Post 12: Elders group--Week 3

We begin with a memory of touch. This is Vicki’s story, of when she was touched in a moment of profound grief, by a stranger, and in a public place. She tells the story with exceptional grace, from a very humble place.

Becky invites us to hold hands and pass a pulse around the circle--one hand squeezing another, right to left, and passing it on, hand to hand. It is like the path of a dragonfly, alighting and tripping off again.

It is hard to wait, waiting to receive, to be pulsed, to be touched. It is hard to keep our eyes closed, suspecting indeed the pulse may not come. Why is this so hard? It is so hard, waiting.

We are invited to share our names, in different ways. Different propositions from David and Becky, and then a counter from M., insisting we do not have to fuss. She is right, for us not to fuss. And yet, a partnering happens, of those who can move, or be helped to move, moving to others for whom that is harder, Arm to arm, arms to arms, disarmoured by touch. And it is playful, fun. At David’s suggestion, we recite “Sometimes I…”/feel younger, older, remember more, remember different things. Via touch.

A great exercise. And it is only in the doing (not in the ‘not needing to’ do it) that we discover just how good it is.

Mr P seems overjoyed, propelling his partners across the room, to connect.

images: Roswither Chester

J. receives the touch of four others, a pile of hands, playing and touching. It is inevitable we play the hand-pyramid game, hands piling one on top of each others’, a scramble up a ladder that never finishes. And then J. remembers what her hands did, sometime (I think) after the war: she washed up. And washed up some more. Serving others.

Being moved by our names, across the room, to touch, to remember, to recall and renew.  Rosalind talks about revealing one’s story to strangers, on a bus, or whilst waiting for a bus to come. Someone you don’t’ know: one word back perhaps is all you need. Gets it off your chest.

And when did we begin to talk about trees? About the image of a tree. Ah… when David passed the bowl of dark, washed grapes around. Here, have one: eat. Colin found pips. Others found sweet. Others found home in their mouths. Olive found a story: don’t swallow the pips, love: a tree will grow inside you from the seeds. Many find that pleasing, the idea;  but Micky finds it quite sinister, threatening. The dark and the light; the fairy tale and the foreboding.  Significant and  interesting.

I tell the story of trees, the way they talk to themselves, from “tip to tail”, how the roots know the height of the tree because the tip tells them. This inner knowing: I am this tall, please draw up this much juice, the soil complicit in the dialogue.  It is an intimate knowing; how much we can know inwardly; how much others, humans, mostly, are unaware of.

All this knowing.  All of this knowing, all of the time [or for the most of it].  David asks, ‘who has talked to trees, when they’ve needed someone to listen’. Some admit to it; Colin observes, ‘like talking to one’s dog’. I don’t’ reveal that I believe trees have occasionally talked to me. Fairly thumped me on the back of the head, asking me to listen. Why do I not reveal this to the group? I remember the date, time and place. The colour of the sky. If I were asked. And yet they were not chatterboxes, these trees; once done, they zipped their lips. Job done. Driven by necessity, not vanity.

The importance of speaking, of listening, of being heard. Maybe plants and animals also need us --to speak, listen to them, in deep dialogue. This idea is not new. Shamans have tapped into this language for thousands of years.

Do shamans exist? –You tell me

But here we are, in a circle, eating grapes, spitting pips, talking hands, humming tip to tail; what is and is not speaking? What was the knowing of that woman who touched Vicky’s had, on the bus, heard and accepted her tears?

It is the silences that are stunning, Like last week, when Mrs P announced the arrival of her 90^th birthday, not knowing ‘how much longer’ she would be around. The hush in the room; the quiet here, we each identifying our sense of loss, longing, anticipation, and dread. How alike we all are, tho’ on different stages of journey.

I remember, once, hearing ‘reincarnation’ explained in a maverick way: you are returning to this life, so leave the world a place you want to be in. The selflessness of the Buddhist way transformed into a self-fullness and self-respect I hadn’t understood before.

We are all the same: we need the same things. Air, water, shelter, touch. Things we can rely on.

And so we finish, touching our own hearts with our own hands, breathing breath to skin, feeling the comfort of our own hand cradling our own hearts.

Such due care takes place in the room, such due observance of different needs, abilities, and hopes or desires.  Such deep multiplicities.

Zsuzsi, with Entelechy, The Albany, Deptford, June 17, 2015

c. Z Soboslay 2015.

Post 11: Elders 1: We sit in a circle.

Arrival at the Albany. Image: Roswither Chester

The theatre group begins.

We sit in a circle, elders and younger people, beginning a new process. David passes his glasses case to R in a quasi-reverential gesture, referencing the traditions of the tribal ‘talking-stick’ that sanctions  the holder to speak uninterrupted. We each take a turn naming ourselves, and from where we have come. 

D is turning 90 on Friday…if she lives that long. A hush brushes the skin of each of us in the room. M identifies the county where she was born. F asserts she was born in the same room in which she gave birth to her son. Several talk about being born in countries that differ from where their parents came.  H proudly proclaims an ancestry shared between Cornwall and Wales.

M, from Argentina, strikes a dramatic chord indicating her escape from civil war; in a second round she reveals that her bloodline is German, not Argentinean. Several others in the group reveal similar splits and gaps in lineage. A fine story of resilience unfolds: intimacies, sorrows, deaths, transcendences, clear lineages and admixtures, cocktails of mixed identities, shaken, sipped, passed and stirred. David wishes a tape recorder had been turned on. M says we can rely on collected individual memories to reconstitute what has been important.  E, only 20, exhorts us to eschew the supremacy of technology that her generation too readily relies on.

Mr P takes hold of the case and weighed and measured it in his hands. He takes his time. It is as if he is singing to it too. Becky notes all of this, so graciously noted. It gives him great joy to be recognised--the precision knowledge of the engineer. Becky sees the world in his gesture, memory in the veins of his hands.

The architecture of our responses. The structure of what hums.

We share stories that differ and oversect. Tales of rivers and borders, escapes and escapades.  The people here need to be in this room. It is a place of high drama, and of the softest of experiences, the remembered kick of a baby in the womb, the touch of a loved one, now gone.

Image: Roswither Chester

This is each of us, flying in the present moment, in the warmth of the exchange. It is clear each of us, no matter how young or old, has experienced falling from such shared awareness, into isolation, a place we would rather not be, within and outside these walls, I hear again and again how Meet me…must continue. It has become family, home. Or, for many, a place that differs from the childhood homes that carried gruff and angry residues—the blaming and shaming that arises from a lack of context in which to understand difficulty, disagreement, grief, and even love. P says to me, “If only we could reach in and clean those minds.” But we have to be in a place that is unfearful in order to share in this way.

Colin helps us sense surface, muscle and bone; Esme helps us breathe, Rebecca helps us  sigh and release, I guide the group to  embrace the sense of being held in air. I am surprised when several people say they felt they were transported to Australia in this last exercise.  We are where we have lived, and breathed, and suffered, and loved.  This is the rise and fall of our lives.

Zsuzsi, June 10, 2015.


c. Z Soboslay 2015.

Post 7: Another bus, another Friday

I see a young man on the sidewalk, wearing nothing but satin boxer shorts, no shirt, how shiny those boxers, how pale his chest, policemen stationed either side. The man is as hazy as the sky was yesterday.  All three look in different directions, trying to make a decision. Where has this man come from? Where does he need to go? The only clarity is, who is wearing clothes, and who doesn't.

Same day, next hour, the sun splattering more wildly, wind tapping the hairless head of an old woman in the middle of the road. She is gaunt, harrowed, dazed. Median strip, traffic roaring, a  policeman and policewoman either side. They wear blue gloves: is her skin dangerous. They hold her. She is wearing nothing but a short raincoat, no bottoms. 

What is it about Fridays.

c. Z Soboslay 2015.