To Hull

I got the train to Hull on Monday. Philip Larkin was at the station. I love the expression on his face.

Also there is this sculpture, “The Journey”. It is far more affecting from behind than from in front.

I found Sam at the station, there to meet Lucy. We walked back to his house, which he explained is an intentional community. He is Christian anarchist. In the evening we went to an artists’ collective, with their works on the walls, and saw the placards they had been making that afternoon for Mad Pride. The walls upstairs were covered with murals.

They gave us a thick vegetable stew.

On to the Adelphi club, where Lucy was to perform. Sam also performed his poetry about his bipolar experiences.

There are several murals round the town. One commemorates the sinking of three trawlers.

I asked if I could do “The story of my breast”. Sam was fine with that, and the audience were very friendly. I had several laughs. I am pleased with my delivery. I must write more to perform. Em joined us. She had visited Lucy at Yearly Meeting Gathering, where I met them, and been amazed by the electric atmosphere of Quakers together. Paula performed too, a sketch where the negative voices in her head- telling her she is ugly, reminding her to mourn past hurts, telling her she is not good enough and not capable- were symbolised by puppets worked and voiced by four other women. She decided to walk to the other side of the stage, they attempted to stop her, the drama was set up in the simplest way. It worked. She won my sympathy, attention, and will for her to succeed. Then Lucy performed, in the way I aspire to. We had a curry, and went back to Sam’s place.

I love the stained glass in the Minster transept, and particularly the grief on Mary’s face

and Mary Magdalen reaching up- but what is that spare hand doing?

Hull, city of culture

Here is “The Elephant in the Room” by Claire Morgan in the atrium of a shopping centre. I went to the top floor to see it, then descended escalators. At the bottom it was clear that the hundreds of bits of paper tied to long threads only mark the surface of the whale, not its innards- transporting and hanging it without fankling those threads was a precision job. So it is the ghost of a whale, diaphanous, not really there; the stench and value of a whole whale’s oil, blubber, meat and bone all gone, left with a sketch. I love the effort to create this thing, and the gentle motion of it in the air currents.

I like the way the fairly standard large shopping centre is built over the water:

When Lucy was doing her Kindful Eating seminar, after I had been photographed again at the Minster, I went to the Ferens art gaĺlery. It is provincial, and has much space cleared out for the Turner Prize which opens shortly, but I was moved by the picture of Stanley Spencer in a family group.

I walked back to Sam’s, glad to notice the chippy a short distance away. Clara asked if I would like to join Chris and Anna for the Tuesday meal: just round the corner ten of us including five students had baked potatoes. I am well looked after for a near stranger.

University of Warwick

The university is beautiful. In the Arts Centre, there is a huge theatre for lectures and conferences, taking 1300 people. The lobby floors are paved with dark grey stone with bright pink veins through it, as if someone had spilled ice cream. Under a glass lantern in the roof, I bend to examine them.

Walking to it from behind, there is a passageway. I consider the shape of the buildings and the way my perspective changes as I walk through, the pale blue panels on the walls, and find it beautiful. I want to pause to appreciate it as I approach it.

The Humanities building, from the 1970s, is quite ugly, just a steel frame with concrete slabs for walls, rows of them, rows of windows from waist height to ceiling on each floor; but it is on four sides of the “Meditation garden”, with trees, a fountain, a waterfall, where two or three times I sat and chatted. It is all about the encounters, few of which are planned, really.

Not all the open air sculpture is worthwhile, but I love this:

I thought it looked like something to go hand over hand on an assault course or playground, someone thought it looked like a rollercoaster, the cage disturbed some and delighted me. I approach it from the campsite. I take a slight detour to the Arts Centre, passing three trees which seem perfectly spaced as I walk past. Studying here, one might habitually bring sandwiches to eat on that bench.

This figure was controversial, as the head is covered with a sack.

It could be a person blind to reality, rather than a prisoner.

I did not take my camera, generally. I did not want to be looking out for pictures all the time. I went into the Woodbrooke tent to find leaflets on the Vibrancy in Meetings project. They were on a table next to one with construction toys on it, and a complex model Ferris wheel, where I met Alice who was stringing sparkly beads onto plastic twine. She is six. The 5 year olds were handing out strips of fabric to think about refugees, and she gave me one. “She was handing them out, earlier,” said her mother. She wanted to glue a star to the twine, so I set to carving a groove in the back with my penknife. It did not quite work. She made me a “friendship bracelet” with sequins, and the following day demanded to know where it was. I said it had fallen off, so I used it to decorate my tent.

I met Liz, whom I met at the spiritual healing course years ago. I suggested we exchange healing, but ended up simply receiving, lying in the chaplaincy. She said I had a good strong link to spirit through my crown, and she spent some time drawing the Qi downwards through my body to my feet; and as before with her I felt the warmth of her hands, at my forehead, even though she was not touching me.

I enjoyed Clarissa’s company. She was next to me on the camp site. Our first conversation was on non-theism, and only got deeper. She told me much of her life, and of a family she has housed in her town. She cares about the children like a grandmother. On Tuesday we met for breakfast, and were still talking at midday.

I raised a laugh from the Quaker Stewardship Committee, by saying my excuse that I was too spiritual to deal with all that money-stuff did not even satisfy me. I talked to a very sharp man who told me how trustees could still be liable if a charity, such as an area meeting, was incorporated, if they were reckless or negligent.

I went to H’s self-catering flat, where I met Liz and Ellie from Manchester. I had not known they had a son, Ben, now ten.

Coventry Cathedral II

Coventry Cathedral is the most humane building I know. We enter through the shell of the bombed, burned out building, yet even here there are signs of restoration: that king to the left of the window, and the angel face

are too sharp for centuries of wear. There is the shell, showing the work of the Bombs and the fire, and also faces, people amid the devastation.

These people

have such wonderful erect necks, unbowed though their bodies are mangled.

These people kneel to each other. There is no sex in this embrace, but surrender-

They bury their eyes in each other’s shoulders, in trust and togetherness.

Ah- an Epstein. Nothing but the best here! He seems too proud to me. I have wondered what we read into that face.

This cathedral is filled with Words!

Hallowed be thy name in THE ARTS. God be in my senses and in my creating
Hallowed be thy name in SUFFERING. God be in my pain and in my enduring

It is worthy of that prayer. Here people have suffered, and have vowed that no other human should suffer. In the East end of the church, where the altar used to be, lies a bishop, who died in 1922, who rebuilt the church, and holds it, whole and strong, in his hands. Note the swastika on his mitre, at the time an unobjectionable, even Spiritual, symbol.

It is the way the land was, but we descend stairs going from the old to the new building. You ascend stairs to the older chapel at Fatima, physical labour to reach God, but descending is both going down into the dark and an easy motion, for God accepts us as we are. We enter on the South, and move towards the North, where the Sun never rises: we see God in the darkness, in all that suffering, God always with us, even in the worst we may bear. So keen had we been to photograph the old church and its new inhabitants that we entered a minute before last entry.

The South Wall. I love these engravings on the glass. They look thoroughly Mediaeval, and modern. As engravings, they can be livelier than the statues on the entrance-wall of cathedrals usually are. I love those exuberant musical instruments.

On entry, there is that glorious huge stained glass window on the East wall at the South end, letting the light in as to any church, but here above the Font, a bare rock with the shape of a shell carved into it. How wonderful to be admitted to Christ’s flock in all that Light!

But as we journey towards God in this church, we go North, into the dark. We pass more words:

A new commandment I give unto you + that ye love one another as I have loved you

Christ in majesty. He is seated, but that is not how knees would look in a chair. A friend thought it looked like the abdomen of a beetle, but to me he has wide, child-bearing hips: this is the closest the artist, in the 1950s, could get to the Christa, the female Christ. Beneath, from the back of the church, we see him hanging dead. Here it is from closer up, visible through bars from behind the High Altar:

The nails from the burned out cathedral are at the base of the Cross.

There is more lovely stained glass on the West wall:

This chapel is East of the high altar. Through the Crown of Thorns, we see the Angel Gabriel ministering to Jesus in Gethsemane, while to our right the disciples sleep.

There was a tour, and I dodged into the chapel. I wanted to take photographs, but just then I wanted to kneel. Then the tour guide pointed out the sleeping disciples, and I was so moved I had to go to see them.

After, the guide and separately one of the tourists, or pilgrims, came up to me to apologise. They had not meant to disturb me. I wanted to reassure them, I did not want them to regret, so careful, here, we are of each others’ feelings. The guide told me that when someone in the cathedral needs to speak to a clergyperson, they bring them here, and the weight on their hearts always lessens.

This stained glass is in the Chapel of Unity in the South end:

I love the light and dark, the long passage through solid concrete to the window, whose light suffuses the space between. It is the opposite effect to the North-East chapel, which is all glass, all light. But both are round, a symbol of the equality of Christ’s children.

Out. I find myself sympathising with Lucifer, under Michael’s feet. His feet are chained but his arms are free, but behind his back in surrender; and that face!

I don’t understand this figure, high above the cathedral. Perhaps I should not expect to understand everything at first glance.

The wisdom to know the difference

I have the bloody-mindedness to keep fighting the things I cannot change
The weakness to run from the things I just might change
And the blindness not to see the nature of either.

When to fight, or work, and when to back off. That is important, difficult wisdom. Now, I begin to think that the difficulty is not being able to back off, rather than not being able to stick at it: I stick at things really hard, because I am passionate, but do not value or protect myself, so that when I am forced to stop I have been hurt, so find it difficult to force myself back, or wheedle myself back, or trust to go back freely. I can never trust myself not to hurt myself. I am not safe, because of myself.

In counselling I find it hard to speak, but I can type a note for myself, then read out the note.

I am seeking to escape the restrictions transition places on me. Then I rethought this:
I place on me.

No, restrictions I sort of accept, not challenging, but might challenge.
Might find out how to challenge
Am challenging as best I know
Self-expression as best I know, now, may improve. Transition, the “feminine role”, does restrict me; that I have not overcome all the restrictions yet does not mean I am not trying my best to, and getting better at it.

I think of Her. She is worth my time, my attention and my work. I am not going to stop yet. I would like everything stated clearly between us, but then I might play games with it, or use it in bargaining;

I feel I am guessing what you want and if I guess right and give it I will have it too.
Except it must feel right for you or you will withdraw.
Or if any pathway goes wrong you will not go there again- we tried that and it didn’t work.
Treat you as a puzzle- well, I am thinking, now, after. At the time I respond, and so often apparently wrongly.

That led to the insight. As well as retreating from the world, just staying in my living room, watching telly

I do difficult things.
Difficulty is not a deterrent.
If I see a way forward I take it.

And yet in so many cases

I don’t do things I have found not profitable. “We tried that once and it didn’t work.”

In some of my battles I have been badly hurt and not gone back. Yet in others I have kept fighting despite being hurt.
Have been frustrated and seen no way forward and not gone back, the effort of understanding and seeing becomes too painful.
Some problems I just run from.
WHAT do I run from, but should not? Or stick with, for no useful purpose?
Go back? Others do not find hard and I still find it hard to admit that looking for those jobs is too much for me, it ought not to be, well maybe it would not be if I could take care of myself better
Give up, find something else to do-

So I came to

The bloody-mindedness to keep fighting the things I cannot change
The weakness to run from the things I just might change
And the blindness not to see the nature of either.

That got seven likes on facebook, more for the elegance of expression than the thought perhaps.

-I see you celebrate your passion in lots of ways, says Tina. That reassured me. I do. I had a wonderful time at Yearly Meeting Gathering, and I bestowed my Light on many people.

And- I feel I do not know which problems to stick at, which to accept, because I am using my rational, ought-mind, the common cultural judgment. I know what I need to work on, and if I trust myself I might even know that consciously.

St Mary the Virgin, Burton Latimer

The church has a “Church Open” sign as I cycle past, so I pop in, and find the 13th century wall paintings. There was a cult of St Catherine here then.

Catherine challenged the pagan emperor Maxentius for his persecution of Christians. He brought the best philosophers to argue with her, but she refuted them all. He proposed marriage, but she declared herself espoused to Christ. Then he killed her. Angels carried her body to Mount Sinai, where her hair still grew and healing oil flowed from her body.

These pictures were covered in layers of limewash. It is amazing they have survived. They were restored in the 1970s. There has been a church here since the middle ages.

I have light conversation- mostly things we can agree on- with the woman who staffs the church on Sunday afternoons when it is open. We don’t know much about church architecture, but we know those arches further from the altar are Romanesque, those Gothic. We tend to like the altar brought forward West of the choir, so that the priest celebrates facing the congregation. She likes the 1662 rite, loving the richness and familiarity of the language she grew up with. You don’t have to try to understand what the prayer is saying, just dwell on aspects of it.

The Twelve Tribes of Israel date from 1600. I am surprised that the church would be so high as to have that decoration then. This was such a wealthy area, with so much to spend adorning its churches.

There is a tiny face in the bottom corner of one of the St Catherine paintings. Is it later? It is in Mediaeval form, but very clear.

Blossom II

I cycled to worship ten miles on country roads, in brilliant sunshine, and stopped a couple of times to photograph wild flowers. A tiny splash of colour seen for an instant delights me, but they repay greater attention.

At the parish church, families leave their cars to worship. “Good morning!” said a woman as I pedalled past. “Happy Easter!” I replied. “Oh, well done,” she said, the slight hint of sarcasm not displeasing me. I had thought of saying “Christ is risen!” but forebore.

Housman was wrong. Pink blossom is definitely prettier.

Ministry included a quote- if you see everything as if you saw it for the first time or the last, you will live surrounded by glory.

Say… something nice

To Stanwick Lakes, for the Doctor Who costuming group. Missy is my favourite fictional trans character. I could dress in her style with my own clothes, for she dresses like a trans woman.

The David Tennant character has his hair like that all the time. Perhaps just a little more gel today. His friend is in the Sealed Knot, and they really take it seriously, live it for a whole weekend then pack it away in the car.

Queen Victoria, in her wheelchair, absolutely refused to play Davros. Victoria appeared in the story “Tooth and Claw”- she reminded me, and I remembered the story, including why the Koh-i-noor diamond was repeatedly cut, to be far smaller. Only repelling aliens could justify such vandalism. We chatted away, and her UNIT soldier stood by her without speaking, but when she got fed up with her lace cap and took it off, he folded it carefully and put it in a pocket.

Lisa as Sarah-Jane Smith had the hand of fear, which became Eldrad. It was the hand of a mannequin which she had spray-painted with rock-like paint. Someone else had badges which were given free with cereal in the early 70s: the set of six is £750 on e-bay. Lisa’s favourite Master was Roger Delgado, always failing, his mind control did not work because people were too strong, his allies were always betraying him. She did not like John Simm. We both love Michelle Gomez, and quote lines at each other.

I was sad their Peter Capaldi lookalike was not here. He tends to be more Malcolm Tucker than the Doctor when in costume. Ace’s baseball bat was signed by Sophie Aldred.

What do you do? Dress up and take photographs.

Missy would not be fazed by a cyberman. The voicebox produces a cyber voice too.

There are conventions most weekends. The actors come- Billie Piper was in Birmingham last weekend, “David Tennant” had met Julian Glover- so we reminisce about his episode, forging copy Mona Lisas to free himself from being shattered through time and space.

And- a female Doctor!