Blog

24 Dec

Posted at 16:34h in Sarah's Journal by

As a child, on Christmas Eve, my father produced a cardboard box from the attic filled with wooden shavings. Hidden underneath were small glass baubles. Each one was scratched, with wire fixings that had a tendency to break. We had a set of fairy lights with small tasselled Chinese lanterns on each bulb. Their seasonal arrival, and exquisite detail fascinated me. They would work at best intermittently. In the corner of the vicarage living room we dressed a tree with these and balding strings of silver tinsel. An angel cut out of metal with sharp treacherous wings would be precariously placed on top. Presents, family, food and Christmas Specials on BBC1 had to be fitted around my father’s church work schedule, and my mother’s general state of mind. When other households were sitting down to eat or watching the Queen full of sprouts and turkey, we might be eating a bowl of soup; but then eat a special dinner much later. I enjoy the concept of a Victorian idyll, as long as it’s optional. An unexpected gift came today from our generous local creative florists, so now we have some traditional greenery to acknowledge the season and it brought with it some genuine Christmas Spirit.
www.jcmeades.co.uk

22 Dec

Posted at 21:15h in Sarah's Journal by

This is a bowl, a container. Like my skin it holds water. A large percent of me (60% ish) is made of liquid. Inside me thoughts and feelings are continually in flux. My blood and lymph circulates. We pour water in grief rituals into this bowl. Painted with ‘Spirit Bird’ by Stephen Wright, it feels an appropriate vessel for this symbolic movement. Water connects us to the flow of life, reminds us of the movement of our feelings. When a group of strangers come together to stir their grief, Tony and I aim to create trust between all of us, to build an energetic container. Within this space things are expressed, feelings are given time, each person receives the attention of the group. People reveal something of who they are inside, unmasked. The intensity of the words, sounds and actions that are expressed inside the ritual container makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It feels real. It feels extremely special to witness, whatever the content. Gradually there is a change in the current of feelings and we shift back into our outward facing selves. Afterwards we take the water to the garden, ask the land to receive it as a blessing.

21 Dec

Posted at 21:15h in Sarah's Journal by

It is ‘Persephone’ time. The shortest day seems drowned in sudden prolonged downpours. Beyond the front door everything feels grey and dank. Like Persephone in the underworld I cannot resist the burst of sweetness on biting into pomegranate seeds. We sit on the sofa, three of us, to celebrate the solstice with the delicious sweet tang of pomegranate blended with creamy coconut yoghurt. The neglected garden is covered in darkened magnolia leaves mulching quietly. This is the season for composting, for going inside to digest the events and experiences of the year that has passed. Like the pomegranate, the year divides with symmetry, and this is the axis where we turn towards the light while still deep in the dark of winter. I reflect on the steps taken this year past to welcome in my own grief for all that I have lost, for nature’s struggle, for the disappointment of paths not taken by our leaders. I reflect on the journey so far to hold space for others to experience more of their felt selves. I celebrate the opportunities to practice loving those close to me. I value the simple pleasures that bubble up when I am connected. I continue to learn how to love life more.

19 Dec

Posted at 21:30h in Sarah's Journal by

I bump into Wendz at the World’s End. I paint my mouth in her face as my mirror to match her vibrant red lips. They spread in a smile and dance as we catch up, swapping mental snap shots of costumes made, unlikely performances and the dazzle of the “Doris Day” side of our lives. This brief encounter in the slip stream of Camden fits with the mix of these streets’ fun, frivolous and dark. Endings slip into the conversation, and Wendz names “the big thud of death dropping into life when young”, (as she puts it). The thud came for me at twenty-three. The death of my father spun me around and sent me in a new direction in response to this glimpse of mortality. With hindsight I know how the fallout from that ‘thud’ set in train the changes that only make sense from the vantage point of who I have become. At the time I went into freefall as I re-assessed who I was and who I wanted to be. Wendz and I head off in separate directions. I see hippy pigeons eating veg curry from a paper plate on the pavement. The air is infused with conflicting beats, nag champa and cigarettes. I go to buy organic celery, vitamins and chocolate, my own Camden mix.

18 Dec

Posted at 21:33h in Sarah's Journal by

It’s a beautiful morning. The last residue of frost is lingering where sunlight hasn’t fallen. Bramble, rose and hawthorn are decorated with droplets of water. They hang like tears along each twig. The wider landscape is painted in layers – green grass tipped with dew, translucent opal of mist, umber of skeletal branches, then sky marbled in cerulean blue and light warm grey. This is the kind of winter day that makes my heart sing. We walk together, Tony, the dogs and me. Humans digest yesterday’s activities, unwrap last night’s dreams and make plans for the day to come. Dogs sniff and leave their marks. After weeks of poos camouflaged in dropped leaves, today they steam and are easy to find. This simple time is restorative. Crows call, swoop before us, hop and flap alongside. This is what supports me.

16 Dec

Posted at 15:30h in Culture Reviews by

Two of my favourite people whisked me away, draped me in fluff and sequins (“because it’s panto” to quote Arkem), and took me on an adventure to see ‘Queer Stories’. The Embers Collective rekindle the art of story-telling. Lonan Jenkins our compare invites us in with ‘Permission’, a poem by Alabaster dePlume. This is a call to arms to “give yourself permission to do your awesome shit.” Doing something new and being yourself creatively is what the Embers Collective are all about. Together they create an easy, inclusive atmosphere to welcome all, where difference is valued. ‘Queer Stories’ is a cabaret style performance featuring Anya Pearson and Josh Middleton bringing music in and between the lines of the stories by Charlie Wood, Robert Holtom, James Boswell, India Jaggon-Barrett, Dominique Bull and Arkem Mark Walton. “What kind of character do you want to be in this story?” asks dePlume, talking to this particular moment in history. Delving into and beneath their own lives to bring something new, each performer has their own unique perspective on queerness. Adding archetype and mythology they produce stories that charm, move and delight. Every performer has their own distinctive flavour. Thank you Rosie and Julie for engineering for me to see their awesome shit. It was magic.
www.theemberscollective.com

15 Dec

Posted at 22:44h in Sarah's Journal by

A few days ago a young man was stabbed and died just around the corner.  These are stark facts. Behind the facts is a human story. I don’t know the circumstances that led to this tragic ending. He is missed by the many who have laid tributes and battery powered night-lights in silent vigil forming an ark around the swathes of flowers. Behind his story is a culture. Violence is the outcome of a complex set of conditions. The factors may include poverty, class, mental health, addiction, gang loyalty, identity, fear and plain misfortune – just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The justice system incarcerates but does not rehabilitate. Governments know that criminalisation of drugs wins votes but fails addicts. In the absence of initiations by the whole tribe, young people initiate themselves through rituals unsanctioned by society. “These are the bearers of generation upon generation of unresolved grief, of unexpressed sorrow, and the rage that it becomes when it isn’t acknowledged,” describes Martin Prechtel of young people at the receiving end of ancestral grief. Unprocessed trauma and complex grief finds outlets in cycles of aggressive behaviour, self-sabotage and post-traumatic stress disorder, often coupled with shame. Wise cultures create alternative ways to deal with conflict and its aftermath.

14 Dec

Posted at 16:34h in Sarah's Journal by

There is an atmosphere of excited anticipation. The music is already quickening my breath. All ages and genders are wriggling into sequins. At every sink someone is creating a shiny, glittering mirror image of themselves. Socks, leggings, hoodies are shed wrinkled like cast off cocoons on the floor. Wigs, eye lashes, hats and hair flowers are positioned. I love this part of the ritual. This is the part where all the pleasure is still possible. Our fantasy selves have yet to emerge to be admired. Later on having fun requires constant monitoring to stay hydrated, with enough energy, to be on the dancefloor with enough space, not too loud, with one of the DJ’s I love playing just the right tune to make my spirit soar, next to the dancers who are still sober enough to share this perfect moment with me. But for now all this is still to come. We gather, eight of us on the sofa with ‘Hackney Dad’ as they name him and look up into the camera squealing, before we head out into the night.

13 Dec

Posted at 19:23h in Sarah's Journal by

“This is the death of truth”, Rose said this morning. We walk slowly with long faces as though there has been a bereavement in the family. I recognise the feeling that everything has changed, and strangely, normal life continues regardless. We walk by the canal with a sense of collective doom. I sense the righteous anger of the no-doubt-young author of “FCK BORIS!” on the tow path. I feel the sting of the tears that spill from this silver painted eye. Smiles, usually readily available seem hard to offer to passers by. Grief hangs like fog over us as we pace this eclectic city. I dream of escaping to somewhere else. I imagine heading to Scotland with a yurt to keep chickens. I imagine London as an island loosing its tether and taking the Thames with it out into the channel to re-position itself. I imagine I am running sweaty in black T-shirt and khaki trousers working to outwit the engineers of ‘the matrix’. I imagine sand in my eyes as I expertly swish my light sabre to vanquish storm troopers. Instead I eat chocolate. “Telling the truth is a choice,” says the exasperated mother to 7 year-old Hamza, (in trouble at school). “You can choose to tell the truth”. I listen to this mother on the bus pleading with her son to “stop making wrong choices”. How can he possibly know what wrong choices are in this time where truth and lies are so blurred by those in power, where right and wrong is experienced so subjectively?

12 Dec

Posted at 20:12h in Sarah's Journal by

This miniature fairy tale house, red with a pitched roof, (but missing the white picket fence) is a tiny library. It rests on the corner of Rushmore and Powerscroft Roads. There is room for perhaps twenty books. It regularly holds a mix of children’s picture books, adult fiction and the odd non-fiction tome for anyone to take. The Little Free Library movement sprung up in the US, and sells kits for anyone who wants to start their own. I deposited a shamanic self-help manual. As I passed later I watched young man with dog-on-a-chain take out a novel. The day after I found myself chatting with older-man-few-teeth. He was just returning two books, and a real advocate of the little library. Mis-judging them both I wouldn’t imagine either as avid readers. I was peering in to see if the Shamanic guide was journeying yet, and was happy to see it had gone to a new reader. This week I have felt dismayed by the proliferation of social media and sound bite culture at the expense of critical thinking and the longer attention spans needed to explore themes more deeply. I love the really accessible opportunities for random reading that this service provides. I couldn’t find a UK map, but there is a Facebook page as they pop up around the UK.
www.littlefreelibrary.myshopify.com