Finding Solitude and Inspiration in the Finnish Sauna: A Journey Back to Writing

A Reflection on the Simple Joys of Sauna, Silence, and Rediscovering the Art of Writing

I breathed in the forest-scented steam in the dim sauna. Beads of sweat rose on my skin. Adjusting the towel I'd wrapped around my hair, I made sure my hair would be protected from the heat. I leaned my head against the wall, closed my eyes, and let myself relax.

This is how this blog began. In the sauna – what could be more Finnish?

I was feeling under the weather on Friday, so I skipped the gym, though I usually start my weekends with a workout.

Instead of going to the gym, I decided to relax.

I turned the black dial on the sauna stove. The stove clicked on, and the warmth began to rise.

I put on my rain gear, fastened collars on my dogs, and stepped outside into the drizzle. Mid-November, and there was still no snow, just endless raindrops.

I set off on a long walk, knowing that the warm sauna would be waiting for me when I returned.

In the sauna, I sat in silence. I added a few drops of essential oil to the water ladle and then poured the water onto the hot stones. As the cool water hit the stones with a sizzle, the lovely scent of the forest filled the air.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

This is what the sauna means to me: a time to slow down and unwind. Dim light, warmth, silence – peace of mind.

I wondered how best to describe the sauna's significance for me. UNESCO's description of Finnish sauna culture captures it perfectly:

"Sauna culture is an essential part of life for the majority of Finns. Practiced both in homes and in public saunas, it is much more than just washing. In the sauna, people cleanse both their bodies and minds and achieve a sense of inner peace. Traditionally, the sauna has been considered a sacred place – a kind of 'natural church.' At the heart of the sauna experience is the löyly, the steam that rises when water is thrown onto the hot stones, bringing with it a unique spirit."

In Finland, people sauna alone, with others, or in larger groups:

• families sauna together

• couples sauna together

• friends sauna together

• coworkers sauna together

• and even complete strangers may sauna together.

As for me, I prefer to go to the sauna alone.

Maybe it's my introverted nature: for me, the sauna isn't a social event but an intimate moment of calm.

Of course, I can enjoy a shared sauna, too, but I mostly savor the solitude. -You're probably my partner or close friend if you find yourself with me in the sauna. Otherwise, I'm happiest alone in the sauna.

Just like three days ago on Friday.

I breathed in the forest-scented steam in the dim sauna. My work concerns had stayed behind on the walk and were far from my mind. I felt tired but no longer unwell.

Once again, I thought about writing.

When I was younger, I wrote a lot. I kept a diary, wrote stories, letters – everything I could think of. Now in my forties, it feels like the only things I have time to write are work emails and grocery lists. Well, the occasional WhatsApp message, too, but even those are few and far between.

It would be wonderful to rediscover the joy of writing.

Why is it so hard to start?

How could I keep writing even when work is stressful and hectic?

I threw more water on the sauna stove, this time without the forest-scented oil.

Sizzle.

I thought about reading out loud.

I've always been a storyteller. As a child, I read books to my younger siblings and to my boyfriend in my younger years.

Now, my work involves telling stories, but I still miss reading out loud.

How could I read out loud? And what would I read?

I sipped mineral water from the bottle I'd brought into the sauna. Some people like to drink beer in the sauna, but I don't drink beer at all. Occasionally, I have cider, but I want something other than that in the sauna. To me, the perfect sauna drink is lemon-flavored mineral water.

I poured more water on the sauna stove. The warm steam wrapped around me again, filling the space with lovely quiet.

I know that I just need to write to rediscover the joy of writing.

I'm not suddenly going to realize in the middle of a work email, "Oh, how nice it is to write!" No, that's not going to happen.

The joy of writing only comes by writing – even when it doesn't feel inspiring.

Perhaps the easiest way would be to keep a journal about daily life, events, and thoughts. Writing publicly might even create a small pressure to write consistently, making it harder to skip on days I don't feel like it.

…Maybe this idea is worth developing.

I felt I had been in the sauna long enough. I stepped down from the bench and went to the bathroom. I applied a cleansing gel to my face, knowing my pores were surely open from the sauna's heat. I washed my hair, squeezed out the excess water, and applied a generous amount of conditioner to my gently wavy hair.

Back to the sauna with conditioner on my hair.

I poured water on the stove again – a fresh, warm wave surrounded me again.

What if I simply wrote for the joy of it? If nothing else, just about everyday life?

In the quiet of the sauna, there are no distractions. No screens. No sounds. No two German Shepherds demanding attention.

Just space for my own thoughts.

I thought that if I mainly wrote about my daily life, thoughts, and such, I could also read my writing aloud. I don't know if anyone would be interested in listening, but I would enjoy reading.

I would most like to read fairytales and stories, but I suppose there are copyright issues. Maybe one day I'll write stories myself, but I'm not there yet. First, I need to find my rhythm again, discover my own voice for telling stories, and perhaps rediscover the joy of writing.

Until then, I could write something to read aloud.

I squeezed my hair and lowered myself briefly to the sauna stove level. I turned it off, knowing the warmth would last for a while.

I poured water on the sauna stove, which sizzled as though unaware it had been turned off.

Such lovely warmth.

Perhaps I could just write. And read aloud what I've written.

This time, I stepped down from the bench to leave.

I decided: now, I'll just start. I'll just write.