thoughts on friendship

RECENTLY IN THE BACKGROUND of my mind I've been thinking about friendships - specific friendships of my own, as well as friendship in general - the formation of friendship, the endurance (or not) of friendship, the levels of intimacy within friendships, the challenges of friendships both old and new.

I could try and splurge my thoughts in one rambling post, but I will try, time permitting, to reflect upon my theme in instalments.  Friendship as a concept these days now acquires new challenges as not only do our friendship bases widen due to travel and movement, they can also be formed and maintained by social networking.

Social networking has a different impact on friendship depending on your generation. What I mean is, for those of us who grew up prior to social networking sites, we have the somewhat odd experience of 'getting back in touch' with older friends, not merely as individuals but as collective. For example, I can look at my school friends and see that one group of which I was a part have largely stuck together - which unsettles me slightly when I realise that I am not one of them any more. I moved on and away and did not move back; my closest friendships were formed, generally speaking, later. There were reasons for this, health probably being a factor, as well as opportunities and common hopes, dreams, opinions.

When I moved into adulthood and encountered the scaldingly intimate friendships I made later, it seemed strange to try and find this in earlier friendships made of other stuff - different in tone, different in need. Yet I can see that those who have grown up in these friendships have also reached these levels of intimacy - which I formed with others in other places.  (The challenge of course that I did not remain in these places and thus have experienced the fierce loss of no longer being a few paces away from those who changed me so utterly.)

And although there are several adages about the age of friendships being directly related to their quality, this is not always the case. There are moments when a jolt of recognition occurs between two people who have only just met, whereby the intimacy and frankness that can take years are fast forwarded. These moments are not necessarily common, but precisely because of their rarity they feel deliciously surprising when they occur - as if they are a gift of sorts.

Friendship comes in many guises.



Image: stock.xchng

reflections on 1994

Today is the International Day of Reflection on the 1994 Genocide in Rwanda, when nearly 1 million people were brutally killed in a horrific civil war.

Tribalism ran painfully deep for those involved- I read in my prayer book this morning that on visiting Rwanda on behalf of the Pope, one Cardinal spoke to some Rwandan church leaders, asking them: "Are you saying that the blood of tribalism is deeper than the waters of baptism?"  One leader answered, "Yes, it is."  

Whenever I think of Rwanda, I think of a little boy.  My parents began sponsoring a Rwandan child while I was in my teens.  During this terrible time, they lost touch with him.

It was wonderful, later, that the sponsorship programme (then Tearfund, now joined with Compassion) found him.  I believe he had lost many of his family members, but he himself survived.  He's now a man in his twenties, thus the correspondence between them ended a couple of years ago (this is Compassion policy once a child reaches 21).

Strange for me to think of 1994 - it was a year when I was lost in the muddles and miseries of growing up, and the year I first began to struggle with CFS/ME.  I was coping with panic attacks and teenage crushes (probably not unrelated to each other!).The horror of the news reports felt oddly distant, another world.  A preoccupied teenage girl in the West was in completely different circumstances from that Rwandan boy suffering through unspeakable loss.

I probably grieve more now than I did then, which is why it is helpful to remember, to reflect - when perhaps at the time the horror of it barely slid through the chinks of my life. I registered but did not understand, so tied up in my own adolescent world.  I wish I could say otherwise.

golden age syndrome

Let's face it; most of us suffer from it at some point or another. I catch myself at it much less these days - there have been times where I've clawed at the past, wishing myself back. That's not something I've done lately, although I still catch myself looking at memories through a soft focus lens.

I was trying to work out some dates for a scrapbook I've been making of my college days. My college days changed my life, and it took me so long to stop hankering after them, despite the fact that I was more than ready to leave at the end. They are most often the context of my 'golden age syndrome'.

But I was young and it was not always easy. Looking at old diary entries (with the inevitable embarrassment) I realise I had huge struggles with confidence which often had me clamped down with nervousness or stress, at least in the early days. My tiredness made the balance of full time study difficult, and I had to withdraw from many 'extra curricular' things because of it - which often distressed me and made me feel isolated. Reading about my own disappointments over having to give up my practical placement and being unable to be involved in the creative things I adored (drama, music), I am slightly shocked.  I had forgotten how sad it had made me.  At one point I am steeling myself for the inevitable talk with my supervisor and my tutor and I write: Dear God, please don't let me cry and be incoherent and stupid. This is the best thing, I know. But I wanted it to be different. Oh God, I wanted it to be different.

Not exactly golden.

The golden bits were what grew out of all that - or should I say, as I grew into myself, growing (sometimes painfully) in experience, relationships and a courage that has never come naturally.

(Reading on from the above entry, I did actually work through this disappointment, through my learning and my loving.   So much that I say: These days I am astounded by the megaphone of God. These days I am amazed by what I am becoming.  Something of a contrast!  And I did find a different, more manageable placement - not acting or singing but visiting the elderly.  I probably made more difference doing that, if I'm honest.)

Anyway. This growing and becoming meant that returning to the college always brings with it a volley of emotion (my first experience of that is here).

So I had to smile when I came across this entry, written over 10 years ago, in my first term.

You can't recreate the past. So you make the present from scratch. It may be different, but that is not necessarily bad. It may seem strange and new, but that does not mean it is not special. There is no point holding to the 'what might have been's, all there is now is the 'what can be's. 'What can be' is a very exciting phrase, if you look at it with the right view. It is no reason to turn your back on the old if it is good, but to understand that what was then is not what is now. God is the only eternal. The rest is transitory. Because God is eternal, the hope of God exists in every time, however bleak things may seem.

 I take my hat off to the good things of the past.

I wait in earnest for the good things of the future.

I live here.  In the present.

 24th November, 2000

Thus saith me.  And I close my own mouth.

part three of a personal story: new horizons

My experience of other traditions and denominations was widened further when I made a decision that would change my life, in many ways.  I applied to study at what was then London Bible College, now London School of Theology (one of my favourite places in the world).  The story of that decision is an important one, but I won't go into it here - perhaps I will tell it another time, if people are interested.  Let's just say it was made very clear that this was the next step on my journey.  (Very rarely have I ever known anything beyond 'the next step'.)

LBC/LST is an inter-denominational evangelical theological college, thus attracting students from all traditions and cultures.  It was a time of incredible growth for me - in knowledge, in faith, in friendships - and also a time of great challenge, being stretched and at times disassembled, but all the while knowing I was in a safe place.  My passion for Christian unity did not lessen, although it was so much a part of life I rarely thought about it in a very defined way - constantly in conversation and community with those of different traditions meant it was a very practical, very immediate, fact of where I was.  And it delighted me.

It was also where I started getting an inkling that I may, in some way, be going to be involved with those in the Baptist tradition.  I came aware from one chapel service with the odd sensation that in some way I would eventually be connected with Baptist ministry,of all things, but I really didn't know how!

Then I met my future husband, who, I discovered in the course of our new relationship, felt called to Baptist Ministry.  I remember quite clearly deciding perhaps I should know more about this, and picking up a book about Baptist theology.  It was extraordinary.  But...but this is what I think, about so many things.  It wasn't where I'd started, but I felt I had come home.

And now, here I am, she who hates labels but who will, on very special occasions, call herself a Baptist. Because this is where God has put me and where he has led me.  For a while I worked for our regional association in an admin position, which I loved - churches working together!  The Baptist church is so diverse in its congregations, styles and opinions.  Within this medley, I have found my place.

Here in this place, I am still keen to keep on working with other traditions, to work within our agreements and accept the fact of our disagreements, to rid people of their prejudices against each other, to find a way of working together for the good of our communities and our world.  To exercise friendship, respect and tactfulness.  To pray together, seek God together, express our longings together.

To bring together the pieces of the broken sword not in a way that forces people into one mould (the pieces are different shapes, after all) but that expresses the love of God in a dynamic, beautiful way.

To be the church in all her pieces, in all her humanness.

A body of many parts.

The body of Christ.



This is the third part of a personal story, which I have been inspired to share during the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity.  Links to the previous posts:

Part One - the broken sword
Part Two - under the waves

part two of a personal story: under the waves

My nose was baptised a fraction after the rest of me.  A fleeting moment passed as I was aware that the tip of my nose was above water, and then I was lowered just a bit further before coming up out of the waves.

I received infant baptism as a baby and was later confirmed, both  in the Church of England.  So how did I get here, on a pebbled beach beneath a sign which proclaimed loudly and cheerfully 'BAPTISM HERE' just days after my 18th birthday?

I had no problem accepting that infant baptism and confirmation could be seen as a theological equivalent to believers' baptism (and I know that the Holy Spirit and the act of laying on of hands is important in confirmation, too).  I did not discriminate in any negative way on those grounds. I still do not, although I am a proponent of believers' baptism in my personal theology. I was at sixth form college at the time, where I had made more friends and some of them were Christians, from various traditions and backgrounds. My decision to be baptised by total immersion was more of a personal decision than a theological one, yet it was act of obedience, just the same.

I didn't see a particular need for being baptised, having been sprinkled with water as an infant and confirmed when I was 14. I knew that for my parents the former was an act of dedication; they did not believe infant baptism made me a Christian.  My confirmation was where I made those promises for myself.  I must confess, however, to feeling a little sad not to have consciously participated in the symbolism evoked by the water. I say 'consciously' - I was conscious, but I cannot remember it, for obvious reasons!

The decision I made started with a niggling.  I kept coming across things about baptism and it kept on...niggling at me. I was rather surprised by this niggle.  I wasn't entirely clear what to do with it.  Gradually it grew stronger and stronger until it became clear that there was someone behind it.  I didn't know what to do.  In the end, I talked to my mother, who was supportive - I knew she would be.  I confessed the need to have company in this - someone to be baptised with  me.  So we prayed together that evening that if God truly did want me to be baptised by total immersion, there would someone who would accompany me in the whole experience.

That week I walked into my sixth form college where one of my friends was sitting in a chair, beaming.  'I'm getting baptised!'  She told me, jubilantly.  It still makes me smile, even now.  Any doubt was erased by delight.

My friend had a Methodist background and she too had taken the same steps as me.  Neither of our churches having such a thing as a baptistry, we chose neutral ground.  Well, more accurately, we chose the sea.  We were baptised by the chaplain of our college, himself an Anglican and incredibly helpful and understanding of our wishes. In the end, the service was called 're-affirmation of baptismal vows by total immersion', which seemed to cover things.  The words were the same - baptised in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, we made our personal vows to follow Jesus and acknowledge him as Lord of our lives. We knew there were some who still wouldn't understand, but we desperately wanted to do it.

So surrounded by friends and family from various denominations, plus some holidaymakers who asked to watch (my response: of course!), we entered the water.

Before we were baptised, the two of us prayed together. I knew then that for me, this was the decision.  I'd already come to faith, I'd already made various commitments on my journey, but this, I had decided, was for life.  There was no going back for me, not after this.  In enacting the dying (going  under) and the rising to new life (coming up) I was displaying my decision.  Jesus was not only my Saviour, he was my Lord.  In a sense, I visibly signed over the ownership of my heart that day.  I quivered with the intensity of my decision.

I did not know then that in later times, when my faith was all but broken and darkness swarmed over me, how much those promises made in the water would hold me fast.  I didn't know how much I would need that memory. How often, when doubt and grief and chaos flooded my mind, I would recall those prayers we said amid the pebbles, and the promises we made before we went under the waves.  How I would fiercely hold onto that symbolic decision when everything else was pulling me away from it.  How much I would thank God, with all my heart, that he had niggled me into it.

Neither did I know that I would end up in a church which came with a baptistry.

All I knew was: this is my vow.  This is my holy ground, where I take off my shoes.  This is my response to that niggle which became a call.



To be continued...again.

part one of a personal story: the broken sword

I intimated in Tuesday's post that there was a personal element to my longing to see Christians working together.  I'll try and encapsulate it a bit here - but please remember this is my personal experience.  You are welcome to take it or leave it.  Neither is this my Christian testimony about my coming to faith in God, but it does talk a bit about how I have interacted with his people - his church.

As a child I attended an Anglican church - it was a very 'low' kind of Anglicanism, not that I knew much about the differences at the time. Years later I discovered certain kinds of incense made me cough and splutter, so perhaps it was just as well!  I went to church with my parents, and for reasons I won't go into here, also spent a couple of years in a Pentecostal Assemblies of God congregation, and then another charismatic Anglican church before returning, for the majority of my teens, to the original Anglican church where I had begun.

We've touched on the fact I'm not keen on labels (see here), and as a teenager I was very prickly about denominationalism.  I would quite firmly say 'I am a Christian,' beyond that, I was determined not to be boxed.  I knew there were aspects of Anglican tradition that didn't match my own slowly forming theology, nevertheless I loved the people within - and the church is the people, after all - and I wanted to be where God put me.  I also wanted to ditch the labels.

All this makes me sound very firm in my opinions, but I should explain a little more about teenage Lucy-ness.  I stumbled through my teens on a tide of feeling - feeling that I did not know how to express, and longing to know and understand more and more.  But I struggled to put myself into words, and when I sincerely tried, my contemporaries looked at me somewhat oddly - who thinks that much about life?!  I suffered from an innate shyness which coupled with this desperation to express and understand generally left me muddled and exhausted.  It was nobody's fault.  I was just becoming me, in my own teenage way.

As I became more anxious about sharing my heart, so full of feeling, I began to hide behind a mask of a manically overdone version of my natural silly streak.  I consider my silly streak a very healthy and necessary thing, but at this time, it was something I hid behind, because I did not know how to contribute to conversation.  I did not know how to be me, because I did not know then who on earth 'me' was.   This mask wasn't always appropriate, so sometimes I would simply remain quiet, at one point reduced to nauseating panic attacks - coping with sheer depth of feeling and self-consciousness and tiredness.  My body, frustratingly, would not keep itself distinct from my emotions, and thus when I was a nervous wreck, I really was a nervous wreck. (Of course this is a generalisation.  I did have my sane moments!)

Only relatively recently have I been able to look back at that other me and smile benignly, no longer clutched by scorching embarrassment.  She's still with me - not all of it was hormones - but blended in with later experiences and, well, growing up.  Anyway, you get the picture. I felt things very deeply indeed - and not just for myself; I could be assailed with chokingly powerful compassion, which alas was so powerful I was yet again rendered speechless and unable to show it to the person concerned.

Within my passionate nature, I had a longing for God.  I was incredibly sincere in my faith and thrived on seeking understanding.  I also had a passion for Christian unity. I looked at division and it hurt. Once, the young people were holding a service as an alternative to Hallowe'en.  The idea was that it was open to other churches in the area and I took this very seriously indeed.  One of my most vivid memories is of lying in my bed praying furiously for this service.  And lying back, rendered mute, an image flashed into to my mind.

I can still recall my feeling of astonishment.  This is not a way that God often speaks to me, so to suddenly have a 'picture' come out of nowhere was startling.  And perplexing.

It was a broken sword.  I don't mean a sword merely seared in two but splintered, fragments of it lying about - big, small, shiny, rusty.  Baffled, I asked immediately: 'what does it mean?'

The answer came back, startlingly clear and swift. 'This is my church.'

(Now. Some of you will say 'it was all in your head'.  Some of you won't like the image of weaponry.   I understand that.  I'm just telling the story.)

Gradually, the threads of meaning layered in my mind.  A shattered sword is no good for its purpose. It is ineffectual.  What good is a sword that lies in pieces?  But put those pieces back together and what do you have?  A powerful weapon.  One that can stand against injustice.  One that can defend the weak and poor. One that can make a difference.

It's an analogy.  It's an analogy that went straight to my heart.

To be continued...

losing my marbles...

...although not in that sense. That happened a long time ago!

My first marble was a white Cat's Eye and I thought it was beautiful. I found it one day before I had any of my own. I was delighted with it. One day a boy challenged me to a game of marbles. I had my one, beloved marble. He had his handful. And I lost it.

I didn't really consider the game permanent. I'd assumed I would get my marble back at the end. But I didn't. Despite my pleas, that was the game, he told me. He got to keep my marble. And I was left with nothing.

For some reason I remembered this recently, and it started a train of thought. How many times do we 'play' with the precious things in our lives, thinking we won't lose them, or do any harm? A spouse's trust. A friend's confidence. A child's dream.

These things - so beautiful - we can so easily treat with carelessness. I wrote a song once called 'breakable'. One of the main lines was - 'don't run too fast with a heart in your hands' - because it is so breakable.

What are the important things in our lives? Do we realise how important they truly are? How would we feel if we lost them?

cancer to the heart...

I was scrabbling through some old papers at the weekend, searching for a song, when I came across this poem.




I wrote it in 2001, and, interestingly, can't remember what it was referring to - which, once you read it, seems somewhat fitting.

I do know that sometimes we carry memories with us in a negative way, whether they are hurtful memories we can't let go of, a situation we can't leave behind, or simply what I call 'Golden Age syndrome'.
This is where we have an idealised picture of how a place/person/relationship used to be and it dominates the present so much that we forget to look for its own unique joys and sorrows. Regret is one thing that is particularly hard to release - indeed it has a very particular sting which can taint everything.

Here it is, then, the poem which sparked these thoughts...


Closed Hand

Why do we follow this circle round
of memories that lead to hurt?
(labelling them as 'nostalgia'
as if they were benign
and caused no cancer to the heart.)
holding fast to that which was
the good and the bad in the palm
of a weary hand, rheumatic
with clinging so ferociously
to a collection of battered
antiquities and hopes, now dust.

is it wrong or somehow
disloyal - to exorcise the mind
of old demons encased in silver
boxes? to embrace the 'now'
not 'then' (despite its beauty,
for a beauty faded cannot shine.)
risking fullness of life
for a bucketful of broken china
and the spiders in the cracks.
if eyes open can the hand
- and heart - remain closed?
(unfeeling at the sunrise of tomorrow)
why dream of night when it is day -
or wish the golden colours grey?

Of course some memories are incredibly special and it is healthy to carry them in our hearts and have them form our character and reactions in the present. But I think we know, 'deep down' as they say, which memories we are clinging to in a way that is not beneficial - to us or to those around us, who share our lives. These memories are like stones in our shoes, although we may struggle to admit it - we limp along desperately but cannot bring ourselves to leave them behind. We need to see those which are benign, and those which are causing 'cancer to the heart'.

Recognising them is the first step, praying we will learn to open our 'closed hands', those clenched fists, such painful grips, and trust that there is One greater than past, present and future who can take the unhealthy bits away. (Indeed he is as wonderful in one time as he is in the others.) It may mean we can at last hold a memory minus its bitterness and pain, not absent but cleansed of any ugliness or sorrow.

memory lane: more snapshots

I remember...the house in which I spent the first 11 years of my life. It was a big house, with high ceilings and many rooms (I was the youngest of 5, and my grandmother also lived with us).

I remember...the big, drafty sash windows with which we used little wedges to stop them rattling on a windy day.

I remember...the wind coming under the front door and lifting up the hall carpet in billows - and me sitting on it, wishing that I was feather light and could be lifted up with it.

I remember...the huge curtain I used to roll myself up and hide.

I remember...the fire that was lit at Christmas and I would lie on my tummy and gaze into the flames.

I remember...pretending the staircases were waterfalls in one huge imaginary landscape.

I remember...the gong that hung outside the kitchen door, to summon us to dinner - 'Mummy can I bang the gong puhleeese...'

I remember...the Christmas trees that were sown in a row in our garden, and that the last of them needed its head chopped off to fit (and remember there were high ceilings!)

I remember...trying to persuade my 'youngest' sister (10 years older than me), to join in my imaginary games, and having fits of giggles.

I remember...the excitement of when my brother set up his railway on the floor of his room, and looking at all the tiny figures and buildings, while the trains raced around the track.

I remember...Bonnie the black Labrador whining at the back door, wanting to come into the kitchen.

I also remember...Bonnie rushing up to me when I had fallen down the stairs, sniffing me to see if I was hurt.

I remember...the sound of my grandmother (Nanny) playing her piano.

I remember...my mother laying out all her seed trays and tending the seedlings.

I remember...my sister Debbie coming downstairs wearing a face mask and being silly - much to my delight.

I remember...the strange quietness after bedtime, and the eerie hugeness of the dark.

I remember...the freezing winter mornings, when Mum brought in an old fan heater so I could stand in front of it while I got dressed for school...and she huffed into my socks to make them warm.

I remember...many other moments, but I will save those for another time...

memory lane: Molly & Dinah

It's been some time since I have ventured on a Wednesday's walk; what with Easter busy-ness and visitors and a whole oddment of things life seem to be scurrying by somewhat rapidly - time to breathe in and then - wait for it - breathe out.

Ransacking my mind for an appropriate memory which didn't involve too much coherency - not something I feel i have much of this evening - I settled on one for all you animal/pet lovers that read my blog. Of course, most of you will have scampered over to Charlie's House - already with its own firm fan base ("of course!" murmurs Sir Charles).

Most of you won't have read this blog from it's gentle and somewhat stuttering beginnings of occasional posts, so won't be familiar with the following two characters. But if they had lived - sniff - they would certainly be regular features here - in fact they and Charlie would probably be the main bloggers, with the occasional post from me!

Molly and Dinah were the two lovely guinea pigs we acquired in 2005, I think it must have been. They had a long haired mum and a rough haired dad and took some time to grow into their own fur...they had little coronets on their heads and whenever they washed it looked for all the world like they were 'doing their hair' - especially Molly.

But who needs words? This is what this lovable pair of sisters looked like:

Dinah

fancy a cuppa?

... might be nice...

Molly - and Dinah's nose!


looking down

Molly chatting to Charlie one Nov 5th

(firework night in the UK -pets inside please!)

whispering secrets?




Molly's snail impression



she could do a very good disapproving look

All right, some explanation needed...we only have a lawn in our front garden, which is open right onto the road and slopes, so it's not safe to have small animals grazing...so I sowed grass seed in a seed tray thinking the guineas could reach over the side and nibble it...well you can see what happened; they got right on top of it and ate it all in one go! So, back to me handpicking from the front!

The guinea pigs were fascinated by Charlie from day one, and always very excited to see him. very aware of the problems and injuries that can occur from combining rabbits and guinea pigs, in general they were together but with some kind of barrier between them. One day I decided to see how they would do in the run all together. To keep a close eye in the proceedings, I got in too (you are allowed to giggle). Once the guinea pigs were in, they went straight for Charlie in delight and proceeding to give him a thorough sniffing. If you know how guinea pigs sniff, you'll know they do so very intently, rubbing their noses across the thing they are smelling...

Charlie, rather bemused by the attention and the two noses buried in his fur and sniffing vigorously while making interested chattering sounds, sat for a while and then hopped away. The noses followed. He hopped away. And they followed. In the end, out of desperation, he scrambled on to my lap and eyed them from a higher vantage point, while they scurried around doing their little jumps in the air (with bouncing fur).

Forgive me for waffling on about guinea pigs. I do love them! Sadly Molly and Dinah had malocclusion of the back teeth and it wasn't discovered until it was too late. They had them filed down but they were all ready too deteriorated in health and had to be put down....

They were so lovely. I can't really have any more at the moment due to my health, and Charlie is all I can manage pet wise. But I dream of a whole guinea pig building filled with 'weeenk, weeenk, weenk' - ing noises...

To finish, a short video of them as little ones...I kept the sound so you can hear a snatch of that lovely weenk- ing sound at the end.

memory lane: the God who hears

Today's memory is a simple one of when I was in my mid to late teens. I'd been hearing lots of stories about how people had become Christians. I have always loved hearing such testimonies, but I was struggling at that time as I longed to remember my first profession of faith. many of us 'grow' into faith by stages, and it is hard to catalogue the 'moment' - especially as in my case, where I could not remember a time when I had not accepted, and indeed loved, God.

I knew that when I was 7 I had echoed a prayer led from the front at a church camp we had attended. Today I would see this as one of many steps of faith, but it was very important to me then that I could remember what was my first real declaration and invitation - my first commitment. But try as I might, I could remember nothing of how I felt. And as a teenager, this troubled me.

One day I knelt down in my room and asked God to help me remember, so desperate that I was literally crying. After a while, I felt the burden lift, and I let it go.

A few days later I was on a blank tape search. This happened often at this time as I had started writing songs, and not being able to write music adequately, I would record them onto tape. (Some of them are predictably cringe-some. Others could be worse.) Anyway, my mum was trying to hunt some out and came across some tape recordings of the church camp we had been on all those years ago. Sidetracked from my original intent, I was fascinated. One of them was the same service which afterwards, I had made my first commitment to following Jesus.

I often listened to talks on tape at this time, so I put it on while I pottered around doing other things. The talk was actually very appropriate for me at the time, and I appreciated it. What I did not expect was the recording to go on running after the talk had finished. Frozen to the spot, I listened to the minister of our then church talk about following Jesus for ourselves, and then leading a prayer which people could join in with if they so desired.

There were tears pouring down my cheeks as I listened to the words that I had whispered on my mother's lap as a shy 7 year old, as the feeling of the moment overwhelmed me. It was wonderful hearing the words, and knowing their significance over time. And underlying all of this, was a huge surge of gratitude that God had heard me and answered my prayer, in such a down-to-earth way. Gratitude that he was concerned with me - me - so tiny in this world. He hears the concerns of our hearts - and he heard mine.

As I said, today I would see my faith as a journey of many significant moments, but then, it mattered to me particularly that I should remember this first declaration of faith. I am still very grateful for this moment. It was such a simple thing, yet it meant so much to me.

Today: 3-4/10, medium

the struggle

I would like to write an entry for this Wednesday's walk...but I am struggling for inspiration. This is not a new thing by any means - I frequently struggle for inspiration, have struggled for inspiration - so perhaps this post could be valid after all.

I have always been creative, as a child drawing and doodling, making up stories, writing down stories, begging my sister to tell me stories (which always had a Lucy in them). For many years I simply assumed that I would, in fact, write stories always. The trouble is, I always get stuck. Something unnameable gets stuck in my throat and then - how do I write my story?

I used to want to write a novel. To be honest, that ambition has fallen away from me. I would still like to write, but...

This tiredness that I have to bear, have had to bear for what is now over half my life - it gets inside my head. My concentration slips, my memory closes down, and the weariness gets soul deep.

I first started suffering from CFS/ME at the age of 14. It's tough to deal with as a teenager - I couldn't stand the divide it put between me and my peers - and the lack of understanding I found in those of my own age group. It was a vicious cycle - the more misunderstood I felt, the less I enlarged on what the problems were, and had no wish to be identified by this thing I never asked for. So desperate was I not to become labelled by it, I volunteered very little information. I don't think I would have known what to say even if I wanted to.

At first, my friends were understanding, but prolonged absence and the resulting distance made it more difficult. I clearly remember two of them talking in front of me about how they couldn't just stay at home all day, how they would have to get out and go to school and see people - and I just felt clenched. It wasn't something I could control. I just sat there listening, and feeling the exhaustion that they didn't understand, feeling it dominate my life and dictate my actions.

There were these little moments of teasing about how often I wasn't there. The moments weren't all the time, but they were enough. Do you think I want this? Do you think I don't hate it? Do you think that what you're saying isn't clobbering what little confidence I have left in myself? Gradually I stopped bothering to explain anything. I didn't have the coherency, anyway. What do you do when your body betrays you?

It's not like that now. Thankfully I haven't felt misunderstood in that way for a long time. People accept it, even if they can't grasp it, and support my decisions. But I still hate having to say it, to explain it. When something dominates your life, it's hard to describe yourself without it. I am less stressed about doing so than I used to be. But. I love meeting new people by nature. Often I dread it, simply because of the elephant in my head, that will have to come out, and explain why my life cannot be easily labelled and pigeon holed.

But would I want it to be? Although this is a bad patch now, I think exacerbated by the medication I am on for my head and neck, there have been good times where I have felt relatively well. There have been times when I have known healing. The last few years' relapse has held quite a sting for me at times. I'm still waiting for the new healing, but it hasn't come yet.

Perhaps without it I would not know what I do now, see what I have seen, learnt what I have learned. Perhaps I am kinder, wiser, softer for it, not inclined to be judgemental, always wary of labelling others - distinguishing people for who they are, not what they do. Perhaps. Sometimes I think - have I not learned this lesson by now? Can't I try a little living without it? Does that sound sad and pathetic?

I didn't intend to write about this at all, and I'm not sure it fits the topic, but there you are. What am I supposed to be? I still feel, as I stretch my life around the fatigue, segment my days in order to control it. The fact is at 14 years old I never once imagined I would still be dealing with this 15 years later - and this last relapse has been one of the worst.

I feel I have no right to complain, and I probably don't. But sometimes...I have to say it somewhere. We all need to scream, occasionally, metaphorically or not. We all need to open our hands and say: this is how I feel, right or not. I want to be better.

The fact is I can't remember. I can't remember what it feels like not to feel tired. I can no longer judge what is 'normal' as far as energy or strength or healthiness goes. I feel as if I am stretched so thinly - and not because there is so much to stretch over, but because there so little to stretch over with. The fact is I am afraid I will never feel strong again.

I started trying to explain why I struggle to write. This is only part of the reason why I struggle to write, when I desperately want to. But it is part of the reason I struggle to do a lot of things, when I desperately want to. But I am not the only person to struggle in the world. I am only one of millions.

Cry freedom then, for those who are wrapped in chains, much heavier than mine.

Today: 5/10, medium

memory lane: the little naturalist

When growing up, I was fascinated by all kinds of wildlife. I was just as fascinated by insects, spiders, slugs and snails and suchlike as I was with animals and birds. As a little girl, I was utterly fearless when it came to wildlife (although very shy in front of strange people!). I believed all little creatures had the potential of being my friends (and I theirs) if they just had the time to grow accustomed to me.

At the house where I spent the first thirteen years of my life, the garage was sunk into the hill on the side of the road, with a tarmac roof which could be easily sat on, or climbed on, from the garden. (There was, of course, a barrier before the drop on the other side.)

The tarmac would grow warm on sunny days and I would perch or lie on it, and examine the honey bees buzzing around the Cranesbill Geraniums with grew up round the sides. Initially wearing gloves, I would somehow "persuade" the bees to climb onto my fingers. After a while, I grew more confident and took the gloves off, and watched them climb onto my fingertips. No, not once was I stung; though it's not something I would try now - and I suspect my parents would not have been entirely happy with this activity!

It simply did not occur to me that these creatures would hurt such a friendly little girl as I was! Even when wasps chased me across the school playground, I would be proud of the fact that they preferred me to the others - although this sentiment would change rather drastically in the future. My enthusiastic attitude towards the attention of wasps ended one day, when sitting in the school hall, I suddenly felt an intense stinging pain on the back of my neck. A drowsy wasp must have landed there and, as I shifted my head, felt threatened and stung me. We found it flailing on the floor afterwards. I'm afraid an unprovoked wasp sting rather effected my attitude...

Anyway. Enough about wasps! I would go around the garden collecting slugs, snails, or woodlice ('chiggy pigs' as I knew them), giving them leaf matter or roots/wood to eat. I would watch with fascination as pregnant woodlice gave birth to dozens of tiny white miniature selves, turning them upside down (poor things!) to watch the babies moving around in their parent's 'tummies'. The naturalist in me, I suppose! I would hope I didn't poke or prod at them, but I suspect most small children do, and I wasn't any different.

As for spiders...well there were plenty of spiders in my life, the house being what it was - big brown ones in the bath and sinks were regular, and there were plenty of fascinating garden spiders outside, hanging on their webs. Intrigued by what they would do, I would put a tiny piece of grass in the web, and watch them 'tidy' it up and throw it away. I confess I also offered up the occasional woodlouse (!!) to watch the spider wind it up. I found it frustrating that a fly never got caught while I was watching...

At school, a certain group of boys would frequently come up to the girls with cupped hands, saying they were holding a big spider. This would cause some to back off, shrieking, but I and another friend held our ground until they confessed there was no spider. Growing bored of it, I went and found a big, hairy, house spider and walked up to those very same boys with the spider in my cupped hands. Of course, they didn't believe me for an instant. When I opened my hands, it turned out they could run and scream with the best of them!

As I grew up, childhood courage receded and adult fear crept in...I brace myself at the sight of a wasp and try not to hurtle off until it gives up bothering me. (Do I smell nice to wasps, or something?!) I won't handle a spider unless I absolutely have to, although if there's a room full of shrieking adults I will gently pick one up and throw it out the window on their behalf. And daddy long legs (crane flies) are my worst. It's fine if they are just minding their own business, but if they fly towards me, they cause a great deal of frantic hand flapping and leaping about lest they fly in my face (and hair!).

The child that I was would look on in astonishment at all the fuss - and, I suspect, no small amount of superiority...

Today: 4/10, medium

memory lane: the nature of remembering

how do I remember
the days strolling by
covered in a mist
of forgotten time -
golden light,
or cold touches of dark

snatches of feeling
summoned by a scent
a sight familiar
as if I have seen it
before, somewhere
hidden in my mind

the blacks and whites
have faded now
even shades of grey
have become less
recognisable, instead
the world is multicoloured

crimson, cerise,
aquamarine streak
through my memory
each representing
a thought, a feeling
a certain moment

closing my eyes
to feel the sunshine
recognising the warmth
on my skin, as I
acknowledge the memories
of a hundred rays

I understand
what summer smells like,
where winter leads me,
where spring lifts me,
where autumn encases me
in memories of fallen leaves

for I have seen them before –
triggers, reminders
of what has been and what
has been remembered…
and I wonder at those things
I have forgotten.

A slightly unorthodox entry, I know. I hope it still counts :)

________________________________________________

I am also participating in:

over at Lynette's!

memory lane: the Phantom

When I turned 18 we organised something special to do as a family. So my parents, my sisters, one of my brothers and I were booked to go and see The Phantom of the Opera at Her Majesty's Theatre in the West End.

I had never been to see any kind of show so this was very exciting. My siblings have all lived in the London area at some point in their lives, but at this time I had not often been to the busy centre of London with all the tourist sights, the atmosphere and the glamour of the West End.

There was a change to our plans however - circumstances taking the dramatic turn they did, it ended up that the evening we had booked to go was the day of Princess Diana's funeral. It was unprecedented, and for the first time, the theatres closed and all performances were cancelled. We had to reschedule.

Sadly only one of my sisters and her then boyfriend could attend the performance with my parents and me - none the less it was a lovely evening. This was the first time of two that I have seen Phantom in London, the second being in 2000 when my Brazilian penpal came over to England to meet me. (The original production of The Phantom of the Opera opened on October 9th 1986 - so 2009 is its 23rd year!) I had never been to anything like it and the excitement was palpable. I am a country girl, so it was an unusual occurrence to be in the hub of the capital city.

From the opening of the first act, I was utterly transfixed. It is difficult to explain the impact to those who have merely seen the film version, because so much of it, it seems to me, is designed for the stage. The great chandelier rising up above our heads and the thrilling crashing down at the end of Act 1 - this is for the theatre (I should add here that I say 'cinema' where Americans would say 'movie theatre', so when I talk of 'going to the theatre' I'm talking about stage plays, not films!)

The atmosphere was wonderful. The little shrieks that suddenly bubbled up from the audience as we realised the Phantom was sneaking about on top of the chandelier trembling above us, and later on in the show where the Phantom is taking Christine by boat to his lair - the stage was covered in low lying mist, and candles rose up out of it as the boat moved past, utterly convincing. Because the show is such a long running fixture, the effects show all the signs of a theatre made for the performance. I like that fact I have only ever seen it in its 'home' theatre. It adds a certain specialness to it.

The dramatic songs and energetic performances were equally as gripping. I loved the entire thing. Although, I have to say, nothing can quite beat that chandelier falling from the ceiling...

My sister had been given complimentary tickets to the restaurant at the top of the OXO tower so after leaving the theatre we went to eat there (a bit of a shock to my stomach at having a main meal after 11pm!) . I had a rack of lamb, if I remember rightly, which was delicious but so rich I was full after four mouthfuls!! I can still visualise the gleaming dome of St Paul's rising up in the skyscape that was all around us. Actually, looking it up now I realise how recently the restaurant had been opened when we went there.

We didn't stay overly long in the restaurant, and it worked out perfectly. As we drove back through Westminster Square, Big Ben struck twelve. (Big Ben is actually the name of the bell, not the clock face or tower, although often people refer to it as such.) As I looked up from the car window at the glowing dial and listened to the great, deep ring of midnight, I felt a huge ripple of contentment. It could not have ended better.

patchwork memories

There are many memories I have which are not full stories but simple snapshots. This is especially true of my childhood - where the patchwork of memories is not numbered or dated, and sometimes one memory includes repeats of the same thing, or event. Or an object - I remember an object in many phases, but I could not place it on a chronological line.

I remember the huge kitchen table where we ate our meals; I also remember cutting up sponges there and making paintings, using the sponges as stamps. I remember making cards for my mother using tissue paper to make flowers.

I remember collecting warm eggs from the henhouse, and how the hens would let me stroke their backs.

I remember being fascinated by the gas mask in the loft room.

I remember clambering up staircases with Bonnie, our black Labrador, in tow - making believe I was scaling mountains and waterfalls in some amazing adventure.

I remember my dad finding a grass snake and putting it in a fish tank for a few moments so I could have a good look at it; I remember also catching sight of an adder as I played with the petals of a flower on a bush.

I remember the guinea pigs hollering with excitement when they heard any kind of bag rustling, thinking it was feeding time. I remember when Topsy, one of our rabbits, gave birth.

I remember lying on my tummy watching the ants march to and fro from their nest; I remember catching butterflies and the delight when they stayed briefly on my finger when they were free to go.

I remember turning out all the lights so I could play 'spaceships' with Bonnie, landing on a distant planet, going round with a torch and discovering the resident alien (aka the hamster).

I remember our cats, Twinkle and Tiptoes, curled on my lap and purring; I also remember the too-enthusiastic pummelling with their claws which came before hand as they got themselves comfortable.

I remember making a house out of an old television box and bringing a tolerant Twinkle inside with me.

I remember how my brother, sometimes my dad, would on my request pick me up by my ankles and swing me round in circles, while I squealed in delight.

I remember hurtling down a snow covered hill on a simple plastic sack.

I remember frequently asking to hear stories of my brothers and sisters when they were my age (I am the youngest by ten years).

I remember the smell of the Christmas tree and how I would make little piles out of the pine needles on the carpet.

I remember lying in the dark in front of the fire.

I remember having staring contests with my sister (she who laughs, loses).

I remember the view from our old house.

I remember feeling - elation, disappointment, joy, hurt, fascination, puzzlement.

I remember more than all this - but this will do for now...

Today: 4/10, high

memory lane: carpet snorting

It was a Monday night at the college where I studied theology. I took a break from the work I was doing in my room because my friend Sarah had ask me to go to the Laundry. She needed me to take her clothes out of the washing machine and put them in the dryer, while she was studying in the Library.


So, I walked to the Laundry and went to the machines. But Sarah's washing wasn't there. I couldn't find it anywhere. I appreciate that this isn't particularly funny. But I must have been overworking my brain, because I started to get the giggles. Off I went towards the Library, snickering. It only got worse as I went along. On reaching the Library, the word SILENCE hung above the doors. Oh dear goodness. Deep breath in. Control, Lucy control. I entered the Library. I wasn't actively giggling but alas, I still had the giggles. They were rippling up from inside - I had simply clamped my mouth shut.


Seeing Sarah made it worse. Quite what my expression was I can't say. But staggering up to her table - I opened my mouth to speak. How can I explain in writing the noise that came out of me? Try breathing in and saying ahhhhh really loudly at the same time. Imagine it ten times louder.

ERRRRRRRRPPPPPPPP! I cried.

I had done it. I had barked like a giant seal in the library. Everyone looked at me in amazement. Monday evening was a busy time in the library. Every table was full. Feeling dreadful, but unable to control the state of my voice, "SORRY!!!" I shrieked, and turned tail and ran.
Sarah was hot on my heels, gasping with laughter.
We collapsed in the outside corridor, much to the alarm of other passing students. It took a very long time for me to get the words out.
Eventually, Sarah's washing was found.


A week later. A Monday night. Sarah was in the library, I had agreed to go to the Laundry. She had asked me to transfer her clothes from the washing machine to the dryer. Memories of the previous week were already causing flickers of amusement inside me as I entered the Laundry. I opened the machine - her clothes were there! I reached in and - they were dry. She had forgotten to turn the machine on. Already too far gone with laughter for any good to come out of this, I switched the machine on and hurtled towards the Library. I appreciate that I didn't have to do this. I could have taken the safe method and gone back to my room to calm down. I should have known. But, this was me. And this was Sarah. Sarah and I are the kind of friends who automatically gravitate towards each other when any kind of hilarity occurs. I could not overcome it.


Must...find...Sarah...must...share....


So off I went, back into the main building, sniggering through reception and lurching unsteadily into the Lecturer's Corridor (where they had their offices). There was actually a Lecturer in the corridor at the time, who gave me a look of such puzzled amusement that my mild hysteria increased still further.


SILENCE! Pronounced the board above the Library. Impossible.


I swung through the doors, making strange, gasping hiccupy sounds. Mercifully Sarah saw me coming this time, launched out of her seat (already infected with hysteria herself). She herded me out of the library and we both collapsed in the corridor outside, immobile with laughter.

This is a feature of our friendship. I remember a time when we were on one of the staircases; I clutched at the rails, sobbing with laughter, unable to stand. Sarah was even worse than me, collapsed against the wall making mewing noises. What was the joke? You've got me. Frankly, there didn't even have to be one.


Another occasion we were in Sarah's room and some amusement brought us to the state of lying on the floor, snuffling with laughter. 'I just snorted carpet up my nose!' giggled Sarah. And henceforth we refer to the 'sort of friend you can snort carpet with', which sounds a little dubious (!) but simply means a friend with whom you laugh so hard you are rendered helpless on the floor.


It is a friendship that was meant to be. Early in our acquaintance I was sitting in my room and heard this strange snickering noise outside. My room in the first year was opposite the kitchen. On further exploration, I discovered Sarah helpless with laughter in the kitchen sink, with the window blind on her head. It had fallen down, and she was trying to sort it out. Naturally, I was soon up on the draining board with her.


It isn't only laughter that binds us, of course. We have cried a good many tears with each other since those early days, and wailed over embarrassments and days which have all gone wrong...I still remember Sarah launching through my door and crashing onto my bed and burrowing into it; likewise the time I stumbled, agonised, into her room and buried my head in the first thing I came to - her towel (!)


I will finish up with one last story (there are many!!) Sarah and I had this uncanny knack of ending up in the toilets at the same time. Many times I would go into a cubicle and suddenly become aware of this sniffling noise (try giggling without using your vocal chords and with your mouth closed - you've got it). We would both make this sound when we suspected the identity of the other person, and on hearing the sound the other would roar with delighted laughter.


That's not the story, that's the scene setting (!) It so happened Sarah and I were in Borders one day and went to find the toilets. One was out of order, so i went in first while she stood outside by the sink. I had to change my top, for some reason. I cannot for the life of me remember why, but still. Making a joke about the fact we were in the toilets together, I started mock laughing very loudly.
'HA HA HA!' I roared. 'HO HO HO!' Then, 'I'M TAKING MY TOP OFF NOW! HA HA HA!'
Sarah was laughing outside but something was wrong. She was laughing quietly. I paused. 'Sarah?' I queried.
'Yes?' she replied.
'Are you alone?'
'No...'
'Ah,' I said, calmly. 'OK.'
The awful thing was that because the other loo was out of order, I had to come out of the cubicle (Sarah dashed in, purple with amusement), and then had to calmly wash my hands while the other woman stared straight ahead of her with a closed expression...but every now and then there was a faintest twitch on her lips....



Sarah, this entry is for you :)

memory lane: the wedding

It was 2am and I was sitting in the kitchen with my mother, panicking. It wasn't about the act itself; I wasn't getting cold feet. What was causing me sheer terror was the fact that I would have to make that walk - I would have to walk down the aisle. I could see my legs turning to melted pools of jelly. Frankly, I was afraid I would actually throw up with nerves. Oh, look! Isn't she lovely! Oh look - oh - what - oh dear. The idea was sickening... I was nervous about being nervous.

(For those who only get what I call 'head nerves' this seems bizarre. For those of us with 'body nerves' - turbulent tummies, racing hearts and the resulting nausea, it makes perfect sense. It doesn't matter how calm I am in my mind. My treacherous heart and stomach take over.)

"I can't do it!!" I squeaked to my sympathetic mother.
Couldn't I just teleport to the front of the church and be done with it?!
She prayed for me, and I went back to bed. Eventually, I slept.

At the dawning of the day, it was raining. Three out of my four bridesmaids - Kaye, Sarah and sister Debbie, and I huddled under the arch outside the hairdressers waiting for it to open. (The fourth, my sister Louise, has short, cropped, shiny black hair so opted to stay behind at the house.) My hair is very, very thick. Both in quality and in quantity. The sort of hair that people ooh and ahh over, until they try and get it to behave. My hairdresser was bright red in the face and visibly struggling to remain calm as she attempted to tame the stuff into coils at the back of my head (I counted the grips later - there were about 50 of them in my hair that day). She did a wonderful job.


We scuttled back to my sister Debbie's car, somewhat self conscious with fancy hairdos and wearing jeans... Arriving back at the house (after clutching at my brother for a moment of reassurance) we discovered the bouquets had arrived. They were far more lovely than I had imagined. They included my theme flower, blue love-in-a-mist (nigella), with thistles, creamy roses, pink ranunculus and grasses. The corsages were cream rose buds and Andy's had a thistle.


Now, I had to get dressed, after which I put in my contact lenses. I had to wait as long as possible before I did because I can only wear them for limited periods - I have a prism in my glasses and my eyes simply tire out without it. Thankfully, I managed it successfully and didn't mess up my makeup.

Bridesmaids and my mum helped with necklace, tiara and veil...and I was all dressed and ready. I had two 'special ladies' or 'best women' in addition to the bridesmaids - Laura was involved in the music and the other, Rachel, stayed behind at the house after my mum and the bridesmaids had left, and the car came back for me and my dad. She had the delightful duty of lowering me (in my dress) onto the toilet just before I left the house!

There is a picture of me standing at the door with my dad and I am holding his hand - if you look closely you can see I am squeezing so tight my knuckles are white! I kept gripping his hand all the way to the church - using the other to wave at the interested pedestrians as we passed.

I am smiling somewhat manically in the video of my arrival - the smile is genuine but my eyes are wide with nerves. I remember standing at the bottom of the bell tower waiting to go in, making (half) jokes about throwing up over everybody, with my dear friend and bridesmaid Sarah roaring with laughter behind me. It was very therapeutic. Humour gets you through a lot of scary moments, in my opinion.

As it turned out, I had to concentrate so hard on my dress that my nerves receded into the background - unknown to me at the time, my inner petticoat had got a little rucked up in the car and needed pulling down a little. My feet kept catching the front of my dress and I had to keep slowing down so I wouldn't trip over. My nerves completely evaporated once I had reached the front of the church.

Everyone seemed to enjoy the service. Family members who never went to church made very positive comments about it. The Marriage went beautifully, and the rest of the service was uplifting. It felt so...joyful. The then Principal of our college (where I had graduated a year ago - Andy had graduated just two weeks before the wedding!) did the address. We very much appreciated the effort he and others had made to be there. I remember him talking about the need for forgiveness, and not keeping a record of wrongs. We have the service recorded on CD - I must get it out and listen to him some time.

I wrote a poem for the occasion, which Rachel then read out:

I promise not to leave
when thorns grow up around you;
instead I will make a sword
and come and tear them down.
I promise not to laugh
at the dreams you've held so tightly –
because they are sensitive to light.
I promise to dance with you
even when the music has faded
and I cannot remember the words.

I will do my best not to be irritable
or resentful
even when I am tired and the day has all gone wrong
but when we make mistakes,
let us forgive and move on
and wipe them away at the end of the day
for love keeps no record of wrongs

I cannot promise to heal all your scars,
nor that life will be perfect,
nor that I won't ever feel like giving up.
But I will walk with you in the strength I have
and leave the rest to God.

Love bears all things,
believes all things,
hopes all things,
endures all things.

Above all else, I promise to love you.

(c) Lucy Mills

When we came out of the church, we stepped into the sun. Our conversational chauffeur informed us that it had been continuing to rain, but had stopped just before we came out. The weather was sunny, but not unbearably hot, for the rest of the day. I smiled so much for photographs my cheeks ached! We had our reception at a hotel near my parents, looking over the beach.

The whole day was filled with the warmth of genuine enjoyment. Many of the guests commented on how good a day it had been, and that added to our own contentment. It was lovely, too, how so many people from different paths of our lives got on so well together.

It was a wonderful day. I could tell you many other things about it (such as the wedding speeches) but this entry would simply be too long. I will simply say that Andy's speech was absolutely lovely. And my Dad accidentally compared Louise's head to a football (!) to much amusement. His speech was lovely, too - there was a moment when his voice caught ever so slightly and I had to duck my head because the tears sprang to my eyes. I don't think many others noticed. But I did.

Above all, I am glad and so blessed to have married Andy.

walk down memory lane: Lucky

I wanted to take part in this as I thought it would be good for me to record some of my memories – these days I feel so forgetful sometimes. Life seems to hurtle by and the days come round again so quickly – so today I will tell you a simple story of something that happened when I was 8 years old. It’s a loooong entry – so forgive me if it is too long.

We had quite a menagerie when I was a child. I was used to cats, dogs, hamsters, guinea pigs, rabbits, budgies, geese, chickens, and my favourite: ducks. Specifically they were Muscovy Ducks. Some people think that Muscovy Ducks are ugly, with their funny red faces, but I grew very attached to them and always thought they were lovely. Some other people confused them with geese. My uncle and (male) cousin took one look at our drake, Sir Francis Drake (aka Frankie), and turned tail and ran, leaving me bent double with laughter - and Frankie wondering what all the fuss was about.

At this time we had three: Frankie and two ducks, Sophie and Sonia. It transpired that Sophie had laid eggs. With my enthusiasm for ducks no one was allowed to eat the duck eggs (!) The chicken eggs were okay because there was no cockerel. I knew my stuff - if there was a drake, there were possible ducklings. And, there were.

Except one. One poor lonely egg, left in the nest. There was a tiny beak poking through the crack – but the duckling got no further. The other eggs all hatched, but not this one. It stayed there, with that tiny beak. Sophie eventually gave up, and took her ducklings off for food and water.

I was very distressed, and begged my dad to help it. He was very dubious. Still, we took the egg back to the kitchen. It had been so long in its state it was obvious it would get no further. We did the inadvisable, but last option, and helped to break the shell.

She lay, damp and weak. It was evening. We fixed up one of those red lamps and she lay inside an oversized ice cream tub. We left her overnight. My parents did not hold much hope for the weak little bird.

In the morning, I rushed downstairs to see what had become of our little one. My parents had carefully not looked over the edge of the tub (but they knew what was in there) – they knew what I wanted. I looked over the edge, and there she was, fluffy and bright eyed, staring up at me. Me. The first thing she saw. And the imprinting took place. I dubbed her ‘Lucky’.

After checking she was fed and watered, I was eager to see how she would respond. I went into our smaller sitting room (it was always called ‘the study’ – I think that must have been what it was originally). I placed her in the corner in front of the television and walked to the other side of the room. I turned to call her - but she was gone. I was aware of a soft, warm pressure on my foot, and looked down, to see her sitting on top of my shoe, looking up at me. I hadn’t needed to call her – she had followed me across the room.

Lucky slept in a woolly hat on top of a hot water bottle in the airing cupboard. She responded well to all of us, treating us all as family. There is a lovely photo of her standing on my brother David’s arm, peering up into his face, nose to nose.

It was summer, so I was off school. I would put out my ‘My Little Pony’ things and she would peer at herself in the mirror. I would pick her up and hold her against me in one cupped hand, using my thumb to stroke her head where it met her beak – this seemed to soothe all our ducklings – and she would close her eyes and nestle against me. She still liked to sit on my foot.

When I went back to school or couldn’t be with her, my mum would put her in the pocket of her apron, where she was perfectly happy. When she wanted me, she cried. Her cheeping would grow urgent and distressed, and had the ability of halting me in my tracks. I developed a maternal instinct - for a duck. One time we were going to visit my sister, then over an hour’s drive away. We had no choice but to take Lucky with us, in a cardboard box. We sat by the canal and had a picnic. A family outing, with a duckling in a cardboard box.

One day my parents gently explained to me that we just couldn’t keep her in the house forever. I was back at school, and she needed to be with the other ducks. It was a difficult transition – for the little duckling, and the little girl. We went one day up into the shed where the other ducks and her brothers and sisters. They happily wandered about. Lucky sat on my foot. Sophie tried to tuck her under her wings but Lucky would have none of it. My dad put her in the shed and we went out. We’d barely gone a few steps before the wild cheeping started. There was no way I couldn’t respond. I remember my feeling of utter distress. The attempt was a failure; I went back and got her. My dad was dubious about how she would cope with the shock of it all. But she did what she always did, and recovered.

In the end we would put Sophie and the other ducklings in our huge rabbit run on the front lawn. We would put Lucky in it for pockets of time, gradually increasing the period she was in there with the others. I would be within sight, but not reach. Initially she flung herself at the sides of the run, gripping it with her feet and flapping the tiny stumps that were her wings. I would have to rein myself in - resisting the urge to go to her. But she got used to it. So very quickly, I realise now, she adapted and immersed herself into her real family.

It got to the point where she was no tamer than the rest of them. The ducklings would all cope well with me scooping them up to hold them, but she did not come to me in the same way. She was a duck now. A real duck. It made me sad, though she was, of course, better off. I had to let her go.

Later, much later, I had to let her go again. It was my choice. The last of the others had gone, we now lived in a smaller garden and she was alone. I agreed she should go and be with other ducks – with more freedom of space. The new owners were almost as distressed as we were – ‘can’t you keep her?’ they asked, but I was adamant. In the car in the way home, a teenager now, I suddenly started to sob painfully. My parents would have turned round and gone back, but I refused. I had to let her go. I hope I was right – I hope she was happy. They said they would tell us if she ever had ducklings. We never heard anything, but I hope she did.

I always remember the feeling of her. The softness in my hands, the sound of her calling, the coolness of her webbed feet on my arms.

Lucky – the little duckling who defied the odds. She was only a duck - but she once believed an 8 year old girl was her mother.

Today: 4/10, medium

the unravelling

There was an alumni day at our old theological college yesterday, so we made our first visit since Andy had graduated (the year after I did). I am so very glad we went, although I found it an emotional experience. It started even before we got there, the aching familiarity of the roads and the places which signified we were nearly there, things I used to note delightedly on returning at the beginning of each term. Because it was such a formative place for me, such a beloved place, and although it wasn't always easy, it was always somewhere I was utterly real, and safe to be so. And so it began before we even got there, a kind of unravelling, as the familiarity of such a place stole over me and made me realise how weary I really was - all the way through - and I was fighting tears even then.

The talks given by former lecturers - no longer there now but familiar to us - tugged at me, in various ways. I remained in this tearful state off and on all day, simultaneously laughing at it, self conscious and embarrassed by it - and yet I don't think they were destructive, unhelpful tears. It was more like suddenly finding an old, familiar, utterly trustworthy friend and falling into their arms in relief for a while - utterly honest about where you've been and how you are feeling.

The fatigue has become such a dominant factor in life, and I have gone on stoically, because I have to, but so often it frustrates me. Yesterday this welled up - but turned into something gentler, healthier, in a moment of utter safety. This was the place which always managed to tenderly uncover my bruises - those known to me and those not known, and by the support of friends found, brought healing and a sense of discovery.

And the buzz of being back in an environment where I learned so much - and loved to learn so much! It reminded me, impacted me, reinvigorated me for study of that which used to inspire and challenge me. I expected not to feel the same old fit - I have changed, and so has the college, a different student body, some changes in lecturers (but so wonderful to see the ones that remain!), but instead I found myself feeling a perfect fit, going back and feeling the same old feeling of both comfort and challenge, safety and discovery. I'm hoping to carry this feeling on...not to lose it, but recapture a part of me which has been worn down, worn out, left behind and given up...and if that journey occasionally means my eyes fill with tears of relief, pain and joy all at once, so be it.



Yesterday: 5/10, medium
Today: 4/10, medium - high