Illusions

When you look at me what do you see?

Confident, assertive, clever, creative

You see the smile, the friendly greeting,

Someone at ease with herself and the world

Is that me or is an illusion?

 

When I look at me what do I see?

Insecure, anxious, overwhelmed

Hiding in comfort blanket retreat

From an intimidating world

Is that me or is it an illusion?

Two sides of a coin –

both real but never seen together

The coin would be fake if both weren’t there

Both are true, but in the moment

The unseen side is always an illusion,

An idea un-witnessed, Schrodinger’s cat.

With each toss of the coin there is a price to pay

When heads are up, the debt must be paid later

With tails under the duvet and the sky closing in.

A yo-yo week...

Earlier this week I was crashing down in the depths, lying in bed weepy and ready to hibernate under the duvet for the duration. I roamed for a bit but it was sheer relief when those I called on were out and I could retreat back without as much guilt as if I had not tried.  Although realising I would need to build up the oomph all over again weighed as heavily.

All I could see were my failings and the signs I am not coping. Depression distorts the mind and twists things - the blessings I counted became not positives but things to feel guilty about because I don't deserve them, I can't do the job and not sure I'm any use as a human being.

Irrational - yes
Extreme - yes
True - no
Really how it felt - yes
This too shall pass...

Yesterday I managed to get a few things done, and got distracted by possible developments at one of my churches. Today I led a funeral for one of our church members. The right words had come to me even if it was just before leaving home. I stood there and knew that I was doing all I could for a friend and his family, that it was good, and afterwards people thanked me for what I had said.

And so the yo-yo returns back up the string part way at least.  The other image might be the rhyme of the Grand Old Duke of York with his 10 000 men on the hill - when they were up they were up, and when they were down they were down, and when they were only halfway up they were neither up nor down.  That's life with depression, up days when things are possible, the deep down are really down. And a lot of time half and half, in the numbness of coping, sort of.

Tonight though the yo-yo is on the way up. And that's enough for now.
  

About the family business...

Watching the new series of The Fixer tonight reminded me how much churches have in common with the struggling family businesses in the high street. Like with the first series tonight's family of warring siblings and the retired-but-not-really father are inheritors of something established a generation or more ago. The weight of 'the way things always happened here' is a heavy burden, and although they recognise the need to change as something isn't connecting to people today, letting go of the layout, the patterns of working and the identity tied in with all that is deeply frightening. 

They know the business is in trouble but fear that change could destroy as much as save their shop. There are the voices that put on the brakes, and the voice seeking change doesn't recognise that his ideas may be more up to date and yet still old fashioned.  They are taken to meet a contemporary trader in their business and confronted with a language gap.  It is a painful process, and the Fixer's frustration is something I relate to as a minister.

Finally, because this is a feel good TV show, the relaunch happens and they set off with new hope and vision but built on their identity, skills and years of heritage. Can all shops be saved like this? No. A look along any high street says things are tougher than that.  Will those who don't change survive? Maybe but the odds are even longer. Change in our churches is much the same, we need to refocus on what we are there for, clear through the clutter of the years, unearth our core identity and risk radical new ways of inviting people to share our faith journey. But we are so often bickering siblings, all equally valuing our father's business but with very different ideas about how to honour both the legacy and the future.

A species apart?

I was there in civies, my glass of cider to hand and leaning on the bar. I had gone for 2 reasons - firstly to clarify exactly what I had signed up for in the sponsored 3-legged event next week, (need ideas for fancy dress!) and secondly to talk the owner into saving some fancy bottles for me to recycle in the kiln.

Those tasks done I just tried to blend into the surroundings so as not to look like I was only there for that.  A conversation began and in the midst of it an expletive rang out. The neighbour of the man who had spoken it nudged him and said something nodding towards me. Immediately he became apologetic for his langauge in front of a 'vicar'.

So what is okay in front of me as a human being is somehow not okay in front of me as a minister/vicar/representative of God. Is this a sign of respect for God, or of thinking that God (and I as representative) aren't upto the full rough and tough of language and life?

Well okay I might be a bit green around the gills but God can take anything and all of it. And in the chatter around that bar did I do more for God's PR  than a sunday night when I was technically working - singing hymns and saying nice things in church? I suspect so, but let me sleep on it and recover from the extra drink that the natives treated me too...

High Street Stresses

As the BBC run a series on Planners, today's local paper mourns the the closing down of another local shop.

When I arrived here the big debate was the Tesco application to build on a site off the main street.  As in all small towns the big shop wanting to more in is cast as the bully and even the AntiChrist!  And when big powerful companies can use their might there can be a point.

However you can't have it both ways, if the high street will be killed off by the arrival of the supermarket you can't claim that the loss of longstanding shoe, flower and book shops in the town are caused by it when the big boys have not even broken ground.  And suddenly Big Bad Tesco’s decision to delay their new store becomes another woe for the town, despite the fact that when planning was going through it would be a brave soul who suggested that having one of the big players could be good for the town, or even that it didn’t mean the end of the world.

The cause of our problems is a toxic mix of the economy and the convenience of online shopping.  We are not on any useful bus routes that bring people to us, and if people drive out to work and other facilities they often do their shopping out of town too. Big towns are facing high street stress as well.

But it is easy to put the blame somewhere else, especially if it is an outsider.  The reality is that the shops close because of hundreds of small decisions by everyone in the community. Each time I order a book online instead of through the independent local shop I have voted with my feet (or rather fingers on the keyboard).  It is not the one big planning decision – but all those little ones that change the high street. We all have to accept our bit of responsibility – we can’t eat the cake of online bargains and still expect to browse the cakes on the high street.

Counting blessings...

As I read status updates about friends facing tough stuff, and hear news of service cuts and benefit squeezes, I am reminded of the old chorus - 'Count your blessings name them one by one'. 

So instead of dealing on my grumps tonight here is my count to ten -

1.       I live in one of the richest parts of the world, with good water, electricity, access to food etc

2.       I have a stable income that is more than comfortable – allowing me space to do mad glass courses etc

3.       I have one of the most secure jobs in this tough economy

4.       It is a role I love, and can do pretty well at.

5.       I have the flexibility to adapt my working hours around my needs much more than many people – as long as the things need do are done, my need for an afternoon nap is not an issue.

6.       My body may run on a shortened battery charge, and I have the Black Dog of depression as pet, but I have otherwise good health, and if I don’t the NHS is there.

7.       I’m single – yes I can have my lonely times, the moments when someone to be there when I get home grumpy would be appreciated, but essentially I have the quiet retreat that I need when tired. And as they say ‘it is better to be single and dreaming of getting married than being married and wishing you were single’, and no-one fights me for the remote!

8.       Friends and people who care

9.       I live in this day and age – access to technology to make life easier and as I look at the ways the mentally depressed or chronically fatigued would be treated or misunderstood in generations past, I doubt I would be tough enough to have coped with that.

10.   I live in this place and culture – see 9.

From tears to tiredness

I felt I ought to follow up from last week's emotional splurge.

I knew at the time how out of perspective my response was but it didn't stop me still being weepy next day - and the post sob headache (or was that the wine?) Cue more feelings of inadequacy when I wimped out of the people stuff I had intended for the day. But big emotional reactions are tiring, they take up a lot of energy reserves. 

I had a really positive end of the week with a conversation about a new family and youth friendly approach to church. Then the first 'dare to debate' on end of life choices - and I wasn't alone, it was a small group but an in depth conversation. Throw in Sunday and I have stayed in bed most of today again. 

The tiredness eats into my time and, in a world that values productivity and busyness, that makes me self-conscious about not working as I 'should' yet when I look back over the weekend I am reminded that God takes and uses me as I am. But I still manage to feel guilty...

The little child inside that cried last week still fears that I will be considered unable to do this job, as was suggested back in college days in the depth of my breakdown. And despite all the affirmations since then I still have that fear and doubt which feeds moments like last week, and the guilt when my body demands extra rest.

This week my diary is thin in must do's, maybe my challenge is to attempt to rest guilt free - I don't even have a sermon to do as it is my sunday off this week.

Seeking asylum - mental health care a century ago

This morning's post brought a large interesting envelope whose content have shaped my whole day – it was the response from Surrey archives.  With my interest in mental health issues I have been fascinated by my great grandfather’s job as an ‘asylum attendant’ so sent off for the archivist to look up the records for me (cheaper than travelling to do it myself someday).

Web searches had already told me about the huge asylums in the Epsom cluster that were built to house 'lunatics' and the 'feeble minded' from London - each could hold 2-3 thousand inmates. Despite the bad press of these institutions, my web research showed they were developed with good intentions. They were designed to move the mentally ill poor away from the workhouses, offer safe spaces, therapeutic occupation and in a place in the country. Here with specialised care physical restraints could be reduced to a minimum, when necessary a padded cell was a step away from the mechanical devices.

Decaying villa at St Ebba's, Epsom

Today I discovered that my great grandfather worked at what became St Ebba's but which was first built as an 'epileptic colony', became a hospital for the mentally war wounded and then taken into the NHS as a mental hospital. It was built as a series of villas around the park like site. Focussed on those considered 'curable' it later focussed on voluntary patients. The manuals for staff that the archivist copied talk with a stern voice but respectful of patients, this was the new post Victorian approach. My great grandfather went from lowly attendant to charge nurse (via Egypt and WW1) in this cutting edge of its day institution.

But then the web led me to a story like this - a system that once in it was almost impossible to escape from and systematic brutality.  And I am reminded how slight a condition or percieved moral weakness could make you an inmate.

I meet people now who have been inside these places in their earlier lives, not as far back as my research, but still in the height of institutional care.

Care in the community was seen as a long overdue corrective to the perils of the asylums - but I wonder if future generations will compare the gaps between the ideals and realities of our enlightened approach with the same complex feelings I have had in my reading of asylum life 100 years ago?