Blog

28 Apr

Posted at 15:16h in Sarah's Journal by

There is no stated dress code for this funeral. It is being held for an octogenarian, so perhaps formal is best. But it was a life lived well and long, so perhaps a flourish of colour to acknowledge their well-played ‘innings’.

I settle for my mother’s home-made in the 1950’s black velvet coat, and a bright shawl. The coat has no buttons – I wonder to myself whether it is because button-holes were and still are a chore to make, even with my clever sewing machine. Instead I clutch it closed over my winter dress, which conceals thermal underwear, and step into the misty morning. Today I eschew pink fur hat, dog paraphernalia and hiking boots.

Our car has stayed put on our street over winter. On opening, I discover it is cultivating a spread of green mould. Despite the cold, we drive with open windows hoping to dry out the atmosphere. We skirt around the metropolis to what seems another world, way beyond the reaches of my lockdown-beaten-bounds.

I notice fresher air, fewer people, and struggle to use the car park payment system. I perch in the cold to eat my sandwich lunch, made at breakfast time in my familiar kitchen. I regret that the carefully prepared thermos, is still sitting on the kitchen worktop.

Outside the church, selected representatives from different strands of the well-loved deceased’s life negotiate greeting. Do we bump elbows or wave? Coming together for this rite of passage without the rituals of touch adds another layer of discomfort. My expressions of warmth and care are lost beneath my mask. I try a twitching eyebrow to make connection. My words feel lame. I wince overhearing another grapple with a genuinely offered “Sorry for your loss.”

We stumble through new rituals of sanitising hands, registering our contact details for ‘Track and Trace’. Alternate pews are blocked off with red tape. We sit in isolated pods, at least a pew away from backs hunched in sorrow. The choir of three sing hums at a distance while we stay mute. An inspiring eulogy and readings are given in the traditional British manner – words regimented over emotions that sometimes crack through.

But to my delight, in lavish and beautiful gestures, the British Sign Language interpreter brings real poetry with their embodied expression of the solemn words spoken. My tears roll in response to this direct communication of all that this event means, in this time.

Outside again, rain hammers down and draws our distanced conversations to a close. I miss my usual rain-proof jacket, return to the car with hair, coat and shawl soaked. The car steams. I sense the mould perk up, quietly continuing its life cycle.

31 Dec

Posted at 17:35h in Sarah's Journal by

“In order to find our way, we must become lost”
Yoruba saying via Bayo Akomolafe

A variant of the Corona virus rampages through the UK now. Whatever your perspective on the virus, restrictions as a consequence, and the UK’s changing boundaries with Europe, we are living with uncertainty. The spectre of climate change continues to slink past our political gatekeepers. Are we lost enough?

As the year turns, a pink camellia in our garden, which was blossoming un-seasonally early, has now been chewed by a hard frost. The Old River Lea rose alarmingly, the marshes sodden at the edges. The river is full of willow tears. Branches and twigs are scattered on the ground in the wake of Storm Bella. Much else is also out of right relationship in our world.

2020 has been a bumper year for grief. What might have been hidden away in other years as a minority interest for the bereaved, has through necessity come to the fore. Unexpected crisis, loss, isolation, disappointment, anxiety and depression have devastated many. I feel incredibly lucky to no longer be caring for parents and children. Huge respect is owed to those who are juggling care roles – personal and public.

Social injustice has also rightfully been made visible this year. I see the consequences of unequal power dynamics playing out. We have seen grassroots movements take to the streets and social media, but we still have a long way to go. The impact of collective trauma is only just beginning to be recognized. I am learning about the relationship between what pains me, and what we carry systemically. I have been navigating my way through a tsunami of wise words and courageous expressions. Sophy Banks, Bayo Akomolafe, and Thomas Hübl are among those who are illuminating the landscape of this ‘lostness’ for me.

This year I feel as though I have more to be grateful for than ever. I am extremely lucky to have hugs, organic broccoli, wi-fi, urban wild to walk in, time for creativity and squirrel friends. In appreciating the things I have, I try to also imagine life in other shoes, less comfortable than mine. I try to see political differences, polarizing arguments, and different viewpoints as a result of the different stories we hear, or tell ourselves. I welcome curiosity, more tolerance and celebrate kindness. I hope also to be kind to myself when I fail in these and other things.

I am trying to sit with not knowing, with the uncertainty of ‘lostness’. Alongside the relationships that have grown and deepened this year, I find myself leaning more into the transrational; the things that are beyond the rational, that can’t be easily explained in logical ways. I am finding my way through art, intuition, ritual, and faith in the unseen and unknown. May we recognise that we are lost, and find our way, both individually and together.

 

27 Nov

Posted at 20:51h in Sarah's Journal by

Living creatively is an invitation to walk through the world with eyes open to wonder. There is a quality of presence, of being in the moment, which ushers in a way of looking, unhindered by too much thinking. Whenever I travel to somewhere new, I put on this way of seeing like invisible glasses. But I also try to remain open to looking with my ‘travelling eyes’ in my every day places.

The serendipity of light, weather, season, and other chance encounters give endless variations to my daily walking route, and the kaleidoscope of natural patterns. To see like this is a commitment to curiosity. I urge myself to notice and follow the energy that is alive for me in everything. ‘Where is the juice in this subject, this conversation, or in the dance between us?’

I find a leaf, an insect, a feather, a puddle, examine the details with ‘mouse view’. Here sit droplets of water on a pigeon feather. Vast elements encapsulated in feather, grass, rain and light – air, earth, water and fire. Here lies beauty and simplicity.

25 Nov

Posted at 12:24h in Sarah's Journal by

I want to point to the disorientation that loss of memory can have on our mental landscape. Loss of memory can create mental fog and confusion. Things may not be quite as they seem. For me, it can be as if I have forgotten a vital key in a chain of events.

Loss of memory can be a normal part of the aging process. It may be a symptom of hormonal changes, or be as a result of a variety of health conditions. It can be affected by nutritional deficiencies. Sometimes, the body needs to prioritise other more essential functions. In my case it may be a legacy that remains post having had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.

I have a sense that the holes in my ability to remember are growing at an alarming rate. The spectre of dementia hangs just out of sight, but lurks. It’s disconcerting to find that something essential has been lost from my inner view. Giving myself the benefit of the doubt, I imagine my capacity to remember is like the ‘muddle drawer’ in the kitchen. It keeps on having things stuffed into it at random, until there’s no more room, and things are forced to slip down the back out of sight.

I have strategies. I keep lists, type notes, add even small things to the calendar, keep things in logical places and set timers. These adaptations work well for life admin tasks. More strategic intentions are often harder to stay on track with. It’s easy to find that something important has disappeared, submerged without trace. The undertow of persistent low-level stress may be making it more difficult to stay with previous levels of efficiency.

I stand wondering why I am in this room. I forgot the one thing I went to the shop for. I have no recall of the film we saw last night. Today I am glad that I found my keys, and I finally put that letter in the post. Now what was that urgent task I wanted to add to my to-do list? Things may fall out of my head, but I trust that if they are really important, they will return later.

22 Nov

Posted at 14:58h in Sarah's Journal by

During late spring and summer, the Murder of crows on Hackney Marshes has other business to attend to, and politely ignores me. But come the first hint of cooler air in autumn, they seek out my bright colours. We make each other’s re-acquaintance, and I bring offerings of seeds, peanuts and other treats. Whether with or without dog and companions, and whichever direction we approach from, one of them will call several times to alert the others. Like an out-take from ‘The Birds’ they swoop towards us. They are cordial but cautious. I am always gratified by their appearance.

This image, however, is ‘Mr’ crow. He and his family live closer to home. ‘Mrs’ crow is smaller, more timid, and ‘Junior’ is almost as big as Mr, but not quite as bold. Hopping away from me, Mr is disconcerted by my camera. He prefers to see me reach for a handful of seeds. Standing just a few feet away, I admire his shiny black feather tailcoat. He eyes me with an inquisitive look. Tooled up with an impressive black beak, he is always keen to see what food I might have.

As I approach the trees in their territory I look up, in anticipation of three large black winged creatures tacking across the sky, to land near me. If my companions and I are deep in conversation, a loud throaty call overhead, will announce their arrival. I notice that my ears have become attuned to crow voices over the beat of my footfall. Their cries punctuate woodland, street and garden, overseeing each landscape I move through.

20 Nov

Posted at 15:17h in Sarah's Journal by

Last night I dreamed of dressing up in preparation for a night out. I wanted to look glamorous. I dressed black, rootled around for a necklace in a box of broken pieces, and tried to apply melted lipstick. I woke instead to another morning without the prospect of cultural or social events. I put on warm stretchy layers to walk the dog in the rain.

“There is the mud, and there is the lotus that grows out of the mud. We need mud in order to make the lotus.” Thich Nhat Hanh.

Reflecting on this time, I feel as though we are collectively in the mud of complexity and uncertainty. I am lucky enough to have the liberty and resources to sit in the mud, while being aware that others are drowning in it.

In the wake of difficulty change might be described as ‘post-traumatic growth’. This term was coined by Richard Tedeschi and Lawrence Calhoun. This quote from Tedeschi comes from a recent article aimed at business people:
“We’ve learned that negative experiences can spur positive change, including a recognition of personal strength, the exploration of new possibilities, improved relationships, a greater appreciation for life, and spiritual growth.”

I long for this time to generate widespread positive changes, the ‘lotus flowers’. Similarly, my dream reminded me of being in chrysalis form, incubating my next evolution. At some point, if the conditions are favourable, perhaps we will shrug off our chrysalises, in an act of transformation, to unfurl resplendent new wings.

18 Nov

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

Samhain (an ancient Celtic feast of the dead to mark the end of harvest and beginning of winter on 31st October to 1stNovember) is celebrated in different traditions around the world, in different guises. Traditionally at this time of year, ‘the veil’ is a little thinner between the land of the living and those who have gone before.

This is my shrine with three generations of family on display. Gold plastic skull and plastic stag beetle are here to remind me of the cycle of death and new life. Dead bodies (in their natural state) compost back into the earth, nourish the soil and support new growth.

I am now on friendly terms with the forbears who adorn the walls of our home. I greet them in the morning, thank those who support and guide me. This has not always been the case. We have been coming to know each other gradually over the years. As a youngster, I was mystified by the dead Victorians who my father was so attached to. They were the grandparents whose lives he listened to.

Inheriting trinkets, letters and images of people I had never met, used to feel like a burden. It felt important to deal with this legacy with respect. I began to examine what I had, to fossick through papers kept and handed down. I started to piece together the facts, if not the stories of three, four, five times great grand parents through compulsive detective work on Ancestry. The more I get to know them, the more I feel able to draw on the strength of my lines, although it can mean questing back to ‘my last happy ancestor’.

14 Oct

Posted at 19:45h in Sarah's Journal by

I am looking below the modern landscape, to what lay here before. Inspired by the concept of ‘geosophy’, I am sensing for something beyond my current awareness. According to Wikipedia, ‘geosophy’ is J K Wright’s term for “the study of geographical knowledge from any or all points of view”. What are the qualities  of the land energies under this city’s current manifestation? Where are the spots that were significant in another time?

An easy to miss landmark, ‘The Old Well’ in Tottenham was dug into a formal street pump in 1791. Enclosed by railings, and topped with a conical tiled roof, its oval brickwork surrounds the wood and iron structure. It is an odd part of the street scene. The wheel is still visible, which once cranked the production of water through a spout. It sits at a busy junction of the A10, an ancient thoroughfare, known in Roman times as Ermine Street.

In medieval times there was a wayside cross, which is still marked by ‘Tottenham High Cross’. Holy Trinity church, a war memorial, and the town hall are part of the religious and civic landscape. The church sign-board’s invitation is to “join us for a feast of word and sacrament”.

The well is long unused. The only flow visible today is of traffic. A noisy grumble fires up at each change from amber to green. Idling engines create the delicate scent of fuel in the air. People talk in myriad languages, into phones as they walk past. The faces of dilapidated buildings wear grime and peeling paint. ‘Confidence Money Transfer’, ‘City Christian Stores’, ‘Meri Fashion’ proclaim their hopes.

I offer flowers at the well. This is my sacrament, and I offer my simple words of thanks. It feels like a gesture out of time, at a forgotten place. It is a small token to honour the water that gurgles beneath the city.

11 Oct

Posted at 10:22h in Sarah's Journal by

It’s late, and I’ve been crying. Tears have run down my face in waves, great sobs of joy and sadness have expelled salt water, snot, and howls. Now my face, which is swollen with features adrift, has red-ringed eyes. This is not a ‘perfect face’ selfie.

Do you know that feeling, when something just touches you, moves you with unexpected intensity? There are certain themes, which I know can evoke this response in me: equanimity in the face of injustice, false accusations of the innocent, triumph against the odds, the acceptance of animals to their fate, watching death come slowly, and coming together to make change happen.

‘My Octopus Teacher’, an extraordinary documentary about Craig Foster caught me unawares, and precipitated this flood. It’s a fascinating and brilliant exploration of the healing potential of the natural world and examines the boundaries with wild creatures.

Nina Simone’s songs can sometimes evoke this emotional reaction in me, but more often it’s a film, or story. If you’re in need of catharsis, I can also recommend ‘The March of the Penguins’ and ‘Toy Story 3’. But I don’t want to prescribe, maybe other things move you to tears.

06 Oct

Posted at 19:12h in Sarah's Journal by

Advertising plays on Mimetic Theory, (the impulse and consequences of envy), to tap into our desire for what someone else has. We are sold images and ideals of perfection that are unrealistic. Our role models: family members, media images, cultural leaders, TV heroes, teachers, and friends on social media in-still standards to aspire to, that we internalise.

“In the absence of adequate rites of passage, ad-men become the high priests of an initiation into the addictions of consumerism”, Marion Woodman warns in ‘The Pregnant Virgin: A Process of Psychological Transformation.’ Failing to measure up to these ideals causes shame and erodes our sense of self-worth.

Until I was 29, I sucked up magazine images, fed my fantasy life, was a ghost in the world. I developed a longing to become as wise as the Dalai Lama, while mining my creative potential like Frida Kahlo. In fact, I have had to lower my standards and to be content with being my ordinary self.

Letting go of my grandiose expectations of myself is painful, over and over again. I make mistakes, get things wrong, and despite my longing to be perfect, I never am. Like the Japanese art of ‘Kintsugi’, I am learning to celebrate my cracks, to make their scars visible, rather than hidden. My experience comes from this process of break and repair.

Embracing incompetency in creative work makes it more relatable. “The good thing about incompetency is it makes other people feel less shame”, says Tony Gammidge. Tony encourages my journey of making images that includes mistakes and the serendipity of accident. I notice that welcoming the probability of getting things wrong makes space for collaboration, and opens up possibilities. Increasingly surrounded by slick digital images, I yearn for the rustic simplicity of hand-made objects, with all their imperfections, made by real people, full of flaws.