I know from personal experience that at certain times in their lives people sometimes really need to “talk things through”.
People might be suffering with relationship problems, bereavement, money worries, redundancy or anything else.
The reasons can vary from obvious concerns to underlying issues that might not readily seem relevant.
Often we find it hard to turn to someone we are close to, and would prefer to speak to someone who is impartial. Or perhaps we don’t want to talk to anyone, because “I’m alright there’s nothing wrong, bark! bark!”.
In my case, it took months for me to realise (be told) that there was something I seriously needed to face up to.
I urge anyone struggling with ‘stuff’ in any way, to talk to someone impartial! It might just clear the air, or it might be the a big small first step towards viewing life in a new way, or repackage things and seeing things from a different perspective.
For me it was not a conscious logical process and I can’t explain it – it was a deeper stirring and repositioning of long-held notions and instincts. My period of transition (which is an ongoing thing) was not without ‘incident’ – as you might expect when you stir up sediment. But the first steps of “talking it through” led me towards quite an amazing, albeit sometimes still bewildering, world.
Safe Space Counselling is a new counselling service operating out of Birstall and Syston Methodist Churches.
It will be a place where people can make an appointment to see a trained counsellor and talk in a place that is safe, secure and completely confidential. The counsellors are trained to listen and support the clients to work through their problem or anxiety. The service will open in early November. Appointments can be made by contacting 07938 779 477 or send an email to safespacecounselling@talktalk.net There will be a website to view the services available from mid November at www.safespacecounselling.org.uk
The rowan has besprinkled her berries
the robin is now elsewhere
morning
bare, exposed and open
tonic, nurture and growth
an anointed shield might soften over time
skin can be shed
glimpse
ever so special
whispers of freedom
let it go
breath
Walking around leicester today… …it’s been a while. People; characters, so many different lives, weaving the mesh that is….
I can’t find words… my routine day to day life hides me from the vibrancy of people! I guess I’m naive and fail to see outside of my habits and duties.
‘Iguanagone’ by Frank Bowling OBE, RA. Leicester New Walk Museum & Art Gallery
We came across this painting ‘Iguanagone’ in Leicester’s New Walk Gallery – Iguanagone (The Council’s photograph does an injustice) I find it hauntingly vibrant, deeply resonant, why? I’m not familiar with Bowling or any issues he’s exploring. Is that ok? What can we take from viewing this artwork? Is it like hearing a song in another language? Is it like entertaining a stranger?
Also on display at New Walk is a collection of photography by August Sander. Again, some of these images, especially as a collective, are intriguing. Images of characters, people, from the early part of the last century. Strangers again, but strangely, hauntingly familiar?
Thoughts come back to ‘people’, so different… yet supposedly essentially the same?
Am I just naively seeing the wrappers, the book jackets, the brandings, the tribal clichés?
At a quick glance the rich tapestry of the initial experience is vibrant, but the resonance is deeper (or closer?) than that. The essential character is hauntingly present.
I don’t know what, and it might only be a touch of the hem of truth, but…
I know something about Frank’s ‘Iguanagone’. I know something about August’s ‘Farming Family’.
I know something about the tattooed girl in the coffee queue, the man up the ladder, the youths bunched around a secret, the mother fraught with baggage, the uniformed assistant, the proud bus driver, the dedicated follower of fashion, the struggling student, the carefree young man, the obsessed teen, the wizened ladies, the brillcreamed old soldier, the businessman, the lost girl, the tourist, the thief, the addict, the artist, and even myself…
I know something about them, but probably only just a glimpse of something true.
Addendum to the below:
What a load of rollocks I write. The old brain really does concoct some crap.
Sunday evening, and just trying to sift the crap out of the way.
There’s not much to it really is there? Tomorrow will bring what it brings, yesterday is past.
My brain’s problem is it’s looking for something that’s not there. That’s art for you.
I am breathing, I can taste flavour, I feel warmth, I can expect treasures, I have painted stones and walnut whip, slumbered children and a smile from the wife, popcorn tv, infotainment … breath…
I am breathing, I feel warmth…
And so…
Recently mulling stuff about mindfulness; all’s well and good, but acceptance, tolerance and awakening are the watch words. At first glance a new perspective seems to deny confrontation, conflict, and argument, but how can one progress, create or develop through or around obstacles, with an ‘accepting’ attitude?
The bullish energy of selfishness and the quick-fix attitude of the post-modern ego seem stronger than the river of peace… Yes, the turbulence that the enthusiastic will can create, can cause storms and depressions, and the self might be lucky to realise that one’s ego and desire is limiting. Reality is often buried under constructions and stories. I love stories, I love creativity, but it seems too much of a good thing can crash the operating system.
Personally, a defragment, clean-up and review of subscriptions has worked wonders. Yes, the chemicals are still needed to keep the sparks firing. As Mr. H says, we all need specific clothes.
And so…
Clothed with what’s needed, with a mindful view of the stream, how do we tackle the debris, constructions and faults we perceive? Do we continue, solitary, with friends, on the low-road with views of the river? Do we venture to the heights with chosen weaponry? How do we love it?
Ten years have passed since I posted the below. I have now come across another account of the events and history, which can be read here: Porthleven 1948
John Henry, Billy, and Tom Richards
2015: A friend of a friend has just posted this Video of the Energetic on facebook. Great to see.
Film from: facebook.com/michele.r.dyer/videos/10207272809279447
Last October (2011), I posted a picture of the fishing boat PZ. 114 “The Energetic’ and The Richards Family – Porthleven pre-1948.
It’s a sad story. I have copies of the Western Morning News from the time.
25th June 1948 – Six brothers and friend went to sea and only one came back. My Grandfather ‘Perkins’ was one of those men that was lost.
At a quarter past six on the 25th June 1948, on a lovely summer’s evening, we left our little home port of Porthleven, after having bid farewell to our loved ones, and telling them to expect us back tomorrow at midday.
We were in company with four or five other boats which comprised the long-line fleet.
As we left the harbour and proceeded in a south westerly direction, we could see at a distance a bank of fog and after we had been on our way for an hour we entered into this dense fog; at first we thought it might have been patchy but after having continued for an hour and half longer, we came to the conclusion that it must be widespread.
By this time we had gone far enough and were in a position to shoot our bait nets.
Before doing this, however, we discussed between ourselves the advisability of shooting our nets immediately or whether to wait a while to see if the fog would lift before darkness fell.
The decision hung in the balance for some little time but at last we decided it would be as well to shoot right away. It is needless for me to say how important that decision proved to be.
At this time we were all inwardly conscious of our danger, and were sounding our fog horn at frequent intervals; then we put on our lights and were all on deck waiting for darkness to fall so that we could pull in our nets.
In the meantime, we had heard two or three steamers pass down some distance from us, but now we could hear one approaching from the south east and, by the sound of its fog horn, we had the feeling that it was coming towards us and might come very near us, so we lit a flare and continuously sounded the fog-horn.
Not being under power, we were helpless to anything more, but still the ship came on and on, and at last we saw her break through the fog about 300 yards from us, and coming straight for us.
We did everything in our power to draw attention to our presence, all to no avail, and we now realised that nothing could be done to avoid a collision.
As a crew we now parted company; three of us went forward in the bows and the rest of stayed aft – I never saw them again. All we could do now was wait for the moment of impact. The suspense was terrible and I can see it all happening now. Crash! Into our side went the steamer, its bows going in about a third of the way and pushing us down on an even keel.
The sea was rushing from aft towards us, and the next moment I was going down under the water, seemingly for ages, being drawn down and down by the suction from the boat.
While under water I became unconscious of the fact that I was holding something in my right hand. It was a canvas buoy, a float we used on our gear. Just how I came to be in possession of it, I don’t know, but it was now drawing me quickly to the surface.
My trip down and up must have been very quick, for when I came to the surface I noticed the steamer had not yet passed by, and the first thought that entered my head was the danger from the ships propellers. So, hanging on to the float, I did my utmost to kick myself away from the ships side.
I remember at this time being conscious of one of my brother being close at hand fighting for his life, but only for a moment for the sea was in a turmoil and he was soon dragged down, never to appear above the surface again.
I was continually being drawn down under water, but after a while the sea became calm and I was able to open my eyes and look around; at once I saw our shooting roller within easy reach of me, I grasped this, and at the same moment I realised that all of the air had gone out of the canvas float onto which I had been holding; I let it go for it was no further use to me.
The spar to which I now clung proved a very insufficient means of support; I kept going down and up and when I was under, because of its circular shape and the motion of the sea, it was inclined to roll away from me, and I had great difficulty in holding on to it.
Then it was that I heard the last dying gasp of one of my brothers and I realised within myself that they were all gone and I was the only one left.
As the full force of this broke upon me, I was overwhelmed and sorely tempted to let go; it seemed far easier for me to die rather than to live. But the Lord bought before me a vision of my wife and two dear children and I pictured all that my loss would mean to them, and so I clung fast. Three times I was sorely tempted to let go, but each time the Lord bought the same vision before me.
It was at this time that I looked around me once more and there I saw, again within my reach one of our dans which is made of cork with a 12 or 14 foot staff up through the middle of it; This we used as a mark attached to our long lines.
Drawing this toward me, I placed my feet around the bottom and my arms around the top and felt fairly well supported in the water. Then I unlaced my boots and kicked them off.
I now had time to consider my position; I was out in the ocean, 10 miles from the nearest land, surrounded by a thick fog; I thought that the steamer which has sunk us had continued on its way, ignorant of the tragedy, and I felt alone in this ocean of sea. How long would I be able to hold out?
As I thought of my hopeless position I lifted up my heart to the Lord crying out aloud, “Oh God, I know that I am thy child, and I am not afraid to die; but if be possible, to bring me out of this!” How long I prayed I have no knowledge but after some time, as I looked towards the west, I saw the mast head lights of a steamer. Not realising that it was the same ship that had collided with us but thinking it was another steamer, I commenced shouting, “Help! Help! Help!”
After some little time I heard a voice directly behind me saying “Hold on old timer – we are coming!” The next moment I was taken aboard the ships lifeboat and, as I felt someone cutting away my clothes, I became unconscious.
I regained consciousness to find myself in the ships hospital being force to drink hot milk and coffee and being given a continual renewal of hot blankets. Another stretcher was wheeled into the sick bay and upon it lay Mr Mewton who had gone to sea with us for a pleasure trip. He was unconscious but still alive, and the second mate of the ship commenced artificial respiration at once.
This continued for about five hours, then one of the crew told me they would like to take me to another room; I knew the reason for this – Mr Mewton had gone beyond all human aid. You can imagine something of what I passed through as I passed through in the ship all night and well into the next day, wondering how, when and where I would get ashore and how I was going to face my brothers’ widows and fatherless children, and my poor aged father. Continually I cried to God to see me through.
At midday, after being given a spare set of clothing, I was taken off the ship by a lifeboat from the Scilly Isles and into the same boat was lowered the body of Mr Mewton. It took us three hours to reach St Mary’s harbour, and here I was interviewed by the Customs Officer, and had to go through the ordeal of giving a detailed account of all that had happened; But God’s presence was very deep within me, and it was a strength and power outside of myself which was bearing me up.
My ordeal was not yet complete, for I was taken away by the Police Officer to the mortuary to identify Mr Mewton’s body and from there to the inquest. But God was true to His promise, and was with me during this experience. It was now half-past four and the little steamer which plies between the Isles of Scilly and the mainland was due to leave for Penzance.
We steamed into the harbour at eight o’clock; there was a great crowd there to meet me, amongst them were many loved ones including, of course, my wife, Pastor and Mrs Matthews and a number of Church members were also there.
After reaching home my Doctor came and amongst the questions he asked me was, if I had taken in any sea water. I told him that I did not remember having taken a spoonful, and after examination he was amazed to find this was true, particularly taking into consideration the fact of my not being able to swim and being submerged under water so much – but I know it was God who was keeping me.
The following day was a trying ordeal for me when a number of my nephews and nieces visited me.
Many times during this experience the enemy had led me to the very brink and depths of despair but God, Praise His Name, kept me though it all; and He that has kept, I am confident, will keep, and it is to God that I give all of the glory for preserving me.
Ralph Richards (Sole survivor of the Porthleven fishing boat Energetic.)
Yes, I’m occasionally guilty of unhealthy attitude, impaired perspective and disappointing reaction, aren’t we all?
Consider the person in front and the one behind?
Reconsidering one’s perspective can be a slow process. Perception can be blurred and clarity can be lost for a while. Perhaps that’s why sometimes it might be hard, seem not possible, or even not an option.
Is deference compatible with difference? Is love compatible with life?
I’m starting to consider if riding a bike is incompatible with modern road attitudes. It’s compatible with the written rule of the road but all too often that (common sense) is forgotten in the heat of the moment.
Having moved from road-cycling to commuting on the cycle-path/back-road route, I find you encounter more of people and more real-life. The previous route was a traffic route, even though it was part rural and mainly b-roads etc it was flowing traffic, and in retrospect the mindset was ‘driverly’ – arguably it had to be, to join with the flow. After a year, I came to realise that someone cycling might not survive with the current general dominant attitude of ‘drivers’ (on this route) and to be safer, I moved to the new route.
On the new route I now interact more; I ride a “5 lollypop-lady route”, I say ‘morning’ etc to 4 of them. I pass children who exchange smiles and ‘youff speak’. I meet dog-walkers with various salutations. I exchange gestures of acknowledgment with drivers at numerous junctions. Generally people are glad to be alive when given the opportunity. However, on the new route, I also see all sorts of all sorts, yes there’s still the problematic driverly attitude, but also there are still crazy cyclists, unobservant pedestrians, dizzy kids, and unconsidered attitudes.
It seems obvious to say that the challenge is not drivers, it’s not cyclists, it’s not pedestrians, it’s not young people, the affluent, arty, sporty or any other group, stereotype or sub-culture… The challenge is perspective and attitude – both mine and yours.
It’s not one’s mode of transport, one’s choice of attire, one’s hairstyle, age or preferred drug – it’s one’s perspective, attitude and reaction.
It’s the not just my attitudes that need discipline (love?), it’s also the attitudes one encounters… it takes two to tango. Yes, some attitudes are just hard to believe. It often seems difference has usurped deference and survival of the fittest, brightest, shiniest, richest is often perceived king (or queen).
Yes, I’m occasionally guilty of unhealthy attitude, impaired perspective and disappointing reaction. Even with good intentions, in the heat of interaction, reactions can be inconsiderate. I guess the key is aiming to stay warm but minimise the heat?
Thoughts;
In the heat of interaction “I AM” - Images cause Assumption which causes Motivation (and reaction).
Alas, you will always find some attitudes and characters that are intolerable.
The interaction between things is what makes them fecund.
It rained the other day (you may have noticed). My initial reaction was:
“glorious ride in rain, utterly invigorating and uplifting, joyous, rain-in-mouth, deacon-blue-in-head, alive!!! #initialunconsideredreaction”
After the endorphins settled, my slightly more-considered reaction commented on the “Blessed Rain”see below
And today; the wet ride in was again ‘refreshing’, but I came to consider that we’re often enchanted by the sparkle of novelty.
The novelty of rain, sun, the new, the old, the different, the shiny, the dull, the kill, the birth, …
When we perceive new things we are often enchanted and drawn to the joy that they evoke.
That joy might be temporary, fleeting or deep and wholesome – it might be nurturing and essential or unhealthy and toxic.
I hope we can all realise any opportunity for enchantment but be wary of its captivating effect on our perspective and attitude.
Make the most of ‘the different’ today, en-joy it, but be mindful as you might also have too much of a good thing?
Be alive, get wet, dry off, be alive!
[Facebook post]
Blessed Rain?
On the cycle ride in today the rain was (just a tad) refreshing.
Yup, it was wet, grey, and not-warm, but other than that, we’re all alive! (those that are that is). I guess it’s a fine line between seeing the rain as a blessing or a curse. Some say, “nowt such thing as bad weather just bad preparation.” ? I dare say farmers, flood victims, and those with leaky roofs, might disagree with that. (I do feel for the flood victims. I wonder if town-planning and traffic infrastructure is part of the cause?) Perhaps you can have too much of a good thing… But on the whole, we do tend to generally curse the (blessed?) rain. Yes, we’ve had our fair share of it this summer, but let’s not always curse it. “Oh it’s a miserable day” I hear. Umm… no, you’re “being miserable” about “the day”!? Today I rode in; I could have focused on negative observations; Cold, wet hands, wet feet, cars without lights in the rain, cars with poor condition screen demisters and wipers, the majority of school-kids with nice new blazers and no coats(!) in pouring rain (that’s teens for you I guess), poor visibility, wet leaves on the ground, puddles, spray from cars… no sun… Or might I focus on positive observations; Alive, rain-in-your-mouth, invigorating rain-on-head, the freedom of cycling is heightened by the stream of smoking almost-stationary traffic steaming into the city, Deacon Blue (Raintown) in my head, the joy of passing the usual pedestrian suspects, “morning!” with a smile, the toddlers loving their pink umbrellas, the thought of nature needing life-giving water… Be alive, get wet, dry off, be alive!
…then after a day in an office… Blessed Rain! Be alive, get wet, dry off, be alive!
And so from now on the nights are longer than the days. Thank you farmers, most of the summer crops are in – what would we do without them?
So we ventured off to a local wood and indeed stuff’s shrivelling! Indeed The raggedness belongs!
If you go down to the woods today watch out for the cornish piskies!
Our choir, Global Harmony, sings a ‘warm-up’ song about Coconut Pie.
This is the pie, thanks to Mary – with my added twists.
Ingredients.
4 eggs
1/4 cup margarine
1 cup white sugar – I’ve reduced the amount of white and added some soft brown sugar and tangy honey also!
1/2 cup self-raising flour
2 cups milk
1 cup desiccated coconut
1 teaspoon vanilla essence and I’ve added a teaspoon of ginger.
Method:
Mix all together. Pour into 10- inch buttered dish. Bake at 180 C / 350 F for 50mins. approx.
It’s NOT supposed to look like this, but it tastes goooooood!
Jules P Richards 