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.