Happy Post

It’s been a while since I did a happy post anywhere. This is not a happy thing.

So, yes. Happiness. More of it needs spreading. Well, my life would appreciate it, and it seems that of many around me. I wish I could fix it. But hey ho.

Things:

1. E-mails with kittens in. Recently, I got a new e-mail address for my role as Southern FURY Rep. Which was lovely, but I thought I ought to let folk know that I’d gotten in to the system and that e-mails from it were working. So I sent a message out containing some kittens. AND THE URC BLOCKS KITTENS. Although, on checking later, I did discover that one can get around it and so still have kittens, the thought of kittens being absent from my world filled me with woe and despair. BECAUSE KITTENS ARE A HAPPY THING. I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t be as overjoyed as me to receive kittens in their inbox/general world.

2. On a similar note: Inbred cats.

3. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve had a new descant recorder. It cost me all of two pounds (yes, I know), and is rather excitingly stripey. This has been a source of some amusement. It was rather more amusing, however, when I turned up at morris practice on Tuesday for Jax (our box player) to tell me I’d a present. It was splendid. She’d got me some nail polish, so that I can paint my nails to match the stripes on my recorder. It was a sight to behold (even if I am naff at both nails and painting them).

4. The humble donkra. Continuing the small animals thing – how awesome are these? I came upon these recently, and whilst I am not swayed from my deep love of zebras, this is definitely a thing of wonder.

5. Intercontinental, multiplayer, skype-QWOPing. This was a thing that happened whilst on skype with Jane and Dabbs a couple weeks ago. If you don’t know QWOP, it is the most addictive. And also the most horrendously difficult. It’s also consumed far more of my life than it probably should. Again, this is something I recently got back into, and my current PB is 30.2 – I’m set on getting to the 100m mark. But will probably get there and be so shocked that I fall over and only hit 99.8. Such is life.

6. Discovering things! For example, this old song:

Actually, everything by Great Big Sea. They are one of my very favourites and I found my them playlist and I was a very happy Nori indeed.

7. And this new song:

8. Knitted fingertaches. This is a thing. And dressing up.

9.  Seeing things actually happen. Lots of things are being set in motion by people that I know, and they are wonderful things and they’re going to be so awesome. This makes me excited and happy. I like it when people make awesome happen. Particularly when it comes from nearly nothing. Myself, I’m rather proud of our SSYE blog, which we’ve formed up in the last couple of days with a couple of us moderating, and – yeah. I’m a bit proud. Not only of my MS Paint skillz.

10.

Lent

So. At some point it seemed like it would be a good idea to give up meat products for Lent. Thus, I’m vegan. Hummus-centric diet, here I come.

I’ll talk a bit about the hows and whys when I’m a little less tired, but this year Lent is happening. It is happening.

I went to the Ash Wednesday service today. It was really nice – strange in many ways, but really nice, and more engaging than I expected it to be.

So, for the next 40(-odd) days, there will be no meat products in my life. Dear me, but I am going to have a cheese crisis. Fairly warned be ye. In addition to not eating anything meat, dairy, or egg-containing, I’m going to take up veganism in my life. I’ve decided that I’ll not be changing anything that I already have and use, but when it comes time to be buying new things, they will need to be vegan-friendly.

So, yes. This is going to be an adventure. Madness, but I’m used to that.

Remember, o man, that thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return. Turn away from sin and be faithful to Christ.

Reading Week Adventures

Whilst it might be true that my reading week this term was vastly unproductive, I did actually get out and do some things:

I went on an adventure with my Jestia. We went to the Natural History Museum. During half term. Yes. And I ended up sneaking in the back way in a surreptitious ‘I’ve got an honest face, please let me through!’ fashion. That was an adventure in itself. We played about there and looked at shiny things and got earthquaked, and then gave up on the millions of children and absconded to the V&A. Which was marvellous. There was golden spider silk and admiring of statues and an exhibit on Annie Lennox and pictures by Beatrix Potter and dressing up in various costumes. It was an exciting day indeed. And it featured the world’s best sandwich. Worth a mention.

Did I mention that I took up hankie-waving? Well, I spent four hours at a practise of that. Not all four of them waving my hankies…

I also went for my own little countryside adventure. I had to go to a meeting in Caterham, so I travelled up early and went for a play in the woods. Much rejoicing and muddy legs followed. Yes, legs. It is never too early for shorts when you’re happy.

Slightly prior to Reading Week, I met up with my friend James in the good old Mad Hatter. That was an exciting thing. We went to school together and I haven’t seen him in Actual Years.

I received this beautiful specimen of spam regarding my dancing habit: ‘Morris combines this inside experience with personal testimonies from all sides, for a transparent exploration of Colombia’ s drawn out conflict.’

The week rounded off with a weekend SSYE meeting in Lindfield (including appearances from Elmo and Big Bird…). Lots was done, we fooled around with ukuleles, we fooled around, and there was a trip to the Bluebell Railway. I got to hang my head out the window and go up on the footplate and I was generally just the most excited Nori in all the world. It was made of awesome.

And the world sings tremolo

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total darkness sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

The More Loving One – W. H. Auden

I don’t know what my fascination is with memory. Anyone who knows me knows that it is not my forte. As one whose mind likes to live entirely in the moment, I find remembering hard. Everything but now is distant, and I often struggle to remember when I last woke up, much less when I last fell to sleep. It’s how I am.

I’m not much of one for being smart, either. There were indications when I was small that I would grow up brainy. Unfortunately, those have been crushed by more fail-marks than most would care to remember. I’ve never cared much to learn the text book.

But I like memorising. As I say, I don’t know why. There’s something about committing things to memory that draws me. Mostly the useless, or the insignificant. Almost entirely, in fact.

I can tell you the value of pi to nearly 100 places. I can recite imperial measures I never use. Bits of maps and bus routes that I used once, or never was supposed to. Little details tend to stick, odd bits of memory that someone told me to note or which I wanted to think about. Insignificant stories. Words to songs I learnt in primary school are big ones. I had a choir mistress who made us always sing by heart, and it stuck.

I like to learn poetry. It’s always something that I’ve wanted to do, and there are several poems I’d like to master. I can do several upon request, although unfortunately, the first one that tends to spring to my mind is This be the verse. Which, although it’s a favourite, isn’t always to the mind of the company. I like it when I’m travelling, when I see something or hear something said, and it brings a line or two to my mind. I like that a lot.

It’s reasonable to say that there’s no interest in putting poems to memory. That the repetition bores and the words lose their meaning. But I don’t find that. I usually know fairly quickly whether a poem’s going to stick. Obviously, some stick better than others – free verse is hard! – but there are some that just sit right. And those ones don’t lose in the repeating. Granted, they lose something of their original meaning, by which I mean my look on them when first read, but they develop with you, and the bits that stick out change, and the way that you say them and the way that they sound to you changes and it adds so much more. I like that, too. Repetition is boring, but only when things stay the same.

I don’t know what grabs me so about memorising. Perhaps it’s because it’s something that I find so hard. But although it’s completely useless, it’s going to stay.

Another battle in our dirty little war

So. I’ve been doing some looking. And, although that’s always good, that’s not been entirely a happy thing. So to speak. Because, frankly, these past few months have been pretty much strung depression. Which is, y’know, nice.

URC Youth Assembly 2012

Yeah, that was last weekend. It was a thing. It was a rather fantastic thing.

So, I spent an entire week writing this. Or, uh, failing to write it. Totally does not show as worth it. However.

So yeah, having the fear of God instilled about not losing Southern Synod on the train, all eleven of us did manage to get to Youth Assembly on Friday in one piece. Physically, if lacking sanity. And, although we regained very little sanity over the course of the weekend, it did seem to be well worth it. Right from the offset, it felt like a good time. We were in a new and mysterious place, and the environment this year was wonderful – it seemed friendly and cheerful and easy and generally bright. To me, at least. I really enjoyed that. There was ample chance to see folk again, and to meet plenty of fantastic new friends, and we were trusted with the decorating of china mugs (we claim green for using fewer paper cups, or something). Lots of fun and silliness, some wonderful conversations to be had, and folk generally being awesome. That seemed to be a theme. It was good.

In terms of business, this was probably the best Assembly I’ve attended. In that, not only did we talk about things about which I actually cared, I did feel like all of the resolutions brought were relevant and justifiably needful, and that, actually, we could make something of a difference. Now, mostly it was just FURY business, creating a code of conduct and sending things to General Assembly and talking about charity and instituting a welfare rep. But it was good. That latter I particularly appreciated, as someone who strongly would have benefited from having that role better filled in her first (and probably second, third?) years at events. I know a lot of people (and, yes, myself included) had a lot of strong feelings about a resolution we passed to promote education about mental health (youth mental wellbeing & charities and such). It’s not before time – I know from my experiences in my synod (and, y’know, my life) that it is needed and would be so beneficial if we can actually do something strong with that. So yes.

Assembly is a chance to have a voice, but it’s also a wonderful opportunity to listen. I surprised myself somewhat with the number of times I appeared at the microphone, but perhaps this is what comes of caring about what’s being discussed. So yes, enough to make myself an annoyance, but I feel I should get points for only one visit being to be pernickety and amend wording! I did enjoy listening to the debates as they unfolded, and for the first time Youth Assembly adopted the cafe-style seating – putting us around tables and inviting us to share stories surrounding the motions. I liked that a lot, and it always seemed that when we were stopped there had been more to be shared. Such is the way.

It was a busy weekend and there was plenty to do. I did workshops on Human Sexuality and felting; I never got to hear from anyone who did the workshop on sport ministry, but I’d've liked to enquire. I enjoyed the discussion about Human Sexuality, partially because (as you probably know) that’s one of my favourite subjects, but mostly because it was refreshingly different to the normal semi-recitable discussions I’ve had – and, pleasingly, we seemed to talk very little being hung up on sex. I often feel sex gets in the way of sexuality discussions. We were also aboundingly silly over the course of the weekend – playing sardines, being silly and teasing each other, losing The Game, playing with the jenga bricks. For the first time in my life I got to be the tallest in the synod. Not sure how many giant jenga bricks they had me stacked up on at that point… Also managed to fit 46 of us in the chimney. I count that as a win.

I heard quite a few people say they were taking things away with them. I thought that was great. I know that I did, although perhaps very much not what I expected. We had a great presentation from Christian Aid on the Saturday evening, and although by that point I was worn out and did need to take multiple breaks from it, I think a lot came out of it. It was a really inspiring peace for a lot of people, I think, and folk really came away with a flame lit for justice. It was good, and there was wonderful music, and it was a nice evening. I enjoyed the worship a lot, too. There was corporate worship as usual, but the chaplain had formed up a lovely prayer room – which was an absolutely fantastic space, creative and calming and comfortable, and one which I must admit I made a fair bit of use of (yeah, about those aforementioned breaking points). For a couple of my friends, they found it hard not having worship songs this year but hymns – the choices were pretty good though, and finding that very much more my style, I really liked that. There was a lovely moment, that I felt, when we were in the final worship time, preceding moderator handover, right at the end of the weekend. We sang the prayer of St. Francis, and, whilst I’m often in two minds about that as a hymn, it was one everyone knew, and it was sung beautifully, and, to me, it really sounded like a prayer. It was nice to have that togetherness in prayer to close Assembly.

It was a fantastic weekend. It really was. I know I wasn’t the only one to get a lot out of it, and not the only one to have a good time. It was great, and I’m really thankful that the FAB team did the fantastic job that they did. It really must’ve been an ask. It was great to have the time to collect and to talk, I really did have some splendid conversations, and it was also great to just have fun with other mad FURY people. And, particularly this year, I really felt I (and others) had a lot to take away from it, and in a constructive way. It was a chance to learn a lot, about a number of things. I guess we’ll see how that goes. But I think I needed that weekend – it was grand.

Also, I shouldn’t be so adjusted to folk travelling up and down the country in their pyjamas.

Let it cover up all traces of the year that’s gone before

It’s snowing.

It’s kind-of weird. It doesn’t snow in town, because it’s such a grey place. Grey buildings, grey air, grey streets, grey people – it’s grey in all seasons. Rarely does it even try to snow, and even more rare is it to settle. Transport is no fun in this weather. As I have already experienced on my short way across London tonight. I like the snow. I like it a lot. As much for the joy of frolicking in it as its covering of the grey, blanketing and softening and gently brightening, and generally breaking that dreary city monotony. And it’s slushy, and it’s a hassle, and there are barmy people still queuing for nightclubs in their miniskirts and heels, yes. But it’s nice for me. It’s fresh and it’s covering and it’s needed.

   

When Lorna came by in autumn, she told me my college was a bit like Narnia. Well, now it very much is. Heythrop is lovely – and it’s gardens are beautiful. Little, but so nice. When I’m up particularly early, I sometimes catch the nuns enjoying the sunshine that catches there and saying good morning to the still frost-dusted plants. I like that, too. I’m not much good at photographing, so I can’t show you what it looks like, but walking back in the dark with the fresh snow was amazing. And there weren’t even any students out to ruin it for me. Oh, and there may or may not have recently appeared a snow angel outside the college front door. I wouldn’t know.

   

a-wassail-what?

Have you ever been a-wassailing? I have been a-wassailing.

Yesterday I went to a wassail, in my capacity as a pretender to morris. There is a first time for everything.

There is a long-held British tradition of shouting until you get what you want. And this is where we have developed the timeless and un-rivalled technique for procuring large quantities of tasty alcoholic beverages. Singing for your supper and all that, standing caterwauling someone’s front door until pies appear, paying the morris men (as they did) in beer. It’s working for us, why break with tradition?

In the case of wassail, we sing to the trees.

The day for me was spent in the foreyard of a small pub somewhere in the vicinity of Sevenoaks. After a long (and chilly!) afternoon of dancing and laughing and the consuming of several pints of the large range of barrelled beers that were lined up along the bar, us morris lots were done and we began the wassail proper. Now, wassailing, as I have discovered, is a thing. We led a grand torch-lit procession down the road and into the orchard, where we proceeded with the rictual of blessing the trees, waking them from their winter slumber in the hopes of their yielding a fine crop for this year. A single tree is picked to be wassailed (big orchard and that). Turns out that they were pear trees, not apple as I had thought, but it’s all good.

So, there are parts to wassailing. And many of them are a little bit alarming, so the first thing we have to offer is a wee bit of bread for the birdies. Because if you want fertile soil, it’s important that the birds feel able to come sit in the branches and poop on your roots. Naturally, you invite them. So a few little bits are attached to one of the lower branches for them to spot in the morning.

When that’s done, the wassailing bowl is taken – a wide double-handled cup filled with the best steaming cider – and poured out in offering over the tree’s roots. Now, I maintain that this smacks of apple-tree cannibalism, but who am I to question working rictual? We followed our offering with the singing of a wassailing song, voices raised with a band of jolly accordion music, to serenade the tree. It was a thing of beauty, if not of great tunefulness.

The next bit of the blessing involves scaring the shit out of the tree and just about anyone within a five-mile radius. I do very much wonder what any passing stranger might have thought we were doing in a darkened orchard. So the man at the head took his musket and shot it into the air, and we followed by our crowd taking up our pipes, drums, sticks, hands and voices, and anything else lying about and made as much noise as was humanly possible. After that, the tree, indeed the orchard, was considered to be well woken for this spring, and any evil spirits with an ounce of sense will hopefully have flown from the racket. So we processed back in the dark to the sound of bagpipes (not traditional, but then our morris side isn’t very), and gravitated towards warm hearths and hearty drinks. Good times. It was a jolly way to spend a day.

The term wassail comes from the Old English wæs (þu) hæl – ‘be hearty’, ‘be whole’. Certainly, I think so.

I watch the stars from my windowsill…

When I was travelling over the winter holidays, I had a thought. I’d left Iona, spent nights on coaches and was homeless, sleeping on the lent beds of some lovely friends. Living out my rucksack,  and duly carting it around with me, as I do tend to do. Not really going anywhere, just being somewhere to waste time.

Wandering then, for the first time in a long while, I had the thought ‘I want to go home’. And when I do have that thought, it seems a silly thing. Not only because of its self-indulgent, whiny nature, but because I don’t think I really know where ‘home’ is.

I wanted to come back to Alban Hall, to my little room, to my own bed and routine and space to be. I wanted to be somewhere that was mine. But is this place my home? I live here, I spend my days in this little green square, but on the other hand I’m not engaged with the life of college, with the people here and the life of the building. It’s just some space that I’ve been given, and I’m aware that it’s only for just now.

I have a more permanent address. Two. Places I lived in for years before this, and still have a bed whenever I should ask. Do the two houses of my parents feel like home? Probably not. But they are.

I’ve lived with both sets of grandparents at one time and another, that was my home and I did a fair chunk of growing up there. Surely I have to give that a place?

There are places where I’ve made my home for a while. My room in halls at Warwick with its flooding bathroom, a bed loaned to me on Iona where my whole living was shared with everyone else, even living in someone else’s home while I was working for them. Short term, but what I had. In all those cases, because I didn’t have anywhere else.

Woodlarks perhaps feels most homely in the sense of familiarity and security in returning. It’s the only place I’ve come home to year after year, to people I love and to happiness, and which has remained constant throughout my life. I’ve been to that site every year since bumphood, and it’s as much a part of me as any other home I’ve had (to many, more so) – I couldn’t bear a year at this point where I didn’t go back.

There will be many other places, perhaps, that I learn to call home. I don’t know why, and I don’t know where they’ll be. I don’t know what they’ll mean to me. But then I hardly know that about any of these homes of mine.

I tend to blow about somewhat. I’m not rooted in any one place. I often find it difficult to name my hometown or tell where I come from, because I’m from London and from Kent, the city and the country, from my mother’s, father’s, and my grandparents’, I call most of South London ‘mine’ – familiar, and I know most of the city like I’d know my own town. All of these places are homes to me, and at the same time none of them. And I don’t feel at a loss for that, nor do I feel a want. I don’t like to be tied down, I don’t plan to commit to a town and a home and settling any time soon, and from what I know I seriously doubt that I ever will. I guess I don’t really need to have a home, but there are places to be my home. Some for a short while, and some to which I will always come back with embrace. And that works for me.

I guess it’s weird to think ‘which home’s next?’.

Plans. Planly plans.

I’m just going to put the zebra here. Almost a warning. You’re welcome.