Resolution and Remembrance

"Auld Lang Syne". Mairie Campbell (version) 

 

 

"Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves - regret for the past and fear of the future."
(Fulton Outsole)

"I'd rather regret the things I've done than regret the things I haven't done."
(Lucille Ball)

"At the end of your life, you will never regret not having passed one more test, not winning one more verdict or not closing one more deal. You will regret time not spent with a husband, a friend, a child, or a parent."
(Barbara Bush)

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my jo,
for auld lang syne;
We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for the sake of auld lang syne."

(Robert Burns - adapted)

 

My mother said that there were always four things you could never get back in life; the harsh word after it was spoken, the stone after it was thrown, the occasion after it was missed, the time after it was lost. We set our lives to the ticking of clocks and the buzzing of alarms, dashing from one scrawled page entry to another. We tie ourselves into appointments and routines to make the most of the time we may have, then mourn the lack of time we've left ourselves simply To Be.

At New Year, we celebrate the opportunity to do all the things we've been meaning to do but  never found the time for. We immediately make lists, physically or mentally, and commit a whole new calendar to appointments and events. Yet we also encourage ourselves to look to times past; to reminisce and mourn. Memories, remembrance; this is how we mortals hold on to people, animals, places and events. It's how we hold on to ourselves in the passage of time.

I wasn't unduly surprised when a friend told me that the blog and I had missed New Year, even before the twelve days of Christmas 2014 were over. We pin our hopes and dreams on the big clock striking midnight; we link arms with inebriated strangers to call to mind sadly missed loved ones and opportunities. Then the first day of January stumbles into the second day, slips into the third and beyond... The truth is that this will be a "new" year until we embark on the next one, God willing. It's a fair assumption, based on personal experience, that the majority of resolutions earnestly embarked on ten days ago will be abandoned within weeks. Is it any less commendable if we restart the diet, finish the painting, join the gym or begin the Mandarin conversation course in May?

Mankind has not equipped itself well so far this new year: the news stories attest to revenge and aggression rather than remembrance and resolution. In the blink of an eye, the squeeze of a trigger, those who were so recently clearing away over-priced wrapping paper and cheap tinsel and vowing to give up smoking after that last packet are gone. Whoever they are, whatever they have done, their names may indeed be brought to mind for those who remain to link arms at midnight at the end of this year. And so it continues; until, one day, it stops.

All our days are numbered; the longest life may still be too short if it's heavy on regrets. I have learned at least one lesson in recent years; that time can scar as well as heal when it's mishandled. This year, I've resisted the urge to comfort myself with a list of resolutions that may become a testament of regrets. Instead, I've decided that, whatever I achieve or fail to do, getting through this year must be sweeter if I try to move forward with Grace, Grit and Gratitude in equal measure.

Instead of New Year's resolutions, I've included here some little guidelines to living well, applicable regardless of how old the year is, or indeed how old we are. I've also included a favourite version of "Auld Lang Syne", even though New Year's Eve really is old-long-since; possibly not that surprising, considering my Robbie Burns crush. Burns didn't intend to restrict his iconic anthem to one day of the year. Across the globe, it's sung on birthdays and anniversaries, at funerals and reunions. I often find myself humming it in my local Poundland (they're used to me). Which is just grand, because resolution and remembrance, like friendship and kindness, are for life, not just New Year x

 

 

;

 

 

 ("One Day Like This"  Elbow, with the BBC Concert Orchestra and choir Chantage)

 

"Drinking in the morning sun,
Blinking in the morning sun;
Shaking off a heavy one,
 Heavy like a loaded gun.
What made me behave that way,
Using words I never say?
I can only think it must be love:
Oh anyway, it's looking like a beautiful day.

 So throw those curtains wide;

One day like this a year will see me right."
(Garvey, Jupp, Potter, Potter and Turner)

 

Being ready - Jane

"Miracles come in moments. Be ready and willing."
(Wayne Dyer)

 

The French-born, passionate writer Anais Nin noted that: "Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." I've felt oddly diminished recently by unexpected animosity from a neighbour; staggering how pettiness can seem to impact on every area of daily life. It's made me shrink a little back into myself in the past month or so: my willingness to trust has wilted; the usually bright sleeve I wear my heart and soul on is held a bit closer to my side.

The upset prompted a visit to Portsmouth last Thursday; my sister was window-shopping and I wanted to take her to the Catholic cathedral of St John the Baptist. While we were there, my sister and I silently wrote prayer requests for a lovely lady called Jane, who'd become critically ill after battling a debilitating condition for more than a decade. Jane has been a friend to my family for most of my adult life: married to my brother-in-law's best friend, she seamlessly became my sister's closest confidante; she was also extremely kind to my mother when her own health and enthusiasm were failing.

In more recent years, I've come to know Jane better myself and often felt she was a natural ally and a font of stoic humour and warmth. She's always been a lively and tireless woman. Never knowingly unacessorised, her effortless elegance belied the hands-on occupations and long hours she worked to help make her family tick. With a voice perfectly pitched somewhere between Joanna Lumley and Sue Lawley, she delivered one-liners and venomless sarcasm with the widest grin. Her smile made me more comfortable with my own rather large gob. Jane has always reminded me of a bouncy but slightly concerned Head Girl: she seemed ready for anything, wanting to grab the day by the collar.

She probably wasn't ready for an infection in her big heart, in the prime of life, but until relatively recently she's soldiered on, swishing her shawl around her impatiently and cheerfully correcting my table etiquette.

Last autumn, Jane was present with her husband Brian as my sister's mother-in-law's ashes were interred; by now, she was in a wheelchair, which she clearly objected to but endured to get from A to B. My brother-in-law was trying to keep things together as he said a few words about his mother. Jane suddenly interrupted him very emotionally: "Tell her you love her Gordon; tell her you'll miss her everyday!" I hadn't seen Jane for a while and there was a passion and urgency I hadn't appreciated before: something had changed. I'd written a poem for Evelyn, which I read quickly. As we all turned to leave the cemetery, Jane asked me to write something for her when the time came. Upset, I told her I would, but that would be a long way off. She said quietly that no, it wouldn't be long at all.

A little less than a year on and I'm having to write that poem.

 

 

As my sister and I sat eating garlic bread at Portsmouth harbour, her mobile started up. Having been hospitalised with acute heart failure, the medical team had agreed with Jane that there was nothing more they could reasonably do. She had been transported home to be with the family she adored; all but palliative medication would be withdrawn. Anxious to clarify what was happening, I spoke to Jane's son Chris. He told me his mother was "ready"; she had assured them of that much. I realised immediately that Jane being ready was infinitely more significant and compelling than any professional prognosis of days or hours. Two days later, Jane died at home and in her sleep.

While I was travelling back from Portsmouth to Brighton, I channel-hopped on my radio headphones as the signalled bounced through train tunnels and over rural tracks. I kept catching one of my favourite David Gray songs from station to station. I'd introduced my mother to Mr Gray's music; "The one with the wobbly head", as Mum preferred to call him. She became so fond of "Babylon" that I later included it on the CD of music for her wake.

The song seemed quite prophetic to me as I travelled home last week. Not particularly concentrating on any biblical reference to mighty things falling away unexpectedly, I've always liked the imagery of the song's verses, with life's traffic lights changing from green to red and eventually on to green again. It made me think of Jane's readiness to embrace life, snags and all; to make perfectly sweetened and superbly served lemonade when you've had over-ripe lemons lobbed at you. My mother shared the same kind of resilience; although my dear Mum wasn't quite the domestic goddess: she would more probably lob the lemons back and ask for a half of Guinness.

When people are quite prepared to endure pain or even death, their readiness is seen as undeniable courage, Certainly Jane was brave to her last breath; I hope this provides some comfort and support for her devoted family. But more than this, something that was always the essence of Jane and so very evident last year at Evelyn's ceremony; Jane realised the importance of being ready for life and love. If you hope to embrace life, open your arms wide enough. If you have a mouth made for smiling,  go ahead and grin. If you love someone, tell them; don't wait until the end of days for it to be The Right Time. Make that call, send that card, write that poem, swish that shawl. Live and love unconditionally for as long as you can and you will find yourself ready.

I haven't finished Jane's poem yet and I still haven't mastered the Downton Abbey way to hold my dinner knife, but I will, I promise.

 

 

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."

(Anais Nin)

 

A smiling Jane, may she rest well and peacefully.

(Photo: Gigi, album)

 

"There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.

The readiness is all."

(William Shakespeare)

 

  

"Babylon"  David Gray (acoustic version)

 

"Only wish that you were here,
You know I've seen it so clear;
I've been afraid
To show you how I really feel
Admit to some of those mistakes I've made.
And If you want it come and get it
For crying out loud;
The love that I was giving you was
Never in doubt.
Let go your heart, let go your head
And feel it Now."
 (David Gray)

 

Stronger

(Carl Gustav Jung) 

"Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go."

(Hermann Hesse) 

Two years ago, on 28th January, while I was officially on a day's annual leave in Brighton, the social services directorate that I worked for in north London dismissed me and officially changed the course of my life. 

I received the dismissal by email when I got home that evening. I was told I wouldn't need to work my notice. Anything I had left in the office could be sent to me. The people on my team weren't told officially that I had "left" for several weeks afterwards. It sounds dramatic even to me now, but at the time I was most devastated that senior management wasn't going to let me say goodbye properly. What they couldn't have known was that I had already cleared my desk before I went on leave, giving away trinkets, keepsakes and useful stationery. I took down photos and entrusted plants to people; I went round hugging bemused but worried colleagues as it got nearer to home time. They had grown used to my funny little premonitions and sensitivities, but this was something different.
 I wasn't dismissed for any kind of misconduct: I hadn't suddenly run amok along the corridors of social services or "dissed" one of the directors. I was dismissed for sick leave. After four years of relatively good times and some very hard work, I'd had a rough year health-wise. I liaised with my GPs and with the council's Health Management Team; both parties were incredibly supportive. At the beginning of this bad year, my mother was diagnosed as terminally ill: she died almost exactly twelve months later. I was signed off work for ten days after Mum died and was assured that this wouldn't be counted towards any sickness review. A couple of months later, the ten days were used in the sickness review that led to my dismissal.
The council commissioned their Health Management Service to compile three reports during that year; each report stressed that I needed supportive management to return to my previous good health. The final report, compiled a couple of weeks before Mum died, advised that my employers should be prepared to assist me through the inevitable bereavement.
I was a Senior Team Administrator and my manager's deputy. A couple of years previously, I trained many of the administration team on the emergency duty desk, which is where I started out myself. Although systems and procedures had changed by the time I left, I had no idea quite how much I identified myself with the job until I was wiped off the payroll.
I was dismissed at a time when local government had been ordered to make some of the most stringent cuts social services had known. We'd already been told that all officers at my grade would need to reapply for their jobs; some of us would be leaving. The essential work we were doing would be covered by junior staff on lower salaries and then by the already beleaguered social workers. My background in employment law told me this clearly wasn't a redundancy situation (the work was still there to be done), but rather a re-grading issue. I was also astute enough to realise that anyone with a health or other personal issue would be seen as a soft target. I was quite vocal about this and began rattling off emails to the director and manager in charge of the cull.

While this was unraveling around me, a very lovely colleague lost her husband. As other staff pointed out, her treatment was very different: she was allowed six months leave on full pay. She's a wonderful woman, very kind to others, including me, and I felt very deeply for her. The difference in our situations was that she was a social worker: at that time, the council wasn't making cuts outside of junior management in administration.
We soon heard that some other officers across the borough with health problems had "agreed" to leave, accepting a statutory redundancy payment of around eight days salary for every full year's employment. Still maintaining it wasn't a redundancy situation, I refused to attend a sickness review with the director, on the principle that she hadn't answered my previous correspondence. I realised if they held the review in my absence it could result in dismissal.
Almost as soon as I had been dismissed, my colleagues were told that "staff movements" had ensured there was no need for redundancies. All remaining posts were saved, although they would be downgraded, as I'd originally suggested.
With my previous employment law experience, I was determined to take my case to tribunal. However, I felt the outcome was signposted almost from day one. I couldn't afford legal representation, although there's no suggestion that self-representing applicants are more likely to fail. As I had no barrister, the council's legal team took responsibility for putting together the collective bundle of documents for all parties. The problem was, they said they couldn't produce various documents that I'd listed to rely upon in court. These included all the emails I had sent to the director, senior management and human resources asking for support.  

I involved The Information Commissioner's Office. Although they ordered the council to retrieve the documents, there had apparently been a "major fault" with the retrieval process and all the data had been destroyed in that specific period of time. I pointed out that I'd re-sent the emails when management hadn't responded. Again, by remarkable coincidence, systems had failed whenever I re-sent the emails.
I felt I equipped myself very well at the tribunal, given the circumstances My employers' barrister seemed inordinately hostile, even rolling his eyes as I tried not to cry when referring to my mother. The judge asked him why documents were missing from the official bundle: I was incredulous that he said he didn't know.
Without all the documentation and because she felt it wasn't a clear-cut case for dismissal, the judge said she couldn't make a decision on that day and would retire to reflect. I waited for six weeks, only to be informed that she couldn't find in my favour. There is no entitlement to compassionate leave in employment law in the UK. Unbelievably, she cited that I hadn't produced some of the documents key to my case. There had been a series of inexplicable discrepancies in the Tribunal's Service's handling of my case, which the service hadn't been able to explain; finally, it felt like something had broken me.
I declined to appeal, although I may still formally complain and I have the right to publicise my sorry tale, obviously with more than a nod to libel laws. I felt shattered and needed to put my life back into focus. There was no way I could have written this post this dispassionately even a year ago.
Gradually, I've realised that there are quite a few things I couldn't have done not only a year ago but essentially if  my employment in London had continued. Unfortunately, my years in social services and other public service positions before that, provided a very specialised experience. This background was totally irrelevant to the struggling private sector of an economically challenged seaside town. All I could do was resign myself (no pun intended) to being unemployed, possibly for a long time, or reinvent myself.
Having worked since I left school at 18, I have never been self-employed before, never been in charge of my tax, National Insurance or indeed my own hours. Like many, I now have no financial security blanket if I'm ill or otherwise unable to work. Self-employed folk don't get paid for holidays, public or personal. The word "pension" freaks me out at the moment and is something that will need to be addressed.
What has become apparent is that I am still here. So is my home, and now I can say without hesitation that I would never move back to London. If I was still working there, I would possibly have a healthy bank account, but I sense I would be severely physically and emotionally depleted by the daily disrupted commute and associated wrangling with my employers. 

Always a bit arty, I probably wouldn't have taken so fervently to customising my house and my parent's old furniture. Two years ago, having decided that I wanted a crucifix for my dining room wall, I would probably have settled for whatever I could find or afford in an antique market: I don't think I wold have eyed up some old floorboards and upholstery tacks and decided I could design my own. I probably wouldn't have resumed writing or started this wee blog. I wouldn't have had the time, energy or inclination to walk down to the pier as the seagulls are waking up, simply because I can. I wouldn't have the deep appreciation I have for others' stories and dreams; how a stumble or push can completely alter your path.
I would probably still view myself in terms of what I do for a living, rather than what I'm living to do. I would have described myself as a relatively strong and capable person who had a reasonable life. Now, I would have to remove the word "relatively" from that statement and replace "reasonable" with "hopeful". I have a renewed understanding of faith, not least in myself. For that, and for my driftwood shelves, my crucifix, my painted bits and pieces and for my next strange but bright idea, I should probably thank my ex-employers.
I think I like myself more than I did. I miss some of my ex-colleagues and I know they miss me, but my friend Dale pointed out that he didn't miss how unhappy I looked the last year I worked there. My life now may be quite removed from what it was, but essentially my old friends are only ever an email or train ride away.

The future still feels a little like a diamond in the rough, but gemstones become strong and precious under pressure and change. Challenge really can be an opportunity to survive and grow. Blessings, like new friends, are often heavily disguised or are obscured by our own complacency.

  

*For Lin - get well soon; and also my old classmate re-discovered, Julie*

 

"What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."
(Ralph Waldo Emerson)

"That which does not kill us makes us stronger."
(Friedrich Nietzsche)

"Shallow men believe in luck. Strong men believe in cause and effect."
(Ralph Waldo Emerson)

"Stronger"  Kelly Clarkson

Through the glass, brightly...

"For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face;
 now I know in part, but then shall I know even as I am known."
(1 Corinthians 13:12)

Mirrors can be funny things sometimes.You often overhear (mainly) women in changing rooms in clothes shops, complaining that mirrors make them look fat, skinny, gawky, just "not like them". Sometimes mirrors distort, more often than not they show us what we don't quite expect to see. I met a mirror the other day that answered me back before I had even said anything.

One afternoon last week, I went for a quick cup of tea in a nice breezy bar in Brighton - most pubs and bars in this city serve tea and coffee all day without the raised eyebrow that would accompany it in London. The bar's been decorated in a pseudo Speakeasy style. This only compounded my surprise when I came out of the Ladies to the washstands and saw that someone had scrawled "At least you are Free" across the central mirror, and therefore also across my midweek, world-weary little face. I think the person, presumably female, had used a kohl or other eyeliner pencil. I wondered what had prompted her to write this. Freedom may seem like a lofty subject for pub-toilet philosophy, although I've learnt that you do tend to encounter a deeper-thinking type of grafitist in Brighton.

I am indeed free. I had been mentally listing my grouches and deficits that day: not merely financial, but the demise of my career in Social Services, my subsequent apparent lack of prospects, my lack of a husband or children, that my little house is deteriorating rather faster than I can fix it, that I am probably deteriorating faster than I can fix me. I may never now get back to Australia, I may never get to do hands-on work with kids, I'm certainly never going to wake up and find I've turned into Kylie Minogue: I may never get to the ball, I may never get the happy-ever-after. I left the word "Free" scrawled on the mirror; yet the insolence of it followed me as I walked back out into the light and airy bar and a welcome day of sunshine in Brighton.

I was devastated when I lost my job in adult Social Services in London. I've worked since I left school and I felt it defined me. Now, I know that no-one should ever be defined by employment: being known by your abilities or gifts is something quite different. If I was still leaving the house before 7am and returning in the dark, I would certainly have a more healthy bank account but my own health would probably have continued to decline alarmingly. I probably wouldn't have discovered just how resilient and canny I can be; the old pots and ornaments in my garden would not be customised; I might not have considered renovating or painting old pieces of furniture; I probably wouldn't have set aside time to customise dresses or jewellery. I might not have collected and sorted through generations of photographs, so that my history decorates my walls. I probably wouldn't have started this blog! Maybe I wouldn't have been so sure that either I or God know the real me. Often, the threat of being released from tried and trusted routines and well known ways of being blinds us to a freedom of opportunity.

My house does indeed still need patching up and nailing down, but it has evidently benefited from a little TLC, and it is very much my home. And having a home, far from being tied to bricks and mortar, gives me immense freedom. It's true that I have no husband or children, but I have friends who I nurture and am nurtured by: even a concerned, caring text can be a dressing for a perceived slight or any feeling of isolation. I may never return to Social Services but if I were ever yet to work with kids, disadvantaged or otherwise, then certainly Brighton is a tarnished mecca for youngsters. I did get to Australia, several times, and the memories I have of there and of the other places I've visited are souvenirs that don't need to be dusted or explained to visitors. I'll never wake up looking like Kylie Minogue, but at least I still wake up in the morning; and hell, even Kylie doesn't wake up looking like Kylie Minogue!
Being freed from what you've been tied to before, even ostensibly for your own support, leaves you wobbly; but there's giddiness to it. My happy-ever-after may now never involve forcing my foot into a glass slipper, but that would be darned uncomfortable attire for scampering about on a pebbled beach or pruning the jasmine. The perfect fit is more about sitting easy in the niche you've whittled and finally being comfortable in your own skin. Before, it seemed I didn't have time to see people, to read things, to relax. Now, I might argue that I have the time but not the money; but that isn't relevant at all. There are interesting folk and sights all round me in this city and the library here is one of the coolest places to be. The seagulls ensure that I don't oversleep and I still have two strong legs to get me back at night from the pier in less than half an hour, with a safety that was long-lost to me in south London. Faith brings it's own sense of freedom: I know that where I've walked in error in the past won't condemn me or prevent me from getting to where I need to be, which is waiting for me as it's always been.

You have to recognise freedom in all it's reflections. It isn't always about the largess of tangible struggle; I would never be dismissive or disrespectful enough to claim that this little post was intending to address such struggles. Freedom, like God, can be in the details, the little things. One of my favourite quotes about being free isn't by Martin Luther King, John Kennedy or Nelson Mandela, but from a young, skittish Joni Mitchell:

"I want to have fun, I want to shine like the sun; I want to be the one that you want to see.

I want to knit you a sweater, want to write you a love letter, I want to make you feel better; I want make you feel free."

I hope the bar staff have left that legend on the mirror in the Ladies' loo. I'm pretty sure it will help someone else re-calculate their apparent shortcomings as they wash their hands and blot their lipstick.

On the subject of mirrors, I took two rather nice but surplus-to-requirement mirrors to give to a lovely friend of mine last week. She's a vibrant, pretty and funny young woman, bringing up her children while her young man is imprisoned; awaiting trial for something awful. I share her belief that he is guilty of being with the wrong person in the wrong place but not of what he's been charged with. Her resilience is astounding and her resolve about this situation has been an inspiration to me. John Paul Sartre defined freedom as being able to choose what you do with what's been done to you. I won't name her or her man to preserve their privacy and the children's, but this post was most definitely written with them in mind and in heart.

"For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others."

(Nelson Mandela)

"Flashing for the warriors whose strength is not to fight,
Flashing for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight,
And for each and every underdog soldier in the night
We gazed upon the chimes of Freedom flashing." 
(Bob Dylan) 

"The Chimes of Freedom"  Bruce Springsteen (version)         

"Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed,

For the countless confused, accused, misused strung-out ones and worse,

And for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe:

We gazed upon the chimes of Freedom flashing."

(Bob Dylan)