The Word Is Gospel

Please note that this isn’t a review of Stockton Sparkles, but my thoughts on my own experience being part of the Singing Christmas Tree.

 

 

Every once in a while an opportunity presents itself and you just can’t ignore it.  Sometimes it’s the most natural thing in the world to jump in with both feet without a second thought and let the ride smoothly and effortlessly carry you along.  Then there are those opportunities that make your head spin, your stomach churn and your legs turn to jelly, and you take weeks to come to the conclusion that yes, you’ll give it a go, and it’s purely because you want so badly to be part of the end result that you’ll put yourself through your own personal hell to get there.  And finally, if you’re very lucky, you not only have people beside you to help you through the terror of stepping bungee jumping out of your comfort zone, but you discover that you can do more and go further than you thought possible in that terrifying moment, and the end result is the most wonderful word in existence… “Yes”!

 

 

I was sat there in the Wonderful Wednesday that is Stockton Town Choir a few weeks ago, and an announcement was made that had me denying myself all possible involvement because of one simple thing.  Fear.

 

How wonderful would it be to be part of an 80-strong, one-off gospel choir forming a singing Christmas tree in the heart of Stockton for the Christmas lights switch-on?  Well, of course it would be incredible!

 

How comfortable would you feel if you were mic’d up, singing so exposed with your peers?  Oh, that’s fine.  Not a problem at all.  Bring it on!

 

How willing would you be to stand in a room with three people and sing on your own, to audition for this fabulous opportunity, knowing all the while that you could be turned down?  Ah!  Well now, that’s just… you see I just can’t… that’s inconceivable, no… no  I can’t put myself through that, are you crazy?  Singing on my own?!!!

 

So I sat there listening to all of the above and more, and just slowly shook my head.  No.  Not me.  Not ever.  I was unshakable.  It was just never going to happen.

 

The deadline for putting ourselves forward for this insanity disappeared.  When Friday 5pm passed me by I was relieved because I didn’t need to think about it anymore.  It was over.  Any possible involvement was gone entirely and it was my own decision.  It wasn’t a failure to perform, it was only my decision.  I could relax again.  But why had I been thinking about it at all?  I practically shouted a resounding no from the moment I heard about the planned event.  I knew  if I could have just walked in on rehearsal night, joined in and performed, nothing would have stopped me.  But that didn’t matter now, because any chance to be involved had been and gone.

 

And then the deadline was extended.  Oh f…..

The new post asking for people to audition had extra information to the previous ones, and two things stood out and screamed at me not to ignore them.  First, it wasn’t just described as a one-off, but an extraordinary one-off.  In that moment what crossed my mind and still hasn’t left me, is that the people who do extraordinary things are the ones who work on their anxieties and fears, kick themselves in the proverbials, and just get the hell on with it regardless of how they feel.  The second was to know we’d be working with some incredible talent, from solo performers to the MD and the band.

 

It took me a few more days to get the courage to send the email asking to audition, and honestly, my finger was hovering over the send button on my phone for a very long time.  It was the last day to put myself forward and I couldn’t miss the opportunity twice, and yet the only way I could send the email was to walk away from it, do something constructive for a while and focus on anything but that send button.  When I sat back down and picked up my phone, the first thing I saw was the email I’d drafted and I instinctively and without hesitation pressed send.  I knew in that moment that if I hesitated just once more I’d lose the nerve and the opportunity for good.

 

Then I panicked, and I didn’t stop for four days.

 

What I did do as well as panicking was I found ways to cope, discovered new ways to calm myself down.  There was no point trying to get rid of anxiety and nerves because that would never happen, but it was possible to still them a little and learn how to gain some control.  I’m incredibly lucky to have some top notch friends and partners in crime, so I talked to them.  I found more ways to help my nerves and I (hopefully) was able to help someone else with his.  And I practiced.  And practiced.  At every opportunity, even if just quietly to myself while sat at my desk at work, I practiced.  The song was in my head as I went to sleep, when I awoke, and at times I woke up at 2 or 3am singing the bloody thing.  Through all of this practicing I even discovered that depending on where I sing from, I can reach higher notes more easily than usual, which was a bonus especially considering I’d started to worry that I wouldn’t reach one particular note.  And I couldn’t not reach that note, I wouldn’t forgive myself!  Practice, practice, practice.

 

On the day of the audition I was so distracted I may as well have been sat at home as at work.  I’d started to feel better, but now that the day had arrived the butterflies returned with a vengeance. Breathe… breathe… breathe…

 

More support from a fantastic friend while sat with my tea was invaluable.  He was kind enough to stop my naughty chimp (my fear and anxiety given form) from strangling me.  I shrank that chimp and he held onto its tail so it couldn’t follow me into the audition room.  I kid you not.  He gave me a ‘lucky’ clip to take in with me, too.  No, I didn’t believe him either but I played along and made sure he took it in with him when he went for his audition!

 

When it came down to it, yes of course I was still incredibly nervous.  But I was breathing long, measured breaths, I wasn’t shaking (yet), and I just got on with it.  I wasn’t perfect, and in fact I was decidedly dodgy hitting some of the notes in the first half (at the very least!) thanks to those pesky nerves, but the practice helped immensely.  I knew what I needed to do to hit the high note, and I did it with more ‘oomph’ than I knew I had!  I’m grateful for that high note, too, because it was only a few days later when I realised my preoccupation with it was what made the shaky-voice nerves go away (or that’s how I heard it in my head!), simply because it was all I could think about when I hit the second (final) verse.  And regardless of the outcome I knew I’d done the very best that I could do, and what more could I ask of myself?  Except to get up the stairs afterwards without my legs collapsing beneath me.  I could ask that.

 

We would all find out the next day whether or not we were successful.  Well, today is the next day and once again I can feel the butterflies building.  Hurry the hell up already!

 

 

The longer I wait for an answer the more convinced I become that the answer is no.

 

 

It wasn’t a no and I can hardly believe it.  I’m in!  Well, bugger me!

 

 

What I’ve realised over the last week of having the music for the four songs we’re learning, is that some of the most wonderful things through this surprisingly private learning curve are the incredible piano solos.  I can’t remember the last time I danced around the kitchen so much while both learning and cooking!  They’re infectious, delicious tunes that make my feet tap, my shoulders move and my booty shake without warning.  I won’t apologise for the image you now have in your head, just be thankful you’re not one of my neighbours!

 

I didn’t know this for a long time, but I’m a learner.  It took me a lot of years to realise that learning keeps me going.  It doesn’t matter how small or insignificant the subject seems, I love it; songs, crochet, cello, tatting, BSL, sewing, it’s all good.  But sometimes it’s great, and although I’ve realised the same four songs are taking it in turns to plague my dreaming AND my waking hours, I love it, I love it, I love it….

 

It’s not long since I started to play the cello again, so to pick up the scores to go along with the audio files we were given was like a little gift from heaven, though I know I’m probably in the minority!  It gave me something to get my teeth into, and it’s been a while since I had that.  Being able to help others get their heads around it (at least a little) was wonderful, too, because alongside learning new things I’ve recently discovered how much I enjoy teaching others, too.

 

So here I am with our four songs looping in my head day and night, lyrics pinned to my noticeboard at work and scattered beside my chair at home.  Audio files are pre-loaded on my phone, youtube videos are favourited and lined up, and during the whole of this fun little learning period my biggest worry isn’t the microphones or the big metal tree, it’s not the possibility of scratchy woollen hats and scarves or the thousands of people watching us on the night.  No.  My biggest worry is DON'T FORGET THE EFFIN WORDS!

 

 

I’m finding it difficult to begin this part of the post because I just don’t know where to start!

 

Today I’m exhausted.  It’s a happy kind of exhausted though, the one where it doesn’t matter that you have slightly bigger bags under your eyes than usual and wish you were anywhere but at work.  This is the exhaustion of post-performance adrenaline and countless days with little sleep.  This is the day after the night before.

 

Before I come to the performance I need to say a few things about the rehearsal.  It was a wonderful mix of singing, laughs, new friendships and incredible music!  I said earlier how much I loved the piano solos while I was practicing, but that didn’t compare to those same piano solos with Danny McCormack’s fingers dancing over the keys just a few feet in front of me.  I was, and still am, in awe of that talent, so my ears were ecstatic during our rehearsal!  I have to say that the whole band was incredible, such amazing talent, but I do have a big soft spot for Danny’s style of playing.  I was only sorry I forgot to say so in person in the busyness and fun of the pub on the night itself.

 

For a few days prior to it, I was starting to worry a little about the rehearsal night.  What I expected was (minus the waiting around for the sound check) five hours of practice after practice after practice.  Knowing that our fantastic organiser and visionary would be stressed beyond our comprehension, and no doubt worried about how we would all sound once we were all finally singing together instead of practicing apart, I was prepared for sections being scrutinised and parts being repeated until it sounded just as he wanted it to sound.  I even expected a lot of his sense of humour and fun to have disappeared thanks to the stress he’d caused himself organising the whole thing in the first place.  But the person stood in front of us was just Mike, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief because knowing that he could still approach it with good humour meant that we could, too.  I’m under no illusions that he was more worried than anyone about how we would all sound together, and that despite appearances his stress levels were no doubt through the roof, but it’s all just further testament to the wonder that is Mike that he made us all feel so comfortable.

 

It was also reassuring to know we weren’t to be over-rehearsed, and that the purpose was to retain a freshness in our performance (and I think we did).  And let’s not forget that we needed to enjoy it because if we didn’t, neither would the audience!

 

So Thursday 27 November arrived and I’d taken the day off work.  I’d had an awful cold the week before and at the beginning of the week my voice was noticeably struggling.  So I decided a day of rest, relaxation and as little talking as possible was in order!  What a strange day it was.  I hardly slept the night before and I felt I was in a strange kind of limbo.  I woke up excited for the evening, yet at a loss how to distract myself for the rest of the day.  There was no point practicing anymore because I already knew it inside out and I was, after all, trying to save my voice!  I managed it, though.  I got through the day with Christmas shopping and a movie.  Result!

 

The afternoon finally arrived, and after gathering in the church nearby and being donned in our matching hats and scarves, we filed off towards the tree.  Chattering, excitement and anticipation were buzzing from one person to the next, but nothing could prepare us for what we were about to see.

 

It took a few moments for me to really see the crowd, to focus on them, because of the steep steps and the snug walkways on the big tree (well, snug to me thanks to my additional padding!).  I was so focussed on reaching my spot without hurting myself or damaging my clothes that when I finally stopped and looked out to the crowd I had to forcibly stop myself from speaking what I thought. 

 

“Oh f……!”

 

It’s one thing to see thousands of people while stood on the ground with everyone else because you can only see so far, but when you’re raised up on a platform and can see everyone, the extent of the audience, it turns into an entirely different animal.  The mass of thousands upon thousands of people gathered as far as I could see took on a life of its own, but it wasn’t nearly as scary as I expected.  I can’t say there weren’t nerves, of course there were, but they were just the natural nerves you’d get before any performance (audition aside!).  I looked to my friends stood either side and could see the same kinds of thoughts running through their minds…

 

Whoa!

 

We’re really going to sing to all of those people?

 

We’re really going to sing to all of those people!!!

 

Holy crap!

 

Don’t forget the tune!

 

I can’t read my words, it’s too dark!

 

Don’t forget the words!!!

 

This is going to be fantastic!

 

Right, bring it the f… on!

 

And then we began.

 

We sang loud, proud and in tune.  We sang with big smiles on our faces and we loved every last second.

 

And now I really get it; the addiction of performing.  I said the same before having done Tell Someone Special a few months ago at Arc to a few dozen people (if that), but this… this was something else.  This was big, loud, proud and one of the most rewarding experiences of my life.  It was a huge confidence boost just to be told I was good enough to be part of it at all, but the confidence boost of thousands of people applauding and cheering because you’ve given a good performance was immense.  And I know I’m not just speaking for myself.

 

I think it’s fair to say that the crowd was up for it; they were clearly there for a great evening and they generously showed their enthusiasm.  The audience was already enjoying itself and that made our job that little bit easier.

 

The first note was close.  The core twelve were coming to the end of their beautiful, slow beginning of our first song, and the butterflies started.  And then I, along with around 60 other singers, began.  I relaxed within moments and I savoured every last second (there was no way I was going to let myself forget a moment of this!).  It was commented on later in the evening in the pub that we sang louder than we had at the sound check and they’d had to turn up the band.  Well, I’m not in the least bit surprised!  Adrenaline and a big, happy audience clearly made us open up our mouths that little bit further to be heard at our best and proudest.  Who wouldn’t sing that bit louder under those circumstances?

 

It was a truly wonderful evening.  I loved being part of it and I loved the atmosphere and attitude of the crowd.  The rest of the entertainment was fab, the Christmas tree is bloody huge and the lights are beautiful.

 

Last night I was the proudest I’ve ever been to have been adopted by Stockton, and I will never forget the experience, from start to finish.  From the first tentative email, to the absolutely bloody terrifying audition, the countless hours of practice, the new friendships, the extra little practice sessions both organised and just a couple of friends getting together over wine and cider, the sleepless nights from anticipation and adrenaline overload, and finally the sheer joy of the performance.  From the very first second to the last, it’s been an incredible experience and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

[I've edited this to add that I realise I've made this sound almost romanticised, but that yes of course there were some frustrations and some moments of irritation.  I've chosen not to ignore them, but to focus on the positives because they SO heavily outweigh the rest for me that they become insignificant once the songs have finished, the tree has been removed and the friendships and community have been strengthened.]

 

I would say to anyone who’s scared to jump in and chase what they want for fear of failure, or just for fear itself, just get on with it.  Do it.  I never thought in my lifetime that I would ever put myself through the hell of singing in an audition regardless of what it was for, but I did.  This is one regret that I will never have to live with, instead it’s a triumph that I will savour to my last day.

 

You can view Stockton Council's video of the Stockton Sparkles event, complete with the UK's first ever Singing Christmas Tree, right here:

 http://youtu.be/AJxmrQh7rBQ

 

 

A note for my nieces

 

Why did I do this?  What motivated me to put myself through the hell of pre- and mid-audition terror, and post-audition What If’s?

 

Many people already know that in the last few years I’ve gradually beaten down the doubting, scared voice in my head that tells me I can’t do something.  I still have some work to do on that, but from tentative baby steps grow huge, long strides full of confidence, and they’re worth working towards.  The more I do, the more I want to do, and I never know what the next thing will be.  I do know that if I get butterflies of both fear and excitement at the same time, I’m probably going for it regardless of what anyone else thinks.  And as it turns out, the scariest things are usually the ones I keep quiet about; if they’re THAT scary I might fail, and I’d rather tell as few people as possible about my failures!

 

But there’s something else that pushes me forward.  Actually, there are four things that push me forward.  No… scratch that… four people!  My weird, wonderful intelligent, beautiful, funny, unique nieces.  Forgive me if I get all girly and emotional now, but you know what?  I’m a girl and that’s what I do.  Deal with it.

 

So, my nieces…

 

I told my sister a few years ago that her girls were my surrogates.  Regardless of anything else that happens in my life, they’re what’s important.  Regardless of how far away they live, I’ve always wanted them to grow up knowing me; what makes me laugh, how tight I like my hugs, where they can tickle me to get the biggest belly laugh, and everything in between.  I’ve always wanted to be the auntie they want to run to when they run away from home, or stay over for girlie nights with funny movies, nail varnish and specially baked cakes.  I’ve always wanted to be the auntie they want to talk to about boys (or girls), about their favourite books, the one they know they can come to and snuggle into without saying a word, just because.  I want that for all four of those wonderful girls, and for any more that might come along.

 

Lately I’ve come to realise that they may indeed be ‘it’.  For as long as I can remember I wanted my own family, and the reality of hitting 40 this year brought home just how unlikely that is to happen.  Divorced, single, one income, rented home.  None of these scream ‘family’.  And the more I think about it, as much as itsmarts when I let myself think about it, I know that although I may very well leave no biological trace of myself behind, I can do the next best thing.  I can be the best version of myself that I can be right now, and in doing so I can show my nieces that anything is possible.  Absolutely bloody anything!  And I can have a fabulous time along the way, too!

 

What I’d like when they see me is not to think of a wallflower who’s scared to live, doesn’t have many friends and stays at home a lot watching TV (the old version of me).  I want them to look at me and see someone who loves life, will help people smile, will teach them the small number of things I know.  Someone who when she wants something, despite it terrifying the living crap out of her, will stand up and try even if it means she might fail.  Someone who does the things she loves just because she loves them, and spends time with the people she loves for the very same reason.

 

I want to be important to the people close to me and to make a difference to their lives.  If I can sit here and know that I’m setting a positive example of how my nieces can live their lives, not without fear because that’s impossible, but without fear controlling their decisions, that will make me happy.

 

So yes, I faced my fears and I auditioned for something I desperately wanted to be a part of, and I don’t regret one terrifying second of it.  But I also know it’s one more win not just for me, but for the girls I want to influence in their years to come.  They all have wonderful parents who will support them whatever decisions they make in life, but it can’t hurt to also have an auntie to show them what can be achieved despite that nagging voice in your head that  says, “Don’t do it!”.

 

So here’s to Natasha, Abigail, Hannah and Emma, to all the things they’ll learn, the people they are now and the people they’ll become.  Here’s to their achievements despite the odds and their achievements because of them.  Here’s to their failures, the ones that make them grow and learn who they are and the paths they want, and need, to take.  Here’s to experiences past and the ones just around the corner.  To the opportunities to come, the ones missed and the ones grabbed so tightly they may never be able to let go.  Here’s to their futures full of happiness and adventure, love and families.  Here’s to their wondrous, exciting lives and the endless possibilities that await them.

 

Girls, when there’s something you want to do, something you want to experience and it scares the bejeesus out of you, just stop for a moment.  Breathe.  Then jump in with both feet and enjoy the ride.  I know what it is to regret missing out on the things and the people you want in your life, and even just the possibility of them, but not anymore.

 

So… are you ready?

 

 

3…

 

 

2…

 

 

1…

 

 

GERONIMO!

 

A question of sense

This past week for me has been both challenging and exhilarating, and I've approached my activities with apprehension, albeit with a side order or two of excitement thrown in for good measure!

The majority of us are blessed but most of the time we have no idea just how blessed we are.  I'm one of those people, or I was before last weekend.  We take the most wonderful things for granted and we haven't the faintest clue that were doing it.

The feel of a partner's fingers delightfully lightly brushing over our skin, making us wriggle and giggle.

The scent of the first lawn of summer being cut, bringing with it the promise of sunkissed faces and happy trips out with family and friends.

The first ever taste of our favourite meal, the first of many to come and each time you think it can't get better than this.

The sight of our children, nieces, nephews and grandchildren running towards us with open arms before launching themselves at us for the tightest, squeeziest hugs.

The sound of laughter; big, hearty, infectious laughter that makes you involuntarily join in just because.

These are such precious moments, and there are so many more to be had in the course of just a day.  Can you imagine how many of these moments fill a lifetime?

The moment I learned of a restaurant in London called 'Dans Le Noir?' I wanted to visit, and last week I had the privilege of going with my brother for our birthday. The restaurant is unique (as far as I'm aware, anyway) in that it not only provides employment opportunities for blind people in a profession they may never have had the chance to try otherwise, but a percentage of the profits is donated to blind charities.

So how can blind people be waiters and waitresses?  Well, when you remove all light from the dining area you'll start to understand.  And when I say all light I mean exactly that. Not even a pin prick is visible.  Not one.  The waiting staff are much more than that, too.  They're also our 'eyes' from the second we place our trust in them to the moment we step back into the light after dining.  We're led like a human train to our seats where we fumble our way onto our chairs, and we take the opportunity to feel our way around the table to be sure where everything is before our first course arrives.  Our bottle of water is full and sealed and an empty glass sits beside it; we're expected to help ourselves as best we can, and in this tiny (safely seated) area we begin to slowly find our bearings.

Although we get to choose the type of food we eat we're not allowed to know more until it's placed in front of us and we begin eating.  When the food is there in front of us a careful, methodical investigation of our plates begins, for the most part with our fingers.  It's pitch black and we have knives and forks with which to eat our meal, but how?  Really, how are we supposed to do this if we're not sure what the food is or where it is?  When we first shuffled into the restaurant, I listened.  I was trying to gauge how many people were there and to hopefully figure out the size of the room, and while I listened I could hear the unmistakable sound of knives and forks on crockery, just like any other restaurant.  When it came down to it, however, I relented and placed the knife back on the table.  I ate the rest of my three courses with a fork or spoon and my fingers, because if I hadn't done that I'd still be sat there now,  five days later, chasing cold food around my plate and raising an empty fork to my lips!

It's incredibly easy to laugh and joke our way through a meal such as this.  We're like children again, trying to figure out the mechanics of doing such a simple thing as eat a meal, and failing miserably (at first, anyway), dropping food or worse, not getting any into our mouths at all.  Even something as simple as trying my brother's cocktail was a task.  We talked each other through it and successfully passed the glass back and forth between us without spilling a drop, which at the beginning of the evening was quite an achievement.  Completing the whole meal with only three tiny drops of raspberry juice on my top was a huge achievement.  This restaurant could make a fortune in adult sized bibs!

But regardless of the jokes, the flipping of v's at each other, the little face slaps here and there, it's impossible to ignore the lessons such a restaurant provides.  For a couple of hours we had a tiny taste of what it's like to be blind, but we're lucky because after being guided back into the light at the end of the meal, we get to see it.  Our sight returns and normality resumes; selfies, unguided trips to the bathroom, seeing smiles on the faces around us.  Everything returns to normal and we gradually forget the enormity of losing our sight.  But this was a night out, an experience and to some degree entertainment.  It was a test of our palates and concentration.  It was temporary.

During our evening we sat beside a couple called Lars and Marta, and towards the end of the meal Lars suddenly spoke to us. "Hello neighbours!".  It was his girlfriend's birthday and he wanted to sing Happy Birthday to her, but he didn't want to sing alone.  So he asked whether we would sing too, then maybe other people would join us.  We happily obliged, possibly because it was dark, but more likely because we'd been drinking just a little!  I was disappointed to realise that no one else sang.  I suppose being invisible doesn't change everyone's propensity to step further outside their comfort zone and sing just because it's a nice thing to do for someone else.  But it wasn't until after Lars and Marta left that I realised that had we been sat in a 'normal' restaurant he may never have even spoken to us.  As it was we had a lovely little conversation that was entirely unexpected.  I don't think I'll ever forget that friendly Scandinavian accent suddenly saying, "Hello neighbours!".

We have experiences such as this and in the moment we take the lessons to heart, but it doesn't take long to return to our version of normality.  But then there are further lessons to be learned.

A few days later I sat in a room with people of varying ages, abilities and knowledge, and I once again allowed myself to be re-educated.

Red Dreams is a charity in Hartlepool that was set up to "...support young people between the ages of 11 and 19, and offers mentoring and coaching for Bands, Singers, Songwriters, Actors, Musicians, Artists, Writers, Film Makers, Editors (Film and Sound) and many more."

Red Dreams also tells us that they have "...a very basic ethos of ’Confidence Through Creativity’; however this is underpinned by a number of values, including dedication, respect, focus, determination and support.  Red Dreams not only looks to support young people in their creative endeavours, but also offers to mentor them individually, allowing them to grow in self-esteem, self-confidence and self-belief; always instilling humility within an individual, and always going back to our core values."  You can find them here http://reddreams.org.uk 

Red Dreams had set up workshops that would bring together the deaf and hearing communities in order to produce a singing and signing performance on the third day, interspersed with silent comedy from a wonderful drama group, rapping and signing from some real talent, and songs from the kinds of voices that just make you stop, listen and in some cases ball your eyes out!

For me the two days of workshops were what it was all about, not the performance.  Perhaps it's because I'm so focussed on learning and understanding and the processes that helped us to do that, rather than the end result.

A lovely friend, Colleen, who is also a member of Stockton Town Choir was the person who alerted me to the workshops, and the moment I saw them I knew I wanted to attend and help in whatever tiny way was possible.

Now, I've always been someone who tries to understand and appreciate that everyone has their own struggles, varying abilities and different life experiences, and I try to consider these when I'm spending time with them.  I've known Colleen for around eighteen months and it took a few weeks for me to find out that she's deaf, but once I did, I endeavoured to make sure I wasn't one of the problems she would have to face, or an obstacle in her enjoyment of our time spent together.  I think it's fair to say that I didn't (and don't) always get it right.  I have no doubt that frustrations still creep in when I, and others, forget for a moment or longer that we're not all the same, and that social interaction involves more than talking over each other in order to be heard.

The workshops for Sing & Sign were more than a simple exercise in learning some sign language for the performance.  What Colleen and Simon, a young member of the Red Dreams team who is also deaf, did was teach the group a little of the struggles and frustrations deaf people face every day.  We had very frank discussions that gave us all a much deeper understanding of the lovely people sat in front of us, and I found myself in awe of my friend.

But we didn't just discuss what it means for Colleen and Simon to be deaf, we were given ear plugs and encouraged to take part in a couple of exercises.  One challenged us to do a lip reading version of Chinese whispers, to see what we could actually understand and how we communicated with each other without the benefit of sound.  In another exercise we were asked to try to follow a group discussion, with barriers to our understanding forced upon us purposely to demonstrate a point.  We were encouraged to discuss how we felt when trying to understand what was happening around us, and I think it's fair to say we were surprised at just how alone we suddenly felt within a group discussion.  It could so easily have been a few friends sat in a coffee shop, but the difficulties would remain the same.

Having worn the ear plugs for only a minute or two, I became very aware that I didn't want to speak.  It was a realisation that only came to me afterwards, but when anyone asked me a question I answered with hand gestures. Are you okay was answered with a thumbs up and a smile through tightly sealed lips.  I responded to can you hear anything with a gesture with my fingers to suggest a tiny bit, much like my youngest niece does.  My facial expressions also became more animated, and it was all because I could barely hear anything.  One person in particular could understand so little that she visibly switched off.  She sat staring at her shoes having given up trying to hear any of the conversation.

To say I had my eyes opened is an understatement.  Yes, I've always tried to be considerate when spending time with Colleen.  I've lost count of the number of times I've fought with my natural instinct to sit with my hand at my mouth while talking, which on reflection I suspect is one of my comfort/reassurance habits (I can't hide behind my hair since I had it all cut off!).  I believe that to understand another person's daily challenges, to take them on board and to adjust the way we interact, is to also have a deeper understanding of ourselves and our place in the universe, and that can never be a bad thing.

But of course there was also lots of practical learning, we had songs to learn after all.  I can now sign the alphabet, introduce myself (and with my own sign name, too), I can sign the whole of the song Proud by Heather Small and the chorus of All Of Me by John Legend, and I'm using various resources to learn more.  Why?  Because although I already knew it for a while but didn't have the wherewithal to do something about it before now, I'd love to be able to communicate better with my friend, to have her feel more included in those lonely moments of group outings when so many people are talking that no one can actually be heard, to be able to communicate across a crowded room at a party, and to know her better.  I do admit that it also feeds my need to learn!  I always want to learn.

I've gained so much from my dining experience at Dans Le Noir and the workshops at Red Dreams.  I understand more, think more, and have better self awareness as well as more consideration for others.

I'd like to finish with some things that I will always endeavour to do when in the company of someone who's deaf.  I have no doubt they could offer more suggestions, too.

I will try to keep my face in your eyeline whether I'm speaking or not.  I will keep my fingers away from my mouth unless I'm signing.  I will focus on you when you're speaking, and not keep glancing around the room.  I will touch your arm to get your attention if you're close enough, or wave my hand if you're not, instead of hoping you can hear me say your name.  In those moments when I see the unmistakable fleeting frustration on your face and before you retreat into your own world, I'll include you in the conversation, even if it's only something silly between the two of us.  I'll suggest meeting places without huge, noisy crowds and blaring music.  And I'll encourage you to tell me if I act in a way that makes you feel excluded, or simply not considered.

I know I have a lot to learn. Who doesn't?  But in the last week I've learnt more about others and myself than I could have imagined, and all because of a nice meal and some singing.

1245 Sunflowers

This is a post I didn't intend to write. I felt as though the 1245 Sunflowers event was strangely private despite being a community event.  I can't explain why.

What began as one person's idea to remember each of the 1245 WW1 soldiers from Stockton who didn't return home, guerrilla gardening a sunflower for each man on his own, morphed over time with another person's input into a huge community event that will never be forgotten by all involved and all in attendance.

By now, certainly in and around Teesside, we all know Mike McGrother's grand ideas come to life on scales we never expect (but really should by now!), and in fact they often seem to take on lives of their own. But without the seed of an idea that came from his brother, Kevin, I suspect the sunflowers would never have seen the light of day.  To say it was a seed of an idea almost suggests it's insignificant, tiny, limited.  It wasn't.  I certainly don't intend to play that down. Look at the world around you and consider what magnificent things grow from tiny seeds.  They're the hearts of what stand tall in front of you, but seeds need feeding to become big and strong.

Together, Kevin and Mike, and no doubt countless people behind the scenes whose names we may never know, worked together on this labour of love to create a community event to be proud of.  They brought together pockets of the community to grow sunflowers for each of the fallen soldiers, each with its own name tag.  People in schools, churches and individuals took the idea into their hearts and they became the largest part of the event.  Without the sunflowers being grown, without people researching their soliders' names and learning about their lives and those they left behind, without people cutting down the sunflowers in their prime and bringing them to Stockton Parish Church, the huge heart that became this event would have been lost.

It took about a year to bring this all together.  From long before the launch event held at the then empty Paparazzo, where the fabulous students of Matty's Bistro cooked a wonderful three course meal and the diners were treated to great music from Andy Johnson, a couple of Wildcats and a third (big apologies but his name escapes me) fantastic musician.  Even back then the community pulled together and volunteered their time to make sure the restaurant was up to dining standard.

The scale of this event was explained to us.  As part of Stockton Town Choir we were privileged to be a small part of it and we knew what was to come, on paper at least.  But when I arrived on Saturday 02 August I was stunned.  The scale of the arrangement, of where people would place their sunflowers (and already had) and the care and attention it clearly received momentarily took my breath away.  This was the moment I felt the heart in the event.  This was one moment amongst many to come over the next few days that left me speechless.  The photographs simply don't do it justice.

During the time I spent at Stockton Parish Gardens I was so impressed by the young people who had given their time to help.  They'd spent the previous couple of weeks researching some of the soldiers, visiting some of their graves, learning their stories and trying to understand what happened and what they went through 100 years ago.  By the time the event started on the Saturday I could see how much they cared.  They talked with people who brought sunflowers, learnt the stories they'd learnt themselves, they helped them place their sunflowers, they told the story of Thomas Hughes, they encouraged people to sign a book of remembrance, and throughout they did it willingly with kindness, humour and respect.  This is a generation we can be proud to watch grow, and I know there are people who worked with them over those couple of weeks who are proud to have been with them on their journey.

It was unfortunate that I couldn't attend the Gardens on Monday 04 August.  I know from all accounts, photographs and videos that it was incredibly moving; a fitting tribute to the 1245.  I know the rich, powerful voices of Infant Hercules caused many a tear to be shed.  They were the voices of the men who are no longer with us, and they sang beautifully.  The names of the 1245 being projected onto the side of the church, and each name being read out from 11pm that night from the beginning of the 1245 minute vigil, I know was both humbling and upsetting.  The number of volunteers who gave their time to be part of the vigil, to make sure those sunflowers, our soldiers, wouldn't be alone was so touching.  The letters written to Thomas Hughes by school children across Stockton were heartbreaking.

And still there was another part of the event to come.

Tuesday 05 August saw the final goodbye to our soldiers.  Even more sunflowers had arrived, more tributes to their memories.  We had a cheery and good old fashioned sing song with Daisy, Pack Up Your Troubles and It's a Long Way to Tipperary.  But then Infant Hercules once again sang, along with the lovely voice of Matty Chipchase, and made us cry with beautiful, heartfelt words as we held our candles (and kept relighting candles between each other as the wind unkindly extinguished them, in itself a touching act).  And then came the last post...

I've seen some people comment unkindly about the televised remembrance services and memorials of the 100th anniversary of WW1.  I've seen people suggest they were contrived, that they were done for the sake of appearances as though it's something we should do rather than something we want to do.  Perhaps the distance of those events caused a loss in translation of the importance that so many valued.  Watching on TV, being so far removed, can cause an apathy in some.  Maybe others simply don't believe it should be remembered in such ways.  I'm sure there are many who refused to watch or attend because they just don't believe in war, that it should be remembered in such ways, as though they feel it's celebrated.  Each is entitled to their opinion and I wouldn't think of criticising anyone for it.  But for me this was important, it was as much about bringing together our community and making people understand how important each other is here and now, as it was about giving thanks to those who didn't return from war all those years ago.

On Tuesday, instead of heading off to the pub after the event had finished, I sat on a bench in the Gardens.  Gradually people dispersed and a calmness fell (despite people clearing the ground and tidying up).  I had no specific thoughts as I sat there, I just sat.  I listened.  I watched.  I closed my eyes and felt the breeze on my face. I cried silently both for the lives we all remembered throughout the event, and for a life I remembered and miss every day.  I'm crying now as I write.

The 1245 Sunflowers event was something to be incredibly proud of, and I took away with me a deep respect for what so many people are working towards within Teesside; a community that cares, that works together, that helps and respects each other; a side that many people either can't or don't want to see.

There were pledge cards there throughout the four days.  I pledged one thing and I'm telling you now so you can kick me if at any time I forget...

I pledge to talk less about helping people, and do more to actually help.

Stockton's 1245 were remembered with respect, love and admiration, and I'm so proud to have been involved in even the tiniest of ways.  I'm even more proud of the community that I see growing in front of me and the strength they give to each other.  Stockton has a huge heart and isn't afraid to show it.

I love the North East, me!

This post and the events behind my writing it come at an interesting time; The Guardian has compared the north east of England to Detroit, the article making derogatory remarks about the area and publishing unflattering photographs.  It’s incredibly easy for anyone not living here to take what’s printed in black and white by people who often haven’t been further north than Birmingham, as gospel.  So many folks out there blindly trust the words of reporters.  They often instinctively choose the newspaper they read every day based on the matching political and moral views of the world.  Most won’t even realise why they’ve chosen the newspaper they have.  Some may even just buy it because, “It’s what my parents read every day”.  How many years has my dad been reading the Daily Express?  To my knowledge he doesn’t even pick up another newspaper unless there’s no alternative, and the only times I’ve seen a variety in his home is when people come to stay and they’ve bought them themselves.

 

It’s a sad state of affairs when people around the world (thanks to the internet) are being told that not only is the North East dilapidated, but its residents are personifying this very state.  I keep hearing that we’re sad and depressed, we’ve given up and we don’t care anymore.  Why should we give a toss if no one else does?

 

Having read the article numerous times while trying not to hunt down the reporter and kick him… hard… I find it difficult to comprehend that the North East is viewed as such a bleak, uninspiring, downright depressing area.  I’ll admit that there are areas that are lacking support, that we often appear to be overlooked for funding and that businesses have closed regardless of which town you focus on, but this is not only what the North East is; it’s also people, love, spirit and passion.

 

There are some quotes within the article that made my blood boil and although I want to address a few of them, this blog post isn’t about picking apart the Guardian article piece by piece.  Plenty of other people have done that already and much more eloquently that I ever could.  But there are some points I feel so strongly about that I can’t ignore them.

 

"It is time to stop pretending that there is a bright future for Sunderland."

Or anywhere, I suppose?  Things start to get tough and we give up?  Really?  That’s the attitude that rebuilt Britain after two World Wars?  The day we give up trying to provide a bright future for our town, cities and the generations to come is a day I hope never happens, and my experience is that we fight harder, we work together and we find the solutions.

 

Of Middlesbrough, "To a visitor, the long, straight streets of the town centre seem eerily empty of pedestrians."

Which Middlesbrough did he visit, I wonder?  Each time I go into Middlesbrough Town Centre the streets are packed with shoppers, and no that’s not only on a Saturday.

 

Harry Pearson commented on, amongst many other things, "...the emptiness of the North York Moors"

Emptiness?  Well no it’s not exactly filled with buildings and bustling crowds otherwise it wouldn’t be the moors!  But it is a stunning natural landscape that offers a peaceful break from the stressful working day and I wouldn’t ever want to be without its splendour.

 

Alex Niven "...it seems absurd to think that Middlesbrough does not have a long-term future.”

It seems absurd to me that anyone would think that Middlesbrough is a dying town.  I live here.  It may not be the most beautiful of places to live, but it’s far from being on its knees and it has many redeeming features.  Open your eyes.

 

Tony Trapp "Persuading clever people from the south to come here is quite hard."

Okay, the gloves are off.  Clever people live in the north east, too.  Clever people are not limited to having grown up and educated in the south of England.  Clever people are everywhere, but those clever people don’t always have degrees and tens of thousands of pounds of student debt.  Some do, and those clever people live in the North East too.    But so many clever people are too often overlooked because they don’t have pieces of paper to prove they’re clever.  Because god forbid a clever person has a northern accent and hasn’t dared to attempt to move to London.

 

Alex Niven: "There is this sort of sadness. It feels like a people who've been weakened, who've just been cut loose." And "The north-east has a brash, confident side. There's also often a sense of slumbering potential, that one day a messiah or a revival will come."

I don’t feel sad about the area.  I feel optimistic about its future because I opened my eyes to the people who are working hard to make things better.  Everywhere I look there are dedicated people giving young people new opportunities, helping independent businesses to open and stay open, supporting charities with their valuable time, and there are positive changes in the landscape and business in the area.  The ‘messiahs’ are already here, they just don’t stand at a podium in overpriced suits making promises they can’t keep.  They toil away making as little noise as possible, and before you realise it something good is happening and you’re reminded once again of how wonderful the North East and its residents are.

 

Now… okay, that’s out of the way I’d like to focus more specifically on this sadness and weakening we’re reported to be suffering from, and I’d like to set the record straight in a very specific way.

 

On Monday evening I attended a public meeting to ‘Save the Regent Cinema’ in Redcar.  Having never been to such a meeting I was a little tentative.  I didn’t know the whole story behind its history or even what the most recent developments were.  All I knew for sure was that the person who runs it, Neil, was struggling, and that for the last few years the building itself looked like it was about to be knocked down or washed away with the tide.  He needed some help.

 

There were some misunderstandings to iron out in the beginning, although one particular councillor was adamant he would repeatedly get his point across about not demolishing the cinema, whilst coming across arrogant and inflammatory throughout almost the whole hour.  To me he unfortunately epitomised the clichéd councillor until the very end of the meeting, when he did finally apologise for his manner to some individuals.  I’m at least grateful for the fact that I witnessed one such apology, because it restored some of my faith in councillors still being human.

 

What the meeting did show me was what I already knew; that the residents are passionate about their area.  They care about the heritage and the people who tirelessly work to keep such buildings and facilities open.  There was indeed heated debate at times and it occasionally felt unnecessary, but to the individuals speaking the raised voices were born of a real passion for the building they were trying to save for future generations.  They cared.  If nothing else was obvious at that meeting, I walked away knowing that Redcar has a core of people who want their town to be nurtured and built upon, and looked after with positive direction and a gentle hand.

 

The Regent Cinema stands alone on the seafront, its façade worn and tired but that will change thanks to promises from the council to find ways to help Neil with the maintenance; a more flexible contract, perhaps, but definitely a new canopy.  It was encouraging to hear the councillor admit that the Regent was at the “end of the regeneration line”.  Those precise words.  For someone to finally acknowledge what we already knew, that the cinema had damn near been forgotten amongst the big plans for the seafront, was worth the trip to the meeting in itself.

 

The lovely Regent sits with the gorgeous coastline as its backdrop.  I can look at the cinema today and see its beauty and the memories that lie within it; it doesn’t need a coat of paint for me to see its value and I’m clearly not alone.  Eventually though, I have confidence that when scanning the lovely new seafront with its crisp, new seawalls, big comfy shelters, fountains for playtime and the Beacon, that one day the Regent Cinema will fit.  It will once again look comfortable amongst its new surroundings and stand proud, just as it should.

 

It’s true that a multiplex cinema is being discussed at the site of the Coatham Bowl, and yes this will pose a risk for the Regent’s future, but only if it stands still.  Many possibilities were discussed for the future of the building in the event of a multiplex cinema being built, and people clearly want to find ways to not just keep it, but to make it ‘the place to be’ in Redcar.  I sat listening to the ideas and loved the enthusiasm behind them.  People spoke of its history and importance in their upbringing, and how much the grandchildren like going to see films there.  One lady remembered tap dancing on the stage while it was still a theatre.  Did you know it originally opened as a skating rink?  And apparently Clark Gable even sold kisses there to raise money for the war effort.

 

The Regent holds a special place in many people’s hearts and their eagerness to help Neil keep it running, in whatever guise, was uplifting.  I have no doubt that if nothing else, Neil could walk away that evening knowing that he’s not alone.  He has support, some new friends, and a lot of people passing on their contact details to help in absolutely any way they can to help secure the Regent’s future.

 

My little corner of the North East is loved.  It’s truly loved.  There will always be some people who do it down, who complain that it’s not what it used to be, and these people seem to have an inane ability to ignore all the good things their town has to offer them.  I’m convinced that these same people don’t see the good because they don’t want to see it, but from what I witness day after day they’re in the minority.  And we should remember that these pockets of people who are so sad and disheartened about their lives and the area they live in can be found in every town, city and even village, regardless of their position on a map.

 

Whether I’m sat in a public meeting to help save a beautiful cinema, at Stockton Town Choir singing my heart out, walking along Redcar seafront watching the families playing or just sat on a park bench watching the world go by, I can feel how much the area is loved.  Councils are working harder to improve facilities, grants are being won to restore buildings (The Globe in Stockton being a big one), people are finding ways to help their communities, others are finding inclusive and impressive ways to remember our fallen ancestors, some are opening new, independent businesses in previously abandoned shops, and so much more.

 

And let’s not forget the wider area.  How much do I love being able to jump in the car, drive for ten minutes and be in the North Yorkshire moors or by the stunning coastline?

The North East is beautiful.  Northerners are (mostly!) friendly with a wicked sense of humour.  Yesterday I walked past a complete stranger in the warm sunshine and he boldly and brightly smiled and said, “stunning day!”  When did that last happen in London?  Don’t get me wrong, I love London; it has a huge amount to offer, but my experience is that it’s cold and impersonal.

 

I live in the North East because I love it.  I’ve lived here for all but two of my thirty-nine years.  One day I might decide I’d like to try living elsewhere, but quite honestly I can’t imagine a day when that will happen.

 

I’m surrounded by people who see our area for what it is; warm, beautiful and welcoming.  Yes, it has its struggles like anywhere else but we’re not blind to the big picture.  We are clever people who work hard to improve our environment, our lives and those of the people around us.

 

And regardless of where I stand, our big picture here in Teesside is bloody gorgeous!