Have you ever seen the Northern Lights? Or, The Aurora Borealis, as they’re officially called.

To me, what always stands out about the Aurora Borealis is how it never stays still and how it’s always different. It moves, stretches, softens, fades, and then appears again somewhere else. The Northern Lights are never the same, never boring. Never “once you’ve seen it, you’ve seen it all”. To me, they keep their magic, regardless of how many nights I go out to watch them.

The Aurora can be horizontal and wavy, like a calm ocean. Other times, they hang like a back-lit curtain in a living room, softly swaying in a summer breeze because the window is left open. They can also rain down from high in the stratosphere, almost like a heavy downpour but in slow motion. And just when you think you can follow its shape, the Aurora changes. It keeps moving.

Not to mention all the different colors! The weekend before last, the Northern Lights kept returning, night after night. It was a true G3 geomagnetic storm and the sky was alive with color! It was raining green, pink, red, purple, even blue!

It was so intense, the Aurora crown was overhead, curtains of light were raining down on me and once again I spent hours outside in the yard watching in awe, thinking about how small and insignificant I am in all this. Yet, I felt content at the same time, at the right place, at the right time.

I kept telling myself “just a few more minutes,” and then stayed out far longer than planned. My neck definitely reminded me of that the next day.

Capturing the Dancing Aurora in Wood

Living in Finland and seeing the sky come alive like that, I desperately wanted to capture that into a wooden pendant! But how do you capture something that moves in something that stays still, and still give it that sense of motion?

That is what burl wood did for me. With burl wood in particular, there is a quiet shimmer in the surface. The light moves across it in a way that makes it feel almost alive. Depending on how you turn the piece, the pattern shifts.

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The Wood Decides

My Aurora pendants started out as simple pieces, with the idea to burn the Northern Lights into them. My earlier versions are more stagnant, still imagery burnt in wood. However, with my discovery of burl wood, my Aurora series really began to shine! (pun intended)

I follow that chatoyance; the places where the wood surface seems to be in motion. The burning becomes a way of outlining what is already there, deepening the contrast, letting the lighter areas glow, and burning the night sky around it. It is a slow, but enjoyable process of adjusting and responding. A bit like standing outside under the Aurora itself. You cannot control what appears, but you stay with it, pay attention, and let it unfold.

In this video you can see me create a series of Aurora pendants. This video truly highlights how that chatoyance in the burl wood dictates my way of creating.

How the Northern Lights changed my Art

I used to begin with a clear idea of what something should become. A fixed shape, a design I could hold onto from start to finish. But with this kind of burl wood, that approach rarely holds. The grain - or more accurately - the shimmering surface of the burl wood starts to guide things. It forced me to give up control. To stop deciding so much and to stop chasing the perfectionist in me.

Over time, I’ve learned to loosen my grip on that initial desire to control. I learned to pay attention to the wood instead of insisting. The more intuitively I work, the more I seem to notice. And the more I notice, the less I feel the need to control it.

So, in a way, it’s the Northern Lights that changed the way I approach my wood art today. It taught me to be more flexible, literally more “going with the flow of things”. With Aurora pendants in particular, it feels as though the piece already exists somewhere within the wood, waiting to be uncovered. Not forced into a design, but revealed; one careful burn mark at a time.

More than just Aurora Pendants

These days, I use that chatoyance in more than just my Aurora pendants. I also use it in my forest fantasy scenes, where the that shimmer really gives the artworks a unique and magical light.

I spent hours looking at a wood slice before I even begin to burn a design on them. I start with a direction, but I let the material lead where it needs to. It makes the process slower, and less predictable, but also more honest and harmonious. Symbiotic, almost! Since doing this, my art has improved, tenfold!

And every time I create anything with burl wood, I feel such joy to create, as if I’m honoring the wood. And that’s the best feeling of all! As if, in some small way, I’m still standing under that moving sky.

Iona

If you walk into the forest today, you might think you are alone. But our ancestors knew better. Mythology teaches us that back then, the Finns knew that the forest wasn’t just a collection of wood and pine needles; it was a kingdom with its own laws.

The Finnish Forest radiates a specific kind of silence. A heavy, expectant quiet that feels less like an absence of sound and more like a presence of something sacred. Our ancestors had a word for the places where this silence lived: Hiisi.

What is Hiisi?

In Finnish mythology and in the pre-Christian mind, a hiisi (pronounced like “He-see”) was a sacred place. It was the part of the forest that belonged entirely to the spirits. You entered it to listen, not to do anything else, just to listen.

The trees in a Hiisi were seen as sentient. A twisted rowan or an ancient juniper, they are Sacred Trees (Pyhä Puu). These trees were the antennas of the earth, catching whispers from the underworld and the sky. To harm one was to invite the Metsänhiisi - the forest’s own guardian - to turn the paths against you, leaving you lost and unable to find your way home.

Hiisi’s were the spiritual centers of ancient Finnish communities. Places where the veil between our world and the spirit world was thin.

Maintaining balance

Christianity has tried - and succeeded - to turn the Hiisi into demonic, mischievous, or evil spirits, often synonymous with trolls, or goblins. Nowadays Hiisi is more or less synonymous with the devil. The date of this change is to be placed somewhere in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, when Christianity began to spread here.

But the original, pre-Christian (Pagan) Hiisi is much more sacred. It is the smell of damp earth after the snow melts; it is the way the light fractures through the spruce canopy; it is the massive, moss-covered boulders (the Hiidenkivet) that look like they were tossed by giants.

Finland’s high cliffs were the bones of the earth. The deep springs were the eyes of the underworld, Manala.

A Hiisi was the border-zone. A grove of twisted pines, a jagged “sacrificial” stone, or a peninsula reaching into the dark waters of Lake Saimaa.

These weren’t places you went to chat or hunt; these were places you went to bargain with the Väki; the inherent power that resides in all natural things.

When you stepped into a Hiisi, you left the world of men behind. You didn’t shout. You didn’t break branches. Instead, you brought a small offering like a piece of bread, a handful of grain, or a silver coin, to acknowledge that you were a guest in a house older than time. These offerings were left simply to maintain balance. It was a way of saying: “I see this place. I pass with respect. I take nothing without leaving something.”

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What is there to celebrate?

The reason we celebrate Hiisienpäivä today is bittersweet. On March 28, 1748, the authorities tried to silence the woods, silence the old ways and the ancient spirits. They ordered the destruction of these “superstitious” groves, fearing the power the forest held over the people’s hearts. It was an attempt to erase a way of life that saw divinity in the dirt and the trees.

But you cannot kill a forest by cutting down a few trees. The Väki (metsän väki (forest power/spirits), veden väki (water power), and maan väki (ground power)) simply retreated deeper into the shadows.

Today, on Hiisienpäivä, we invite that energy back.

By observing this day now, we are reclaiming history. We are saying that these sacred sites - these boulders, groves, and springs - still hold value. They are not “dead” archaeological spots; they are living parts of the Finnish cultural DNA.

And most importantly, Hiisi is not the Devil … ! The forest was never something to fear in that way. That is a story that came later, shaped by a different belief system, one that no longer knew how to stand in quiet relationship with the land.

I am reclaiming the older meaning of Hiisi. The good and sacred Hiisi. In a future post I’ll share more about why I am drawn to Hiisi, and why I think it is important that we honor what Hiisi was.

How to Honor the Forest Today

If you’d like to honor the Hiisi today, you don’t need a ritual. You do not even need to know the old ways. The forest will remember them for you. Hiisi is not watching for perfection, only for presence.

Step off the path.
Even a single step is enough. The moment your feet leave the worn ground, you are no longer just passing through.

Pause at the threshold.
You may ask for permission, or simply listen. The old ones require only that you arrive without taking. It’s an ancient Finnish courtesy to the Metsänhaltija (a general term for various forest spirits or guardians).

Lay your hand upon bark.
Feel the slow life that does not hurry as you do. Become still, breathe …

If something calls your attention, do not rush past it.
A stone. A curve of root. A flicker of movement. These are the places where the veil thins and are an invitation for you to stop and notice. Pause and observe.

Leave no mark… unless it is a quiet kindness.
A breath of gratitude. A moment of stillness. If you offer something, let it already belong to the forest. For instance, a fallen feather, or a beautiful stone.

Walk differently when you leave.
Carry the silence with you, if it allows it.

And if you cannot enter the forest today, open a window.
Listen.

The wild does not end where your walls begin.

The forest has a long memory. This March 28th, go into the woods not as a master, but as a guest. The Hiisi is waiting.

Hyvää hiisienpäivää — May the forest be kind to you!

Iona

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Share Whispers from the Finnish Forest

Come closer. No, a little closer still … The forest has something to say. Did you hear? Finland has once again been named the happiest country in the world. For the ninth year in a row!

I like to think the forest already knew. The pines don’t seem particularly impressed. They’ve been standing there for decades, watching people quietly go about their lives and breathing in the same clean air, walking the same forest trails. If anything, there’s a sense of “well, obviously.”

Still, if you listen closely, you might catch it; the faintest whisper moving through moss and needles, carrying the news as if it’s something both ancient and amusing.

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Twenty years of being slowly “Finnished”

This year marks twenty years since I first arrived here. Twenty years of seasons shaping not just the landscape, but something in me as well.

I came from the Netherlands, which, to be fair, also ranks quite high on the happiness scale, so I like to think I had a good foundation. ;) But I feel that Finland has a different energy. It doesn’t try to convince you of anything. It doesn’t present itself as particularly special. It simply exists, steady and grounded, and somehow invites you to meet it there.

Somewhere along those years, between the blue twilight of winter afternoons, the endless light of summer nights, and more cups of coffee than I could ever count, I changed. Or maybe I just softened into the rhythm that was already here.

Either way, I think it’s safe to say that I’ve been thoroughly “Finnished.” And yes, that joke has earned its place over the years.

The forest is never far

Before we found our hundred-year-old house tucked into the forest, I lived in a suburb and later in a small village about twenty minutes from the city where I worked. Even there, nature was never something you had to plan for or drive to. It was simply there, waiting at the edge of things.

It was always just … there.

I would step outside, walk to the end of the street, and within minutes the air would shift. Cooler, cleaner, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth.

The ground would soften beneath my feet, and the sounds of daily life would fade into something quieter and more spacious. Without announcing itself, the Finnish Forest simply received me, welcomed me.

The paths I walked were shaped over time, pressed into the earth by those who had walked them before. In winter, they became narrow trails of packed snow, sometimes accompanied by smooth lines of ski tracks, created for your enjoyment by the county.

In summer, these paths led me to blueberries and lingonberries, hidden among green leaves as if the forest enjoyed making you slow down enough to notice them. Finding them truly felt like a little reward.

Going for a walk (but not just a walk)

One thing I’ve always noticed is how naturally people here move through nature. Finns often say they are going for “a brisk walk,” käydä lenkillä, but it’s not just about the purpose of exercising.

I feel like it’s more about being outside, breathing in the air, letting your thoughts settle into the rhythm of your steps. A form of meditation, if you will. A way to ask Nature to help you recover from your busy workday in the city.

My husband’s aunt, well into her eighties, still goes for brisk walks in Nature every day, no matter the weather. Rain, snow, wind, it doesn’t matter to her. She simply puts on her coat and goes, as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

And she enjoys it too! I’ve heard her exclaim, “Oh, it’s sunny and only -8°C (16°F) and today was so great that I spent an hour and a half walking through the forest! I feel so refreshed and invigorated!” while I might have thought, “Minus 8?! I’ll stay inside, thank you very much!”

Summer, mosquitoes, and questionable life choices

And then there is summer.

This is when the forest feels fuller somehow, softer and louder at the same time. The air hums with life, the lakes lie still and reflective in the early morning, and the light stretches so late into the night, it doesn’t actually truly leave.

It is also the season when many Finns make what might, from the outside, seem like slightly questionable life choices. They leave behind perfectly comfortable homes and move into small wooden cottages by lakes: their mökki.

These can be minimal, almost primitive places. No running water, sometimes not even any electricity, and yes, a smelly, spider-infested outhouse just a short yet terrifying walk away.

From experience, I can say that there is a moment, usually in the middle of the night, when you step outside to go pee, you wonder why on earth you thought spending your summer at The Mökki was a good idea.

And yet, there is also the early summer morning. The kind where you wake up to complete stillness, open the door, and feel the already sunny and warm air on your skin as the lake lies there like glass. Birds, hopped up on endless sunlight, orchestrate a wild symphony, trying their hardest to make sure you, too, join the celebration of the nightless night.

Coffee tastes better outside. Time moves differently. Days fill themselves with small, simple things: swimming, fishing, gathering berries, sitting in the sauna, or listening to the quiet crackle of a midsummer fire.

You also share it all with an impressive number of mosquitoes, who seem genuinely delighted that you’ve arrived!

Okay, so it’s not perfect, but perfection was never really the point, I think. It’s all about disconnecting from the rush of life and finding a better connection in Nature. You know what they say: “The forest has no Wi-Fi, but you’ll find a better connection there.”

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Oma rauha - The art of your own peace

For some, this closeness to nature isn’t something they visit only in summer. It’s something they choose to live inside of.

Finns call it oma rauha: your own peace. It’s something softer than just silence. It’s more about space, breathing room.

We have it here too, in our house in the forest. Most days are quiet, though never completely still. There is the occasional distant truck, the low hum of a tractor, lawnmower, or chainsaw in summer. The soft sounds of life still continue, somewhere beyond the trees.

And sometimes, a neighbor appears. With zucchini from their garden. Or a freshly caught fish, offered with the kind of simplicity that makes you wonder why the rest of the world complicates things so much. And so much for the idea that Finns are stoic and hard to connect with! The forest chuckles at that, in its own quiet way.

Pitch-blackness and winter depression

Winters are, if anything, even quieter. The thick blanket of snow muffles all sound, and the pitch-black darkness pulls everything into an almost eerie stillness. It’s the time of year many people refer to as a winter depression, and to be fair, I can see their point.

And yet, there is something strangely beautiful about it. I’ve stood outside more than once, the cold slowly settling into my skin, my face stinging, my neck stiff from looking up far too long, all for the sake of watching the Aurora Borealis dance across the sky. A silent but magical performance that somehow makes you forget you can no longer feel your toes.

It is as if the night is quietly breathing. It’s the kind of beauty that asks nothing of you, except that you stay a little longer.

And I do stay. I keep watching, because in those moments, standing there in the dark with the cold wrapped around me, the scale of everything becomes almost tangible. The vastness, the quiet, the sense that you are both very small and somehow exactly where you are meant to be. That … feels like utter contentment to me.

So, why is Finland so happy?

There are, of course, official explanations for Finland’s place at the top: systems, structures, a strong sense of trust, a feeling of security. All of that matters, yes, but the forest offers a more precious answer, in my opinion.

Here in Finland, Nature is not separate from life. It isn’t something you visit once in a while, but rather something you move with and carry with you even when you step back inside. It shapes the pace of things. It teaches you to notice. To wait. To be still without needing to fill the silence.

At least that is how I experience Nature. I do consciously seek it out when I go for a walk, but Nature’s stillness lives also inside me, with me … gifting me personal happiness and peace.

A quiet happiness

As someone who came here from elsewhere, I don’t know if I will ever see this land exactly as a Finn does. But I do know that from the moment I arrived, something in me recognized it.

Over time, that feeling has settled deep into my being. It shows up in small moments. In the way the air feels different after rain. In the quiet of snow falling. In the warmth of a sauna followed by cold water. In sitting outside with no real plan, no need to hurry anywhere.

It’s a special, truly Finnish kind of happiness. The kind that sits beside you on a mossy stone, says nothing at all, and somehow, that is enough.

The Finnish Forest has been whispering it to me all along.

Iona :)

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This is the place I will be whispering from, from now on. If you’re new to Substack, think of my little corner here as a collection of quiet letters from my life as a wood artist living in the forests of eastern Finland.

My name is Iona, and I live here surrounded by forest, in a quiet 100-year-old farmhouse where nature is never far away. Originally from the Netherlands, I’ve been rooted in Finland for over 20 years now.

I am a self-taught wood artist, and much of my work begins during my daily walks through the forest. I spend a lot of time wandering among the trees, noticing the smallest of details, like the texture of bark, the way snow catches the light on a branch, the stillness of a mushroom nestled in the moss.

Living here means moving with the rhythm of the seasons, something I feel most deeply during these wanderings.

It might be the way a single snowflake sparkles in the faint winter sun. Or the golden autumn glow that lingers on the yellowing birch leaves. In summer, it’s the nightless night, where birdsong seems to carry on without end. And sometimes, in the stillness of a dark winter night, the Northern Lights slow-dance across the sky above our house.

In these quiet moments, the forest whispers its stories. These letters are my way of holding onto those whispers, and sharing them with you.

Imagine walking with me beneath tall birch trees and across moss-covered paths. The air is still, the light soft, and somewhere in the distance a raven calls.

This is where inspiration quietly begins to take shape.

Back in my studio, these observations take shape in wood, becoming hand-carved pendants and small pieces of art inspired by the Nordic landscape and all that I get to witness.

Here, I share the stories behind those creations, the moments that inspired them, and the slow life that surrounds my work.

Most of all, this is a place about slowing down, observing the world more closely, and rediscovering the creativity that lives in these forests.

If these peaceful whispers from the Finnish forest speak to you, you’re warmly invited to walk along with me.

There will always be quiet letters to receive and return to, whenever you need a moment of stillness. If you’d like them to arrive gently in your inbox, you’re welcome to subscribe for free.

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And for those who wish to step a little deeper into my creative world, I also share videos, tutorials, and more personal moments from my life and work.

If you feel drawn to working with wood, or to the quiet art of slowing down and noticing the smallest details to allow them to ignite your creativity, you’re invited to wander a little deeper into the forest with me. I’ve shared more about paid subscriptions on my About page.

Either way, thank you, I’m truly glad you’re here.

Iona :)

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