Wednesday 5 December 2018

Twisted threads

So there are two strands of thought I've been following through in recent posts — one on the last twenty years of one's life and how to live them well and land gracefully at the end, the other on anarchist church and whatever that might imply.

I've carried on thinking about both. 

little while ago, I said I wanted to explore here the Four Accessibilities, which belongs with anarchist church preoccupations, so I thought I'd come back to that.

But at the forefront of my mind is something that belongs more with the last twenty years of life; which is that I am so tired.

Our family life has been a glorious muddle for the last couple of decades, and this has shown no sign of abating in recent times. Don't run away with the idea that we're unhappy, just somewhat chaotic.

Change has continued to run at full strength in the last year or two. Buzzfloyd and her husband have, with a lot of hard work and persistence, and great expenditure at the US end, managed to import Buzz's mother-in-law (who has fragile health) on a permanent basis, which is a relief and a success, but not without its challenges in their small row house with its two-and-a-half bedrooms, one bathroom, and now five inhabitants (three adults, two children). But that just extends the family tradition, one more variant on "No, seriously, we can do this" that has dominated our whole life.

So meanwhile in our house, we imposed a moratorium on all meetings and socialising three years back when we took in my mother for end-of-life care, and extended an invitation to another one of us to live here because her circumstances required it. That would have brought our number up to eight, which felt daunting, but happily we kept it at seven — my mother got better under the care of our excellent doctor, and was able to return to her own apartment where, two years on, she still is.

Since this summer, we moved the Badger down from his attic to the middle floor (which required carpentry plus plus to create housing for his books and clothes etc), and moved the middle floor inhabitant up to the vacated attic; and then as our temporary resident in the back sitting room got closer to acquiring her own accommodation elsewhere, her incoming domestic accoutrements swelled in quantity until we thought the house would burst. 

While all this was going on, we had the entire house swathed in scaffolding and painted in a humungously expensive preparation guaranteed to defeat the battering of coastal weather and keep it all in good nick for twenty years. So as well as the place being crammed with inhabitants, we also had decorators clog-dancing their way all round the outside at all hours of the day.

Unfortunately they neglected to do any preparation, contenting themselves with spraying paint on top of old blistering layers and even over moss! So after the scaffold came down and a whole lot of fuss was made by us, another scaffold went up — new team; made a hole in our roof front and back — and yet more decorators came. 
Then when they'd gone, a man came to re-tile our complicated Victorian mosaic front path, meaning the postie had to pick his way through the shrubs and hand mail through the window for a couple of weeks. After that, another lot of men came to put in new windows at the back of the house — and not before time; our Alice's room was freezing because she couldn't close her window for three years.

And finally, our temporary resident moved out this last week. That meant carrying a massive amount of boxes down from the attic, packing them in our cars and van, then unpacking them and carrying them up to her attic apartment in the new house. By the end we were all nearly dead and everything ached.

We love her dearly and she is most precious to us — an absolute jewel, really — but no one pretends the last two years all living together has been easy. If you doubt this, you too should try living with a trombonist who needs to practice   every   single   night.

Yesterday was the last push, and now she is ensconced in her beautiful and well-chosen new home.

And today, I felt like a zombie. Too tired to live and far too tired to die. Tiredness so insistent and tangible and assertive I almost felt sick. Tiredness that filled me up and overflowed. I walked up to the store for groceries, and moving in the fresh air eased everything a bit. But you know, one of the aspects of growing older I find most prominent is tiredness as a familiar companion. Too tired to read, too tired to socialise, too tired to structure a book — I even fall asleep watching telly. I am just so, so tired.

Last week, stressed by builders and stressed by house moving shenanigans, a fine piece of spectacular Methodist administrative ineptitude pushed me over the edge and my immune system just crashed, leaving me two days feverish and ill; just tired beyond imagining, too tired to move or get out of bed.

Sometimes I wonder about the progression of the last (next) twenty years of my life as it unfolds; I mean, how could you possibly get more tired than this? But I suppose I will. How on earth will I learn to embrace and integrate and work with it? I just don't know.

So that's Thought One.

But the second thought, about anarchist church, was looking back at some work I did at the end of the 1980s, beginning of the 90s, when the Methodist Church convened a Poverty Project to consider its response to UK poverty. The committee in question had a prestigious minister (running it), a social worker from a gritty housing estate, a member of parliament who always wore a pin-striped suit, and a sprinkling of other individuals I've now forgotten. And then there was me. I was not prestigious and had no qualifications, but I did personally know quite a lot of people in poverty, which was to be my contribution.

As we discussed and deliberated (there were a couple of other women on the team at the beginning but, apart from the ones who brought in tea and sandwiches at half time, they all left), and I canvassed opinion from the Actual Poor, something became very clear to me. The main thing people living in scary levels of poverty wanted was not so much a handout as a friend. They were very resourceful and had loads of strategies for out-foxing their circumstances, but what meant the world was someone who understood and someone to be a companion on the journey. This was also true of the people dying in the hospice, which was the other place I spent every spare hour at that time in my life.

So, as I came into pastoral ministry — rather abruptly after an epic battle (I'll tell you about that another day) over inclusive church at the end of which our minster crashed and burned and left me at the helm — I began to formulate some thoughts about what inclusivity needed. 

I came up with the Four Accessibilities. 

Which are:

  1. Accessibility of worship. We had a lot of people in our congregation back then who lived with profound and challenging disability, and a lot of children. Making worship accessible included strategies like repetitive formats so that people for whom words didn't mean as much as the shape of the service could join in — and a relatively small repertoire of songs, and a sung Lord's Prayer. But also high quality music and preaching ministries, to engage the imagination and draw in those on the fringes. And inclusive language (uncommon and contentious, back then).
  2. Accessibility of buildings. We ripped out pews to make space at the back, on one side for those in wheelchairs who were still coming to terms with new disability and felt shy at the front, on the other side to make a carpeted area with toys and beanbags for the littlest ones. We ripped out pews at the front to make space for wheelchairs, and for adults who could crawl and climb but not easily sit on benches to have big easy chairs. We put in disabled-access toilets and a T-loop for hard of hearing people, and got ramps for wheelchairs.
  3. Accessibility of socialising. We began a rolling programme of activities — like our pantomime and our tea-dance and our Old Tyme Music Hall — which involved everyone, not on one day only but for weeks as we practised and rehearsed and learned to waltz and wrote scripts and songs and made props and costumes. There was so much laughter and ingenuity and creativity. And the key thing running through it all was that it was all-age, all-ability and everything was free. No charge. Ever. 
  4. Accessibility of lifestyle. Now this was something impossible to impose, but I thought it very important and made it a non-negotiable foundational principle for myself. To have nothing that could make other people feel jealous or inferior. To choose what was simple, lowly and unpretentious. In what I ate, how I dressed, where I shopped, where I lived, what I drove, what I owned, how I furnished my home. So that nothing about me, ever, could make another person feel ashamed or inadequate. I was splendidly successful in this endeavour, became an invisible nonentity, standardly overlooked, a total nobody; and this I find both hard to bear and an absolute treasure — because one is in good company.
Well, I guess I'd better stop before you grow old and die. Those were my first stumbling steps towards anarchist church, for any of you still awake and interested in the subject.

And now I'm going to finish my day in the usual way (I expect you all do this) with some crushed raw garlic, cider vinegar, propolis and Manuka honey. This mixture gets rid of everything — bacteria, viruses, unwelcome fungi, vampires, demons . . .

G'night.


17 comments:

Fiona said...

Thank you for this fascinating post, Pen. I really hope you sleep well tonight and can manage a good amount of rest in the coming days, and I look forward to reading your next collection of thoughts when you have the time and energy to bring them together. Goodnight! xxx

Pen Wilcock said...

Waving to you! Night night! x

Buzzfloyd said...

"Not so much a handout as a friend."

And that is the Gospel, n'est-ce pas?

Ganeida said...

I have not lived with a trombonist. I have lived with a singer & a flautist whose preferred practise times [yes, every night] were after everyone else had gone to bed because she could hear herself in the silence.

I think we make choices on what we can't live without. I can't live without natural beauty. It is a must for me. We sacrificed many other things that others take for granted in order to have this one thing.

And yes, I am tired. All. the. time. In my next life I shall be a cat & have an excuse to sleep all the time. ;)

Bethany said...

Yes, this exactly, Fiona!
Personally, I'm exhausted from the holiday rehearsals and concerts that pile up for musicians this time of year, a broken car (and subsequent car shopping excursion), and a job change for my husband. But your words are a moment of peace in a weary time. Thank you.
I'm hoping you can find deep rest, Pen, body and soul.

Pen Wilcock said...

Buzzfloyd — exactly so. And I think your home, like the one you grew up in and ours now, has become a sort of caravanserai.

Ganeida — Yes! One of the things without which I absolutely cannot rest is knowing my family are all okay. And I do like to be able to see a tree from my window. May you find oases of rest.

Bethany — oh my goodness, may your car soon be fixed for you. Yes, we here are well familiar with the Christmas gigs! May there be Christmas peace for you when it finally gets here.

Keep going, friends! xx

Bean said...

Wow, read this yesterday evening, had to go away and ponder, then re-read this morning.

Having had a daughter and young grandson move out recently, it is nice to have our house back to ourselves, although it is always open if any of the family is in need. (let's just hope no one is in need LOL :)
I am a loner by heart, and although I love all the family over, I really, really treasure my alone time, probably part of the reason I am an early riser.

The second thought.
I think you have covered all bases. Funnily enough I am reading your book The Clear Light Of Day, I am enjoying it very much. And, the main character, Esme seems on a similar path, the church to be accessible to all and to be true community.
I think your approach, gentle and loving, accepting and welcoming, simplicity and peace, is the way to go.

Peace be with you,

Bean

Pen Wilcock said...

Thank you, Bean! I'm so pleased you're enjoying The Clear Light Of Day. x

greta said...

bless you, dear pen, for your thoughtful post. there is so much to ponder here that it will take me some time to process it all. two things struck me at this initial reading. first, being tired. growing older, slowing down, relaxing into relinquishment, letting go. our tiredness is in some ways a gift. it reminds us of what is important and what can be set aside. when we have only so much energy for the day ahead, we have to make serious choices about what we can realistically accomplish. the upcoming holidays are their own ghastly challenge and i have simply stopped doing some things (like sending out christmas cards!) second, accessibility of lifestyle. YES, being almost invisible, not owning anything that somehow speaks 'status'. living so simply and quietly and plainly that the least of our brothers and sisters would feel comfortable and welcome in our homes. more and more possessions make their way to the nearby charity shop. those that remain are of the handmade variety. our home is becoming ever more peaceful. just the other day i made a small sign to place on the front door. 'monastic enclosure'. it's the kind benedictine way to say 'you are coming into a place of rest and prayer and you will be welcomed.' it also reminds ME to make sure that our home truly is a place of rest, prayer and welcome. to you and everyone who comments here, come on over!

Pen Wilcock said...

When I was 18 and living with monks in Devon, one morning I sat in the small, quiet, whitewashed, simply furnished, sunny chapel, reading their leaflet about their monastic order, their rule of life. One phrase struck me and has stayed with me ever since: "The priory should reflect the peace and order of heaven."
So that would be not merely cold and clinical tidiness or obsessive cleanliness or self-conscious minimalism, but a living peace that has its priorities straight,
What you say — "our home is becoming ever more peaceful" — is a good sign, for sure! x

Suzan said...

Pen I wished I loved near enough to steal quietly into your home and do some work for you. I would make some soothing meals as well. Since I can't do that I will remember you in my prayers and send you my love.

Pen Wilcock said...

Suzan! Stop it! You cannot wait on the entire world! Your are tired yourself and stretched to the limit! I am most grateful for your prayers. xxx

Rebecca said...

Bean, I would live to borrow the book when you finish..if you're a lender, that is. (Actually an excuse to see you in person again.)

Rebecca said...

Tired? I can relate. Just can't express it as thoroughly and plainly as you. And as for #4, that is exactly where I long to be all the time --and am frequently. ❤️

Pen Wilcock said...

Hi Rebecca! I like to think of you meeting u with Bean for a cup of tea! x

Rebecca said...

You come! We'llhost you as long as you can stay!

Pen Wilcock said...

:0D

xx