Greenbelt glamping

I was on the stage at Greenbelt last Saturday night. It was the Hothouse debate: Is gender bendable or fixed forever? An intergenerational conversation hoping to dismantle the potential otherness of trans experience on a personal level; exploring how church communities can better welcome trans people; and wondering how trans experience might be more fully integrated into the church’s conversations on human sexuality, so obsessed with same sex relationships.

This isn’t the magnum opus, which will be published in Quaker Voices in November. Some day, I may get paid for writing.

Being an Artist, with a bright yellow Artist wristband, I put up my tent in the Artists’ Glamping. At the bottom end of the field there were pre-erected tents each with rugs, two beds with sheets rather than sleeping bags, and a lamp on a table. Clare and I went over to peek in then got embarrassed when we could not zip up the door again. There was a fence around, three slightly pleasanter portaloos, and a gateway-marquee with tables, chairs, mirrors, hairdryers and tongs, and women checking the wristbands. They did not know to let me in at first, but I phoned the programme manager who said it was OK. Then two volunteers, topless in the sun, helped me put my tent up. It has two rooms and I took a clothes rail. One of them assured me that young people are completely accepting of trans- it had come up, because I said what my talk was, but I wish it did not need saying.

Clare is with Stand-up Christology, which shows comedians and theologians talking of the same issues, and was in a panel discussion to push religion, politics and comedy to the absolute limits. She had her own tent too, but a “two person” one. As the sun bore down on Friday we sat in the coffee tent by the urn and the fridge, in the small amount of shade, chatting. A woman came round and said next year they might have some shaded space like that for socialising. Then I went off to help put up the Quaker stall in the groups fair. I tied balloons to string to make a frond across the top of the opening.

Paul, professor of engineering geology, apologised for his tent being so close to mine, put up by his teenage son, who sat in the entrance absorbed in video on his phone. He was doing a talk in the Grove on “what the Bible teaches about the role of soil in our lives”. That makes sense- he had an Evangelical feel, that careful precise intellectual understanding. “What information do you want your audience to take away?” he asked, and I felt a fool- er, dunno- only later I put it into words. It’s not information but feeling. I wanted them to see my humanity. He understood- he is not a robot- but his first way of being is in concepts and intellectual expression.


Metmuseum St John on Patmos, Hans Baldung Grien, detailGreenbelt is a festival on the August bank holiday each year. Fifteen thousand people gathered, many of us camping, round a group of venues in marquees and canopies. My idea of Heaven. In the venues there was a mix of serious talks, music, and comedy.

How Christian is it? K thought it in great part post-Christian, with social and environmental concern. But then she told me that two years ago at Greenbelt she had the painful realisation that she does not believe Christianity any more, yet still loves to come here. Someone else, a Methodist, found it insufferably Anglican, but independently of us there were Quaker speakers. There were hoodies on sale with the tag “Jesus is my Superhero” and the reference Romans 5:6– not my theology, or mode of expression- but I only saw one being worn.

That hoodie seriously tempted me, though, because of the cold. “Coldest night in August on record” said someone- I doubt that– but we shared stories of lying awake, cold and miserable. Someone said someone else had frost on their tent one morning. Instead, I got a soft wool blanket which would double as a shawl. The rain came down on Monday, and the ground became muddy quickly, but before then we had only a few short showers. Then on Monday morning I woke at 3am too hot, because I had wrapped myself so well, Metmuseum St John on Patmos, Hans Baldung Grienand lay groggily wondering whether I should risk taking any off. My tent kept rain out and stood the wind, but I found that except in the most propitious conditions- dry, sunny, no wind- I could not erect it or take it down alone. So I asked a passer-by, who helped gladly. K stayed in a B&B: all the hotels locally are booked up.

On Saturday I wandered down towards the showers, past stalls selling jewellery and pottery, music books and more clothes. “Come in out of the rain!” said a man. OK. I love this hand thrown bowl, ¬£150, but it is quite out of my range. We chatted for a bit. Also there was a stall selling stuff for circus skills. They had been doing work with the young people. I had chatted at one talk with the wife, who is thinking of retiring. Their arthritis is playing up. They can pass the firm on. I got a pretty glass pendant.

Then as the rain stopped, I had my best musical experience of the festival: Hannah Scott on the Roots stage. It is open mic, and the pottery-seller commented that many of them could not even tune their guitars properly- it is hard, in the open air, hot in a tent, etc- but someone had pulled out and she stepped in there though she was paid to play at the Canopy. Not realising this, I heard the quality and stopped to listen. Twenty of us sat in the sun under the trees, with this beautiful music, just a voice and one guitar.


Durer, Salvator MundiThis morning at 6am, I stood in the field outside my tent with the sunlight through gaps in the trees, almost no wind, and a balloon from the nearby Ballooning Festival high above. I was blissful. I was In the Now. Om Shanti.

We had our camp social on Wednesday evening.
-Are you camping here?
-Yes, I said, pleased at the surprise. I decided to look as if I were not camping, in a dress and tailored jacket, silver high-heeled sandals and beautiful jewellery. The effect was lessened, later, when a man brought out his “rocket stove” and I put on my woolly hat. Sparks can ruin a wig. The rocket stove is a cylinder of insulation with a metal grate supporting the wood above the ground, and a chimney leading to the hob. The air flow makes kindling burn quickly, and all the heat goes to the pot, far more efficiently than open cooking fires.

Who wants to look as if they are camping, in jeans and shapeless hoodies? I was fed up with my alleged two person tent, which would only fit two people if they had no kit. Fed up with balancing on my shoulder-blades to pull up my jeans, I got a tent I could stand up in- the Vango Icarus 500, which sounds like a Harry Pooter broomstick. It’s last year’s model: this year’s has shorter sleeves for the bendy poles, and more hooks. Honestly. I mean to say. Tents are practical things for practical people, who go back to nature, and Vango attempt to make us buy the latest model. Fashion, in tents! What is the world coming to? Still, I got it with a reduction. Canny enough.

Durer, Virgin and child with St AnneThe chemical loos were disgusting. I heard one desperately pumped twelve times, and thought sententiously “What a waste of the chemical. You will fill the thing up.” Then a woman emerged, disgusted, mortified and distressed because her turd refused to fall from the flap. After a little thought I went to get a stick to push the matter off the trap-door. Several people are burning wood, it can’t be too difficult. However the man I asked wanted to know precisely why I wanted it, then explained that he was not the organiser, and introduced me to Rob, who co-ordinates Quaker camps. Rob had a stick, and the man started a verbose complaint, putting great eloquence into a trivial matter.

Our gas-powered shower, when it turned up, needed an electricity supply which we did not have. I showered in the sports centre. Bath university takes athletics seriously, and there are pictures of medal winners and Inspiring Quotes. I felt inferior and invisible among the beautiful people congregating by the door.

All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible. TE Lawrence! Back to the Empire!

Women’s space

meditation space

12 stepI was excluded from the women’s space.


I was excluded, but that was a different place, three years ago. And now I walk in, wondering if there will be some confrontation. I asked various people who all said there would be no problem, some know trans women, but it only takes one. So I walk in, nervous, and perhaps people pick up on my nervousness. If I am claiming to be “genderqueer” here, going without the wig in the heat, I have less of an argument why I should be entitled to be here. Oh, stop anticipating problems!

Here, I start conversations easily over tea. One woman, Canadian, works at a Buddhist retreat centre, of which there are dozens in the UK, and would consider marrying to get indefinite leave to remain. Well, the government is so nasty about immigrants to gain votes, and as they cannot stop EU migration they have to pick on someone many of their voters would not object to. Why should she not marry a friend? Romance is overrated. Er, because marriage is usually intended at its inception to be until death.

I drift into the workshop on non-violent communication. Here is a striking criticism of it: you can learn that the use of an empathic statement can get what you want from another person, sadly it’s surface empathy, the sort of behaviour that is associated with narcissism. One could see it more positively.

handcraftedThe group leader talks of how from Christianity we have the ideas of Original Sin and Judgment, so everything is either good or bad, in or out, and we judge ourselves and others continually. I challenge this, in a way: I say that there are other strains in Christianity, of love and acceptance, but that is a strong strain.

Therefore, there is a great deal of anger and unmet need, and people act as if what they wanted were obviously right, but do not state the emotions behind. If you can frame the outburst differently, state the emotion behind it, they feel heard and a lot of the pain vanishes.

Also, if you can state your desire more precisely, it might be met. The other women talk of their partners: one’s does not take enough notice of her. If you say, “I want connection”, he might get frustrated: “I give you connection”. If you are specific: “I want your full attention for two minutes without you checking your texts and emails” he might give it.

I start to weep. I have managed to create a space where I do not have these problems with others, I say, retreating from contact. It is an achievement, actually, it is me getting what I have wanted first, though it is not the whole way. Part of me is frustrated and angry: I see what I should do, and I do not do it. Part of me is wounded and frightened. She sees that I feel I have not been heard- perhaps it is that early childhood experience that really matters, friends listen to me.

Perhaps I could create a non-violent dialogue within myself, between these warring parts. It has been so difficult to value both, get each to value the other, through the anger and fear.

Later, I see her at the ceilidh, and she says hello distantly. My empathic statement is that well, you have empathised as a task, so deeply, you do not want to give more, now. Or perhaps she had someone else to talk to.

Encounters at Buddhafield II


figureThe gender binary oppresses everyone. Our enforced ideals of “man” and “woman” limit the expression of both. I said this in the workshop, and after a woman came up, eyes shining, to thank me for it.

-I have read that all LGBT issues are T issues. It is all about gender. And we liberate everyone: first us, who are really oppressed by gender ideals, but also everyone else who can just about rub along with them, and is only a little oppressed.

She nods, agreeing, and we hug. So wonderful to express this, which I find Radical, and be completely understood.

Another woman comes to thank me and agree. I am feeling so affirmed, I want to continue the conversation, and let out some of my feelings. Do you mind if we prolong this encounter? She assents- she is very easy to be with- and I expatiate on the differences between same sex and opposite sex marriage enshrined in the Marriage (Same Sex Couples) Act- just passed last week, amazing and wonderful and yet not quite enough. Pension funds, for example, are protected from not having known that gay couples may officially be couples: for contractual rights for “spouses”, only contributions after 2005 when Civil Partnerships were enacted apply. They are not protected from the fact that in 2005 we were all told there was an end to boom and bust and growth would continue indefinitely, but they are protected from the around 1% of their members who may get a same sex marriage, and whose contributions for perhaps thirty years before do not count towards spouse rights. I go into great detail on medico-legal pathways to transition, and nullity of marriage.

She did not know any of this, and loves to hears what impassions people, because she is a story-teller. She takes people’s stories, and tells them in a folk-tale style with elements of myth. This fascinates me: how do you get gigs? Do you have jokes? No, she involves people in other ways, and she finds it difficult to extol her wonderfulness, as you have to; though she was pleased to have stood up for herself. She applied to lead a workshop in time, but Buddhafield lost her application, and then when she checked the date had passed. So she told them they had lost her application, and they fitted her in.

She is a leading light in the Transition Towns movement, and her workshop told stories of it and then led discussion of how we might meet the challenge of peak oil. I don’t think subsistence agriculture is the answer- even if people had the gifts for it, England is not big enough for us all to be peasants- but she says my belief that technology will provide the answers is a stage people go through before realising transition is the way.

A woman there talks of how Socialist ideals for the liberation of the masses are outdated, and how her parents and grandfather were disheartened by 1989 and 1991, the fall of the Wall and the end of the Union and the socialist experiment. I hope Socialism may inspire new ideas for living together, but am unsure how.

Encounters at Buddhafield


After a hot and sweaty ceilidh,Tara I am standing outside the marquee with my wig in my hand, and a small girl approaches me. She could not be more than six.

-Is that a wig? I say, yes, it is.
-Why do you wear a wig? I show my pate- very little hair grows there.

“Put it on,” she says, definitely, imperatively. “Now, a boy might kiss you.” She turned away, leaving me, well, awestruck.

“41 is a prime number” announced a high, clear voice. How old is he? I asked his aunt Lucy, whose tent was near mine. I had approached her for a chat, and we had chatted easily of life and stuff. She spent days cycling here. “Five in three months’ time,” she said. “His father’s a mathematician.”

When I told that to R, she disapproved: we pump children so full of information, nowadays. Though she was reading very early. I was impressed at his ability to take in such a complex concept. Earlier I had watched him climb onto the canvas of the bell tent, stretching the guy ropes. Initially he was leaning on the guy, then straddling it, then finally climbing on the canvas, looking over at Lucy and me, three yards away. When he was lying on the canvas, feet off the ground, she told him authoritatively not to climb on it. She explained she needed to sleep there, and did not want the tent pulled down. And when he reached out to touch the guy rope, later, looking over at her, she told him not to. “I wasn’t climbing on it,” he said. No, but we need to sleep there.

Boundaries tested, boundaries stated, all beautifully done. How difficult to raise a child! I still don’t feel ready for that effort. It feels that my emotions would be too quickly engaged in the No. As I had breakfast at my tent, I listened to a man tell his son The Truth, addressing him as “Son”- the fatherly fount of wisdom- and then saw that the boy had indeed gone to lie in the sleeping-place as threatened, and the father had to tell his wife The Truth. And she told him The Truth.

Then there was Finch, whom I saw in his sling, and wondered at how small he is; then we knelt in the women’s space tent for a workshop, and cooed over him. Hands! Toes! Face! He was seven days old when the camp started. So tiny! He was eight pounds when he was born, a good weight- but babies grow so quickly, one rarely sees one that young.

They’re all boy, aren’t they? I said, admiring, and we talked of how difficult that can be. In a workshop, the facilitator referred once to choosing a partner and working with “him or her”. At the end, when she asked for “challenges”, I said this challenged me, as it excluded me. I am both, and neither. We talked of it, after. I think I let her off too lightly- gender binary is all-pervasive in our culture, and I was at pains to point out that it was not her I objected to, but the cultural assumption, and that her workshop was wonderful. I did not make clear enough that dividing people into “man” and “woman” oppresses both, and that anyone may choose to distance self from it.

Sensing/ Intuition

I took the bus to the Quaker meeting. I was scared, because I was dressed female: I felt vulnerable with the people. I did not notice my colleague J until she said Hello, getting off. I put this down to the fear. Well, I had only just started living full time- ie., expressing myself female full time, and I was nervous in public.

And- cycling the other day, Lucrezia had to wave and shout from the pavement before I even noticed her. I could put this down to being more focused on hearing than seeing. There was no intentional snub:¬†I have a well-developed mind’s ear, so I can hear a full orchestra, all the different tones, if I concentrate, but no mind’s eye at all. I cannot visualise something, but, oddly, I can think in pictures to decide what route to take- it is as if I am aware of a sense of a sketch of the place without visualising it. So I could not be¬†a painter, but am a musician. Sometimes, listening to¬†a person, I will close my eyes in order to hear them better.

And- when images do impinge on me, it can give me a moment of intense delight, such as a bird flying in front of my bicycle.

As I understand introversion/extraversion, it appears to include judging/ perceiving: so, as an introvert, I would necessarily prefer judging: thinking/ feeling over perceiving: sensing/ intuiting. Myers and Briggs would divide them. But what would intuiting even mean, when addressed outside?

Well, I love painting and sculpture, and sometimes adopt the posture of the subject, the better to understand the work, firing off my mirror neurons to relate to the outside through my own experience. So I have some empathy, some ability to see another person and imagine what it is like to be them.

Going back to that walking meditation: when we entered the field, we were enraptured by our senses: see the world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wild flower. I was moving very slowly, paying attention to one small thing and seeing its beauty and moving on to another. And- I called that “Presence”, and wanted to do everything in that state: make decisions, talk to people, be in the supermarket. Rather than connecting to the Outside, Extraversion, it could be connecting to the Sensation function, which has been so secondary for me.

Perhaps I want to make decisions more deeply in the unconscious rather than from a position of Sensing. Decision making is a Judging, not Perceiving, function.

And- Sophia’s 5rhythms dance in the woods, at Midsummer Camp- don’t hug the tree, stand near it and feel its energy, dance with its energy. That meant so much to me, looking up at the tree, or the concrete post, feeling that part of me which related to it. More introverted, but intuitive. I have done it since, with a steel fence. I could do it with¬†a person.

Extravert/ introvert

Robin Robertson asserts that after reading his account “The reader should be able to say with some confidence whether he or she¬†is an introvert or an extravert, and probably be able to¬†identify the attitudes of many others who are significant”. I can’t, actually. I don’t have a clue. Have I understood?

One type of person instinctively draws back when the world approaches him or her, another instinctively reaches out toward the world… Though we are all able to pick either of the two approaches when the situation demands it, we vastly prefer one or the other.

Extraverts may be unaware of their inner world. They can never get enough experience of the outer world to satisfy them.

Introverts prefer their own company. They are more interested in their inner world than the outer world. They need to know the Rules before they may function comfortably in the outer world.

The “inferior function”- extraversion in an introvert, and vice versa- is our gateway to the unconscious, the source of everything which is magical and wonderful in life. It has all the energy which has been diverted to the unconscious whenever consciousness was unable to deal with something.

-A paraphrase of Robin Robertson.

So, which might I be? I love to perform, and I have always loved to perform, and here I am, secluded away in my living room most of the time, in my solitary pursuits. My physical exercise is either solitary- cycling and walking- or individual in karate. I need the company of others, though less so than when younger. A balance of both, as Robertson says: a few are at the edge of the bell-curve, but most are a mixture, though with a stronger or weaker preference to one or the other.

It is¬†what he says about the “inferior function”¬†which makes me think I am introverted. Picture us hippies away at camp, “making community”, a nice, safe space where we may be happy with our own kind of people. Tim brought us into an Awareness of the world, which I named Presence to myself, and have sought since. That complete sense of being in the outer world and shutting off the Monkey Mind seemed like a spiritual way of being. That would make me introverted, but extraversion,¬†when I¬†access it, is my way into the Unconscious.

Freud saw introverts as narcissistic. Jung, with more sympathy for both, realised that narcissism exists, but not everyone who spends as much time navel-gazing as I do is narcissistic: they may simply be introverted. That is a relief. Narcissism is Bad, and¬†I am pleased¬†to be absolved from its taint. And all the introspection I have done has been necessary to my self-discovery and self-acceptance, and to address the question of what sex I am. I have not found that question¬†as easy as most people do. This is particularly introvert: in a conversation, I had to remind myself- ‘Andrew is talking about his stuff now. This is the time I ought to Listen.’

Five degrees

These two changes, if I may practise them and make them my own practice, may be liberating. If I can accept my own feelings and not be angry and fearful that I am feeling them, then I may be fully aware of them without nearly so much pain. And if I can forgive myself for arriving in the place where I find myself, then I am freed to mourn for it. If I am upset that I am stuck in my own room, and blame myself for it, that just loads more guilt on myself. If I am upset that I am stuck in my room and I forgive myself, then I can express how unhappy I am being in this position in life, and mourn for it, and work through that pain. It is all liberating. I hope.

I look at the world slightly differently, as if I have just turned my head five degrees, and my perspective is utterly changed.

Ever since my operation, I have suffered slight stress incontinence, just the odd dribble, and the pelvic floor exercises were slow to work. And on Thursday I did not have a pad, so went without. I have gone without pads since. You can imagine how I feel: intensely self-conscious, worried that I will leak, and smell, and have visible damp patches- and increasing delight, scarcely able to believe it, that I am OK. The physical cause for that shame seeming to have left, I feel able to mourn how painful it has been for me. While I had the problem, I had to endure it, and could not mourn.

File:William Blake 006.jpg

I love P’s meditation technique. He becomes aware of his physical sensations, first in his feet: what is under his feet, whether grass, carpet, socks, whatever. Then his legs, and slowly up the rest of his body. Then what he tastes and smells. Then what he hears, first the nearby, loudest sounds, then sounds further away, and then beyond them the silence. Then he opens his eyes and becomes aware of what he sees, which can be an intense experience. He then repeats the process. He can do this anywhere: in this field, under the Skylark-

The Skylark! I had not heard one before, and found it amazing, flying so high, singing louder than a smart-phone-

or on the Tube. He goes through the procedure twice: the first time might take twenty minutes, the second is much shorter. Some people say that is not proper meditation, he should be keeping his mind still, or paying attention to his breath, but he likes it. Sounds proper enough to me.

File:Alauda arvensis 2.jpg


U, passing behind me, runs her hand lightly across¬†my back. “If you do that, I may demand more from you.”


Well- if you do that, you have my full attention- and for you just to move on-
It is not Kind of you-

Later, I went over to U and D, and U proposed a group hug. I was uncomfortable enough in the arms of both of them, but when she kissed and nuzzled my cheek it messed with my head so much that I got myself a mug of wine and stuffed my mouth with chocolate biscuits. Yet when I told her I was upset by it, just as D was approaching from behind me, she brushed it off- well, I would not claim that it had permanently harmed me.

Friday I found wearing. The wind whips at the tents, and I worry that rain will get in (drips got through to the inner tent while I slept, and I did not at first realise how heavy the rain had been to achieve that). My e-reader is broken so I have nothing to read. Some people are off site, and I have no good conversation. The vegetarian diet is a pain.

The previous night I sang my song which I had written at 5am that morning, and had a large role in the group performance and in devising it. After such experiences previously I have had a downer. Thinking of the Life problem and, oh, you know, Stuff, I bend over and weep, and C consoles me.

We are in leaving mode. Some of us have left. Rather than eating together then sharing, people dip in the pot before we are all gathered, and I do not feel the sense of community I crave. It starts to rain. Others want a sharing circle, so we go into the geodesic dome and share. Normally we go round the circle in order, but when I weep again, S says “I think someone has something to share”.

So I share. I say something of how miserable I am, I am lonely, I blame myself for where I am in my life. I am here because of my decisions, and the weight of being transsexual, and how I have reacted to that, has been too great for me. I can’t bear it.

And so-

I forgive myself.

I forgive myself for being here. I forgive myself for the choices I have made, the way I have hidden away and pretended, the way I have rejected myself, the way I have been so angry and frightened. It really has been a sair fecht, sair to thole, and I am scunnered. And I have faced life with all the courage and strength I can muster and I am where I am. And while I have not “ended up” here- you do not end up anywhere until you die- I am unsure how I may proceed.

And so I forgive myself for being here. I really have done my best.

Say it again, because I need to fix it in my consciousness. Say it again before this group.

I forgive myself.

After, in the sauna, D makes a precise dissection of what I shared. U, who had been elsewhere during the sharing circle, was there too.

First, what do I mean by “deeper sharing”? Well, “I have had a crap day, the wind and cold is getting to me” is no deeper than “I have had a good day, I really enjoyed my walk by the sea”. I delve into my misery in order to transcend it.

Then, he says one may feel feelings, but then has a choice of how to react to them, whether to express them. Indeed, I have had the experience of a homunculus within my torso, and I imagine it weeping and screaming, and you would see me sitting still and possibly looking a little meditative; and I can hold the weeping emotional self. And- possibly it is the hormones, but just then my feelings were too strong for me to do that. He admits that S did put me on the spot.

He can see that it might be too much for me, and that I might leave the circle- indeed, I was not in a space to hear anyone else- and ask for someone to come with me to hear me. But when W stood up, and I said “Anyone but W” that was despicable.

Christ. Yeah. I cannot give my reason for that, and indeed my reason might in reality be no more than that W has chosen me for her confidante, and I do not want to spoil the good feeling that gives me by making it mutual. I thought after that I could have said, “I had a reason for not wanting W, which I cannot share with you, but ask you to consider the possibility it might be a full excuse”. Repartee a day later is no repartee at all. Actually, W was the perfect foil: I could not fantasise she was anything but a flawed human being, undergoing the same struggles as I am.

It is fully dark. U leads me into the dome and dances close with me to the drumming. D is the other side of the tent. U caresses my cheek. I starve¬†for such contact, and here I am having it, and in this abundant world I believe I will have more…

Next day B tells me she was working with S on accepting her feelings, and noticing them, which enables her to notice the feelings of other people and accept them and be with that person lovingly too. Mmm. She looks at me meaningfully. Indeed my own feelings have always been so overwhelming for me that I have had little attention to spare for those of others. And, suppressing my feelings and making such demands on myself, I have made similar demands on others. Perhaps I may be gentler.