Sarah’s Journal

03 Mar

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

At the (not mentioned in our Lonely Planet) temple, we find heaven and hell. Ten kilometres or so outside the city of Da Lat is a fabulous Buddhist temple complex. It takes the ancient traditional art form of mosaic making, and uses it artfully to decorate the concrete structure. (Breton is the Vietnamese word for concrete, borrowed from French. It is used liberally in every context from city to farm, as the nation expands and grows upwards.) The curved surfaces of broken china – often with delicate roses or tableware – are tessellated into patterns to form brightly coloured three-dimensional dragons, demons, clouds and birds. It is a wonderful visual feast. Buddhas are halloed by neon mandorlas. There are giant bells to ring and plastic welcome mats. In typical Vietnamese fashion, there are street food sellers, shops selling elaborate Tolkein-esque furniture, huge marble statues, communist party posters and corners for mops and detritus. Under the giant Buddha covered in dried flowers there is a gift shop selling marble knick-knacks where an unexpected opening leads to a visual representation of the ‘hell realms’. I am not a Buddhist scholar, so my understanding is limited, but these realms represent metaphorical states of mind created by ordinary human suffering. In turn, the causes of suffering are generally covered by hatred, greed or ignorance/delusion. In this context I get the impression this is a more literal hellish representation of the torture that follows vices of the flesh. Theology aside, the display is a ghoulish romp through the underworld. Demons torture souls, skeletons eyes bulge with red lights. It is a spooky feast of horrific delights that is designed to make even the virtuous squeal.

02 Mar

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

Forty five minutes outside Hué, (the old capital city of Vietnam), lies another city. ‘The City of Ghosts’ is not inhabited by the living, but the dead. It is an eerie and extraordinary place. We have already passed war cemeteries with uniform graves, cemeteries full of tombs decorated with cement curlicues, rice paddies with a small family tomb in the centre, and large gated roadside family tombs. This, however, is in another league. The City of Ghosts boasts family mausoleums in a bigger league. The grandeur, ambition of construction and decoration super cedes most houses. These multi-coloured mosaic tombs are now rumoured to be costing up to $300,000. Set on a beach, built with concrete on sand, the layout of plots is un-gridded. Unlike the meticulous division of paddy fields and farmed plots, the edge of each mausoleum randomly butts up against the next, without formal pathways. I am told that refugees exiled as ‘boat people’ in the 1970’s, no longer able to return, send money from western incomes to older family members who save for these grand memorials. The designs represent the faith, décor and architectural styles of their patrons. There are Buddhas, Confucian symbols and crosses. Some are themed in blue and white – willow pattern style. A Virgin Mary is nestled in an alcove. There is a Vatican shaped cupola. Dragons and bears guard doorways. While family gatherings to remember ancestors are an essential part of life in Vietnam, there are few signs of life as we scramble around endless memorials in the rain. It is definitely one of the most incredible places I have ever been, and it made me feel strangely uncomfortable and empty.

08 Jan

Posted at 17:59h in Sarah's Journal by

Oxford old and new co-exist like parallel worlds. I feel how Lord Asriel and Lyra took shape in this city, where the ‘Schola Metaphisicae’ is only a short walk from the Modern Art Museum. It is a place where ideas are currency. Wren and I take a conversational journey of ideas from death to art and back again via welding. We enjoy animals and patterns in the tapestries of Kiki Smith. “How imperative it is at the moment to celebrate and honour the wondrous and precarious nature of being here on earth,” says Smith. Wren and I speak of the need to follow subtle impulses in order to manifest creative ideas in our unique ways. We met through a shared enquiry of metaphysics. (A philosophy which examines the nature of reality and the relationship between mind and matter.) Today Wren shares an invocation from the 7th Dalai Lama, which inspires me. “Help me to make myself into a jewel, able to satisfy all the needs of the world, able to manifest as best suits each and every occasion.” Later I head off to look at repositories of fossilized ideas and values. These lurk under the scent of formaldehyde, dust and mothballs at the Natural History Museum. With another friend, I see ‘Performing Tibetan Identities: Photographic Portraits’ by Nyema Droma at the Pitt Rivers Museum. The young modern Tibetans portrayed find identities constructed through work, sexuality, what they choose to do, alongside more traditional cultural identities. Finally, a conversation in the Eagle and Child introduces the study of architectural decay and the world of academia. As I return to London, my head is full of ideas.
www.modernartoxford.org.uk/event/kiki-smith-i-wanderer/
//vimeo.com/302077088

05 Jan

Posted at 21:48h in Sarah's Journal by

We stand in a South London garden, on this cold bright day. Back to back gardens are sandwiched between two terraces of houses. We burn sage and drink mulled cider and apple juice. We stand a little awkward at first, despite the warmth from the cider, but willing. Bunched together between raspberry bush, which is pinned to wall on the east, and the thin afternoon sunset, which leans over the wall on the west, we make shadows. To wassail means ‘to wish you health’. Wassailing is usually carried out on the new or old twelfth night (5th or 17th January). There are different traditions, sprung from Anglo Saxon ones. They involve cider and singing, with an exchange of blessings, walking either from orchard to orchard, or house to house. Today we have been invited to reclaim this old custom that connects us with the seasons. We offer our ‘wassail’ to the apple tree in this garden as a simple acknowledgement, in return for its benevolence later in the year. This is done by pouring a libation (drink poured as an offering) of cider, mulled with apples and spices at the base of the tree. Then we doff our hats and sing. We sing to the cherry and rowan trees too. It’s a short, rousing refrain and it feels good. The youngest member of the group is particularly delighted. We sing once more for good measure.

Oh little apple tree
We have come to wassail thee
Will you bear some fruit for me
When the season changes.

 

30 Dec

Posted at 09:19h in Sarah's Journal by

“Have you been good?” she asked, as I silently observed on the train. A small child is nodding in return. “Are you sure? Father Christmas only comes to children who have been good.” This young girl is being asked to pass an invisible test with an absent judge of unqualified criteria. My childhood was littered with these impossible benchmarks. I tried to be good. I wanted to be good. At home, at school, in fairy tales, at church I was surrounded by Christian morality. I absorbed the quest for goodness. As I grew older, the promise of being ‘a good girl’ seemed less achievable. I wanted to be a good girl in order to be loved. However, being a good girl did not always bring me my desired outcomes. I flirted with being a bad girl, but ultimately found the weight of shame and guilt too difficult to sit with. I chose ‘goodness’ as an independent act of rebellion from a society that espouses goodness, but rewards compliance. I remain as an adult mired in the socialisation of trying to be good. Instead I often find myself trapped by feeling not good enough. My naïve attempt to be a good girl in order to have my needs met, has left me disempowered. My inner child set the bar at perfection. By her standards, I have failed. Please Santa, parents, grand-parents and teachers, can we foster a different ideal? I love you unconditionally and I will show that I love you by my actions and words, because of who you are.

26 Dec

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

In my early twenties I experimented with the ‘perfect’ Christmas. This involved a huge production number of card making, finding small but thoughtful presents and expensive decorations. It came to an abrupt end after a row with my mother. I stormed off (to my regret), taking refuge with my boyfriend’s parents. After we split up, I went on Buddhist retreats, neatly avoiding the festive season. I have currently arrived at a formula that seems to avoid seasonal stress. No presents, no shopping, no particular effort. Cards may be sent, but not to any deadline. There will be some delicious food, but there are no fixed rules about what or when. I would like to be a little more generous and a little less humbug, but I am wary of other people’s expectations. I love marking this time of year with simple rituals and spiced treats to eat. I don’t want to buy into a consumer binge. I enjoy having a relaxed quiet time, watching ‘The Crown’ with people I love. Today we have been quietly working separately and then sharing an annual review of 2019 and a visioning of what we want to focus on in 2020. Remaining ‘connected’ is my star, my guiding word for the year ahead.
www.yearcompass.com

 

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.