My Journey Through Light, Stone, and Mist

I am a combination of my past experiences and current thoughts.

When I had my three life-defining experiences, I didn't think much about them. Instead of thinking, I felt them. The thoughts came later in all of these events, much later. They happened to me, and I was in the middle of the paradigm of now.

I didn't see where these experiences would take me or what I would make of them until the distance was long enough for me to think and see the stage play of my life so far.

As Syd Field wrote in his book Screenplay, "When you are in the paradigm, you don't see the paradigm".

The past becomes understandable and thinkable as time goes by. It gets foggy the closer you come to the moment you live right now. The older you get, the pains or joys of the past don't feel so intense but thinkable.

"Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way." ― Viktor E. Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning.

The Light

I was about eight years old. The Christmas play was the event of the year at the rural school where I was one of the 27 pupils. The whole village would be there watching us.

I was the weird kid interested in everything else but rural Finnish life. My mind was wandering the well-lit streets of London instead of the picturesque snow-covered roads of my village.

I was skiing to school early in the morning every day and back home late in the afternoon. It was always dark when I left home, and it was dark when I arrived back. The spruce trees carried huge snow loads, and the daylight was short and dim. I yearned for light.

I hated it.

The snow kept falling on my head, got inside my collar, and my neck became wet and cold. It happened every day. Or so I remember.

But it was Christmas, and I had a plan to shed some light on this deep darkness of the Finnish rural winter.

Because our family already had a TV (a rare thing in the early 60s), I knew what a real spotlight looked like. I knew theatres were creating whimsical illusions that matched my imagination. So, I kept skiing and seeing these fantastic visions in my tiny mind.

I was also an ingenious kid. I didn't just dream; I wanted to make them come true. And so I asked my father if he could give me a couple of the old but shiny car lamps that he somehow had.

Together, we built two bright spotlights using the reflectors from the car lamps and put them inside 10-litre cucumber canisters. Voila, the magic of theatre was mine.

We hung the spotlights from the ceiling of the school hall. The play was well-rehearsed. I wasn't so much into acting but in using the spotlights and directing.

The teacher thought I was a pain in the rear because his vision and mine weren't exactly the same.

An eight-year-old theatre director can be challenging for a young teacher in his first job in a remote school!

But we did it.

The villagers arrived in the magically transformed school hall. They sat in the dark, and my spotlights shone brightly, revealing the three wise men in their full and glittering glory (thanks to my mother, a dressmaker). The play teleported the room from the village to the West End of my mind. And I still hear the applause. It was a miracle.

It became a reality about a decade later when a theatre director was born.

The Stone

I was a dreamy kid with a sharp tongue. It's not exactly a useful combination to win friends and influence people.

The winters turned into springs, and summers were much too short for my taste. Every autumn, school waited for us. First biking, then skiing and finally again biking, we went through the school years.

I was alone, isolated.

I opened my mouth too often, saying what I thought about the school's bully, Tero, who happened to be our neighbour. I tried to avoid going to school and back home at the same time as him as often as I could. Thinking back now, I can only blame myself.

On one of those autumn afternoons, I was biking back home when I heard Tero shouting from behind. There he was, biking furiously and reaching me quickly. There was no escape.

"What did you tell about the morning to the boys," shouted my nemesis in red steamy rage.

That morning, I had witnessed Tero's father beating him on the roadside. His trousers were down, and his pale bum had some dark red stripes after a few hard hits from the belt his father used. When he turned away from his dad and lifted his trousers, he saw me, and I saw his face covered with tears.

That moment lasted forever. We just stared at each other, and then Tero's father told him with a cold voice to shoot off. It was as if I was invisible.

I didn't know the reason for the beating or if there had been one. I had also seen it happening many times before to Tero. I was sorry for him but happy that my father wasn't like him.

"I didn't say anything, you twat," I shouted, trying to escape with my bike. But Tero was too quick. I fell; he jumped on me and started to hit me hard. I was smaller and weaker and never used to wrestle or anything that required physical force.

I knew that Tero wouldn't stop. I could see in his eyes that he was about to kill if he could.

Then, under my palm, I felt a perfectly sized stone. It fit into my hand — designed to be my weapon.

I screamed a loud and piercing yell, suddenly lifting the stone in the air behind Tero. From the corner of his eye, he saw my hand and the rock and realised that I had the advantage. I knew I could smash his skull like an egg with that rock.

An eternity took place in this less-than-a-second-long moment. I saw us in slow motion. It was like an out-of-body experience.

There and then, I realised I didn't want to kill or hurt anybody, no matter what. I let the stone drop. That loud bump was the only sound for a while. Then Tero stood up, looked bewildered, took his bike and cycled away.

Even though I didn't know it then, a pacifist was born at that moment.

The Mist

Then came time to go to a new school, and I was suddenly a teen.

Tero continued bullying me, but somehow, it didn't matter anymore. The school was more prominent, and Tero's archaic bullying methods didn't work as menacingly as in the small village school.

And on top of all, I had a friend.

We became close. Tom was a tall and handsome lad one year older than me. His curly blond hair, mischievous smile, and curiosity matched mine. For a 14-year-old loner, it meant a lot.

Girls, cars, music and art were the main topics. Jimi Hendrix was incredible, and Janis Joplin was a goddess. We listened to them endlessly on my new tape recorder.

The autumn would soon turn into winter when Tom and I went to the sports field. We were alone there, waiting for others to come, and the sun was still low but bright.

It was one of those chilly Finnish autumn mornings when you have thick silvery frost on the ground, and the sky is without any trace of clouds but looks like cold blue alabaster.

We sat on the bench and started to talk.

We had just our T-shirts and shorts on. I saw how the hair on Tom's legs stood up because of the chill. I remember how that observation made me realise that we grow. He yawned and stretched his arms above his head. He had a small amount of underarm hair, too. I could smell his sweat, and somehow, that smell made me happy.

We were sitting next to each other, close but a few centimetres apart. Tom let his arms fall, and suddenly, I felt the warmth of Tom's shoulder touching my shoulder over the little gap between us. It was as if there was no gap at all.

Tom turned to me, asking: "What? Is something wrong, mate? You look like you have seen a ghost."

In the shining sun, I saw a beautiful grey mist coming from Tom's mouth when he spoke. The vapour travelled towards me, and before I could say anything, I inhaled and realised that the haze from Tom was now inside me.

Millions of molecules travelling around Tom's body just a few minutes ago were now inside me. And I realised that we were one but just temporarily separated. Everything was in me, and I was in everything. Tom smiled at me with eyes squinting and breathed another white cloud at me, and I took it in; I took the whole moment in like an eternity that shone in his mischievous eyes.

Two months later, in December, Tom died in a motorbike accident with his girlfriend on an icy road in the dark.

I have been searching for the things that unite us ever since. Buddhism became my thing, but giving it that name took decades.

"Everyone has his own specific vocation or mission in life; everyone must carry out a concrete assignment that demands fulfilment. Therein he cannot be replaced, nor can his life be repeated. Thus, everyone's task is unique as is his specific opportunity to implement it." ― Viktor E. Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning.

A long journey

Some 50 years later, on another chilly morning, I still think of the molecules Tom gave me as a gift of his life that ended so soon.

I am one and only, but all in one.

I remember the feel of the stone and its rugged sharpness. And I remember how relieved I was when I knew I didn't need to fight anybody. I won over myself, which still carries me today.

I can still hear the applause and see the light I managed to create to show the audience the mystic art of theatre. I left the theatre many plays later, but the light has never left me.

I am here writing because the light, stone, and mist made me who I am — and who I yearn to become.