Author: admin

01 Sep

Posted at 19:16h in Sarah's Journal by

Over the garden wall I discover a Goldfinch, head stuck uncomfortably inside the bird feeder. Some of her feathers have been torn out in her effort to free herself. Without much hope, I lay her in a container with seeds and water. It sits in the studio, away from the cat’s view. Defying my expectations I come back later to find her reviving. She spends the next two days hopping around, making a cosy place to sleep out of paper towels, scattering a bowl of small finch-friendly seeds, drinking and bathing in a saucer. She eyes me steadily, but makes no attempt to flutter towards the door.

Leaving her to sit quietly in peace looking out at the garden, I research finch care. Goldfinch is a totem of joy and self-expression. I wonder whether we are good luck charms for one another? I feel the responsibility of this beautiful grounded creature. At last I discover The South Essex Wildlife Hospital. I am impressed with the ethos and efficiency of the charity. They answer the phone, give me helpful advice, and agree to take care of my charge, much to my relief.

A game of catch the Goldfinch with a red fishing net allows me closer inspection of her gorgeous yellow and black livery. Swiftly transferred to a ventilated cardboard box, we transport her up the A13. She flaps intermittently on the way. On arrival, in the delightful country setting of the wildlife hospital, we are welcomed by the sound of a lively bird chorus. In response she emits a single “Cheep!”

27 Aug

Posted at 19:40h in Sarah's Journal by

We admire the clouds in Victoria Park. They are worthy of John Constable’s paintbrush. With my ‘Romanticist’ eye, I see Tony and Monique, standing heroic against the tumultuous sky. We three share a love of words.

“Most of my students use too many adjectives,” says Monique. I wonder how to find the words that might describe this bold scene with pithy nouns and verbs. Writers stand in sunlight. Wordsmiths walk under a dark cloud. Friends look for change.

From our different perspectives, we search for words that expand our conversation, avoid those that close down communication. We discuss the tensions, which spring up from assumptions, judgements, and lack of information or imagination. How do we find the right words, use skilful speech, embrace complexity, debate with nuance? Can we encourage ways to reflect our experiences to increase our ability to understand one another?

26 Aug

Posted at 12:18h in Sarah's Journal by

We have taken our last walk with our decrepit family dog, riding in his pram. Despite loss of sight, hearing, mobility, his nose still scans from left to right to suck in all the smells of his territory like radar. Dementia has stolen the signal between brain and limbs, so he can no longer remember how to sit or lie down. The final blow is his loss of appetite. For the last seventeen years, Pickle’s enthusiasm for food – meat, cheese, treats, pavement bones and raided scraps – has driven him. Despite increasing lack of agility, he has until very recently, been able to topple the cat’s bowl from its shelf, without up-turning it, to scoff her more dainty biscuits.

At this final lunch, we toast him and celebrate his life, remembering the list of close scrapes, relishing his personality quirks. He has remained a loyal, devoted companion to an extended pack, which includes two households and three generations, as well as other pets.

I have been loved steadily and unconditionally by Pickle. His brown eyes and attentive ears have witnessed my every mood. In return, I have thrown balls, sticks, been muddied, pushed his chariot, taken him for regular ‘spa days’ at the vet, carried him up and down stairs, and walked ever more slowly with him. I forgave his anxiety at fireworks, smoke alarms, rioters and thunder, because he calmed mine. During one of several close calls, I sustained an injury, which will mark me for life. It is my capacity to love, which feels expanded. My heart is deeply marked by the depth of my love, in response to his. Four of us place a hand on him, saying our last appreciations and farewells, as tears and snot streaks down my face.

23 Aug

Posted at 17:41h in Sarah's Journal by

The car is packed full of boxes as we help someone to move house. Moving house is a huge upheaval. It invites the question, what are we moving towards, but also what are the things that we are leaving behind? My memory jolts back to my first move as a child. It was two weeks before my ninth birthday. I remember a leaving ceremony. I felt awkward and shy in my best blue dress and white nylon socks, that wouldn’t pull as far as my knees up my growing legs.

I understood that we were going somewhere new. But this was an abstract concept for me, because I had only lived in this suburban house. I loved the free reign of parish spaces – church steps, church hall, and adjoining cul-de-sacs to roller skate around. With the other kids from these streets, we played outside, free from adult supervision. The ice-cream van reeled in my attention  every day. I longed for, and occasionally got a FAB or Strawberry Mivvi, by sneaking coins from my Mum’s purse.

I watched my father unlock the church doors, the coming and goings of cubs and scouts. I waited for the coal delivery truck, and celebrated the nasal chant of the rag and bone man. On the main road, buses clustered. Old ladies wearing headscarves or plastic rain bonnets put out their hands or thumbed them on. It was a place where ordinary Londoners went to work on the train, bought square white bread from the bakery, competed with their neighbours’ front garden.

A car, packed full of the bits and pieces that wouldn’t fit in the removal van, with me squeezed in the back seat was ready to leave. I remember waving goodbye. My life was changing, but I was oblivious. I knew we were going, but I hadn’t understood that we were never coming back. I had no idea of where I was going to.

I would only discover that I was defined by paving slabs, street lamps, a landscape of tarmac and brick, by its absence. Landing in alien territory of country lanes, Forestry Commission pine forest, one village shop full of plum-in-the-mouth accents, came as a profound shock. My old identity had been presented to me, ‘the vicar’s daughter’. Now I would have to begin again, overcome the trauma of dislocation, and re-shape myself.

22 Aug

Posted at 13:25h in Sarah's Journal by

Avebury has become an anchor for me. It is a still point in my psycho-geography. Built around 6000 years ago, in Megalithic times, it keeps calling me back. In this modern era of uncertainty and upheaval, it feels necessary to tap into ancient pathways. The stones – which once formed circles and an avenue – along with Silbury Mound, form part of a constellation of land energy markers.

This is a place of pilgrimage. I notice a plethora of omens as I walk. Small signs take on significance as I contemplate my inner journey. I try to stay on track, following my own idiosyncratic path through life. Crows and wood pigeons call to me here, as they do at home. Crow feathers drop at my feet like breadcrumbs, to show the way, whether I am in the city or in fields.

I stop to watch a bee on a thistle. From ancient times, the thistle represented strength, determination and power. In the Druidic tradition, the bee represents sunshine, the Goddess. I have brought brandy and dates to bring succour and sweetness to honour the ancestors. I wish I’d brought honey. “Where is the honey?” Dexter rings to ask from our kitchen, echoing this, as we sit looking out at Silbury Mound, about to make our offerings. A day later, in another ritual, I will be offered and drink a sip of mead. I am grateful to the bee for its labour, essential to life then as now.

17 Aug

Posted at 18:14h in Sarah's Journal by

I have a jolt of recognition as grief comes to visit. “Oh, hello again, I know you.” It feels like a small bird trapped in my chest. Anxiety sets in, with a fluttering of wings, with fear of what is to come. Speaking of it gives my heart an unexpected squeeze, which elicits tears. It feels as though the little bird is being crushed inside my chest when this happens. Thinking about the cause of my sorrow hurts, as though the little bird has smacked against the cage of my chest. If I observe closely, I notice this emotional pain can cause physical sensations along my arms to the tips of my fingers, and fill my stomach.

Then distracted, or numb, there may be a brief respite of quietude as I forget. Regaining consciousness again, the little bird takes to battering itself against confinement. I dip in and out of feelings, sometimes immersed, as though this captive air-borne creature is being held under water. Sometimes I am with a tender quality of beauty for all that is in the world, slowing down to feel gratitude alongside sadness.

I know over the coming days that this little bird will be squeezed, and bruised as grief mauls it like a predator inside my rib cage. I know too that every grief will mark me in some way, and ripen my understanding.

14 Aug

Posted at 19:47h in Sarah's Journal by

After a long dry spell without access to a pool, we are longing to swim. There is still the shock as warm flesh hits cold water, and a sharp intake of breath once I have inched in deep enough to lean out into the first lunge. It feels as though my skin is being stroked by silk as I acclimatise to the cold. I remember how it feels good, as I dry off. Sunshine and the sea breeze toast my skin, drying beads of salt water. The smell of the sea, mingled with sun cream makes my nostrils flare with pleasurable associations.

Seagulls fly low overhead, scanning for fish and chips. I can hear the squeals of both children and adults as they encounter cool water. My companions swim at the far edge of the ‘marine pool’. Just beyond is the sea. All around me, there is a burble of happy holiday sounds.

In full sunshine, the landscape of sky is inked in cobalt blue and the sea blends olive green with Prussian blue. Later, overcast, it has a different colour palette. Hazy bands delineate pool, the Severn estuary, windmills and industrial silhouettes of Wales behind. Then there is sky and a few distant smears of cloud. Bands of neutral tones mark each layer, with hints of pink, blue, brown and green. The sea recedes, shimmering silver grey.

13 Aug

Posted at 16:39h in Sarah's Journal by

In the garden studio where I am sitting in three dimensions, a squirrel grabs onto my trousers, and climbs up my leg. “You look like Snow White”, someone quips in the Zoom room, watching the wildlife come close in my screen. This squirrel has become bolder, in search of my stash of almonds. Papers scatter, when she eventually ventures onto my desk, locating my horde. She tries to open the glass jar, but it is resistant to her sharp teeth and dextrous paws.

Our lockdown guests made friends with this grey squirrel, naming her Squiffy. She also visits next door, where she is known as Clara. Easy to identify, with a cut-short tail, inquisitive expression and beguiling eyes, she has become a frequent diner at our bird table, and from my hand. She likes black sunflower seeds, almonds, is partial to acorns, loves to chew on a peach pit, but is mad for hazelnuts.

Squiffy’s presence adds delight to my day, and a bit of magic to the garden, but in my head, I hear the voice of the militant squirrels in Dom Jolly’s ‘Trigger Happy TV’ shouting, “Give us your nuts!”

12 Aug

Posted at 13:33h in Sarah's Journal by

These hands belong to a close friend, who lives in a care home. He often struggles with confusion. His life was impacted by a sudden event. Surgery and a spell in hospital followed. Both the original event and its treatment were traumatic. Some months later, a sudden improvement in his condition gave him more awareness of what had happened to him. This ‘insight’ in itself, a greater realisation of the radical changes in his life, might be described as another layer of trauma.

During the Corona virus pandemic, he has been stoical, and is cared for brilliantly. However, he has been deprived of regular visits from friends and family. These visits usually provide hugs, support, a sense of orientation, identity, and a feeling of being loved. A phone call for someone with this kind of impairment just doesn’t communicate well. Now visits are possible again, but under very strict protocols. I am present, yet at 2 metres distance, for a short time, outside. I wear a mask, that doesn’t reassure like a smile. I watch the hands that I can’t hold, notice the finger-nails I can’t clip, and feel for those who are denied the proximity of loving touch.

11 Aug

Posted at 14:49h in Culture Reviews by

Like a crime scene, the victims of accident or predator sometimes lie in my path. I imagine each feather marked with an exhibit number, a chalk line around the body. The path that meets the road is closed off one day this week, with real police tape. “There has been a shooting,” word passes between dog walkers. Accident or not, a tragedy will probably be playing out in two households, as a consequence.

On this theme, there are a couple of gems available to hear on BBC Radio 4, which unfold some of the consequences for everyone involved after a crime has been committed. ‘This Thing of Darkness’ is a 8 part drama, written by Anita Vettesse and Eileen Horne. It follows a forensic psychiatrist’s conversations with an accused man, and members of his family, in an attempt to unravel what happened. Told from the psychiatrist’s point of view, it reveals her thought processes as she listens for glimmers of truth among the facts. It also includes characters inside a therapy group process within a prison. It allows us to see the nuanced and complex causes of what happened, and the feelings of everyone touched by the incident.

‘The Punch’ is a 5 part documentary series following the impact after one young man was convicted of manslaughter, for killing another with a single punch. We hear about the impact of the death both on the person convicted, and the family of the victim. It gives an inspiring insight into the process of restorative justice. The outcome of the meetings between the convicted, and the parents of the victim is remarkable, but does not diminish the morass of difficult feelings on both sides.