Unfailing Love

On Sunday at church, I watched her. Minute after minute. I didn't want to look away and the only reason I did so occasionally, was to ensure that she did not know I was watching from a distance. I couldn't look away for long. She held my attention, I was held captive to that very moment. There was just something in her touch that kept me focused. The way she smoothed his hair, the way she softly planted her lips on the base of his neck, the way she held his head in the palms of her hand before her and scooped him into her chest, bearing the weight. It has been a year or so since I last found myself watching her tend to her child. That time too, I was struck by the deepness of her love, the patience of her grip, the tenderness of her touch, her unfailing love. Her child was smaller then, he still fitted into her arms whereas now he spills from them. His body is weak and he struggles to control the movement of his limbs but this as fact is not what is most noticeable about this young boy and his mother. What is noted immediately is their exchange, their interaction, their engagement with one another as if speaking a language that only they understand. She moves her body selflessly to accommodate his, her eyes are fixed on his at all times possible and whenever she looks away from his gaze, he tracks her waiting for attention once more. He smiles. And when he does, it feels like a bolt of lightning emerges from her chest. She returns the smile and with that I feel the goosebumps climbing up my arms at the greatest speed and I know I have witnessed something special. No matter how many times his arms would fall, she would reach for them and drape them around her neck or across her body, nestling him into each gap, each space left on her torso. All whilst standing and rocking and comforting and holding this boy of hers of four years, a boy unable to stand by himself. At one point I watched her sing tenderly into his ear, I always think that there are people who sing and then there are people who sing and mean it and I believe she falls into the latter category. I believed every single word. I wanted to tell her, 'I see everything that you do, I see all of your heart, the broken parts, the parts filled and spilling over with love, the parts weary, the parts that fiercely declare that you're doing it your way, the parts that whisper and long for quiet, for anonymity. I see you and you are magnificent, you are strong. I see you and know that you are kind and quiet and unassuming, I see that you want to go about your business, happily meeting people along the way and showing them your kindness too. I see that this quietness which your soul requires has not been your finding of late and you have had to reach deep, really deep down. You may not have known that you could find a place quite so far down, quite so deep. Others knew it of you that you were capable of it all. I would like to tell you, my dear stranger friend, that you have wings. They may feel fragile and in an infant stage but they are formed, they are made of skin and bone and they will not fail you. I watched your boy and instantly knew that he could see them, these wings of yours. I will keep looking. I will keep looking. Perhaps another year from now, I will look again and I will see you. Perhaps by then you will believe, as I do, that those wings were given to you to use as you see fit. Perhaps by then you will have shaken the dust from them and you will have learned to fly. You will leave my eyes blinded by the light and yet still I will not look away because I will see you. You are magnificent, you are strong.' 

Make It Sewcial Meet Up

Photograph by Kat Molesworth 

It's a wonderful thing to feel a part of something, to know that you belong somewhere, that you have your people, others like you that care about the things you also care about. It's a wonderful feeling when you don't have to explain yourself and what you do and why you do it. That was the wonderful feeling I had at the week-end when I had the pleasure of gathering together with forty nine other creatives for the first Make It Sewcial Meet Up hosted by the very gorgeous and very talented Allison Sadler.  Allison and her husband Christian run the loveliest shop situated opposite my kids school and right in the heart of my neighbourhood. I really don't think there's a person that doesn't know who they are in our hood. They are the loveliest, friendliest people centred peeps and that's what makes their shop so perfectly titled - The People Shop! 

Allison started the Make It Sewcial Hashtag on Instagram a year and half ago. Her vision, in her own words - 'celebrating creativity and bringing a community together'. Every monday morning Allison invites individuals to share any hand made makes with her and her many followers and that week she chooses a winner, who she then generously sends a goodie bag to! Read more about Allison's story here and more about the roots of Make It Sewcial here. I have followed shenanigans from a distance and never actually joined in, partly because I haven't really been doing much making recently. When I saw that Allison was organising an instameet and that it was going to be in Birmingham, in the fabulous new old Impact Hub Birmingham, it was too exciting to miss! I consciously made the decision to attend alone and not invite a friend as I really wanted to meet new people and to be slightly out of my comfort zone. What a fabulous and friendly bunch I met! 

I used a sewing machine for the first time in a long time under the gentle and patient guidance of the very wonderful sewist53, her name is actually Sue Scrase but sewist53 is her instagram name and many know her as such. Many thanks to Sue for helping me to 'Shine'! You can find her gorgeous creations here. I also had a wonderful time making a pretty posy of flowers and lovely conversation with Judith of pollenfloraljoy. She spoke for just a few minutes and had me captive with the story of her creative journey that was motivating and inspiring and courageous. It left me with that goosebumpy 'anything is possible' feeling which is always good. Another delight was to meet the gorgeous Shaheen Kasmani. Do go along to instagram and check out her stunning textiles and surface pattern designs. We got to eat lots of cake together and to play with flowers and giggle with balloons together whilst Kat aka housewife confidential and one of the Blogtacular founders, schooled us in the art of creating statement photographs. Many thanks to Kat who also gave a couple of us a great pep talk about being out and proud as creatives. She helped me to say the following words aloud and proud: I AM AN ARTIST AND BLOGGER! Allison and Kat led us on a great photo walk around the Digbeth area which is the old industrial and perhaps a slightly darker underbelly of innercity brum. Personally, it's one of my favourite places! It's full of life and colour and history but not in a city guide kind of a way. 

It's a wonderful thing to feel part of something and to not even have the words to fully describe what it is you feel, it's wonderful to find your people and feel at home. What a fabulous time was had by all on this dreamy yellow brick road! To get a different perspective of the day, do check out Allison's blog here. Enjoy folks!

Photograph by Allison Sadler

Longing, Belonging To A Place Buried Inside

I am afraid of forgetting the past. I cannot remember a time when I wasn't afraid of this. I am certain that at its root, is a concern about loss of identity. In fact, loss itself. It seems common, for those that have lost a person central to their lives, especially at a young age. The loss of my father when I was ten years old has remained one of the greatest sources of both heartache and formidable inspiration. Even twenty years ago when I was a Fine Art undergraduate, I remember seeing some of my peers rolling their eyes into the backs of their heads as I would present my work in crits. I wasn't afraid of the content of my work. I wasn't afraid to be exploring my past. I wasn't afraid to be mixed-race and fascinated with my own ethnic and cultural background. Still, I was simply afraid that if I did not seek more of this story and its beginnings and meanderings, I was afraid I would forget this story. His story, my story, both mine and his story and the story of our people and how we came to be.

My Aunty called from Mamprobi, Accra a few weeks ago. Several messages had been left from mobile numbers with the Accra - Ghana prefix, which I immediately recognised whilst I was out walking with my husband and children. My heart immediately beat faster and felt like it was being pulled down with great force towards my feet, a weight that felt unbearable. I reached the car and sat quietly and the whole journey I wondered, is it my Uncle or my Aunty that have passed away? Just the night before, I had dreamed very clearly of my dear Aunty. I was sat alongside her and she held my hand in hers and as she talked I couldn't hear or make out the words that she was saying but she smiled with her eyes, that way that she does and everything felt ok, everything felt safe and peaceful. I took my hand from hers and held hers tight and I leaned in and whispered in her ear and again she smiled with her eyes. When I reached home and dialled my cousins number, after a short exchange she said 'Ma wants to speak with you'. Immediately my heart swelled with relief, my Aunty was alive. It quickly deflated though, my Uncle, her husband had passed away. He was 91 years old. 

I have tried and tried to write about my Uncle and the yet the words have not come, perhaps it is too soon. There is so much about what I feel for both him and my Aunty that can't be described with words. These two precious people drew my husband and I into their arms years ago when I returned to Ghana for the first time since leaving at age ten. These precious people made my husband and I a part of their lives and gave me that sense of home that I had been craving since I had left my fathers land. As long as it has been once more that I have been absent from my fathers land, I carry the land in my heart, just as I do my Aunty and Uncle. I carry them in an inside pocket full to bursting point with funny things that my little ones have said, with memories of my father happy and sad, memories of the stories that Aunty told me of the reception my white skinned mother received from the Ghanaian family, with thoughts that I want to share like how my hands are becoming more and more like my fathers and my Aunty's with each passing day, with songs, ones that I remember my Aunty singing and ones that I have learned since that make me think of her. I have written about my Aunty Adelaide and my Uncle Andrew many times, here and here and here. They are a source of salt and light and forever will be. 

Perhaps for now the best way I can describe how I feel is  a way I have often felt. A feeling that I have described again and again in many different guises through my art practice of many years. Something that I wrote about extensively on an album that my husband and I wrote and recorded in the past. The lyrics have sat alongside me for days now and as my husband will be quick to tell you, I am not a master at remembering lyrics, even my own. But these I have been repeating over and over, as I often do at restless times.

Outside, warm air licking my neck
Ada braiding my hair.

And I'm sat here watching them play.
Girls jumping up and down.

In slow motion
I think of what it is to be away
Longing, belonging to a place buried inside.

I won't dismay
At chipping away at hope.

In slow motion
I have to play down the significance
of this place my father called home.
As I remember both the tears and joy.

Riding a wave
Purging my desire
Finding all the cracks are real.

And now I roll in truth.
True to the bone.

Making Time

The Stag and the Fawn
Tile decorated with subjects from Aesops Fables. Tin-glazed earthenware transfer printed overglaze, Liverpool, Sadler and Green 1765-c1775.

The past week has felt a little like a blur, one of those weeks where if someone asks 'what have you been up to?' you pause and struggle to reel off anything of significance and yet you know it has felt busy and rushed and you've seldom had time to sit and ponder. By thursday evening when I realised that I hadn't really carved any 'All About You' time, I decided to abandon my to do list and head into the city, away from the domestic distractions of home and home work in search of a little quiet time. I started with coffee in one of my favourite buzzy coffee shops, a place that's always busy and full of a varied folks. Normally, I like quiet if I'm sitting to write but surrounded by several others working on their laptops, I effortlessly tapped away for an hour the start of a short story that I've had in mind for a few weeks. It felt like a relief to finally put words on a page. I hadn't planned to write on that day, but perhaps it goes to show that sometimes simply setting a little time aside is enough to allow the stored ideas to emerge. I also visited my old workplace Birmingham Museum & Art Gallery as I was literally walking by. I stepped inside and with the habit of old work days followed a route that led past a tile collection that I'd always been fond of. I found myself wondering why I had left it so long in returning to these old friends and for half an hour or so I was transported into the dark and dreamy world of Aesops Fables! Ready for the real world again, I dragged myself away with the promise of returning again soon, or to at least finding other worlds to fall into for a little quiet abandon here and there. As I made my way to the bus stop to head home, I caught sight of a popular flower stall. An almost perfect replica of Eliza Doolittle who was dressed slightly more 'ghetto' was shouting out in her best cockney accent 'flowers for a pound!' I left with a bunch of flowers feeling pleased with the ending to my 'me time'. I climbed onto the bus, sat down and cast my eyes into my lap and gazed at my now dyed purple finger tips holding my bunched flowers. I immediately heard my middle sister saying 'buy cheap, but twice' and again smiled to myself. Those flowers are still sat in a vase in front of me and sure the water they're sat in isn't clear, it's purple and a little garish but that's not important. What's important is that those cheap flowers have been a perfect reminder for days now, of that time I carved for me, a reminder of just how easy it is to do, if only I, you, we, remember to just make the time.  

The Fox and the Crow
Tile decorated with subjects from Aesops Fables. Tin-glazed earthenware transfer printed overglaze, Liverpool, Sadler and Green 1765-c1775.

Gathered Together

Image by Stuart Tonge

On sunday afternoon, after visiting my mum we decided to take a walk in an orchard nearby before heading home. We parked the car under a pretty, blossom heavy tree that immediately began showering us with its soft petal confetti. We each separately remarked how sweet it was and after watching the boys catching the flying petals for a little while, we then went on our way. When we returned to the car after our walk in the woods and a meadow and through the orchard, we found our car's roof covered in the prettiest display of blossom. Beautiful pastel pink flowers scattered perfectly upon our roof. I then shouted 'we're getting married!' as I often do when I see flowers on our family walks. At that moment our boys smiled and then my eldest said 'look up, there are wild birds'. We each looked up as the blossom carried on its showering petal serenade and as I dismissed my boy's comment, suddenly I saw exactly what he did - two green parrots. 'There are two more above them mum!'. Indeed there were, four green parrots in the local park near my mother's house! Where they had come from I do not know, but they were together and they looked lovingly at one another and groomed one another. We even watched them rub their beaks together and kiss. It was quite something. We eventually peeled ourselves away and got back into our prettied car and in a sentimental moment, I couldn't help but think that those parrots represented each of us in our family and I began thinking of the four of us, flying free perhaps travelling and turning up somewhere unlikely. Clinging to one another for support, needing only each other to face the times ahead. As we pulled away and caught our last glimpse of the blossoming tree with the four wild birds, I said to my hubby. 'We should renew our vows and get married again'. He said 'yes!' enthusiastically and as we began talking about our twentieth wedding anniversary coming up later in the year, our eldest said 'Can I marry you right now? I think I've read about people being able to do that as long as you use the right words'. So right there and then he uttered some eloquent words and some familiar ones and asked us to kiss, and kiss we did along the quiet lane leading out to take us home. Then our youngest boy decided to take part too and he chose his very own words to speak to each of us. At times his words can trip and dance, pirouetting and taking a little time to spill out, part of the dyslexia legacy that his father has passed down to him. However, much like his father does, he found the perfect words to capture the sentiment and the occasion. Again he too gave his permission for us to kiss. And just like that, before our boys, we got married and it was as simple as could be and it was a moment. A small and quiet moment that rested between the noise and the daily humdrum. Never to be forgotten but carefully stored in the pages of my mind, pressed like you do a flower, as a happy keepsake.

Image by Stuart Tonge

Inspiration

Left | Top Right | Bottom Right
Pinterest

Books. It always starts with books. The ones that are as familiar as dear friends, the ones that I don't know so well but would like to spend more time with and get to know better. The ones that I dip into, the ones that look good and make me feel good. There are all kinds that line my shelves and make me feel all manner of things and when I'm feeling restless and in need of a pick me up, that's where I turn. Half term is around the corner and these days I like to prepare early and build in a time for me to escape and re-charge, even if that means just half an hour. I know from experience that having that little bit of time makes me a nicer mummy and also a kinder wife. I've spent the last few weeks reading and note taking and dipping into several books at a time. I've been gathering images and photographs and cut out articles and newspaper clippings and old drawings and old songs, snippets of sound pieces and bits and pieces tucked under books on my bedside table. I've been trying to make sense of the many things that I have foraged over these months that I know are part of something, my next story, my next creative chapter. So during half term when I'm lost in busyness, I will spend a little time looking closely at these treasures that I have gathered. Sometimes when I'm in the thick of this foraging and sifting and pulling it together phase, I like to think of myself as playing many parts, like an actor. I think of my artist self, my writer self, my mother self. I think of all of these selves and what role they each play, sometimes certain selves feel like they're sinking, struggling to come up for air, another self is taking all of the attention. Swings and roundabouts. Swings and roundabouts. Sometimes just to breathe, I picture myself as someone else, maybe me, another me. I throw on a pair of jeans and a vest top, drive to Mexico with the rooftop down, hit the nearest and cutest beachside bar, order myself a mojito and smoke that cigarette that I promised myself I'd never smoke. It feels good. Oh so good. I close then open my eyes and it feels like a fleeting moment and a lifetime all at once and that's when I remember. You really don't need to leave home or travel far to have an adventure and be inspired. This I know. 

She Told Me I Had A Wonderful Story

I've always been good at making stuff up. Like when I was sent to buy fried fish and I lost the money along the way and so ran home exclaiming to my father that I had been robbed! Or the time that Miss Brass kept making me repeat my failed attempts at the 'Fosbury Flop' in PE, using my very awkward and uncooperative teenage body and when I could face the humiliation no longer, I stormed out and into the girls changing rooms and burst into tears. Miss Brass quickly followed and gently put her arms around my shoulders and asked what was 'really' wrong. Unwilling to admit that I just hate being crap at stuff, I said that I missed my deceased father. Yep, thinking on my feet! There was also the time that I pointed to a framed poster on the wall of one of hubby's friends, that had a mixed couple in the audience pictured in front of Miles Davis and said that the couple were my parents. Although I don't know if that one counts as my hubby laughed slightly nervously and said 'sometimes she makes stuff up' in spite of the death stare I shot him to caution him to stay out of my ... performance. I was after all trying to detract from the fact that I really didn't want to be there! A few months ago I pretended that I couldn't speak good English because I really didn't feel like talking to the cab driver and I'd watched an episode of Seinfeld the night before, the one where Elaine pretends to be deaf in the back of the cab for the same reason as myself. I felt inspired and tried it and it worked, I'm good at this stuff. 

Why do I mention these things that expose a slightly darker side of my character? Well, because I feel like I've been having lots of conversations of late with different people about 'what you're good at'. When I was asked the question recently, I didn't think to say, being a mum, being a good wife, being a friend, listening, writing, which are the things that I know my hubby would say and does say about me. No. The first thing that came into my head was, I'm good at making up stuff.I have no idea what this means or why I'm sharing it here today, perhaps it's one of the few occasions I get to not overthink, I get to be slightly crazy, crazy kate the maker upper! It's really not like me in so many ways but then when I think about it, I can gather a long list of stuff I've made up. Thinking about it, it's just storytelling. I think that at nearly 40, I've found what I'm good at and even though I feel slightly self conscious to blow my own trumpet, I think that I am a storyteller. I'm not going to say that I'm a maker upper anymore, I don't think I will say I'm a storyteller either because it conjures up too many stereotypes, having worked in the arts over the years! But I like Story. Telling Stories. And if someone said in years to come, when I've hopefully lived a little and had more time to make up stuff, 'hey, she could really tell a story'. Well that would be enough. That would be my fill. 

A great teacher of mine, Mrs Ram, once wrote these words for me:

'You have a wonderful story to tell, May your world be filled with colour'

I have carried those words with me ever since and am so grateful for them, everyday. Sometimes life feels like disparate pieces, flying chaotically round the room after the door unexpectedly gets blown open by the wind. Some days the papers get blown away, lost, trampled, they're out of reach. At other times, no matter how strong the gusts, those papers just seem in reach and normality and calm is restored quickly with the peace of mind that all is captured, gathered, harnessed. It gives me the cosy feeling, the same feeling I used to get when Little Miss Tidy would say .... 'Everything's tidy and in its proper place'.

I now think of my life much more like the collages I make. On some days the pieces just fit, they almost call out my name knowing they desire to sit alongside another. On other days, play and sift and dance and shift as I might, images fight one another and it all feels like such an effort, and I have no impulse, no desire to engage. Eventually I walk away hoping to come back another day, at another time. The distance normally works. It's all so much clearer with a little distance. Always.

Make a Splash!

Drawing by Laura Nicolson - My truly perfect stranger partner!

A curious thing happened to me recently. Something that has spoken to me of a lacking within me, something that has echoed a warning bell. 'Wake up, Wake up!' I wrote here not long ago about the perfect strangers project swap that I took part in. It was fun and heart warming, enough so that I wrote about it. I took pictures of the gift I received from my swap partner. It was a box of organic, beautifully scented yogi tea: african spice. The box of tea came wrapped in paper adorned with a pretty leaf, a little piece of autumn hugging the african heat. When my package arrived I was so excited that I unwrapped it immediately, saw the box of tea, inhaled it's scent and thought to myself how considerate the gift was as my partner had alluded to my african background. I thought of how I would enjoy the tea at specific moments in the future and that when I would sit down to drink a cup, it would be a perfect moment to send my swap partner a letter or a postcard. My cupboard is currently pretty full of herbal tea and for that reason my gift, my box of tea has remained on my desk in my bedroom, that's where I was when I opened the package you see. And there it stayed. And because it's scent is so pleasing, I let it sit there on my desk and enjoyed the subtle spicy smells each time I walked past the desk. It has sat there alongside all the other important things, things that need sorting out, things that the boys have brought home from school that need to be filed alongside 'the boys school stuff that I keep'. Things like all of 2014 unfinished drawings and art projects. Things like my sons second pair of glasses that I can't think of a sensible place to store that have found a home there. Things that are meant to act as a prompt like last years Christmas card from Aunty Adelaide in the big brown envelope with multiple stamps on the front emblazoned with the word: GHANA in black bold print. It was meant to prompt me to get photos printed and a card sent out to Aunty before Christmas - I have failed. But as I began scanning all the stuff on my desk a few days back and worrying that it was a metaphor for my jumbled life, I decided to sort out a new home for some of the items on said desk that really should never have had a stay there. I picked up the box of tea. I opened the box deciding to get a full hit of the spices and as I did so I was transported to that scene in the film 'Amelie' when the man discovers a tin that he opens and is catapulted into a world of magic, one that he was not expecting to find on that day or in that moment. I hadn't opened the box. In all that time that the box and it's scent had been greeting me 'good morning' and greeting me 'goodnight', I had not opened the box! It had not even occurred to me that there may be more to discover in the box. It's appearance had fooled me, I hadn't looked any deeper, I had fully depended on the superficial, on the exterior. It occurred to me that perhaps 'this' was the metaphor for my life and not the messy desk. Perhaps I am happy to just accept what is at the surface without looking any deeper, not curious enough to step inside and explore the riches that are dormant waiting to be discovered. There was a box of treasure sat in front of my very eyes but I could not see it because I just wasn't expecting to find any treasure. I did not believe it was either owed to me nor should be discovered by me. I had no longing to explore, to seek, to discover, to reveal and how sad that seems. It is in part my careful, cautious nature I am sure. But it has reminded me too that a curious heart is a heart that beats strongly and I haven't heard my own heart beating strongly for quite some time. Till I opened a box and at last was free and I could see the tower that I had climbed into of my own accord. I am ready to let down my hair, I can see myself climbing up it. I am close, so close to the towers window, I can see my other self waiting at that open window. I am smiling. 

I Like It

I like watching my youngest writing in his journal. Writing his Christmas wish list which includes 'artists book' and the most delightful spelling of Picasso. I like hearing my eldest talking about how much he is enjoying being a narrator for the nursery christmas play and I realise that yes, I was right. He is content that he has been noticed, that he is being heard. We all long to be heard, in the quietest or loudest of ways, just heard, to be heard. I like hearing the sweetest of news, like my dear friend phoning to tell me that she is having a baby boy! A boy! I like the giggles that my boys got into when we tried to make a video for our friends in celebration of this news of a boy and how that video ended up being take number five with my finger in the shot and the boys not remembering their unrehearsed lines. I like the pounding in my chest that occurs when I think of my Aunty Adelaide and I picture her sat on the veranda just behind the low iron gate that is painted bright blue, surrounded by trees heavy with mangoes and scented aloe vera plants. I like the painting that sits on our mantlepiece that echoes the same colour as Aunty Adelaide's gate. The one painted by my precious niece Nini or Naomi if we're using her birth name. The one that says 'God loves you' that makes my heart sing each time I glance at it. I like the fact that my boys speak openly about my brother, their estranged uncle. I want him to be a part of their lives and mine even if it is in some small way. I like it that 'someone' has their first crush and that I was able to pass on the classic 'my shoelace just came undone' trick, you know for when you want to get an extra sneaky peek of the her or him that you like. I'm not sure that a certain 'someone' took on my words but I liked sharing them and seeing 'someone' smile and then really laugh at their ridiculous mama. I like that my last thoughts before falling asleep last night were 'couldn't Debbie Harry and Chris Stein have made it work?'. I like that it reveals my inability to focus on what's important, my inability to prioritise fixing my own emotional messes. I like that this spells that out in black and white. I like that I remembered to show my eldest Aretha Franklin performing one of my favourite songs. As the song ended he said 'Don't play that song for me again' and I almost didn't get the joke. I like the way my eldest boy plays 'No woman, No Cry' on the acoustic guitar that has me so nearly reduced to a puddle of tears. I like the text messages that come through from my hubby each morning at the moment, the ones that update the kids on what his colleague Tom is munching on, in the office they share. I like that I've sat in that office with my hubby and Tom and had a window into their morning routine. When you're me it's good to list some likes because sometimes the list starts with many 'I hate it when's.... ' so I encourage you, happy people, sad people, fellow grinchy people, make a list. A good one, for santa or just a gift for yourself. 

Overwhelm

I hear it, it is a little voice. One that tells me 'who do you think you are?' One that tells me 'you can't do that!' Sometimes I can walk away from those whispers and at other times they cling to me like cigarette smoke after a long night out. It is a little voice that likes to race me  and always wants to win, telling me ways it can out manoeuvre me. Sometimes it is tricksy and it teasingly, manipulatively convinces me to play. The game of tig begins and I play and give chase, she changes the rules this doppelgänger of mine. She hurts my feelings and I cannot believe I ever fell for her lies. Sometimes she is just mean, downright mean and I find myself collapsing into a heap, a puddle of messy emotions.

The grown up me rationalises that these are simple fluctuating emotions experienced more frequently by types like me. By that I mean, the wearers of not just hearts on their sleeves but the ones that give permission for full blown open heart surgery in full view of the general public. No closed, contained theatres here. 

I found a letter a few days ago, one that I wrote to my Grandma Peppermint (my English grandma) in 1982 when I was seven and living in Ghana. The contents of the letter weren't what held my attention, it was the drawing on the reverse of the letter. The drawing that outlined that at that tender age, I had watched the 1970's classic 'Jaws'. It is one of those happenings from childhood that I have often quizzed my mother about and she nervously laughs and shrugs her shoulders and says things like 'oh I don't know, you lot probably tricked me and watched it without asking'. It was one of those life changing events that I speak of regularly. My own children are aware of the irrational fear that I have of sharks emerging from random water. Just last week as we made our way through the crowds in the dark in a park, returning to the car after a fireworks display, we began walking past a small pond and I tentatively pulled my eldest away from the pond and steered us both onto the path. I believed I had done so in a cool and calm manner and then that eldest boy of mine, with hands in his coat pockets and with the face of someone beyond his years turned to his dad just behind him and said 'she thinks there's a shark in there'. And even in darkness I could see his nonchalance and the curl of his smile. 

I mention this letter and 'Jaws' and the park incident because I realise that the things that worried me when I was little, still worry me now. The inner battles of trying to conquer fear still exist. The doubt that I can do it, whatever 'it' is, is still there. I still hear her teasing, her words and whispers, the ones that start out playful and that build momentum and that sometimes spiral out of control. A couple of days ago, her whispers became piercing screams and I was struggling to quieten her however fast I ran. I was furious with myself for not calmly walking away from her and continuing to walk, walk, walk one step in front of the other away from her, distancing myself with each step. I was furious with myself for falling for her wolf like tricks and for not being the clever piggy one step ahead. I was furious in that way that is such a physical experience that you're not sure that you won't just spontaneously combust, another little fear from childhood, although I conquered that one. 

Then they came. Words from my dear friend Sarah.

You are glorious, repeat after me

'You are glorious, repeat after me'. I took those words and wore them like a cloak, like a super hero. And then something changed. She began to fade from the picture like that scene in 'Back to the Future' when Marty's head disappears. Just like that. Missing.

She's not gone but she is banished once more. She'll still linger like that stale cigarette smell but the windows are open and the fresh air is coming in and there's nothing quite like that fresh, fresh air. I have my mother to thank for that. She taught me that even if it means a few goose bumps on arms, there's nothing quite like a house that's been aired. 

You are glorious, repeat after me.

You are glorious, repeat after me.

You are glorious, repeat after me.

Tides

Last night I came down with my first cold of the autumn season. I felt compelled to make chicken soup and so I did so even though I know I won't consume it, it's just the comfort of it, the process. It makes me think of my Grandma Peppermint and it signals winter, it signals the call for nourishment. Right now, I'm sitting here enjoying the silence. Sitting here thinking of sunday morning, when the lack of my signal to chivvy everyone along meant that the family were running late, very late for church. When I was being less than gracious about it and may have uttered some stereotyped words about the male species. When that hubby of mine recognised the need in me for quiet and took those boys of ours and himself off and out of the house, leaving me in the thick of quiet. That was when I curled up on the sofa in my flannel pj's and listened gratefully to the beautiful low fi hum of my vhs copy of 'The Way We Were' playing. Just me and Katy and Hubble. Of course I cried big sparkly diamond tears as I always do and I felt an ache of sadness for the rest of the day in that nostalgic, self indulgent kind of way that washes over you when you have the time to allow it in. That family of mine were out for hours, and between cooking a couple of meals I was even able to watch a little of my very worn 'Lovesexy' live concert on vhs too. But then I heard the key in the door and my eldest walked in and uttered 'Cool, Prince!' I watched him as his eyes widened as he watched 'Cat' pulsating to Prince's lyrics 'Glam Slam, Thank you Mam, You really make my day'. Alarmed that my boy had stepped and fallen into the crevice of my adolescence, I quickly switched it off and came back to earth, transported back from my memories with a mighty glam slam.

Today seems to be one of those days for drifting, drifting in and out of my memories. I can see myself sat bolt upright on one of those hard wooden chairs at my school in Mamprobi. The sun is squeezing through a hole in part of the corrugated iron roof and is casting a shape on the cement floor of my classroom which is hypnotising, especially when on occasion is seems to dance a little. I am watchful because the teacher whose name I forget but that might be Mr. Quashie, is staring at me. He is holding a cane in one hand with the tip of the cane held in the palm of his other hand. He moves the tip of the cane in and out of the palm of his hand, opening and closing his palm as he does so, walking, pacing along the rows of chairs with pupils sat on them. He is asking us to recite our times tables, we are six years old. He approaches my desk and asks me a times tables question. I stand up from my chair as protocol requires and I answer correctly. As I return to my seat, heart racing, legs wooden like the chair itself and fingers shaking, Mr.Quashie as we'll agree to call him, utters these words: 

"Don't think that you will get preferential treatment just because you are half-caste"

He looks at me scornfully at first and then smiles and I experience that feeling of utter confusion, that feeling that has you on guard, that feeling that tells you that a smile is not always a smile. I take a deep breath and and look out of the large square window frame, the one that frames the blue, blue ocean that sits behind my school building. I watch the waves turn from blue to white, from blue to white and then I quietly pull my chair in closer to my table and I sit bolt upright, ready once again. There is no view of the ocean today but still there are waves, some come big and heavy and completely wash me away. Others come slowly and just brush my toes. I am grateful for each of them and what they bring and however hard it is at times to still be standing after the crash of the fiercest of waves, I can at least know that it can be done. I can still stand and that's enough for me today.

A Girl's Best Friend

'You lived in Africa. Did you live in a mud hut?'

"NO!"

These are the first words that she spoke to me. Our friendship didn't have the greatest of starts and I didn't do much to make her feel more at ease. I think the following sentence she uttered to me was 'what are you doing for father's day?' to which I bluntly replied "my dad's dead!". Yep, awkward! And yet these two eleven year old girls would go on to be the very best of friends. My friend 'Becci' (as she liked to spell it when we were kids) and I really have never had much in common. We're opposites. When she was into pop, I was into rock, when she was ordering her big mac, I was waiting for my fillet-o-fish, when she was out late thinking up tall tales to tell her folks, I was heading home early calling my mother along the way. Like chalk and cheese, always, but always completely drawn to one another. I think of us less as chalk and cheese and more like cheese and chutney, perfect accompaniments.

Our friendship is one of ebbs and flows, there are no fallings out but there are gaps and times when we're out of touch but somehow one of us gets that hankering for the other and gets back in touch again and it feels just like it always has. And then we laugh, really laugh, even at the sad stuff. She is the first person that taught me to laugh at myself. I think I was quite intense at times when I was growing up, I think the 'my dad's dead' comment testifies to that! But what I loved about this petite rocket of a friend of mine was that she just wasn't the type to sit around feeling sorry for herself, she was a do-er, a master planner, a daredevil and I needed that type of person in my life. I really see that now. 

On the occasions where bouncers on doors were racist to me and wouldn't let me into clubs, I would feel incredibly angry and frustrated and she would shrug it off and immediately come up with a new plan of where we were headed to. She never allowed the racism to even be an issue, it was just about us having a good night. At the time, I sometimes felt she wasn't taking the issue seriously enough but it really was the best cure for me, she essentially scooped me up and decided there would be no feeling sorry, there was too much fun to be had. She got me into scrapes I never would have got myself into, like the time she'd driven us into the city centre when she'd only just passed her test. She tried parking in a small space and got stuck and between tears and laughter, she convinced me to find someone off the street to get her out of the space. We were seventeen. 

She is the one who always made me sleep next to the wall where the radiator was, the many times I slept over at her house and as compensation for burning myself she would give me 'kanga's', cuddling up to me like she was the mama kangaroo. That was kinda cute and hilarious about us too since I am and always have been twice the height and width of her! Like I say, opposites! One of her parents favourite images of the two of us, was of my chocolate toes sticking out of the bottom of the bed that we shared and her milk bottle toes sticking out alongside mine. You can insert a soundtrack for us here and it could be 'Ebony and Ivory'.

When we were at secondary school, which is where we met as eleven year olds, she would often walk a short distance and go home for lunch. One day, she hadn't turned up for school and I suspected that she had executed her plan. Her plan being to convince her mother that she had left for school, whereby she would hide nearby, watch for her mother to leave for work and then sneak back into the house. So, on this special day, when lunchtime arrived I decided to go and investigate. Of course, I found her at home because her plan had worked! I was feeling blue since I'd found out that day that Jonathan Coleman, the boy that I liked at the time, would only go out with other christians (I wasn't a christian at the time!) and I was heartbroken. So, we decided that we were both 'unwell'. Being unwell meant raiding the pantry and getting as much junk food as possible and sitting and eating it whilst watching 'Neighbours' which was very popular at the time. What we didn't expect to happen, was to hear the key in the door! Becky immediately came up with a plan, 'lie on the sofa and look ill!' With chocolate around my mouth and food wrappers scattered across the room, it was quite evident we were just bunking off school. I'll never forget the car journey with Becky's mum dropping me back home. We got off lightly, she had threatened to march us back into school! The funny thing is, it was years before Becky's mum realised that it wasn't a one off, that Beck had been working her plan for a while. 

When we were at college and aged sixteen and seventeen, I had double philosophy on a friday afternoon and Becky had a single english lesson followed by free periods. Every week she would nag me to skip philosophy and sometimes she would convince me, because that's what friends do, especially when you're seventeen. Yesterday when we were catching up on the phone after a couple of years of being out of touch, all of these memories and experiences came flooding back. I feel so blessed to have had and to have again, this special relationship. She reminded me of so many events and people and places that I thought were long buried, long forgotten. She reminded me of a me that I couldn't find and one that I am happy to have unearthed once more. Whilst we were on the phone yesterday, out of nowhere, I suddenly heard her say 'hang on Kate, one of the chickens has escaped'! Followed by dramatic commands to said chicken to return. Right then, I pictured her, with her long manicured fingernails and her delicate frame, chasing a chicken with chicken poop on her fabulous shoes and it was just the perfect picture of my best friend. And just in case you didn't know, there's always time to miss double philosophy on a friday afternoon, you might just learn life's greater lesson or at the very least, how to get out of a tight spot!

  

The Gold and the Mud

Sometimes when I'm feeling a little lost and finding it hard to see clearly, I collect scenes. Things that I see along the way, the sort of things that make me smile or give me goose bumps and just like Maria said, 'Then I don't feel so bad'. I've collected a few recently. A milk chocolate grandpa teaching his baby granddaughter to blow her nose. A mischievous and newly six year old, mixed race boy telling me 'I'm allergic to black and brown people' to watch the reaction of his mama's face. An old black guy wearing a white string vest and carrying a small square holdall with a long strap, smelling of sweet coconut oil. Looking back on these scenes now, I see a pattern and recognise that I'm missing him. Again. That father of mine. 

Sometimes these scenes just trigger other thoughts. Like the other day when I saw a girl, a little thing, asleep in a sitting up position holding a pair of dried out dandelions. She was perfectly pale, perfectly still and seemed straight out of a Thomas Hardy novel. Those dried flowers like some powerful metaphor for both life and lifelessness. Of late, I have felt a little like those flowers, tired and dried out but sticking around clinging to the hope that there is still purpose for the tired and dried out. Clutched so meaningfully by the still, still girl I could feel hope lifting in me. She could see clearly their value, their true measure. 

I don't think that in life we like to face our fears. At the beginning of last week, I had to begin the journey of facing one of mine and I didn't like it. Not one bit. But then as my hubby scooped me up and listened to my worries and allowed me to collapse into him, I remembered aloud, 'I don't like change' and with that I immediately felt better. I thought of those dried out dandelions and I've thought of them often in the days between then and now. 

Today is mine and my hubby's nineteenth wedding anniversary. I have now been married more years than my parents were married before my father died. I married a brilliantly impossible sunshiny dandelion. Together we weather the storms and celebrate the seasons and admire in one another, the faded yellows and the dried out coats that we now wear. We cling to one another, cling to the hope that there is still purpose in us. I can see the value, the true measure of all of these years. With him, my huckleberry friend. In this life, there is gold and there is mud. Gold and Mud. 

Let there be Jay Adams

Top left | Top right | Bottom left | Bottom right 

"When God decided to create skateboarding, he said 'let there be Jay Adams". Stacy Peralta

I'm a fan of boxing. I love it, everything about it, even the things I'm told are bad and gruesome and that I'm not really supposed to enjoy about it. I love the completely irrational fire in my belly feeling that I get when against the odds, you watch a guy who started out just boxing, you watch that same guy become a fighter. I love the story of it. 

I never really knew anything about skateboarding when I was growing up. The two things I did know: one, the red skateboard that mostly just sat in my brother's room, did not get much use in Ghana, west africa apart from on the limited space on the terrazzo at the entrance to our house. Two, my eldest sister repeatedly told me that she knew how to 'tic tac'! 

My mother is the sports fan in my maternal family. She's the one that regularly watches sports, athletics, formula one, tennis, rowing, all that stuff. So, it was at her house that I found myself aimlessly flicking through sports channels nearly twenty years ago when I stopped on a programme talking about the history of skateboarding. I saw a skateboard not far off the look of the one that had sat in my brothers room all those years back. I would later discover that what I'd actually come across was the legendary documentary, Dogtown and the Z-boys. I still didn't know anything about skateboarding, I still don't but that familiar feeling, that adrenaline pumping, fire in the belly feeling came along and I found myself completely swept up in the story. I love the story of it all!

One thing that is certain, be it amongst skateboarders or non skateboarders alike, there's only one Jay Adams! When I heard recently of his passing, I felt real sadness. The kind of sadness that feels a little embarrassing when it's a person you've never met. The kind of sadness that comes from bearing witness to a great fighter losing his title. The kind of sadness that occurs when a fighter that could have been 'champion of the world' misses out on his shot at the title. The kind of fighter that every fighter says was the best but just didn't get his shot. And the powerful story of it all has you up late at night wondering what could have been, on their behalf. Well, this is the story of Jay Adams. To talk about him only serves to tell a small part of his story, to watch him do what he does unveils the greater picture. Everybody should watch a great fight in their lifetime, it's the only way to determine the difference between someone that fights great and someone that's a great fighter. Jay Adams, you were a great fighter.