Days Of Gratitude - Soup, She Choir, And Success. The First Of The Challenges

Four more days and the start of something I've been enjoying.

I am writing this on day six.  The days below include days one to three.  Just on a whim I asked Amanda a question:  "What shall I photograph today?"  It was an off the cuff question.  In part it was just me wondering what I would photograph and voicing my thought out loud, if a text is out loud.  It wasn't really a direct question because I didn't know what I might see and she certainly didn't know. 

Nevertheless she gave me an impossible answer and I had fun searching for the impossibility and then turning it into a possibility.

So each day since then I have asked her what I should photograph.  Sometimes there has been one challenge.  Sometimes more than one - but only because I keep saying challenges are too hard or impossible.  And then I do them anyway.  So in the last week I've found brilliant street art, made a simple marble run, posted my first ever [very daft] videos on YouTube, visited an art gallery and a museum, and generally had a good time  It's been very good for me.

Today I got up feeling and looking unwell.  I went to bed last night with a slightly bad chest, a very sore throat and a bit of a cough.  This morning I felt like staying at home and going back to bed.  I'd just go to Aldi quickly and then come home and that would be that.

Except I asked for a challenge.  And I accepted it.  She told me to photograph a duck.  I'll write about it tonight or tomorrow.  As a result I've wandered into random buildings where I probably wasn't meant to be.  I've visited a church.  I've bought two really good books for a pound.  I've seen pythons, and dinosaurs and Mithras.  I've played on a slide.  I've kicked through the leaves on a path I've never walked before.  And I've had a really nice walk in the park on one of the most pleasant autumn days you could imagine.

As to whether I photographed a duck, I am not saying.  That can wait until a duck quest blog.

I am knackered now and I do feel like going back to bed.  But perhaps I don't feel physically any worse for having been out and enjoyed a morning.  Mentally I probably feel a lot better than I would have done had I stayed home.

I doubt that there will be challenges every single day for ever.  But for now they are adding more riches to my life than I could ever have imagined would come out of asking "What shall I photograph today?"

October 25^th

Grateful for DVDs, soft toys, an exemption certificate when picking up five prescriptions, and for restraining myself from making extremely sarcastic remarks when spotting on Facebook that cancer will have vanished by tomorrow. Maybe poverty and injustice can be wiped out tomorrow night.

Stopping now before preaching to the converted about how prayer, if it does anything at all, doesn't work that way and never did.

26^th October

Grateful to have gone to a place where I might find some support. It took a lot of doing.

And grateful for being able to get to the She Choir. The quotation had been written on the wall of the place we meet, by an unknown hand.

And grateful for being challenged by Amanda to take a photo of a real life unicorn with wings.

Success - and Winefride enjoyed her flight around the room immensely!

27^th October

Grateful to be able to get out to Durham for a while, wander in charity shops and drop into Alington House where their little cafe was open. Very grateful for that. I had bread with home made pumpkin soup. Followed by a corned beef, cheese and onion toastie with a mug of tea. [Yes I am a monster, I eat meat still!] Followed by a Polish cake. Followed by more bread and soup because they asked if I wanted it for free to finish off the pan. Total cost - £2.40.

And grateful for being challenged by Amanda to take a photo of a tree with a rainbow ribbon around it. A tree was easy. The ribbon was harder. But I succeeded. Without cheating! All thanks to protestors against the stupid road plans in Gosforth.

28^th October


Grateful that after a serious meeting I could focus on three silly challenges. This is the result:
https://reborn-as-woman.blogspot.co.uk/…/challenged-to-take…

I was too wiped to get out to the art event I wanted to get to. But I'd had a good time with my challenges.

The result made the challenger laugh a lot. Seeing her laugh was a massive reward for me.

Challenged To Take A Photograph 2: A Tree. With A Rainbow Ribbon Tied Round It

I was flushed with success.  I'd been challenged to take a picture of a real life unicorn with wings and I had managed to do it, albeit through the method of adding home made card wings to a toy unicorn.  It's a light up unicorn.  In a dark room it will light up the whole ceiling with stars.

So I decided to go for it.

I asked her, "What shall I take a picture of tomorrow?"

She replied, "A tree."

"Hey, that's easy," I thought.

A tree.  Yes.  And immediately I began to plan which tree I would take a picture of intentionally and whether I might stray off my planned route of visiting the charity shops of Chester-le-Street and Durham in search of pretty trees.  I do like trees.  I take pictures of many trees.  I should probably learn some tree identification skills so I can say "Hello you wonderful silver birch" rather than just "Hello you wonderful tree."

A tree.  Easy.  I wasn't worried by her challenge at all.

But that's when she extended her request.  In reality only a few seconds had passed.  The time it took her to type six words on her phone.  But in those seconds I had planned my triumph in detail.

My plans fell apart.  The next words appeared on my phone.

"With a rainbow ribbon round it."

A tree.  With a rainbow ribbon round it.

How was I going to do this?  I don't have a rainbow ribbon.  And what are the chances of accidentally encountering a tree with a rainbow ribbon round it?  I suspect they are low.  I was initially flummoxed.  But I didn't allow myself to lose sleep over this perplexing quandary.

I woke up with a plan in my head.  I would just have to cheat.

I would do my own tying.

What I would use wouldn't be a ribbon though.

And it wouldn't be a rainbow either.

It would be this:

It is, you will not, a colourful item.  And it is a nice sparkly item.  But it's a scarf not a ribbon.  And the colours, though they are many, are not a rainbow.

Nevertheless it would have to do.  I packed my scarf and set off to Durham, knowing that contained within the city there are such things as trees.

She would just have to cope with a photograph of a tree with a colourful, sparkly scarf tied round it rather than a rainbow ribbon.  And if that wasn't good enough then I lived long enough as a too-hard-on-myself Catholic to know how to put in a good performance at repenting of my own shortcomings.

So we set off to Durham.  Blob Thing and Winefride were pleased to be going out for the day.  They were so pleased that they didn't even point out that the printing on the back of their seat was on backwards.

We delayed ourselves on the way to Durham, tempted by the possibilities of the charity shops of Chester-le-Street.  Blob Thing started telling Winefride about the time he and I got off the bus there and walked to Durham and what an excellent day that had been.  I think she would enjoy that walk too - especially Finchale Priory - and Blob Thing says he wants to go back and have pictures of himself taken with all the bridges we see.  He does like pictures of himself with bridges.

And so, suitably delayed - and having bought some Christian books by nice Christians (ones other nice Christians point to as good examples) - it was lunchtime by the time we reached Durham.

All thoughts of trees and ribbons passed from my mind, being replaced by that all conquering desire of the flesh:  I want some lunch.

We made our way to a place called Alington House and were fortunate to find the cafe open - an event that is not a guarantee by any means.  We ate very well indeed.

The homemade pumpkin soup was followed by a cheese and onion toasted sandwich.  And then Blob was very excited because I went and bought us a piece of a Polish cake too. Just look at the enjoyment on his face.

And that was followed up with a question from the woman serving us the food - a volunteer like everyone else there.  "Would you like some more soup for free?"  And so we ate more bread and soup and were very satisfied.

Our bellies were happy but my mind went back to the question of trees and the realisation that I had not even begun to complete the challenge.

We walked up the hill and I did my very best.

That one had a hexagonal Victorian postbox in it.  And they're rare.

The next two have a Durham Cathedral in them.  And that's even more rare than a hexagonal Victorian postbox.  Several of those remain.  But there's only one of Durham Cathedral.

I thought, "Maybe that's good enough.  Maybe she'll accept my attempt.  Maybe a tree with a sparkly, colourful scarf will put a smile on her face.  It won't be as good as Winefride flying on a winged unicorn but she'll see the effort I put in."

And that might have been the end of the challenge.

Except that as I walked down the hill I couldn't let the challenge go.  I had to do better.  I had to find, at the very least, a tree with a ribbon tied round it.  There had to be one.

I couldn't shake off the demands of the near impossible quest as we walked further around the centre of Durham.  She deserved better.  Not a sparkly scarf.

And then the answer came to me.  I knew where I could find lots of trees with ribbons.  They weren't rainbow ribbons.  But they were ribbons.  And maybe some of the trees would have more than one ribbon.

I knew what I had to do.

So with a sense of wild urgency we returned back to Durham bus station and caught the bus back as far as Gateshead.  There we caught a Metro back to Newcastle and got off at a stop known as West Jesmond, named as such because it's on the West side of Jesmond.  From there we had to walk.  Or at least I did.  I was in such a hurry and Blob and Winefride aren't the fastest of walkers [or bouncers] so I carried them in my special bag.

As I reached our destination I could only smile.

I was right.  There was a tree.  With ribbons.  Not a full rainbow.  But ribbons.  Of several colours.

This was excellent.

And then there were more trees with ribbons.

And more trees.

 

But still no rainbow ribbon.  I had done well though I thought.

No!  My head would not accept this partial victory.  A tree.  A ribbon.  No rainbow.  Only two out of three.  I wanted a rainbow ribbon.

I hunted all the trees in this ribbon tree area.  Oh yes, I hunted.  I had to make sure.

And bliss, rapture, ecstasy and deep joy!

I found not one but two trees that brought a triumph and the peal of trumpets as angels played them in celebration of the glorious news.

Here's the first:

And on it, a sign.  The reason for the ribbons.

For these ribboned trees are all destined to be destroyed if plans with the planning office are approved.  They are incredibly stupid plans.  A roundabout in Gosforth, where at peak times people may have to queue for a couple of minutes in their cars, would be replaced by a road system of a size more suitable to the junction between two busy motorways.  Those plans are being redesigned but the future of all the trees is still in jeopardy.

Here's the other tree.

And here it is, the source of my success.  Success brought to me through the hands of one of the people who tied ribbons to all the trees in danger of being destroyed.  Thank you kind protestor!

Yes.  I succeeded again.

Two challenges.  Two successes.

I wonder what the third challenge will be.  I haven't asked her yet.

I bet it will be terrifyingly difficult.

Days of Gratitude - Going Over The Edge And Entering The Lost World With A Giraffe

There have been some hard days recently.  Days on which keeping this gratitude diary becomes very important to me.  Days on which it would be easy to feel miserable because it is so hard to continue.  Days on which every single thing is a fight inside on a scale of The Battle of Waterloo.  And the cannons sound just as loud.

These were such days.  Each of them was hard.

1st August - I couldn't leave the house and hid away for much of the day.  Having done so well when out for a few hours the day before I was still in recovery.  Some tears.  Physically shaking for quite a while.  Yes.  I could watch the shaking.  So much I wanted to do.  So little I could do.

2nd August - a really horrible time.  I did manage to buy some food ingredients but couldn't do food.  Yeah, I got through the electrolysis okay but it wiped me out completely.

3rd August - forcing myself out and getting overwhelmed, getting lost, getting more overwhelmed and spending quite a period walking alone outside unable to stop talking but only able to say "Carry the cat."  Getting dizzy and giddy and nearly falling down a steep hill away from any paths.

4th August - buying a ticket to Crawley and everything from last year coming flooding back, the pretty total collapse I had a year ago that meant I couldn't go there, the struggles earlier in the year when I was there including the hallucinations I suffered in the nights.  Heading to town to do one little job, getting there and being so overwhelmed and having sensory issues ramped up to twelve (it's one more than eleven) and having to leave, failing to do that job, getting even more overwhelmed in the street and bloody hell it was pretty damn shit!

During those days I could have given a lot more details about the things I just couldn't do.  Every single day is hard.  Every single day there are problems and I work extremely hard so that if I am with people outside of this house they don't know that anything is wrong.  I remember during my worst ever breakdown when I was self harming multiple times every day just to get through and stay alive, people would eventually find out - because I'd say - and they wouldn't have had a clue that I wasn't a happy little bunny bouncing away in the woods to a home filled with carrots.

But I don't write a "being unhappy and finding the difficulties" diary.  I write a gratitude diary.

And so the memories of all the dren fade away.  But the things for which I am grateful each day remain.  I can look back and smile.  And I can set the screensaver to show me all the gratitude posts or all the other wonderful things that I've done and seen in the last year or so.

The last year has had so many unexpected moments and themes and directions.  It's been amazing.  Bloody hard.  But amazing.

Here then are four days that I could choose to moan about but choose to celebrate.

1^st August

Hard day. Much physical shaking. Much mental dren. And no snazzy photos taken!

But I just blogged about why keeping a gratitude diary is important to me on every day, including the hard ones. So here goes:

Grateful for words. Grateful for writing blog posts. For the memories they bring back. For the humour that can go into them at times. For the seriousness too.

Grateful for puzzles, today in particular for the killer sudoku book that kept me company.

Grateful that even on a dren day I could still read some of a book. That's progress.

Grateful that a year ago I encountered a quote by Jim Palmer. Grateful for all those who have given me some strength on my journey out of soul destroying religion. The quote wasn't the one in this picture.

The picture asks questions. All my answers used to be no.

Grateful that I have a conference and a festival to look forward to this month.

Grateful to have started to rearrange the new art room into something more comfortable to sit in and where the table is closer to natural light.

Grateful that the state of my head today is just for today. Not for yesterday. Not for tomorrow. And certainly not forever.

And then there's this. It's a biggie:

Grateful that I have a piece of paper dated three years ago today. It's my deed poll certificate from when I changed my name legally to Clare.

Some days are bloody difficult. But life is amazingly better than it was three years ago. It's better than it was one year ago. And compared to just four months ago it's pretty damn stonkingly good.

Yep. That's enough thankfulness for a "bad" day. The actual lists we could all write if we were to stand back - in good mindful manner - and step out of our own dramas are very long ones.

2^nd August

Some things hurt. I struggle with electrolysis. Total meltdown would be easier than getting it done.

Grateful to have got it done yesterday and that, very slowly, it has the desired result.

Grateful for soft toy friends to help me through it and for peaceful music through my headphones.

This time, from a set of very ambient music that Moby released for free.

Grateful too for the Metro and for the difference public transport makes to my life.

Yesterday I travelled in carriage 4041 which is the first to be named after someone.

3^rd August

Grateful to have not stayed at home even though I wanted to. Managed a walk instead although my head was such that I got lost several times and my lack of balance today would have ended very badly had there not been a tree to fall into. Yay for trees.

But the walk contained some superb sights, only some of which were photographed - hey, an excuse to return.

One of these pictures is where I ate lunch. The other seemed a good place to stop for a drink and gaze down on what Blob decided was the Lost World.

Grateful too for the shop by Wilko's in Gateshead - six packets of Snowy Road treats for a Pound.

4^th August

Rough day. And I just bought a train ticket to Crawley. That would be a bad enough fate for anyone but I have extra motivation to dread being there.

Anyway. Grateful today that I just about avoided breaking down in town having already completely failed to do the one thing I had wanted to do. Avoidance was thanks to a newish charity shop. And thanks to Amanda and text messages too.

Happy purchases:

Love the art.

Love the most cuddly giraffe ever.

Love the book.

A Grand Day Out in Durham - 6: The Jumping Bean Cafe

A shorter post to finish off my grand day in Durham.

I had been wanting to visit a cafe for a while.  I'd felt hot and tired and had planned either to just catch a bus home or to have a quick drink.

Instead I had walked along the river, visited a gallery and thoroughly explored a large churchyard.  Instead of that drink I had wandered for a few hours and found a lot of enjoyment in the wandering.

Now I was back on a main shopping street and I honestly was much less tired than I had been before the relaxed wandering and exploration along streets and through gateways, wherever appealed.  I was pretty thirsty but I was mentally energised and the only part of me to feel tired now was my feet.  It is interesting how much of what we call tiredness is related to a state of mind not a state of body.

I was very glad to have wandered.  I enjoyed it then.  And I've enjoyed looking at all the photos I took of the riverside and the graves in St. Margaret's extensive grounds.  Those things added something precious to my life and cost me nothing except the effort to go and do them.  That's the way it's been for the last few months.  A making of effort, when I can, to find the precious things.

I was approaching the bus station and still hadn't made a cafe decision.  I can be terrible at making cafe decisions.  Sometimes I can walk right round a town three times and still won't have been able to go and get a drink.  And now my cafe opportunities were running out.  Suspense!

But then I looked up a quiet street leading up from that busy shopping street - a street of many nice charity shops - and saw a sign for a cafe.  It was my last chance.  Yes.  Last chance saloon.  Last fuel before the motorway!  No services on M25!  (It's been a while since I was on the M25.)  I would climb that hill, follow that street, go to that cafe.  Determination kicked in.  I needed a drink.  I needed a quieter place than a bus station.  And I needed it now.  Not for me a bottle of water from Tesco.  I would go to the cafe.

And what a cafe it was.  It was the end of their day so it was pretty much deserted.  There was no music playing inside.  The decor was just right.  The service was friendly.  The whole place was just what I needed at that moment.

For anyone tempted to follow our cafe visiting example, this is The Jumping Bean on Neville Street.  There are lots of good reviews here.  This is their Facebook page.

I bought myself a drink.  If I had one moan it would be this:  The cafe stocked several kinds of San Pellegrino fizzy drink.  But it didn't have the lemonade.  My favourite was missing!  Never mind, it's only a small place and can't stock every drink in the world.  I bought a can of one of their other drinks and sat down.  And breathed.  And surveyed the empty cafe in front of me:

A slight delay in blog posting there.  I typed these words above: A making of effort, when I can, to find the precious things.

As I continued to write I convicted myself.  There was something happening this afternoon, a kind of not-church church meeting that happens every month in the city centre.  I'd only ever been to it once before but get an email each month to tell me when it will be taking place and what the theme will be.  I'd been thinking of going but then today came and I decided that staying at home would be much easier.  And then my own words hit me.  Making of effort.  When I can.  Find the precious things.

So I went to it.  I'm glad I did.  Even not-church church can trigger me with that explicit belief in the words spoken and in the small amount of mostly belief free liturgy - made for the occasion - that there is a benevolent being out there, a sky-god ready to intervene in our lives.  But in that atmosphere I found I could just about cope with it and the people who are there each have their own manifestation of wonder.

Back to the memories of the cafe now.   The walls of the cafe were covered with art.  I guess that the display changes from time to time and maybe when I return there will be different art on display.  I used to go to a cafe in Newcastle that was like that - The Laughing Cat - and sometimes I would adore the art and sometimes I'd find it a lot more difficult.  It didn't matter much either way.

I really liked being in the cafe.  Blob Thing agreed to take a couple of pictures of me and I took some of Blob.  He's already blogged about it of course because he's far less behind with his blog than I am with my own.

Here's Blob - and one of the varieties of San Pellegrino that was in stock.  And some art and music books to browse.

A picture of the counter area.  It's only small.  But it's rather wonderful.

And another piece of art close to my seat.  This is the cathedral of course and I confess that I prefer the picture to the real thing.

Ecclesiastical Philistine!





Blob enjoyed himself at the cafe almost as much as I did.  We resolved that if we were in Durham again we could return to the cafe.  I think we should go soon with Winefride on a charity shop crawl.  We should be able to visit the shops of High Fell, Birtley and Chester-le-Street on the way.  Or perhaps we should plan a day in Durham and find some more surprises.  And Blob and I did return to the cafe another day.  On that day we had walked from Chester-le-Street along the River Wear and were very glad to sit outside the cafe on the quiet street.  I have another Chester-le-Street to Durham walk planned too, and this time we won't see the Wear until we reach Durham.  We have such a lot to look forward to.

This particular cafe has loyalty badges.  We bought the red badge for a pound.  It entitles us to ten percent off drinks forever more.  There's another more expensive badge that would entitle us to ten percent off all the food too.  Blob wore the badge with pride.  It's not just a good cafe.  It's a good badge.

And then it was time to go home.  Back to the bus station.  Catch a bus.  Pull out of the bus station.  Reach the end of the street.

At which point the bus broke down!

Catch a second bus.  Blob Thing was very pleased to look out of the window on the way home and see his old friend The Angel of The North.  The Angel had told him that he would have wonderful surprises and experiences.  This day out in Durham had more than its fair share of them.

A Grand Day Out In Durham - 5: Life and Death In St. Margaret's Garth

My day in Durham was providing wonderful surprises.  I had just explored the overgrown woods at the edge of Saint Margaret's graveyard.  Now I had the rest of the graveyard to wander in.  This is not a graveyard of neatly regimented stones, with perfectly tended grass.  This is a place where nature has been allowed to take over in places.  I loved it.

Yesterday I got carried away with a discussion of death and graves and what rules and customs we have concerning dead bodies and the places in which we put them.  Today I'm not going to do any of that.  Instead I just want to share photos of Saint Margaret's church yard, Durham.

I recommend that if you're visiting Durham you shouldn't just go to the major tourist spots - the cathedral, castle, museums and so on.  Because Durham has at least this one place that the tourists never see.  If it has one place it is likely to have many more and in the course of time I'll go back and explore the city more.

For now though, I have memories.  And I have photos.  Here are a dozen of them.  I haven't edited any of them at all - they're just what was taken that day using my phone.  You will possibly conclude from these photos and from the previous post that I am a fan of graveyards.  You would be correct.  I like them a lot.

I do like them.  But I do not wish to be buried in one unless it's in one of the schemes where trees are planted on your grave, adding life and beauty to the land.  That would be okay.  But in general I have an issue with me being buried - in terms of land use and the cost of it all.  When I am dead my corpse will be a corpse.  It can be disposed of in any way.  I'd love for as much as possible of it to be used for transplants, giving life from my death.  I wouldn't mind if what was left was taken and used for scientific purposes.

What I would hate would be to have a grave that people would come and visit and lay flowers on.  When I am gone, weep not for me.  And please don't visit the site of my rotting corpse because I'm not there.  When I am gone, I call you to live.  Don't worry, I have no plans to die just yet.  I'd like to live for a lot of years and have been commanded not to die.  In any case, I have a holiday booked with a friend - we want to see in the next millennium in Iceland.  It's booked!

I have seen a certain family which has an attitude that I find difficult to watch.  The parents in this large family are buried together in a plot in a cemetery.  One of them died 29 years ago.  I have watched as the children who still live nearby visit the grave.  Regularly.  They go and tend the grave and add flowers and have done it faithfully for over a quarter of a century.  An ancestor worshipping society would be amazed by the depth of devotion they have all showed.  If that made them all happy I wouldn't be so worried by their attitude to death and graves.  Carry on family!  Be happy.

But it doesn't.  I have watched them argue with each other.  I have watched them bickering and sometimes falling out in bigger ways.  I have watched as every single one of them has accused every other one of them.  "I go to the grave this much - and they don't."   "I buy flowers - and they don't."  "They are disrespectful to our parents."  Every one of them has said things like that.  And it's been a regular thing.  If I've met any of them singly it was almost a guarantee that at some point they would be moaning about the rest and about the grave and about "What would dad think of them?"

I have watched all that.  Over and over.  It makes me sad that they are all so unhappy and that they almost seem to go out of their way to be unhappy and increase the woes and guilt of each other.  The deaths of their parents has become an excuse for stabbing each other with words and attitudes.

I'd hate it if anyone behaved that way about my grave.  Of course I'd be dead so wouldn't be in a position to do much hating.  But the thought appalls me.

When I am gone.  No grave stone.  No regular visiting for 29 years.  No arguing.  May as much of my body as possible be used to bring life or as a contribution to scientific research.  And then dispose of the rest cheaply.  No buying flowers.  No gifts for the site of my corpse or remains.  If you want to give to my corpse site, please give to the living instead.  Don't spend a fiver on some flowers.  It might make you feel good but it wouldn't make me feel good.  Spend your fiver on feeding the hungry, helping the oppressed.  Spend it on being merciful in a world where many need to receive acts of mercy.  Let your kind charity be for the living and not for me.

Remember me.  But move on.  Live your lives to the full and let me go.

Wow.  That got a little morbid.  Sorry.  It was unplanned.  Instead of just presenting you with a set of photos you've had to cope with me typing meandering thoughts about death again.   I'll try not to mention death in the next post.  I'll mention art and badges and Blob Thing and drinks.  And a very lovely little cafe that was just the place I needed to be in between graveyard and bus stop.

[985 words]

A Grand Day Out In Durham - 4: Sacred To The Memory Of ...

I was having a - mostly - wonderful time in Durham.  And the day was about to improve.  I've been wanting to post this ever since that day.  It just hasn't happened though.  I've been writing about Blob Thing instead, getting out to places as much as I can, and generally trying to get my brain working properly again.  The path back to decent mental health after eighteen very tough months is hard work.  I'm still not there and I have to accept that there are some things that will be with me for the rest of my life that I once would not have said were part of a suitably decent mental health.  The path forwards involves acceptance, embracing those difficult parts of me that I have both fought and denied for so long.

During the couple of days before visiting Durham a couple of news stories had come my way.  People were getting stunningly enraged about similar activities.  And I wasn't.  I was thinking that their rage was pretty daft and I couldn't see the problem.

News story one:  People were sometimes dressing up and having their pictures taken in an old graveyard.  Other people were shocked and dismayed?  How could anyone disrespect the dead in this way?  How could anyone be so dreadful that they would do this terrible thing?  I wasn't shocked or dismayed at all.  Instead I thought it was wonderful.  People were enjoying themselves.  Nobody was being harmed.  Great.  And they were bringing life and celebration and happiness into a place of death.

News story two:  Some children had been photographed lying in an old stone coffin, with their hands in a praying position as if they were corpses placed that way centuries ago.  People were shocked and dismayed.  The outcry on Facebook was great, far greater than it would have been if those children were photographed lying dead in the sea having drowned when their boat full of suffering refugees sank.  Okay, I might be a bit cynical.  But I might be right too.  How dare children do this?  And how dare adults encourage children to do something so awful?  And there were lots of comments too along the lines of "This would never have happened in my day.  What is the world coming to?  This generation are being brought up terribly."

I saw the offending photo and I thought it was really nice.  Children playing.  Being children.  Sweet.  And then I thought, "Hang on, haven't I seen something like this already?"  And of course I had.  A photograph of myself and my brother, taken when we were maybe about ten years old, probably younger.  We were lying down in two stone coffins.  Pretending to be centuries old dead people.  And at least one of us had our hands in that praying position.  Yes, it's true.  We were that awful!  Our parents were that awful!  And we were the precursor to this terrible generation of children!  We were part of the end of civilisation.

Except of course we weren't awful.  We were just having fun.  We played.  We didn't disrespect dead people by having fun.  I rather suspect that if those dead people in their graves could have sat up and watched us they would have had a good laugh and thought it great that children and families could have a good time even in such a place as a graveyard.

Those were the two stories.  Fresh in my memory.  And one phrase stuck out above the others because it had been spoken so often about both stories:  It's sacred.  You have to treat it a certain way because it's sacred.  You have to act with due decorum around anything related to death.  Because it's sacred.  So treat graves and graveyards like this.  It's THE way.  The ONLY way.  Those places are sacred to the memory of people.  That was said.  On TV.  On social media.  Sacred to the Memory.

And I was in Durham looking for a quiet cafe in which to have a drink before heading for home.  I'd walked up a road that led up from the shopping street.  A sign pointed up to a cafe and when I got there I decided that I wouldn't go there.  There didn't seem anything wrong with the cafe and I don't know why I didn't drink there.  Indecisiveness and the difficulty of making any decisions when overwhelmed and, if I'm honest, quite close to melting down or shutting down or somehow managing to combine the two in an impossible way.  Later I would be very glad that I had walked away from that cafe because I found another cafe that I loved.

Opposite the cafe that I didn't use was a church.  This was St. Margaret's.  I want to go back and explore the church building.  Parts of it date from the twelfth century and there's a lot to see.  When I was there a small choir were inside practising some sacred music.  I'm sure they wouldn't have minded me doing the full tourist thing inside and I was feeling fragile and didn't want to disturb them too much.  Exploration of the building can wait for another day.  It's been there for 850 years.  So I expect it'll still be there for me even if I don't return until next year.

On the far side of the churchyard is a gate.  And something within me piped up and said, "I wonder where that leads."  Sometimes you just have to go through gates.  And sometimes they lead to places that you would rather never have visited.  Other times they lead into wonderment and excitement and a place where Clare is happy and flappy and totally grateful to have explored.

Through the gate.  Completely away from any tourist route in Durham.  I hadn't liked the Cathedral.  But the river was pleasing.  The little church of St. Margaret was pleasing.  And now I was to be very pleased indeed.

Through the gate I found graves.  And more graves.  And a large graveyard.  And it was amazing.

The two news stories came back to me and those comments.  You can't do that.  You can't disrespect the dead.  You can't PLAY near graves.  It's horrific.  All those comments.  And one comment in particular came back to me when I passed what was almost the first of the grave stones.

Sacred to the memory of ...

Because there were those words, on a grave.

Sacred to the memory of.   Sacred?

What does that mean for the site.  Does that mean that all graves and all gravestones should be treated with solemnity for the rest of history?  Does it mean that we should not disturb the sites, leave them in situ until the end of time?

If it's a heinous sin to photograph a child in a coffin or an adult by a gravestone, then why isn't this a heinous sin too:

All those stones.  Dug up.  Ripped away from their associated corpses.  And buried so deep that only half the inscriptions are legible.  What do our attitudes mean when this is acceptable but a fun snapshot is an outrage?

I walked further and had a choice.  I could either walk to the right of the wall, into open space with grass and pretty trees and graves in places through the whole quite massive churchyard.  Or I could walk to the left of the wall, down a path that probably wasn't really meant to be a path - or at least was becoming very overgrown and forgotten.  That way led into the woods and the wall continued to be lined with graves.

I took a decision.  Getting good at decisions now.  I may not be able to decide where to have a quick drink.  But I could manage to decide how to explore a graveyard.  By then I was feeling very happy and was loving being there.  If I hadn't wandered through a gateway and past some houses I would never have found this place of wonder.

Yes.  The graves continued.  Ripped from their original sites.  Separated from those people they were sacred to the memory of.  Buried.  And neglected.  I quite like neglected grave sites.  In these places life triumphs.  Death is not the end.  How can it be when there is so much abundance of life even in the dead places?

Further up the path it became increasingly overgrown - and there was no exit at the far end.  I loved it.  I loved the atmosphere, the light through the trees, the smell of the victorious nature.  These sacred sites were still sacred.  Perhaps far more sacred for being swallowed up in that victory.

I couldn't help wondering though why people would be so enraged by those photographs of fun when nobody was being enraged by realities such as this:

Again, Sacred to the Memory of ...

I looked up from the victorious life around the stones.  And I saw even more victorious life.  The trees of the wood, perhaps holding more wisdom than anything in that place.  The tree looked down upon me and said "In this moment all is at peace."  Peace.  Truly.

The beauty of the tree triumphs over the grave.  We all may triumph over the grave through the way we live as individuals, as a species.  Whether we triumph beyond it I will leave to your own beliefs about the soul of our glorious being.  And if we humans manage through our foolishness to destroy all the trees then the beauty of the Earth will triumph over that grave.  The universe will triumph until that too dies and is lost.  And then what?

From the dead end - very much a living end - I walked back from the not-path and back onto the path and I couldn't stop taking photos.  There are a lot.  Far more than I've included here.  I was filled with joy to be there.

This is in memory of Elizabeth and Thomas Eggleston.  They died nearly 200 years ago.  Is this a fit way to remember them?  After 200 years, should we remember them at all?  Should we imagine the lives they lived and the way they would have loved and struggled?  They must have had good times.  But they had sorrow too.  The stone tells of two children also buried, both of whom died in infancy as many children did then.  As many children still do across the world.  What does the sanctity of life mean when so many die so young?  What does the sanctity of death mean?  If it's acceptable to treat a grave site like this when Elizabeth died in 1826, can we treat a grave like this for an Elizabeth who died in 2006?  If not, what is the cut off point?

Truly the way we treat graves tells us a lot about ourselves.  One thing may be acceptable and another thing unacceptable.  And we will disagree about what those things are.

And all these things are just our way of dealing with death.  Our cultural ways.  They're not shared in other cultures where a corpse will be burned or left for vultures.  Where shrines are erected in homes to honour ancestors.  Where a body must be buried that day.  There are many ways now and there have been many others before.  Are any of them more right than any other?

And our ways are changing too.  It wasn't long ago that cremation would have been totally unacceptable for many Christians.  The idea was that a body should not be cremated because then how can we expect it to be resurrected when Jesus returns?  So cremation was impossible.  That's changed.  You won't find many Christians now who would see the cremation might cause them any problems at all in their afterlife.  As faith changes, and as faith sometimes dies it's own death, our attitudes change too.

I think this century will be an interesting one as far as our attitudes go.  More and more we're entering into a post-religious society where many more people belief that physical death is the end.  We have one life.  And then it's over.  What difference will have have to the ways we choose to treat a human corpse?  At this point we're only just beginning to find out.

I've typed more than I meant.  The plan was to post a load of pictures of gravestones.  Then I started thinking.  A set of thoughts that lead me to questions but which haven't led me to answers as I've typed.

One last picture.  I left the overgrown wooded part of the graveyard and I met a friend.  She's called Kate and she was the most fluffy, friendly, joyous person I met that day.  She wouldn't stop moving for long enough that I could take photos.  There's just this one.  A beautiful bundle of joy who couldn't care less about death and graves and about what will happen to her own body when she dies.

Maybe Kate can teach us something.  Just get on and live.

You have this life.  Live it and embrace the moments.

The very gorgeous Kate

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