The summer of 1987 had been cold and rainy. The summer went down in history as a major drought year. The entire growing season was disrupted, and in the end, the grain was threshed at the same time as the potato harvest. In many places, conscripts came to help with the harvest. When the ground was so wet that combine harvesters and tractors could not reach the fields, everything possible was done to harvest as much of the crop as possible by human effort. Even at the training farm, long days were worked, but there was always time for a coffee break. And there was no running, neither to the field nor from there. And finally, at the end of October, the crop was harvested.
At first, Helsinki residents who ran for whatever reason seemed strange, until a few weeks later I found myself running to the metro, even though the next one was leaving in five minutes. In Helsinki, the rush was surprising in many places, people even ran at night. Helsinki experienced Finland's greatest boom period during its independence. Is it a coincidence that a couple of years later the economic miracle came to a standstill and the deep recession of the 1990s lay ahead?
Of course, nothing could have been done to prevent the collapse of the Soviet Union, but perhaps if Helsinki hadn't been so obsessed with speed, perhaps the landing could have been softer? Less damaging? More humane?