#WordyandWheelyWednesdays: On Woodland Wonder

Hello my lovely readers!

Here is this week's second post, and the #WordyandWheelyWednesdays entry, about my week camping with my fellow Pathfinders at the wonderful Woodlarks. However, it'll be more photographic than wordy, as it's been a long day (few days, since I've got home) and I'm tired tonight. I mentioned in Monday's post that I had been nervous about going because I'd been ill, but that all my doubts were, if not entirely unfounded, certainly swept away by the end of the week.

This was made possible by a number of things, some seemingly small on the surface but actually very big, others that I had built up in my head but which turned out to be much smaller than suspected.

Firstly, my trusty waist strap, which I'd stopped using at home. It came in very useful in combatting the extra challenge of the combined forces of gravity and very steep hills.

Secondly, our lovely leader Sam, to whom I also dedicated part of Monday's post. Not only did she do wonderfully for her first year at the forefront of everything (generally) but she specifically helped me with the reminder that my spasmy side (from the gravity and hills combo) would thank me, and most likely calm down, if I got a couple of good nights' sleep indoors. She was right - and I think the rest of my patrol would probably agree, because they were saved from being kept up when I needed to turn on to my back. Sam also gave me the very generous gift of a heart-shaped worry stone, which has already had a lot of use and is hugely appreciated.

Thirdly, our daily moment for interfaith worship, which is known as Time Out in the Trees. I led the thoughtful session on Tuesday and (as well as offering my own silent, private thanks for the recovery of most of my stability) I talked of the cloudy sky and how I hoped there would be sunshine later - but also how the green trees against the grey had their own beauty. I remarked that the weather had helpfully coincided with my metaphor about how camp helps me recentre myself even when things are tough; and then we were indeed blessed with beautiful sunshine in the evening.

Fourthly, thanks to taking some rest time earlier in the week, I felt physically stable and emotionally confident to go on the aerial runway - something, you may recall from another recent post, I hadn't done since 2010. Not only was it not as painful and scary as I had supposed it might be, it felt so freeing. No action shots this time, but one just before.

Content Note: small spaces

Fifthly, but in a similar vein, I went water zorbing! I had been absolutely terrified about this beforehad, but it was also great. Yes, I had to take up interesting positions, particularly getting in and out, and I didn't stay in for the full time because I got scared when other zorb balls bumped into me (I was on my back, and too light to move away from them myself, and apparently slightly more claustrophobic than I realised). But I was physically comfortable, and the feeling of being able to gaze up at the sky from my back (even for those few moments) was as close to unencumbered bliss as I've been in a while.

Sixthly, friends. We had a great patrol, and as always by the end of the week we were like a mini-family (albeit one with vastly differing ideas about suitable bedtimes - I'm getting old! - and whether or not ketchup is a good condiment). We had lots of fun, from taking far too long to light a fire for lunch to smashing down stereotypes whilst out bowling. The photo here is a few of us at the pub, in the garden, drinking wine to celebrate Levi's memory.

Seventhly, also friends, but of the canine variety. Chloe (one of my longest-held human friends) brought with her her assistance dog, Fleur. Sometimes, when everything is quiet, Chloe is kind enough to allow us cuddles - and I was very happy, especially in the absence of my two.

So I suppose my message for this week is that, although friends, fur, fun and fire (both the element and the soul strength) don't fix everything, they go along way to helping. Pathfinders is aptly named - it's always there, even when we think we might have lost our way. And I'm so very glad I didn't miss it this year.

Love til next week

Jx  

Monday Motivation

Hello my lovely readers! 

An extra post this week, partly to make up for missing last Wednesday, but mostly because I have two things to write about - camp and Parallel London - and they both deserve entries of their own.

Given that we are now just six days away from my 100m walk as part of the latter, its post has to come first. I could simply have waited until next Wednesday and written about it afterwards, but you have all been so supportive (in funding my walker as well as the charity donations), and I feel I should give you an update on how things have been going in terms of prep. It's also an extra motivational boost for me, hence the title.

Don't worry, though, camp will still feature slightly in this post. The week allowed me to take stock and realise how far I have progressed in the last several months. Having been ill beforehand, not only was I nervous about going on a general level, but I was wary about taking what I perceived to be yet another week off from training. It turned out I needn't have been concerned, as is so often the case, because somehow feeling slightly below par only increased my determination to throw myself at things and to use them as an alternative form of preparation. That's not to say everything was perfect, of course (my body had some silly moments, as you'll read in more detail on Wednesday), but it was well worth it and I'm so very glad I managed to go.

This shift in perspective came from two sources. Firstly, from Sam, our lovely leader, who convinced me that a couple of nights indoors didn't constitute admitting defeat, but rather that it was just what I needed to be able to get on and do some things I hadn't done for years.

Secondly, from Jamie McDonald, who came to talk to us on Thursday afternoon. Jamie has done all sorts of feats for charity, including a gruelling run across Canada, and it was a privilege to learn about his experiences. In his book, which I've just devoured (and which you should read!), Jamie writes about how there are people who plan and people who are 'naive', in that they just go with the flow and where life takes them. I'm definitely a planner by nature (albeit an idealistic one!), but my body and my Cerebral Palsy often mean that I just have to take each moment as it arrives, and I'm starting to understand that that is not merely acceptable but actually a potential asset - even if it can be mightily terrifying at times.

Yes, my training plan for this event may not have been (in the least bit) conventional, but that's okay. The things I've done over the last few months have taught me how much I have changed and grown, personally as well as in terms of my physicality. So, in the last six days before I walk, now that I've caught up on sleep after camp, I'm embracing my idiosyncrasies and treating every single movement I make as part of my final forays into training. This is a particularly important strategy, as my actual walker won't arrive until tomorrow at the earliest, which means I'm using alternative apparatus like the frame in the photo below for a little bit longer.

The perfectionist planner in me might be panicking, but I'm using the fear as fuel. After all, I said I wanted to do something outside my comfort zone this time, and I'm lucky enough to have all of you to catch me should I need it - either literally or figuratively. Your generosity (and my gratitude!) knows no bounds; having smashed my initial target of £130, we've somehow raised over £700 for Starlight, which means we'll have some very happy wish-kids.

Thank you so much for helping me give back to this wonderful charity - it means more than these rambly words of mine can say. As we are now in the final stretch before my stretch, if you know anyone else who might like to contribute, please click the widget beside this post, or send them the link here.

All my love and thanks as always,

Jx (Parallel Parrott)

Credit (C) Bev Chambers

 

#WordyandWheelyWednesdays: On Pain and Perspective

Hello my lovely readers

This week's #WordyandWheelyWednesdays entry, on getting some perspective on my recent resurgence of physical pain, has multiple impetuses.

1) The increased presence of the pain itself, of course, due in no small part to my body tightening as it tries to rid itself of the last vestiges of this infection. That on its own would not lead to a change in my thoughts about my pain, though. Far from it; suddenly having this intense level of pain back in my life after several good months has been overwhelming, not least because it has meant I've had to take a break from training. In fact, at times, I've panicked that I'm going back downhill. Exactly the opposite of rational objectivity! So the reining in of all this emotion has had to arrive from external rather than internal sources, namely:

2) The recent events in Charlottesville, along with the continuing global difficulties that arise from hatred and oppression of all kinds. The strength and compassion exhibited in response to it is hugely inspiring, because if these positive and hopeful emotions can prevail in such high-stakes situations then I can definitely do the same whilst dealing with my comparatively small issue around physical pain. I say that not to belittle or downplay my pain, since it really has been hard and scary and it's important to acknowledge that, but I do find it helpful and comforting to remember its relativity.

3) Visits with friends who I haven't caught up with for a long time, even years. The last couple of weeks have brought with them chances to meet up with lots of people after a fair while - and all have commented on how (positively) different I seem.

4) Facebook memories coming up with the photo below which, conveniently, is both a literal and metaphorical example of perspective. It shows me sitting in the chair attached to the zipwire or aerial runway at camp, looking down over the green valley stretching out beneath me, and grinning. It was taken in 2010, during my penultimate year of Explorers - and that means I was still experiencing a huge amount of pain, far more than I am right now with the onslaught of spasms brought on by this infection.  I was beginning to find my way out of the dark depths that I'd hit in 2008, true, but I was nowhere near the relief and comfort I've been blessed with in recent months. A million miles away from the 100m walk I'll be completing in September.

Photo Credit: Mouse-Alice Barnes 2010

If I could not only go on the aerial  runway in 2010, but grin whilst doing so, then these few spasmy moments are just bumps in the road. Sure, they're sore, and have an inappropriate sense of timing - but they could also be an important reminder of how far I've zoomed. Perhaps I was getting complacent in my physical comfort; perhaps I needed a push to propel me into this final near fortnight before Parallel London. Or maybe I just needed to remember that I can still go on the aerial runway at camp, pain or no pain, curvature or no curvature, because my body has only got better since I last did.

On that note, as I sign off, I should say that there won't be a post next week as I'll be in the woods without wifi! I can promise to make up for it on my return though...!

Back soon, gone camping,

Jx

#WordyandWheelyWednesdays: Lying Low

Hello my lovely readers

I promised a shorter entry this week, and that's what you'll get, because I've been lying low whilst dealing with an infection. Nothing especially serious, but enough to trigger my body's natural propensity towards tightness, so I've needed to limit my exertion.

Normal service, all being well, will resume next week.

Love 

Jx

#WordyandWheelyWednesdays: On the Solace of Staged Stories

Hello my lovely readers

Today’s entry is a combination of (as promised) my thoughts on Part Two of Angels in America and more general musings on the power of storytelling through theatre – hence the title of the post. This combined approach has two reasons behind it. Firstly, and most prosaically, I’ve realised that there is very little I could meaningfully say about the specific elements of the production that struck me without spoiling it. Secondly, I have been to several other shows recently which have had a similarly profound impact (albeit for different, though related, reasons), and I think it’s important to give them some space here too. After all, this blog is supposed to have a dual focus – placing my physicality alongside my PhD thesis – and it has been a while since I wrote anything for it about theatre.

I have mentioned, several times over the last few months’ worth of posts, that I have been struggling to find my words in response to recent events in my life – most significantly, the loss of three more people I held very dear. That has continued to be the case; so much so that I have to pace myself through sentences, never mind paragraphs, whilst writing out lengthier blog entries and have often resorted to posting pictures or videos instead. I suppose that has been positive for my academic writing, because it forces me to be concise and sparing. On a personal level, though, it has been hard not to have the linguistic outlets of creative writing I rely on so much to keep me stable. As CS Lewis writes in his 1961 essay A Grief Observed, ‘[b]y writing it all down (all? – no: one thought in a hundred) I believe I get a little outside it.’ But I can’t write creatively in verse or prose, because of the emotional and physical pain this inspires, which makes getting ‘outside it’ a challenge. All my usual routes seem blocked off. 

 

In an attempt to mitigate the absence of my own words, I have sought solace in other people’s – often aurally rather than visually, since even reading is proving difficult at times. Consequently, theatre’s triumvirate of audio-visual liveness renders it the most accessible art form for me at the moment (which can only be a bonus for my research!).  The substance of this post, then, revolves around the four shows in which I’ve most recently found succour, sometimes knowingly, often completely unexpectedly, but always exactly when needed.

I’ll write about Perestroika (Angels Part Two) as a conclusion, because it was the original inspiration for this post, and captures the tone on which I’d like to end. I’ll start with the Globe’s current production of Twelfth Night, which I saw with friends in mid-July. Much has already been said about the style, so I won’t add to that commentary, except to say that I found it really interesting and bold; it seemed imbued with a sense of Shakespeare’s own innovative spirit. Instead I want to mention the manner in which it dealt with, and brought out, the more sombre undertones of the comedy. By foregrounding the fact that the confusion and disguises are based on grief (something I hadn’t fully appreciated before, despite absolutely loving the play and both studying it extensively and watching it in many different forms) it gave a poignancy and depth to all the characters and their interactions, even the ones supposedly mere comic relief. 

It also emphasised the importance of communication, which is a helpful link to my second show. The Shape of the Pain is a one-woman piece based around the experience of chronic pain. I saw it in preview before Edinburgh and, quite simply, I found it revelatory. Not only did it seamlessly integrate captioning and audio-description to ensure accessibility (and thereby prove that such inclusion is both possible and artistically enhancing) it provided me with an expanded vocabulary to describe my perceptions of my own pain. Here I refer to the physical sensations surrounding my spasms rather than the emotional discomfort of grief, but the two are so entwined that relief for one helps the other in turn. I was particularly struck, and reassured, by the sections on the sense of dissociation that arises from extreme pain – because it showed me I’m not the only one who is left not just speechless but unable to form coherent thoughts when I’m sore. I know that in the abstract, of course, but it was comforting to have it confirmed. It was also a prime example of how theatre can be both aesthetically, artistically brilliant and accessible, educational and representative; if you’re in Edinburgh this month, I’d highly recommend trying to catch it.

Continuing the theme of artistic and aesthetic innovation coupled with accessible, educational representation, but returning to mental anguish, we arrive at my third show. The Rose and the Bulbul was an outdoor promenade performance, directed by my friend Sita, which paired British and Hindu folklore through theatre, song and dance. It was performed by a diverse cast (hurrah, though I wish that weren’t still novel enough in 2017 to delight me so much!) and told of the friendship between a rose and a nightingale. Over the course of the story, which we followed through the gardens of Lauderdale House (the last of the London tour locations), the two characters supported each other in dealing with traumatic elements of their pasts. The most notable of these was again grief, and the script evoked it so accurately and sensitively that I had to wipe stray tears away as covertly as possible given the intimate, outdoor nature of the performance space; yet more unexpected (but hugely appreciated) succour.

Where there was exploration of the impact of bereavement, though, there was equal emphasis on hope, encapsulated by the use of the quotation from Rumi beginning ‘Sorrow prepares you for joy...’ This is a characteristic it shares with my fourth show, which allows me at last to segue into thoughts on Perestroika. Far from being unexpected relief, since I had both read it and read and watched Millennium Approaches (Angels Part One), I was counting on it. This was probably evident from my entry on the 12th April, for Vicky, before going to the theatre.

Nevertheless, the reality of witnessing it on stage was vastly different – superior! – to the expectation, and aspects I had barely registered when reading it curled up in my room in halls hit me like a blow to the solar plexus when heard live. For instance, at Prior’s vocalising of his horror that people younger than him are dying when he’s not even thirty, I had to stifle an involuntary, audible gasp of recognition. To read it on a blurry page as your eyes swim with tears is one thing; to hear (and read it captioned) as a live, bold, unashamed truth is another.

Of course I wouldn’t want to overstate the parallels of life with AIDS and the experience of other disabilities – but, as a friend’s partner said, the show is really about minority communities coming together in solidarity and support to struggle through and survive. Just as physical and mental anguish are very often inseparable, so too are struggle and survival inextricably intertwined. Angels, and Perestroika in particular, constantly emphasises this connection. Never shying away from the (frequently gory and gruesome) reality of disease, discrimination and death, nor from the toll that such experiences take on everyone involved, it still manages to show that such situations can inspire determination within the depths of despair.

This reminder was as meaningful to me as I imagine it must have been to the original audiences in 1991. Dealing with bereavement over the last fifteen years has taught me how lucky I am to have loved people to whom it has been so excruciatingly hard to say goodbye – and for whom I must live every day as boldly as I can. I’m so glad I’ve had theatre to help me remember that, with other people’s words whispering wisdom into the silence that has seemed to surround me for such a lot of the spring and summer.

On that note, I’m signing off for some stretches, because I have a walk in all their honour to prepare for – and I want to do their memories the justice they deserve. If you’ve managed to stick with me until the end of this lengthy ramble, I offer you sincere love and gratitude, and the promise that next week’s won’t be half as long.

Jx