Blog

03 Oct

Posted at 11:24h in Culture Reviews by

There’s a pleasing circularity in the things I am hearing in the meditation. It is led by Jarmbi Githabul of the Githabul and Ngarakwal tribes in Australia. Almost the same visualisation was taught to me by Eucalyptus who works in a Celtic tradition. I did a version of it in a ceremony lead by a South American medicine woman, and others before that. I am grounding through the earth, and connecting to the stars. It includes opening my heart. It is a practical way to connecting up both vertically and horizontally, which for me is the key to changing everything. I like his low key practical approach. To connect with who we are and our heritage, “feel your blood”, he simply says. I am finding my way back to the old ways, to those who were earthed, way back in my own lineage. Jarmbi’s bush lore circles through the words that loop round my head – disconnection, trauma, grief, honour, listen, ancestors, remember, ceremony, community, dance, love. The air ripples with the pulsing drone of the didgeridoo. One small gasp for air punctuates the sound of his circular breathing. www.42acresshoreditch.com/events/grounded-connected-as-i-see-it-jarmbi/

02 Oct

Posted at 21:53h in Sarah's Journal by

I love ‘Who Do You Think You Are’. Celebrities who I don’t always know delve into their family history. I relish the way that global themes narrow down to singular personal histories, which inevitably involve rags, riches and short life spans. The threads to forgotten tragedies are found or lost and tears come for those Blessed forbears who trod the earth before. Brian Blessed’s thundering voice trembles as he addresses his great great great grandfather, “I wanted to find guts and courage and imagination. This is what life’s about”. Some of our ancestors watch from the walls.

01 Oct

Posted at 21:35h in Culture Reviews by

Speaking with passion, Daiara Tukano – indigenous artist and activist – shares something of her ‘cosmovision’. This perspective beyond the material, comes from the Tukano people’s oral tradition. She holds us to account, to honour our own words. One word, ‘Decolonize’ blazes on an 8m banner. “If we hide what happened in the past, we’ll be blind to what’s happening in the present.” I feel betrayed by my white-washed written down school history. Now in this ‘radical anthropology’ lecture, we have a place to hear the legacy of genocides and the violence of evangelism in Brazil. Indigenous people don’t have magical solutions, she warns, but she is returning the history we have obfuscated or lost through the telling of it now in her words, loud and clear. www.radicalanthropologygroup.org/person/person/264

30 Sep

Posted at 17:20h in Sarah's Journal by

I catch some of the conversation without meaning to on the train. “Didn’t feel good today…yesterday was better…will you come and meet me?…I’m four stops away.” I’ve had this conversation frequently myself on this train line, especially in the long days when I returned from a Mum care visit. Emerging from the rush hour crowd I see them – the returner and the welcomer. I find myself captivated by the tenderness in their held hands, recognise the reassurance brought by the welcome. Walking in silence their togetherness speaks of love.

29 Sep

Posted at 20:14h in Culture Reviews by

In a hidden corner of South London is artist Stephen Wright’s extraordinary house. It is a cave of wonders, an eclectic collage of colours, textures, objects and images. Over many years he has crafted the house to tell the story of his own ethnobiography. Confronted by the death of his parents and then partner, the walls, ceiling and sculptures inside reflect the narrative of his grieving process. It is a moving temple of remembrance. As I revisit the ‘House of Dreams’ for the third time I am welcomed through its blue door – where conversations about art, beauty and death are celebrated. www.stephenwrightartist.com/houseofdreams.php

28 Sep

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

My wellbeing is balanced by putting myself first; and then taking care of others with any surplus energy. This practice is foundational, having experienced what happens when I don’t. Today it means describing my biomechanical symptoms and inner state of mind, sticking out my tongue, offering up my wrists. The acupuncturist’s reassuringly capable hands feel my pulse, tap in needles, heat me with burning mugwort on ginger and vibrate me with tuning forks. I absorb it all, feeling the shape of my need.

27 Sep

Posted at 18:33h in Sarah's Journal by

Herbal blends are neatly sealed in printed packets containing one-mug bags. The long-gone choice of peppermint, chamomile or rosehip has been replaced with branded states of mind like ‘Feel New’ and ‘Love’. Taking a snapshot from my memory of childhood and comparing it to now, I find gaping holes in my culinary and herbal know-how. We split and sprinkled the seeds from rose hips into unsuspecting boys’ collars as itching powder. I don’t know how to make tangy, vitamin-rich tea, so I check. Pluck hips after the first frost (for sweetness) from a rose bush uncontaminated by pesticide. Top and tail each hip. Steep 4-8 hips in boiling water for 10-15 minutes for high potency tea.

26 Sep

Posted at 20:31h in Sarah's Journal by

On opening the door, an unfamiliar dog bolts through my legs and dashes across the road into the park. I follow, adrenalin pumping. A high speed chase ensues through the park and out at the other end. “What’s the dog’s name?” I pant into my phone, the rush of traffic drowning out the reply. “What?” Dog crosses main road, down the pedestrian ‘Narroway’ and out into another road where cars stop their manoeuvres to let us pass. We are approaching another large busy road. I have run out of sprint. Then a young man appears on the opposite pavement on a scooter. He out-rides the dog-in-a-panic whose name sounds like ‘Daz’, catches him for me to grab. This is not a tale of a lost, injured or dead dog, but one about gratitude. After the briefest of thanks, the young man scooted off. Today, out walking a mile and a half in the other direction I meet my rescuer. We swap names, shake hands and I am able to thank him properly, my street angel. On the ground I find a very small saint.

25 Sep

Posted at 22:06h in Sarah's Journal by

A selection of apparently unrelated items nestle in the crematorium waiting room. They have each been chosen to give the illusion of comfort and safety in an environment that most will encounter during a period of very uncomfortable loss of emotional safety. The artifice of these flowers, the institutional furniture, intended to make me feel at home, highlights instead the way the business of dying has been hived off away from the clutter of home and family life.

24 Sep

Posted at 20:41h in Sarah's Journal by

Sunlight dapples through the lobed emerald green leaves. The oak inspires me to be strong, to stand tall. In these days of polarities and politics, I think of the oak, which marries the curvaceous with the linear. In this young oak is the potential for great ship hulls to be carved. For me the oak teaches us to sail safely through storms, to hold troubles lightly, to endure, to think in deep time lines.