Lights....Camera...ACTION!

Well.

This will be interesting.

It was meant to be a post showing off my new Action Dress™ and ends up being a post that explains why I have been out of action for the last six days.

It wasn't supposed to be *that* kind of action. Sigh....

OK, the first question I kept getting is What in the world is an Action Dress™?

Well, I am glad you asked. Let's just begin with the history of me, shall we?

I have always preferred dresses. I like the freedom of movement they give you. They are cooler in sweltering summers and look great with tights and boots in the depths of winter.

As a child I liked wearing them but only if I wore shorts underneath so boys couldn't see my panties as I flipped on the monkey bars.

Even then I was an aspiring Action Grrrl.

When Spiderman and I spent three months as exchange students in 1990 on the LC/MC programme, I packed three long skirts (a black, a tan and a blue floral) lots of heavy sweaters and coordinating long john bottoms to wear under my dresses for warmth(oatmeal, red and bright blue).  I wore my skirts with either ankle boots or Converse high tops.

It may have not been fashionable, but it was comfortable.

These days as Quaker embracing the Testimony of Simplicity and rejecting sweatshop made clothes that make me spend too long obsessing on my appearance, I opt for a comfortable solid coloured dress with a practical apron in a lovely patterned fabric on top. The apron helps keep my clothes clean and has 2 massive pockets to keep all my bits and bobs (hankies, lip balm, prayer beads, asthma inhaler etc. the important stuff.) Plus I sewed them all myself.

I like these clothes. They suit me. I wear them with trainers (tennis shoes for my American peeps) and I get along just fine. I can wear these dresses anywhere.

Indeed I have. I have worn them to weddings, to funerals, to the theatre, on hikes up a mountain.

Normally, hiking doesn't matter. I just hoick it up slightly  if I need to go uphill. But last month we did a hike to a spectacularly waterfall and i had a little trouble crossing the river walking like an awkward crab over the wet uneven stones. I had a vision of me falling and tearing my thin fabric dress and it got me thinking.

What I needed was an Action Dress™. A dress made of heavy duty fabric. A dress that didn't matter if it got muddy.  A dress for action.

But why not just buy a pair of jeans like a normal person? my mother asked.

Clearly she doesn't know me at all.

Have you not paid attention for the last 48 years????

I hate jeans. All my life I tried to like jeans because jeans were cool and I just hated them. Every pair of jeans I have ever owned felt like they are slicing me in two and giving my vagina a wedgie. (Just try to get *that* image out of your head..mwa ha ha!) These days, since the Horrible Hysterectomy jeans (or any trousers with a zip in front) make my scar hurt like Voldemort is near.

That's why.

I decided I wanted to make an Action Dress™ out of some heavy retro curtain fabric my friend Susie gave me when she cleaned out her loft before she moved away. I wanted to make it like dungarees (overalls to my American peeps) at the top with side slits so no hoicking would be needed for uphill. I could wear action leggings underneath like I wear for exercise to provide a little modesty.

But mainly I wanted to look like someone out of Bananarama.

I am an 80's girl at heart.

So I made a spectacular dress for running, jumping, climbing mountains.

Then I met a lovely vegan named Nicky who offered to take some action shots of me in the dress.

Here is where the INCIDENT happened.

BI (Before Incident) Nicky and I had a delicious meal at The Warren and then toddled over to the park. We were having a good time. I was laughing and messing about on the exercise equipment.

I am pretending to be chased by a T-Rex here.

I am pretending to be Atlas holding up the world here.

Here I am a weathered old salt of a sea captain driving his boat. I love how my hair is spiked up by the wind to look like I am a parrot. It fits with the who sea captain/pirate motif.

I notice I am pulling faces in every picture. I am sure i didn't communicate any of this inner monologue about who my character was with Nicky. She must have wondered what in the world I was doing.

Then Nicky suggested  something.
"
Her: Why don't we go to the stone circle and have you jump off?
(her inner monologue:  that will make a great action shot.)
Me: Yeah! Let's do it! That will be awesome.
(my inner monologue: Yeah! That sounds fun. I'll make sure to leap really high and wave and pump my arms as i jump off this here shoulder-high rock that is wet from when it rained earlier and land on this grassy slope. What could possibly go wrong?)
(what SHOULD have been my inner monologue: Oh hell no. What are you thinking? You have a bad back? What if you fall? What if you land funny? Do NOT do this!!!)

First, let me say I have done many stupid things in my life. Too many to count. But this--of all the dumbass things I have ever done--ranks in the top ten. Possibly top five.

OK, who am I kidding? Top two.

I gleefully, like a small child, ran up the steps and did an epic leap complete with what was meant to be air guitar and then crashed HARD on the wet  grass right on my coccyx. The impact was so astonishingly painful that I could do nothing but pant and cry.

And swear. I said the F word about a dozen times. I am not proud of this. But it really hurt like f*ck.

The impact would have definitely been enough to shatter my coccyx and snap it completely off of my sacrum (see illustration above) had I not already had the pleasure of doing that in 1998 running down our highly polished wooden floors in my sock feet to quickly grab a drink between the commercial break of Law and Order.

So I suppose, lucky for me, it was already broken. Because for the last twenty years i have had chronic back pain and trouble sitting. I KNEW better than to leap off of some high object because LEAPING always results in LANDING and usually that mean landing BADLY.

But, in the excitement of the moment I felt like a kid again and I was having fun and I forgot for a few crucial moments that I have a weak, middle aged body with a broken coccyx.

AI (After Incident) a horrified Nicky (who I think in her wildest dreams never imagined things could go quite so pear shaped) helped me walk home while I sobbed and dry heaved and tried to reassure her I would be fine.

I got upstairs (oh yes...we live in a first floor flat which has 1.5 flights of stairs) and took some codeine and put some ice on my back and cried my little heart out over my stupidity.

My friend Laura (also in the broken coccyx club) bought me some topical pain relief creams like Ibuprofen Gel and left them downstairs for Spiderman to bring up when he got home from work.

It has taken me three days to type this as it involves sitting and my back currently doesn't like sitting.

But someday again it will. I will always have chronic pain. You can't have a broken coccyx without it. But it will get better. I have good days and bad days. This has been a couple of bad days, but after a few months they will be good days again.

But in the future I will resign my actions in my Action Dress™ to running, jumping climbing mountains.

Or maybe just walking. Or standing still. Sigh....

Memento Mori

It has been a time for grieving. Last night we rescued a pigeon and tried to save its life, but it didn't make it and today we buried a dear friend. Both have caused me sadness.

It's been a difficult couple of days.


Our friend John was  ninety-one. That is an exceptionally good age. Someone remarked that he died of old age, which is practically unheard of these days. Everyone dies of disease. He and his partner Elizabeth were a delightful pair. Even in their advanced aged, both were (still are in Elizabeth's case) sharp as a tack. We shared many laughs over dinner and had many philosophical discussions. We were all pleased to discover a shared love of Archy and Mehitabel  by Don Marquis about a literate cockroach and his alley cat friend. John had what we would call a "cut glass accent." When you think of posh English voices who say things like "Dear boy" and "old chap" and "rah-ther" that was John. Despite being wealthy and posh, he was very down to earth with a silly sense of humour. We discovered at the funeral his middle name was Clive which tickled us all. He sure kept that quiet. But Clive is such a quintessentially British sounding name, it suited him.

  He will be missed.

This was my first British funeral. I had been to Quaker memorial services, but that is different. It is essentially Meeting for Worship with testimonies about the deceased's life. A time where friends could share memories of the deceased.

This was a Church of England funeral. It was held in Saint Martin's Church in Merthyr about 15 minutes from town. This was John's church, but being a small rural church it had a vicar who rotated between other small parish churches and so only met once a month. The other Sundays he went to St Peter's Church in town where so many of our friends attend.

The church was small and damp (the plaster on the walls bubbling slightly and rubbed off on the sleeve of our friend Gareth's jacket) but the service was warm. We sang some of John's favourite hymns--All Things Bright and Beautiful (which always reminds me of the Monty Python version All Things Dull and Ugly) and How Great Thou Art. The last hymn made me tear up quite a bit as it was the "party piece" my dear old dad and I used to harmonise on all those years ago. After the service, we retired next door for tea and sandwiches (I brought my own snacks.)

Now, this may sound like many a funeral you have attended if you are American, but here is where the funeral diverged from my own experience.

First off, very few people are cremated in Louisiana. When my dad was in 2000 (how can it be that long ago??) it was a rarity. Certain family members took it really badly. I remember seeing my father's body in a winding sheet in a cardboard coffin at the funeral home. That is the law in the US. If you are to be cremated, this is how they send you off. He was sent far away, to a destination unknown to us (but my hazy memory is Shreveport) and returned to us a few days later. We had a funeral with his ashes in an urn next to a photo of him in happier, healthier times. The next day the family buried the urn, though we kept some ashes for ourselves. My mother and I each kept some in a nice container and we saved some in a ziplock to throw off the side of his favourite mountain in North Carolina.

This is where the funeral became really interesting. After the funeral, we drove to the crematorium in Narberth. I will repeat that. We went to the crematorium. It was slightly like an assembly line with mourners coming out the right side as we were going in on the left. We walked in and the coffin was elevated behind what looked like a communion rail. The vicar said a few words and then as Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring was played a velvet curtain slowly, mechanically moved in front of the coffin to block it from view. Then I am told that the coffin rolled away on a conveyor belt to be burned. In the US, if you want a body for your funeral service, funeral homes will rent you a coffin with a cardboard interior that could be removed for cremation after. We had my dad cremated first and the urn displayed. In the UK the body is cremated with the coffin which is why by law all British coffins must be combustible. According to Wikipedia: The Code of Cremation Practice forbids the opening of the coffin once it has arrived at the crematorium, and rules stipulate that it must be cremated within 72 hours of the funeral service. They also told Elizabeth no jewellery or shoes as they wouldn't burn cleanly. 

Our friend Soong said that he once went to funeral that had a "spy hole" where you could look at the coffin as it burned. I feel slightly weird but morbidly curious about that. 

I wasn't sure how i would feel being so up close and personal with the cremation. Louisiana made it seem secretive and far away and mysterious. This was just another way to say goodbye. An honest way with nothing to hide. I was worried I would feel upset, but i didn't. 

When the coffin disappeared we were led outside to a walkway with a low table that ran the length of  the walkway. On it were the spray of flowers that had only moments before been on the top of the coffin along with a laminated paper saying John Clive. There were four other sets of flowers and names marking five people who were loved and lost that day. Then you were the ones coming out the right hand door while someone new filed in the left hand side. 

It was a lovely day and I enjoyed hearing about John and things he had done in his life before we met him four years ago. I was glad to have been there in the little church with friends to celebrate his life. I know soon when Elizabeth is up to it we will all meet at Soong's restaurant Sai Wu and eat and laugh and remember our friend John Clive.

We will be thankful for his life and for our own. A funeral reminds that we too will one day die, but also reminds us greatly of what we have.

Grief is the price we pay for love

Yesterday was eighteen years since my dad died. How is that even possible?

For years I suffered terrible from an anniversary grief that would punch me in the solar plexus and squeeze me until I couldn’t breathe and leave me gasping and crying. Then I went through years of anniversary grief where I would just shut down and hibernate until the day had passed. But now, sometimes the day approaches and I don’t even know it is coming until I look at my diary or check the calendar to write down an appointment. Is this good? Is this bad? Am I healing or am I forgetting?

When you lose someone that you love

Are they really lost?

You know where they are:

In an urn

In the earth

In your heart

Can you go on?

Or do you shut down?

Sometimes one and other times the other

Sometimes I miss him so much and the grief is so palpable that

I can’t breathe

I can’t think

I can’t move

I can only cry

But sometimes, whole days pass by

Without a tear or a maudlin thought

When suddenly I realise

I feel

Strange

Confused

Lost

Am I losing him?

Have I forgotten?

And then I look at myself in the mirror

And see his face

Our impossibly low foreheads and strange eyes

One near-sighted

One far-sighted

Both dimmed through too much reading

I think of my brain

That remembers and recalls

Details all

Every fact able to be quoted when needed

I look at my heart

And know I am brave

Brave like he was brave

I stand up

And am counted

I stand up

For what matters

For WHO matters

I got that from him

And so

I know

I am not alone

He is not gone

Or forgotten

He

Is with me

Always

I love you GLT

The Sad Story With The Happy Ending

Once upon a time, in a land far away there lived a man and a woman. They lived in a funny house that was pink on the outside and much bigger than it appeared on the inside. They called it the TARDIS house.

They lived in that big house, just the two of them for many years. The lady, who was a teacher, spent all day with small children. They were not able to have children of their own so she spent her days being mother to the munchkins in her class. Her life was good. Sometimes she was sad, but all she had to do was look into the face of her 30 bright-eyed first graders and she was happy again.

One day, a little girl came into their lives. She was one of the lady’s favourite students and she needed a home. She lived with the man and the woman for a year and it was a good year. The lady was a mother. The little girl had parents who loved her. They were hoping to adopt the little girl and give her the forever home she deserved.

But it was not to be.

For reasons too complicated to explain, the adoption could not go through and the little girl had to be sent back to live with her family.

The lady was devastated. The man was sad. The little girl was heartbroken.

The lady lost touch with the little girl and never knew what had happened to her. Was she happy? Were they treating her well? Was she loved? Did she remember the man and woman who had loved her so much?

The woman was so sad inside that she tucked away her sadness and rarely spoke about her daughter. It hurt too much to remember.  It was too complicated to explain how it all fell apart, but she thought of her daughter every day. She prayed that she was OK and that she would remember the lady with love.

Years went by and the man and woman decided to leave their past behind and move far, far away. The sailed the ocean to their new home and made a life for themselves on distant shores.

But still, sometimes, the woman was woken up at night with thoughts of her little girl. “Does she hate me because we had to give her back?” she wondered. “Does she know that it was not our choice?”

              

Recently, the little girl (who was all grown up) found the lady and they are a family again. They never forgot each other. They never stopped loving each other.

Through the miracle of modern technology, they “skype” and talk to each other and try to make sense of the past and catch up on the missing years.

The woman cries when she thinks of all the birthdays and milestones she missed. She cries when she hears the life that her daughter had-- which is not the life that she (or any child) deserves. She cries when she thinks of the life they could have given her. She laughs when she sees her grandbabies.

                                 

Yes…the woman went from childless to mother and grandmother all in one go.

It is overwhelming, but wonderful.

It does not matter what is the colour of their skin, but what is in their heart.

It does not matter if they are blood kin or not. Family is who loves you and supports you unconditionally.

They are a family.

I love you my baby girl, Monjae.

Welcome home. 

The lighthouse still stands, but the beacon has dimmed

My friends, it is with great sadness that I report the death of Dr Sarah Frances Anders.
                           

                                     
Those of you who went to LC, and those of my friends who are Baptist will know what contributions she made to this world.

She was an amazing mentor to me. It happened almost by accident. As part of LC's liberal arts education, we were required to take Introduction to Something. I had already taken Introduction to Psychology, but I saw that Introduction to Sociology was being offered and it sounded interesting, so I thought I would give it a go. This is how I approached my education. I knew as a theatre major I couldn't handle more than 12-15 hours a semester due to all those late night rehearsals, so I resigned myself to taking 5 years to get my degree. This meant I had plenty of room for "interesting" classes.

I was blown away by Intro to Sociology because of Dr Anders. You know when people say in a sort of joking way, "they wrote the book about that"?

Well she did. She was one of the authors of the text book. She literally wrote the book.

She was such a dynamic teacher, I developed a huge girly crush on her and could not *wait* for her next lecture. She had a funny, dry sense of humour that really resonated with me and I was often laughing like a hyena while others blankly stared as they didn't see the joke. She was so knowledgeable and interesting. I remember practically leaping out of my seat several times during the lesson to ask a question that was burning in me.

She would smile and say, "I would love to discuss that more in depth with you later. Why don't you come by my office and we can discuss it after class?"

So I did. I spent many happy hours in her office discussing points that had interested me in more depth and eating her Werther's Originals.
                                                
After that semester, when the booklets with the projected classes came out, I quickly scanned the Sociology section to see what was on offer and decided on Religion and Society. Didn't that sound fascinating? So I signed up for it. Being slightly naive and not understanding that not everyone subscribed to the "that sounds interesting" theory of choosing their classes, i was shocked to discover this was meant to be a class for social work majors. I had a similar shock when I was the only non education major in child psychology.

Well, I *thoroughly* enjoyed that class which led to many more long after hours discussions in her office. You had to go to a religious service completely the opposite of the one you were used to and so i went to a evangelical Christian service with praise music and passing around huge buckets for money. It went on for so long I felt faint and we had to leave whereupon the minister loudly pointed us out and said something about being filled with Satan or some such because we were turning our backs on Jesus. It really skeeved me out. But in exchange, several members of the class came to the Unitarian Church with me, and the experience skeeved them out. I also did a really interesting paper on cults for that class.

One of the things I liked about her was that she ran a tight ship. She would call you on the carpet for doing less than your best, but she also extended grace. On a test day or a day you were due to give a presentation, if you didn't turn up she sent someone to phone you. This happened to me the day of  my presentation on cults. I overslept and was woken by the phone and was in such a state that I ran to the class and gave the presentation in my pyjamas.

At the end of the semester during one of our many "office talks" I asked what else she was teaching. She wisely said, "You already have six hours in sociology. All you need is fifteen hours to get a minor."  I replied, "But I already am getting a minor in English!" and she said, "Who says you can't have two?"

And so that is how I ended up with a minor in sociology.
                                                     
The more I got to know her, the more remarkable she seemed. Her book Woman Alone: Confident and Creative was a testament to the remarkable life she led. She chose the single life in a time where women were pretty much just destined for marriage and children. She chose the creative life and got a doctorate, wrote books, was a chaplain, taught university, ministered and promoted women's rights in the Southern Baptist Convention (not at easy thing to do!)

When we were at LC, Spiderman found a copy of her book in the basement of Richard W Norton Library. It was just sitting in a box, and so we asked if we could have it.

It turned out to have actually been *her* copy. We got it autographed and we still have it.

Sarah Frances Anders was a beacon to me. She made me hunger and thirst for knowledge and she fed me with ideas and Werther's Originals. I will miss her greatly.
                                     

The Perils of Being Me

If you have seen my Facebook page, you have seen that I spent a lovely day making kiln fired glass with some friends.

I am a creative person. I love to make things. I sew, I do paper crafts. I re-purpose rubbish and turn it into art. I love to make. I love how it feels to create things with my hands. It brings me great joy...unless something goes wrong.

Then I am *very* self critical.

This has gotten better over the years, with the help of Spiderman and the reminder that I would never talk this way to anyone else.

But I can be VERY mean.

It is just one of the perils of being me.

As I child I made many things. Some good, some not so good. But I loved the process of making and I wasn't as concerned about the product. There was this paint-your-own-pottery shop called The Sunshine Shop that I visited nearly every weekend. I painted boatloads of stuff. Often messily, but with great joie de vivre. Everything I made had a story behind it. Two sloppily painted ballet slippers-one pink, one gold? A tale of a ballerina who lost a shoe before a crucial audition and a good fairy came and gave her a gold slipper to replace the lost one as the ballerina had been so kindhearted. The good fairy had disguised herself as a homeless bag lady and the little ballerina had shared her last piece of bread with her. Then the fairy knew the little ballerina deserved to make that audition.

So where did things start to go wrong for me? What caused this evil self critical monster to grow to such an enormous size?

How did I develop this perfectionist streak? When did I become so cautious of trying something where I might be a failure? I seem to only be a perfectionist when it comes to something I *should* be good at.

Like art.

I think what happened was this:
Other people I cared about began to make critical remarks. My Mum was exasperated at my careless painting. Probably she was tired of forking over money for me to half-ass paint stuff, but I started to hear that voice in my head. You should stop painting if you can't do it properly. 

This is one of the perils of being me.

Many years later at summer camp in North Carolina I made my Mum a copper engraving because she LOVED copper. I remember it was really awkward to etch the acid on the copper to do the engraving. You had to do it on the back and in reverse of the design that you intended on the front. My dyscalculia kicked in and it went wrong. The camp counsellor in charge of arts and crafts let me have one more go, but only if I wouldn't "waste it" like I did the other one because materials weren't cheap. I should have listened to the voice, but I tried again. It wasn't brilliant, but I made it for her with great love. She was really critical of it. I think she had no idea how hard it was to do and I how my hands shook like I had Parkinson's disease as I made it for fear of doing it wrong. She made comments the whole rest of the vacation about how Michelle had made a much nicer one for her mother with a better picture and Michelle was younger than me. Why couldn't I have made a lovely waterfall scene with a deer like that? I am not sure at this point, how much of this criticism was from my mother and how much was in my head. I know she did say those things abut Michelle's being nicer. I know the voice in my head called me an idiot for choosing something that had to be done backwards. A waterfall scene would look the same in reverse, dumbass. I never worked in copper again.

This is one of the perils of being me.

When we were exchange students in London, something occurred which we call the "Brass Rubbing Incident of 1990." At Westminster Abbey, you could do a brass rubbing. Basically you have a textured metal plate based on something in the church/crypt and you use an oil pastel to rub a design
onto black paper. You with me so far? I had been *dying* to do one. I had even selected my design. Margaret Peyton, the lace lady.

NOT my brass rubbing, this is someone who did theirs better than me and is selling it on ETSY

I chose the design because I knew from having a Fashion Plates toy as a girl (which was basically the Barbie version of brass rubbing), that textured designs came out the best.

 I chose carefully so that I would be successful. And then something happened.

There are two versions to this:
My view is that it did NOT go well. The textured lace came out perfect but the smoothness of her face gave me trouble and it was streaky. I was so upset that was going to tear it up then and there, but it seemed inappropriate to go quite mad in Westminster Abbey and tear it to shreds. So I just sat there are cried. Fat tears plip-plopped down my face and I felt so ASHAMED that I had failed at this artistic endeavour. I am sad to say that SHAME was really the emotion I was feeling. It really was a misplaced feeling in this instance, but I couldn't see that back then.

Spiderman's version:
"It was all going well and was seemingly normal and then for no reason I could understand you started crying and wouldn't tell me why. You just kept saying you felt sick and ashamed. I had no earthly idea what had gone wrong." (Editor's note: he married me anyway in spite of this many other similar incidents. At least he knew what he was getting into)

Years later he found it in a poster tube (I was sure I had destroyed it) and hung it up as a surprise. Let me tell ya, it was a surprise all right, but not the one he was expecting.

This is one of the perils of being me.

There was a time in my life when I would spend all day in the summer holidays making artwork for my classroom when I was teacher. Seriously, I would go to LC with Spiderman when he worked there and I would bring all my art materials to Government Documents in the basement. I would make and make and make things for classroom.

I would work nonstop for eight hours and then if I perceived the tiniest flaw in the finished product, I would have to destroy the work and begin again. Spiderman would say that it was fine. More than fine. Really good. He would tell me to sleep on it before doing anything rash like destroying it. But I just couldn't. The flaw, however minor, leapt out at me and shouted that it was
Garbage
 Shit
 A Failure
That meant that I was Garbage/Shit/A Failure and it must be destroyed. This sort of perfectionism led to the nervous breakdown I had after my dad died where I had to quit teaching.

This is one of the perils of being me.

With hard work, I have (mostly) overcome this inner voice. But in new situations like Sunday where I was working on the kiln fired glass, I could hear it whisper.

These days all it does is whisper and I tell it where to go and (mostly) bugs off. Mostly.

I think the problem was:
1. the materials were not mine. I don't mind experimenting with my own things, but I did not want to waste someone else's materials.
2. the materials were expensive. I sure as hell didn't want to waste someone else's expensive materials.
3. I was unfamiliar with the art form. This can be a trigger for me because there is a chance it can fail.
4. I felt paralysed by the fear of the product not coming out well. I have worked hard to be free in my own artwork to try different techniques and be more about the "process than the product," but I did not feel I could just cut up lots of someone else's expensive glass and then decide not to use it.

How did I overcome this:
By not taking too much of a risk. I wanted to try new techniques and make it more abstract, but the fear of hating the end product and then associating that feeling of hate with the day would mean I would have it ruined twice for myself. I would remember the experience as bad and I would have been very self critical about the product and wanted to smash it. I am too old and too tired to have to put up with bad memories of my own making.

So I made something simple. Something a bit plain. Something I knew I would be happy with and had a reasonable chance of it coming out well. I wanted a colour background, but the powder to colour it was expensive and you had to set it with asthma inducing aerosol hairspray. I had to leave the room every time someone sprayed their glass, so in the end I decided to Keep It Simple and just leave it clear and let the simple design speak for itself. I think I succeeded.



I only had a few moments of angst where I felt everything going wrong. At those moments I popped into the loo and gave myself a good talking to whilst taking some deep breaths.

I genuinely had a good day.

It was fun.

It was with friends.

I learned something new.

I created something beautiful.

But when I came home, Spiderman and I talked about the perils of being me.

At least it is better than it used to be. At least I am better than I used to be.

I wish it wasn't so bloody hard to be me. But it is.

That is the peril of being me.

This Little Light of Mine

When Spiderman and I decided to immigrate to the UK, we did it for a variety of reasons.

To have an adventure.

To follow our dreams.

To be our authentic selves.

To escape George W Bush.

We don't talk about the last one very often, but it was the last straw that finally pushed us into action after years of dreaming.

We thought it couldn't get worse than George W Bush.

How wrong we were.

I am stunned.

Like a sharp blow to my solar plexus.

I am winded. 

This little light of mine, that normally shines so brightly, was fading yesterday. 

It felt like the pilot light of my soul was going out. 

We have not thought of ourselves as American in years. We became British citizens many years ago because we love this country and it is our home. But as soon as we open our mouths, people know we're not from around here. We are thinking of calling ourselves Canadian for the next four years. 

So why, if I am no longer an American, has this upset me so much?

Because like it or not, the USA is a superpower and what they do and how they behave affects the rest of the world. 

I am not just scared for America, I am scared for the world. 

I am stunned that a man who says things like "laziness is a trait in blacks. It's not something they can control," and calls Mexicans "rapists and drug dealers"was elected. 

I am worried that a man who says that he would strongly consider getting the supreme court to over turn the ruling that makes it illegal for states to ban same-sex marriages was elected.

I am gobsmacked that a man who was seen to mock a disabled journalist was elected. 

I am disgusted that a man who refers to women as "dogs" or "a beautiful piece of ass" and openly brags about sexual harassment and assault saying "you can grab them by the p*ssy" was elected president.

I am shocked that a man who calls climate change a "Chinese hoax" and wants to repeal all federal spending on clean energy was elected.

I am terrified that a man who cannot wait to get his hands on the codes to launch a nuclear strike was elected.

After Brexit, there was a 42% increase of hate crimes across England and Wales. 

With a president who behaves that way, and believes that is his right to behave that way, then the US may follow suit. Hate crimes and sexual assaults may be on the rise. 

My little light was so dim. I felt overwhelmed by darkness. Then I remembered the quote by George Fox, the founder of the Quakers. 

I saw also that there was an ocean of darkness and death, but an infinite ocean of light and love which flowed over the ocean of darkness. 

It gave me hope. I talked to Spiderman, who simply said, "We will need to up our game. This is our wake up call to bring more kindness and love into the world." 

Bonzai Aphrodite, one of my favourite bloggers says:

You will need your strength because a fight is on the horizon, and we ALL need to be there to meet it. We need your body, and your voice, and your action to fight for our black and brown brothers and sisters. Our queer community. Our Muslim friends and neighbors. We need to come together and we need to come strong. 

Where there is hate, I will show love.

Where there is fear, I will bring peace.

Where there is darkness, I will be light. 

Will you join me? 

Short, Sharp, Shocked

There has been a blow to my solar plexus. The wind has been taken out of my sails. I feel the United Kingdom is rapidly becoming the Untied Kingdom and I am saddened and disappointed and a bit scared, if I am honest.

The referendum.

Oh my.

I did not in any of my wildest dreams see this coming. None of us did.

Well some of us did because they voted that way. To leave. To end it all.

I don't quite know where the country that I dearly love is going. No one does. Not even the folks in charge.

It has come about that those in charge do not seem to have a plan as if somehow they hadn't thought this far ahead.

After the referendum, there were scores of people interviewed on radio and television who seemed genuinely shocked as the pound began to drop in value and the stone, cold reality hit of what it would mean to not be able to easily live, work, travel to or trade freely with Europe  anymore. They pleaded with us us, wide eyed and terrified with phrases like, "I didn't know! I didn't understand this would happen when I voted to leave!"

How could they *not* know?

There was lots of misinformation out there on the Brexit side. Talk of national pride and money we wouldn't have to waste on filthy foreigners but could spend on ourselves to better the country.  The day after the referendum it was stated that of course we have that money, it just wouldn't be spend on the NHS as had been implied before the vote. There was also a considerable amount of scaremongering especially from more racist parties like UKIP headed by the duplicitous Nigel Farage. Lots of talk of US vs THEM. European immigrants coming over stealing our (fill in the blank) jobs...houses...womenfolk.

The referendum was during the European Football Championship 2016 and national pride was at at an all time high. It is OUR country vs THEIR country and we are more flag waving, God Save the Queen patriotic than we are at other times of the year. I think some of this feeling helped to sway people into not looking at the issues but the feeling of WE are better than THEM--WE don't need THEM.

I truly believe this closing ourselves off and going back to being a small island is a huge step backwards. One of the reasons we left the United States twelve years ago was to live in a country that wasn't so insular and self centred with its battle cry of  It's all about ME, ME, ME. We wanted one that was part of a larger community that said it's about all of US together. It's about being a part of a larger world community. Not just what's in your own back yard, but seeing the world. Global thinking.

This is the country I love. She is my country and I will stick by her. We must, as the Phoenix from the ashes, rise above this and figure out what we can do to make it better. If this truly is what we have to work with then what can we do to make it workable?

Colleen Patrick Goudreau said in a recent podcast something like Everything we do changes the world--we have to decide whether we want to change things to make it better or change things to make it worse.

The worst has happened. Now what are we going to do about it?

Southern Belles May Be Stronger Than You Think

Oh what a night.

Our lovely southern belle Brazilian white knee spider Blanche DuBois has been through the the wringer and has given us quite a fright.

It all started on Saturday. We had friends over for dinner and Blanche was just strutting her stuff and showing off for company. She was walking up and down (stopping occasionally to scratch her bum in an adorable way) and then she went to her water dish and had a big ole drink. She also was seen to be laying down a web mat and we thought, "Aha, she is preparing for a moult!"

Well yesterday at about 2:00 I observed her doing what we call "spider yoga" where the spider stretches their upper back (much like the cobra pose in yoga) to loosen their carapace. When a spider moults it does lots of stretches to make their carapace (back plate) pop off so they can easily pull out their new body from the old one--like pulling your arm out of a sleeve.

Here is where things went a bit pear shaped. A spider normally moults on its back. It is the best way to be able to loosen their carapace and then roll to the side to pull out of the old skin. At 4:30ish we noticed she had rolled awkwardly on her side no where near the web mat she had made.

We thought maybe she would roll from the awkward side pose to her back but she never did. This was potentially dangerous as legs under the bottom of her cannot flex enough to break the carapace. Normally a spider flips, does stretchy stretchy and then starts to pull out. The whole things can take several hours. But at this rate, in that position, she might struggle to get her carapace off at all and die.

We decided to skip Welsh class as she might need our help and I am so glad we did.

As she lay awkwardly on her side, at first her top legs were straight up in the air but as the hours passed they sank down limply and stayed there. At first we thought, "Great! She is finally moving her legs!" but then it seemed as if she had just let them collapse and curl up. Was it the death curl? By now she should be pumping her legs back and forth like pistons to pop off her carapace and she just wasn't.

Why had she not flipped to her back? Why had she not pumped her legs? Was she ill? Was she just too old and weak to flip all the way over? We inherited her 7 years ago and so she was around 12-13 years old. She had seemed fine on Saturday, unlike Lily Rose who looked frail in her old age, Blanche had looked robust. It was a puzzle.

Maybe she was too dry to split her old skin? So Spiderman added extra water to the tank to build up humidity and we moved the space heater closer to keep her warm. Spiderman dropped water from a pipette (dropper) on all her joints that we could reach  to try to lubricate them. She didn't react at all.

By midnight she had not moved at all and we thought she was dead. She seemed to be stuck in the moult--being greatly weakened and not able to push herself through it. Even if she did manage to get her carapace off if the joints were too dry she could lose multiple legs or tear her abdomen coming out and bleed to death.

She lay there awkwardly on her side half curled up and we thought she was dead. You can't tell. You can't check for breathing or a pulse because they don't function like that. It was agony.

We cried and did not know how to help her.  We talked about how and where we would bury her in the morning. We thought if she is not dead now, she will be soon. We felt helpless.

Exhausted, we climbed into bed and talked about all our favourite memories of her and then slept fitfully. This morning we woke and were both afraid to go and see. What if she had torn herself in half trying to get out? We went in and looked and she had done it. She had moulted. Her new body was still on its back --too weak to flip itself over. Her mouthparts were covered in bloody looking flux. She might have torn her oesophagus. She wasn't moving at all.

This was worse than last night. What if she had finally managed to moult only to die from the exhaustion of it? At first we thought she was missing 2 legs but it turned out she was just laying on them awkwardly.

Was she alive? Was she dead? We could not tell.  My throat felt sore from anxiety.

We waited. An hour later we noticed she had moved just a little bit. Was she alive? Then after another hour or so she had flipped herself back upright. She was alive.

But for how long? It was a very traumatic moult. We have never seen one like this. She might have internal damage. One of her legs looks a bit wonky so she might have some lameness.

All we know is she is a fighter. She is alive for now. We will continue to love her and treasure her no matter what, but this may be coming to the end of her life. Another moult will likely kill her.

I think it was so hard because we were there for it. Every excruciating step of the way. All of our other girls have "died in their sleep." We woke up and they were in the death curl. But to see one suffer and not be able to do anything to ease their suffering is heartbreaking. Her moult lasted over 10 hours. Most likely up to 15 hours. For her to be in pain and distress for that long must have been horrible.

Poor Blanche DuBois.  Do what you need to do, baby. If you need to slip away then we will miss you or gather your strength and live a bit more.

We love you darlin'.

Blissful Bristol, part two

We woke up reasonably early and went down for the enormous hotel breakfast. One of the reasons we chose the Travelodge was for their breakfasts. There were *plenty* of hot choices like cowboy beans, mushrooms and hash browns as well as Linda McCartney vegetarian sausage (sadly not the gluten free ones) as well as cold items like cereal and fruit. You could get soya milk on request so that made cereal an option as well. The bread was clearly labelled vegan too so Spiderman had toast. I brought my own bread and just toasted that and so got some hot bread products with non dairy spread and jam as well. In the end we were stuffed and fortified for a day of fun.

Saint Nicholas Market

So much of Bristol was vegan friendly. Everywhere we went there were signs saying Suitable for vegans or Vegan options--just ask. We had a wander around the lovely St Nicholas Market (not Christmas themed as my Mum thought--just named after the saint.) We found a vegan chocolate shop where we bought several bars of posh chocs in flavours like dark chocolate, lime and sea salt. Yum! There was a cute haberdashery shop called Sew and Sew that I bought several things in--beads, hot glue sticks, jewellery tools--all stuff I can't get locally.

 We poked around bookshops and generally had a good ole meander. round the city. I wanted to go to a little shop called Bamba Beads on Gloucester Road and i was not disappointed. The owner was this lovely bloke who was trying to care for his three year old who had gotten out of school early as it was half term. She had her face painted up like a tiger and was absolutely adorable. i got some nice wooden beads as well as some silver plated findings. He also gave me advice on bead making and i would highly recommend going there.  You can shop online as well at www.bambabeads.co.uk

Since we were already on Gloucester Road we ventured further down it to a place called Planet Pizza for a late lunch. Their website said they did a vegan pizza called Plan-It Vegan as well as a gluten free crust. Win-win!  We got the GF crust with mushrooms, olives and red onions and vegan cheese and it did not disappoint. Whoa mama, it was good. It was a posh pizza as the mushrooms were portabellas and the olives kalamata and the vegan cheese was gooey and stretchy and yum. We don't normally have that kind of cheese on a pizza as it is processed, but it made for a nice treat. Thanks again Mum for sending us the dosh to be able to get some food out in restaurants!

Doesn't he look like his dad--Stephen King? 

In the evening we ventured out to waterstones to see our favourite author Joe Hill. He has written many amazing books (Twentieth Century Ghosts, Heart Shaped Box, Horns and our all time favourite graphic novel Locke and Key!) and he is always worth hearing from when he comes to this side of the pond. We saw him two other times in London and this time was just as good...maybe better. he was reading from his new book The Firefighter that will be out next year. He always spends a lot of time with each person who queues up for an autograph and this time we came prepared. We brought our replica head key from Locke and Key and asked him to take a picture of him opening my head with the key. I actually have a keyhole tattooed on the back of my neck just like in the comic so it was delightfully easy.  Spiderman took a few snaps and then Joe Hill said, "Do you mind if I take a picture and put it up on twitter?" Do i mind????? Hells no!  So he tweeted it to all his fans! Squeal!

We are *so* thankful he wanted a picture because for some reason we had a camera fail and the pictures didn't come out. *Sob* I am told our picture would have been cooler and gotten the whole of Joe Hill and not just his hand--but oh well. What can you do? We were both bitterly disappointed, but got over it quickly. At least we have the memory and the tweet! 

We returned back to our hotel and feasted on Chili Heatwave Doritos and hummus and posh chocs.

Stay tuned for Blissful Bristol, part three!

How do you measure a year?

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty five thousand moments, so dear
Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife
In five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, a year in the life?

How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love.
--from Seasons of Love by Jonathan Larson from the musical Rent.

Well, my friends. It has been a year since we left England and moved to Cymru. Can you believe it? It has been a rollercoaster of a year with many ups and downs. Many things did not turn out the way we had planned and many things are better than our wildest dreams.

I am still not permanently employed, after a year of searching and applying for all sorts of jobs. Interviews--oh I've had 'em. Feedback? Well it was awesome. Aparently I am passionate and fascinating--just not what they were looking for.  For a while (a rather long while) this was incredibly hard. I was homesick. We were worried about money. I had nothing to do with my time. The winter was cold and we were trying to save on heating bills. I was home alone, cold and bored, frustrated and angry, sad and confused. It was only when i realised that I needed to stop fighting and give in that I began to relax. Maybe what was required of me was rest.  Maybe what was required of me was faith. Maybe what was required of me was trust in the belief that it would all be ok.

Then things started to get better.

My friend Priya who owns a two clothing boutiques in town needed some part time help. It wasn't regular, but it was work. I found that I really enjoyed it and it felt good to have something to do again. But not too much to do.

Then recently some friends asked me if I would be willing to tutor their two children as they were taking them out of mainstream school and were planning to homeschool them. Their children are (nearly) 7 and (almost) 9 and for one day a week i will go to their house from 10:00-2:00 and teach them literacy and maths. It is another part time paid job doing something I like and may lead to other opportunities. Or it may not.

And I am cool with that. Because this year has taught me that I don't need as much money as I thought to make me happy. We need a food and shelter and i need to be able to buy some craft supplies here and there and maybe a day out every once in a while, but mostly what I need to make me happy is friends. 

This was the part of my life that I was the most concerned with. I make friends really slowly. We lived in England for 11 years and took me most of that time to go from being a friendly aquaintence with people to a "Come over for dinner or let's go somewhere together"  sort of thing. It was only in the last few years of out time in England where i felt a sense of belonging and feeling like I was forging real, deep friendships. I had become very active in our local Quaker Meeting and had finally begun to find the sort of friendship I had dreamed of and now we were moving away. How was I going to cope far away with no friends and no job and nothing to do with my time?

This is where our lives have become more than I could have ever imagined. On our second week here we met Kathryn and Peter who were running a vegan information stall in town. They were so friendly and welcoming and the following Saturday we were at the Waverly cafe meeting other vegans, eating delicious food and chatting like we'd known each other forever. Straightaway we were invited to go on some day trips with the offer of a lift from Priya and we spent the day in the great outdoors hiking and picnicking--first to Caldey Island and then to Llansteffan where we picnicked in the shadows of a ruined castle by the sea.

The rest is history. Nearly every weekend we have something fun to do with friends. Outdoors if the good weather and indoors when the weather is too wet. We eat, drink, laugh and talk about serious subjects. We sing and dance and run a vegan outreach with free food 4 times a year. We discuss deep subjects like spirituality and then make corny jokes and groan.  We spread the vegan message by being healthy, happy people.

Last week a big group of us hiked from Stepaside to Saundersfoot.  You walk in the green of the woods then through some old rail tunnels that were dark and scary out to the glorious view of the sea.

It's a good life.

We are happy living here. We may not have what we expected to have but we have everything we could wish for.

We have each other and we have love.

The (day) has come upon me cried……

……the Lady of Cymru.

 

Yesterday was the fifteenth anniversary of the death of my beloved father. Fifteen years since we have made each other laugh or had a serious discussion about world events. Fifteen years since we sat side by side on the sofa watching old westerns or building something outside with his power tools. Fifteen years since we talked about the books we were reading or he was giving me advice. Fifteen years since he thoughtfully bought treats like tiny pumpkins or plastic spider rings for my whole class. He loved those kids because I loved those kids.  Fifteen years since I  held his hand. We were always holding hands.

 

And I almost missed it.

 

I am shocked by the fact that the date came upon me so suddenly. How could I not have felt this milestone coming on? In some ways this is actually a sign of progress. For YEARS after he died, a black fog would strangle my heart and lead me into a sluggish despair for a month starting on the day he entered hospice (March the 17^th) until the day he died. The feeling was one of moving through treacle, in slow motion and with growing sense of dread. The loneliness of missing his was so overwhelming that it coloured my whole life. I could not concentrate or complete projects. I cried easily ands frequently. And then, the day would arrive and on the 15^th of April…it would be gone.

 

Until the next year.

 

Oh yes there were pockets of grief here and there throughout the year. When I saw a box of men’s handkerchiefs on sale in a shop or when I thought of something I would have loved to share with him. A fact. A cartoon. A sunset. But it hit me hardest during the month that he died because he really did take a month. He slowly gave up walking then eating and drinking then speaking and finally breathing.

 

Fifteen years ago yesterday he died in my arms with my Mum holding him on the other side.

 

And somehow I almost didn’t remember.

 

We woke up like a normal day. We had a bit of a cuddle and then got dressed and leisurely went to the shops, came home for lunch and ran a few more errands. Spiderman is still on Easter holidays and so didn’t need to be at work last night and so he surfed the net while I wrote my pen pal  and about 3:15 we decided to take a walk. We had a lovely brisk walk in the rather warm spring air for about an hour and a half and then toddled home. I sat down to check my blog feed and saw my friend Karen had had a birthday. Something inside me went DING! and I suddenly realised it was the 14^th.

 

It was just like the poem by Tennyson:

 

Out flew the web and floated wide

The mirror crack’d from side to side.

“The curse has come upon me!” cried

The Lady of Shalott.   

 

I was shocked and stunned that I had somehow not realised. Then strangely relieved that I didn’t spend a month of my life in mental agony.

 

I have been thinking of him so much lately as we have a General Election coming up--the big one that determines who our next Prime Minister will be. I would love to be talking to him about the candidates. I have just learned the animal rights stance of all the main parties (conservative, as you would expect, is pro-fox hunting and battery cages for pheasants and for enlarging the badger cull even though it is scientifically proven that badgers are NOT spreading bovine TB--factory farming is.) and I would love to be discussing this with him.

 

I would love to be discussing anything with him.

 

I miss him. God, I miss him. But I know he is with me. When I (to quote the Ninja Turtles) “Stand for what [I] believe in and find the strength to do what’s right” I know he is with me. 

 

So last night we ate a vegan version of a favourite meal of his. He was always a big meat and potatoes man (things like chicken fried steak and milk gravy) and then after the advent of delivery pizza he was a pepperoni pizza guy and I often wonder what he would make of my veganism. I think he would be proud that I had strong convictions and I was living them and that I was speaking up for those who have no voice and making the world better through compassion. He would have still been a meat eater, but he would have respected my ideals.

We had “sausage” mushrooms (button mushrooms cooked in sausage-y spices like fennel seed) --adapted from this recipe from the PPK  http://www.theppk.com/2008/10/tempeh-sausage-crumbles/ and mashed potatoes, peas and carrots and lashings of onion gravy. Plus a little bit of leftover Anadama bread to stand in for Texas Toast. 

 

It was very good. He would have liked it.

 

I would love for him to be here to share it. To share everything. So much has happened in our lives since he died. I mean, we have lived in two other countries --England and Wales--since then. We have had so many adventures.

 

So even if the date no longer stabs my heart, I think of you and remember.

 

I remember everything.

 

I love you with all my heart,
Your Chaunkie-Chaunk

Curses, foiled again

I had another very successful interview. Upon entering the room I was congratulated on being short listed as there were 45 applications for the job. That of all the applications mine was the most interesting. They were so looking forward to meeting me. The air was electric as we talked and I was radiating love and kindness and positive energy. The panel kept saying what a pleasure, a genuine pleasure, it was to meet me. I was told the headteacher would be phoning late afternoon with the results.

The headteacher didn't phone until nearly 8pm. She sounded sad and weary. Almost tearful. She said they had been so looking foward to meeting me. That my application had stood out like a beacon from the others. That in all her years of being a headteacher, she had NEVER had such glowing references. They were so keen to meet me  and I did not disappoint. She used the phrase "we were fascinated by you" at least five times and the phrase "we were simply captivated" twice.

I didn't get the job. 

She explained ever so regretfully that the position was foundation/key stage one (ages 3-6) and my experience was with key stage 2 (ages 7-11) and they had someone who was not nearly as dynamic as me, but who had many years experience at that level and they felt they had to go with them. The reason she was phoning so late was they had been trying find a way to hire me as well. She was heartbroken as they were all so impressed, but I just didn't have enough experience with that age group.

Sigh...

She asked me was I working and I said no and she exclaimed "how are you not working? You NEED to be in a school!" She asked if I had registed with an agency I said yes but that it hadn't brought me any work and she told me the name of the agency they use and suggested I register with them and so they might be able to use me here and there for supply work. She also asked if I would be interested in coming to do some storytelling or storytelling workshops at the school. I said yes and after the Easter holidays maybe we can work something out. And while the offer of some volunteer storytelling work is great, it does not solve our financial issues or pay the £5 for the bus to get to the school.

I am beyond disapointed. How does this keep happening???? They think I am wonderful and then don't hire me!!! This is the third time I have had feedback like this after an interview. Both this one and my last school interview could not believe someone hadn't snapped me up already.

Yes, I am wondering that as well. Despite many things being so good in our lives this is the one area (and it is a big area) that I feel really disapointed with. I do not understand if I am so good, why no one will hire me. Everyone seems so reluctant and apologetic when they have to tell me no which should make it feel better. 

Somehow it doesn't.

I had a pretty rough night. Some tears, some wallowing in self pity and general grumpiness. Some ranting and railing and talking bollocks.  But it is a good sign that despite the fact that they cannot seem to hire me they liked me. they really liked me. (to quote Sally Field in her Oscar speech) because it means that if something DOES come up they will keep me in mind.

I am counting my blessings every minute of the day and that seems to soothe the pain in my heart.

I am loved by so many people. Even our friends Constantine who sells the Big Issue (a magazine that homeless or vulnerably housed people can sell to make money. It is not a charity--they buy the magazine for one price and sell for a higher price) is rooting for me. When I bought my magazine today he told me that a lady was handing out cards advertising a tutoring agency in town and he got one for me. So this afternoon I have sent them an email and a CV describing my skills, experience and availability so fingers crossed. I worked for a year at  a similar placed called Sylvan Learning Centre in Louisiana and really enjoyed it.

I have a roof over my head and food on my table. I have friends from near and far who are dear to me. We have more friends from England coming to visit at Easter. I am loved. I can be disappointed and still appreciate  those things.

In the scheme of things I am really blessed.