A Talk For The Sunday Assembly Newcastle, But Mostly Not What Was Spoken

Yesterday I spoke at the Sunday Assembly in Newcastle.  I've been attending the Assembly on and off for a little over three years.  Yesterday was the first time I've stood at the front and spoken any words during a meeting.  I guess it won't be the last time.  When I first attended I was, of course, still quite a strong Christian although I'd lost my evangelical zeal and my belief in exclusivism - that only Jesus can save you and outside of his way you're doomed.  At the time I was part of Metropolitan Community Church and was attending the local Quaker house sometimes.  Both of them are groups I still respect.  And I'll get back to the Quakers again soon probably.  A lot had happened to get me to the point of wanting to go and see what happened at a "Godless gathering" as the Sunday Assembly was then known.  A lot has happened since.  Leading up to yesterday.  Standing at the front speaking.  It was almost like testimony time at a Pentecostal church.

Each month there is a main talk by a visiting speaker.  This month the speaker spoke about sign language and her work as a sign language interpreter.  She was very interesting and mentioned how strange Geordies are in their sign language dialect - the local sign for bread is the sign that everyone else in the country uses for jealous and she gave several other examples.

In addition, there is a shorter slot in which someone from our own community speaks.  We call that section "X is doing their best."  A call for volunteers went out and I found myself agreeing to it.  What follows is what was originally written for the talk.

As it happens, half of this talk was not in the final version.  There are eight photos below and the talk only contained the final two.  Yes, half of this was missed out.  And of the half that was used, much of it didn't remain the same.  Instead of being a script it became a guide and it got quite widely deviated from.  Even the section that's a direct quote from my own blog got changed a lot!  Sitting at a laptop is not the same as standing with a microphone in your hand.  It's a shame I didn't get someone to video me.  I think I could have learned a lot by watching myself and noticing what was good and what wasn't.

Anyway.  I did a good job.  That's what I'm told.  And I'm also told that I really should aim at some point to perform a stand up comedy routine.  Terrifying!  Three months into this year of the plan without a plan and I am completely scaring myself.  Oh well.

So here is what was typed.  It was not what was spoken.

The last time I got up and spoke before a group of people who had assembled for a meeting not unlike this one on a Sunday was about three and a half years ago. I was an Anglican preaching a sermon and if you had told me I'd now be a part of this community I'd have laughed at you.

But life's full of surprises and I was already getting over some big ones. I've got five minutes to talk now about surprises. And coddiwompling. Mostly about coddiwompling. Let's get the surprises over with.

In 2010 I was an avid Catholic man.

One of the "I used to be very sad" photos.

There I am. Full of smiles and happiness and deep contentment. We lived in Wales and knew that we would be there for a very long time.  [Of course I knew I would be discussing the pictures more than just one sentence.]

Then we weren't. In 2011 after life went wrong in too many ways at once we moved to Newcastle.

By the end of 2011 I had left the Catholic church and signed on with the CofE. Total surprise. I thought I was Catholic for life

In 2012 I became a preacher again. I looked for a picture of Jesus for this. I found one. It's called “Jesus Christ Lord Saviour.”  [Yes, I expected a laugh at this point if I had included any of this talk.]

Jesus Christ Lord Saviour

In 2013 my big surprise was to come out to myself and everyone else and say “Hey everyone, I'm female.” This photo was taken by my mum on the first evening my parents saw me after I came out. It's amazingly different from that first photo.

Not all surprises are so wonderful. When I came out in 2013 my parents welcomed me as their daughter. By September 2014 my mother had died of cancer and my dad was in a care home and couldn't remember me.

My mum. Standing on a woman's nipple.

In 2015 I got the shock of my life when I got to know quite a lot of autistic adults and finally had to come to terms with accepting myself as autistic and getting a diagnosis rather than actively denying it as I'd been doing for many years.

Some autistic people in Edinburgh last year

That's led to lots of other surprises – including an embracing of soft toys and finding new love and realising that it's okay to own bubble guns.

In 2016 I was surprised to be involved in the first steps of starting my own business. I couldn't cope with it though and had to let it go which was very difficult. I felt ashamed and weak and that I was letting the world down. Later I decided to try again – because I felt I should and anyway, it was a good idea - and threw myself back in to the fray.

That brings me to this day.

Marsden Quarry

November 2^nd of last year. I was walking, on a quest to take a picture of a white horse. During that walk everything seemed to become brighter and clearer and when I reached this spot – or somewhere near it - I had a moment of total clarity and began to coddiwomple. I knew that I had to give up all ideas of the business, that it wasn't what I was meant to be doing. I knew I had to embrace myself more than I ever had before. Walk my path without having any clue about where it might lead. That night I wrote about what I'd realised in that moment.

Today, standing at the top of a quarry cliff, the wind blowing through her, laughter filling every particle of her being, she knew. Certainty struck her. A thunderstruck realisation that of where she can learn to walk and learn to run and to learn to fly.

To walk on her own feet on the ground that spirit calls her to walk upon.

To run in her own strength, developing stamina and speed.

To fly in her own feathers.

So many times Clare has attempted to fly in feathers that were not her own. Through self rejection. Through embracing the ideas and desires of others. The things she thought she should think and be do.

But she fell. Every time. And her own feathers were never allowed to grow.

Now it is time for Clare to learn to walk and to run and to learn to fly.

Now is the time to lay down some possibilities, strengthen others, and embrace still more that lay dormant or rejected.

Clare doesn't quite know what this mean. She doesn't know where these ideas will lead. She has hope and she has excitement and she has a vast gulf of uncertainty for the future.

But tonight Clare knows at least two things with certainty.

She knows that something, a particular thing, is not for her no matter how good it is.

And she knows that definitively saying no to it will be a release and a happiness, rather than a shaming disappointment.

She knows.

It took the wind, the cliffs, the over arching sky, and the whole of nature to cry out to her and scream "This is what you are."

It took a lot for Clare to listen and receive the song of the air.

A few days later I totally withdrew from all involvement with the business ideas and felt a great sense of relief and release. I began to consider my path. As me. How to follow my joy and my bliss. And then got totally sidetracked by photographing every Snowdog and little Snowdog in the next ten days.

Yes, in short I began to coddiwomple. There may be people here who don't know that word. To be honest I don't know it either. A definition.

So how is my coddiwompling going? My biggest coddiwomple urge is to write. At the start of the year I decided I should try to write something every day and post it in a blog. I decided too that I'd get to the Writers' Cafe workshops more regularly.

A month later I'd set myself two ambitions for the year. First I would stand up and perform one piece I'd written at a spoken word event somewhere by the end of the year. I've done that now.

Second, I would submit at least one piece and see if it might be published. I confess I've been putting that off.

It's now the end of March and other ambitions have formed. To write a novel by the end of the year. To perform a stand up comedy routine – which is difficult because according to some of the books autistic people don't understand humour. The plans and possibilities open up and I've met some gorgeous people too. And joined a drama group.

I don't know where the writing will lead. I don't know where other aspects of my life will lead. And the year is already throwing up some other major surprises.

But that doesn't matter. I am making an effort to follow my joy, my bliss and to walk a path as myself. So wherever it all leads it will be the right place for me. Mental health means that sometimes I'm going to be collapsed on my bed or whimpering in a corner. But when health allows and in all things I want to try to walk in what I call “the plan without a plan.”

If you're not coddiwompling already, and I know some of you are, why not give it a go? It's certainly more enjoyable than watching reruns of Jeremy Kyle. There's great happiness in not having a destination but striding towards it anyway.

The Girl Whose Good Fortune Nearly Killed Her - Part one of two

I'm not well again.  So for today you're only getting half a story.  I'll finish it for tomorrow's post.

The following was inspired by the Sunday Assembly, Manchester.  Partly.  I was able to be there for their meeting last weekend.  Unfortunately I couldn't stick around for cake.  The subject of the meeting was luck and a fortune cookie was placed under each chair.  I sneakily took two cookies away from me and as I waited for my coach back to Newcastle a story idea came to mind.  What if someone believed such fortunes and took them literally?  This is the first half of that story, based on the two fortunes I received.

Please excuse the bad focus on my photos - my phone wasn't coping well with tiny writing and bad lighting.

Mary woke up in pain.  Her chest hurt more than anything else, as if an elephant had stood on her rib cage or a family of mice had burrowed into it, ripping through flesh with their tiny teeth.  Her head hurt too as if she was subject to the worst of hangovers.  Thinking about the pain only caused her more pain.  Thinking about opening her eyes when there was obviously an intrusive bright light above her made the pain in her brain far worse.  Mary lay there for a while.  Maybe if she lay still long enough everything would feel much better.  She didn't know how long it was but the torment inside her mind gradually subsided from hurricane force to just a severe gale.

Mary opened her eyes.  She was in a hospital bed and her mother was standing over her.  Staring at her with a very worried expression on her face.  She had been crying.

"Thank God.  You're awake.  You're a fucking idiot Louise.  What the hell did you think you were doing?"

The sound of her mother shouting made Mary's head hurt again.  She closed her eyes for a while.  Slowly it came back to her and she realised what must have happened.

"I was obeying it mum.  That's all.  I did what it said and you told me it was true didn't you?"

"What was true?  Whatever possessed you Louise?  You're bloody lucky to be alive.  Could have killed yourself you dunce.  And heaven knows how we're going to get the stains out of the carpet."

Mary's mum started to cry.  "Just look at what you've done to your mum.  I could have lost you."

Mary could only stare.  It had all made perfect sense in her mind.  Had she really almost died?  How was that possible when she had only been walking in obedience?

"Mum, mum.  Don't cry.  I did it for you.  Because you said to and you gave them to me.  It should have been okay."

"Sod it Louise!  Of course it wasn't going to be okay.  And you'll be scarred for life.  Scarred.  I was so scared when I found you lying there.  Thought someone had murdered you.  Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph I did.  And then I saw those knives."

She cried more and fell across Mary's legs, grabbing her hand and clasping it tightly.

"Mum?  I'll be fine and we'll work it out.  Maybe I did something wrong.  Although I can't think what.  And mum?  My name's Mary now, do you remember?"

"God Louise, is this somehow related to that?  I told you the first time that you didn't have to take it literally and act on it."

"Yeah, but mum, that's not what you said in the restaurant and it was such a special night and that Chinese man said it too and you said that he looked like some kind of prophet.  I think he was.  My name's Mary.  I had to obey because you said and I did too."

Perhaps it had been a mistake from the beginning.  Perhaps Mary's mum should never have agreed to take her to a Chinese restaurant to celebrate her twelfth birthday.  At home they only ever ate good, wholesome English food and that's the way Mary's mum liked it.  But then Mary had seen a programme on television about Chinese food and had spent the next month repeating those strange words over and over again and pestering to be allowed to try them.  Chow Mein.  Foo Yung.  Wonton.  What kind of words were those?  Mary's mum believed only in chips, steak and kidney pudding and foods she could understand.

But Mary had gone on about it so much that eventually her mum could take it no more and said that they would try one Chinese meal.  At a restaurant in town.  When the day arrived Mary was dancing in excitement.  She had been obsessed with the menu for weeks, downloading it from the restaurant website and learning it off by heart.  All she could think about was what Kung Pao and Dim Sum might be.  Her mum was scared.  Scared of the new foods in the new place.

At seven o'clock they arrived for their meal.  Mary's mum didn't know what to do or what to ask for so the waiter helped her explore the menu.  She was relieved that the final section contained some English dishes so she settled on roast chicken and chips for her main course.  Mary said, "Oh mum, that's so boring.  I'm going to order a starter, two main courses and a pudding and you can try them too.  You'll see.  You'll like them."

It was true.  Mary's mum did like the food and by the end of the meal was surprised that she regretted ordering chicken and chips.  That char sui chow mein Mary had ordered turned out to be delicious even though it had such a strange name.  She decided that one day she might risk a Chinese ready meal from the supermarket.  Maybe they sold chow mein there too.

At the close of the meal the waiter gave them the bill on a little plate.  There were also two little packages.  Mary's mum called the waiter back, saying, "Er, excuse me, sorry.  But what are these?"

"Madam, special gift from us to you.  These are fortune cookies.  Inside each cookie there is a piece of paper and it will tell your fortune or give you a special insight into your life.  It never fails.  It's almost as if the gods were inside the fortune cookies."

"Oh, I don't think I want to try that.  It all sounds a bit superstitious to me.  It's probably true if you say it is but I'll stick with my God thank you and trust him to know my fortune.  I don't want my cookie.  Sorry."

"That's fine madam.  You don't have to accept the gift.  How about your little girl?"

"No.  I shouldn't think she'd want to have one either."

Mary piped up.  "Actually I'd like to.  The man said it never fails and you said it's true.  Can I have your cookie too mum?  Please.  It is my birthday."

Mary's mum relented, saying, "Louise, Louise.  You do have a lot of funny ideas.  But I suppose it won't do any harm just this once."

Mary put the cookies in her pocket.  "I'll read one tonight and then the other in a few days.  Make my birthday last a bit longer."

That night Mary opened her first cookie.  It didn't taste very nice.  Nevertheless she ate the whole thing before opening the small piece of paper inside.

It read "A good name is better than riches."

She thought hard about what that might mean.  She hadn't got many riches, just a few pounds in a piggy bank.  She didn't think she had a good name either.  Louise?  In what way was that a good name?  It wasn't in the Bible or any of the other holy books her mum had.  It was a bad name and she couldn't begin to see why her parents had given it to her.  Perhaps it was all her dad's fault.  Mum often said he was a bad man and they hadn't seen him since Mary was two.

There was only one thing for it if she wanted to obey the fortune cookie.  She had to get rid of her riches and change her name.  Then her life would work out for the best.  It was obvious.  The Chinese prophet said so and he was obviously right.

The following morning Mary went down to breakfast with her piggy bank.  As her mum served her with toast and jam Mary said, "Mum, can I give all my money into the second collection on Sunday.  It's Peter's Pence isn't it?  It'll all go somewhere worthwhile."

"I suppose so.  If that's what you really want.  But weren't you saving up for something?"

"Oh, that doesn't matter.  It's only riches and there are better things than riches.  Can I?  Please mum."

"Okay.  You're a kind girl Louise.  I'm so lucky to have you."  Mary's mum gave her a hug.

"Oh, and mum.  I'm changing my name.  I don't like Louise any more.  I want to be called Mary.  That's a good name isn't it?  It's the kind of name you might have if you are pure like Jesus' mum."

"No you can't.  That was your dear departed gran's name and she was a good soul even if your dad turned out to be a child of the devil.  You're not changing your name.  And that's final."

"But mum.  I like Mary.  It suits me because I want to be obedient too.  And you said it was probably true and it is true just like you said so I've got to be Mary.  Got to be.  Please mum.  I have to do it."

"Louise Baker you shut your mouth now.  You're not changing your name.  Not while you live under my roof."

Mary shut her mouth.  It was all so unfair.  The fortune cookie had told her to be called Mary, hadn't it?  So that's the way it had to be.  And since it was impossible to change her name while living under her mum's roof ...  Later that day Mary wrote a note to her mother.

"Mum, I'm sorry but I am leaving home today.  I have to be called Mary and you've made it impossible.  So I've got to go.  I've left my piggy bank next to this note.  Could you see that the money inside, three pounds and fourteen pence, are put into the offering?  Thanks Mum.  I love you.  I'm sorry to leave because I do love you ever such a lot and it was so funny watching your face when you tried that first mouthful of chow mein.  Don't worry about me.  I'll have a good name and that's better than riches.  I have to obey and I hope you can see that I'm doing the right thing.  Your obedient daughter, Mary."



[1680 words]

A Detour To Jesmond Cemetery, Newcastle - Photo Blog Part One

It was August.  Four months ago.  I had attended a little social group that day at the cafe in Exhibition Park.  It was run as the Sunday Assembly Newcastle event on the grounds that the assembly wasn't able to meet that month as usual.  So some of us met up, shared drinks and food if we wanted them and chatted for a while before going our separate ways.

Afterwards my only plan had been to get home.  I would walk to Jesmond Metro station, catch a train, go home, drink more tea.  Simple as that.  I felt I needed to be somewhere quiet pretty quickly because although I had enjoyed seeing good people I was pretty shattered by being there among them and having to focus so hard.

So I walked.  Briskly.  Out of the park.  Under the main road.  And into Jesmond.  Just a couple more minutes walking and I would be at the Metro station and could get home.

That's when my plan went wrong.  Or went right.  I saw this path.

I've seen it before of course and have wondered where it led.  I wondered again.  And decided to find out.  It led here.  Or rather the place it led to led here:

I think I've found the houses where I'd want to live in Newcastle.  I'd have one of these.  They would be pretty expensive though because they're nice houses in a very desirable area of the city.  There was no way we could have afforded a house anywhere in Jesmond when we moved to Newcastle.  Not even a very scummy house.  If such houses exist in such a location.

I walked on and decided that I might as well keep walking to West Jesmond Metro instead of turning back on myself and heading for Jesmond.  On the way I passed the entrance to Jesmond Cemetery.

When I used to walk my child to and from school everyday I would sometimes walk on from the school into the city centre.  At my pace it would take another 45 minutes from the school gates to Haymarket.  I walked a lot in those days.  To the school and back twice a day - four miles.  And I would often go to Mass on the way back which took it up to five-and-a-half miles.  That's before shopping trips and those walks into town.  On the walk to the town I would pass the gates of Jesmond Cemetery and every time I would think to myself, "I really should go in and explore sometime."

On that day in August I decided to do it.  I needed a quiet place.  A cemetery would be appropriate.  Now I am thinking to myself, "I really should go back with my book about the cemeteries of Newcastle and explore sometime."  I will.  Sometime.

The following are photos taken in the cemetery.  I'll be posting again with more photos taken there and also photos taken in the community orchard that adjoins the cemetery.  You will spot that I like cemeteries - just as you would have done if you saw my posts, some months ago, about a wilder graveyard in Durham.

I found my quiet.  And I found that my thought on all those walks from school had been entirely correct.

The Special 250th Post: The Way Things Are Now. Seven Joys.

This is the 250th post.  That's an important milestone for me though, objectively, it's just another number.  I decided a while ago that I wanted to write something more out of the ordinary for this post.  Or at least more out of the ordinary for my blog.  I didn't want it just to be some days from my gratitude diary.  I didn't want it just to be some photos from an enjoyable day out.  I love both of those things and they're going to get another mention later.  I wanted something more.

The trouble was, I didn't know what that more should be.

Should I give a rundown of everything that's happened in the three years since I began posting?

Should I give a rundown just of this year?

Should I state some of the things that are important to me?

Should I list the things that bring me joy, the things that are providing meaning and centre and direction to me at this point?

I didn't know.   I'd written the 249th post - one of those with photos from an enjoyable day out.  And I didn't know what the 250th post should be.  Not yet.

Tonight something happened.  Something that only filled a few seconds of my life.  Literally.  A few seconds.  And now I know.

This evening I attended a free event at the Literary and Philosophical Library in Newcastle.  The second I've attended this week and the third I've attended ever.

I was pleased to be at this one, a talk by Laura Bates, who started the Everyday Sexism Project and wrote and compiled the excellent book Everyday Sexism.  If you haven't got a copy of that book then get one and read it.  It's worthwhile.  It doesn't matter whether the book is a real eye opener for you or whether you know it all already.  Either way it's worthwhile.

Yeah, I was pleased.  She spoke at Newcastle University a while back and I missed hearing her and was glad to be free to hear her tonight.  She spoke well.  It was clear, eloquent and highlighted many of the things that the project has expressed both through hard evidence in print, and in soft evidence of anecdotes - evidence that becomes very hard when the anecdotes are piled on top of each other, thousands upon thousands upon thousands upon thousands.

Laura Bates is great.  She is.  The project is great.  And the work that she's found herself doing since the project began is great.  I don't think she could ever have predicted it when she started what was planned as a tiny thing.  I am glad I attended her talk.

But something happened.

And it happened less than fifteen seconds before entering the library to hear the talk.

It was this:

Two women passed by me in the street.
One of them pointed at me.
She said "What the fuck is that?" (exact quote)
And they walked on.

I was surprised.  That kind of thing doesn't happen much to me.  Not recently.  But more than anything I was amused to receive such a transphobic comment when almost at the door of a talk about sexism.

Now.  I could write this 250th blog post about this incident.  About transphobia.  About the pressures on transgender people to look a certain way.  About the quest - which I confess I followed somewhat - to pass.  About the privileges a transgender person gets if they pass.  About the privileges they lack if they don't pass:  Namely the privilege to be able to walk down a street without being abused for being transgender.  I could write a lot about the meaning of this kind of abuse, about how those women were saying in effect, "I believe that a woman has to look and be like this and you don't fit the picture in my head and so, as a lesser human being, it is acceptable to insult you."

I could write about how all that fits in with sexism.  With gender stereotyping.  With sexual stereotyping.  How women are pressured to look a certain way.   How men are expected to look a certain way.  How trans women and trans men are expected even more so to look a certain way.  How non-binary people get stuck in the middle of all this and how that in itself raises a whole load more issues.

I could.  I could write lots of thoughts that are in my head - thoughts that have been developed over the past three and a half years since I realised that I absolutely needed to transition and started to tell people and live as the woman I am.

I'm not going to write all that.  Not today.  I'm not.  Because all those things are out there for you to read already.  Some of them are in posts on this blog expressed with a greater or lesser sense of clarity or coherent development.   But mainly because this is my 250th post on this blog.  And I want it to be a happy one.

I thought back to three years ago.  Three years ago my life was different.  Three years ago such verbal abuse was almost a constant in my life.  Because I didn't pass.  (And had worse dress sense and less confidence)  For a while, almost every single time I left the house alone I would receive verbal abuse of some kind.  It was really very bloody horrible.  At times I didn't know how I would be able to do this transition thing.  Perhaps without the support I had - from family, friends, Metropolitan Community Church, and the local transgender support group - I would have backed out and said it's too hard for me.

That was three years ago.  Abuse.  Abuse.  Abuse.  When alone in the street, abuse.

Things are very different now.  Abuse is rare.  I was talking with someone about this today.  About how far I have come along this path of being me.

Things are very different now.  Mostly, any abuse doesn't affect me.  Water off a duck's back.  I was feeding ducks today.

So.  My 250th blog post.  Isn't about abuse.  It's not really about the three years since starting this blog.  A blog I started in order to write about being transgender, about transition and which hardly turned out to be about that part of my life at all because, let's face it, it's actually quite dull!

My 250th blog post.  Is about some of the things that help me.  Right now.  Things that have developed during the last twelve months.  I have found this year very difficult at times.  But I am blessed in so many different ways.  These are a few of them.  Not all of them.

One year ago none of these things were in my life.

Three years ago I hadn't really thought about the possibility of these things ever being in my life.

Thing the First

This autumn I joined a choir.  Not just any choir.  A brand new choir in Newcastle.  This is SHE Choir, something that already exists in London and Manchester.

It's a women's choir.  A women only space.  And it's the very first time that I've managed to be brave and confident enough to put myself forward to be in a women only space and part of a women only organisation.  The first time.  That's massive for me.  Massive.

A friend who has never got to the choir - a friend from another singing group I attend sometimes - posted about the first rehearsal on Facebook.  I thought it sounded good but normally I might have scrolled over it.  A designated, explicitly women only space.  I'm not ready.  For some reason, probably relating to wanting to sing some more, I clicked on the group and took a look.

The group description began like this: A community choir for women, anyone who identifies as a woman, or anyone who identifies as gender fluid/gender queer.

Yes!  Yes!  That's the reason why I felt able to get to that first rehearsal.  A group description that was specifically trans inclusive.  Without that sentence I would probably have stayed away.  Afraid of not being accepted.  Afraid too of the perceived horror of possibly having to drop an octave sometimes when I sang.

I got there and found that I was completely accepted into that space as a woman.  And I cannot tell you what a relief that was, how good it felt, and how much it meant to me.  I am crying a bit while typing this paragraph because it has meant so much.  To have such a welcome and warm acceptance as a woman among a group of woman none of whom I had ever met before that evening.  It blew me away.

I've loved having that choir in my life and seeing those people each week I've been able to be there.  I love that I'll see them again this weekend and during next week and that we'll be having a little performance very soon.  I love that there is never even the slightest sense that anyone might be looking at me a bit weird for being transgender.  I love that.  Because I looked at myself a lot weird - and much worse than weird - for most of my life.

Yeah.  SHE Choir has helped me a lot.  Every week.  Plus singing is fun and I need to do more of it next year as my mental health continues to improve.  Plus there's the added bonus that I am singing the lowest of the three women's parts without yet having to drop down an octave.  Not once!  It's a push sometimes but I've hit every note without even switching to head voice.  Does that make me happy?  God yes!

I'm not the only one the choir has helped.  Someone at the rehearsal this week was saying just what it had meant to her to be there.  And there are others too who have found something that satisfies a real need they have, whatever that need might be.  It's been a force for good for all of us.

Thing the Second

I quit church this year.  After twenty-six years.  That's been very good for me.  Not because my church was a bad place filled with bad people.  Far from it, and I've already mentioned how I might not have made it through to this point without the support I found there from the moment I first walked in the door and happened to be greeted by the then pastor who within three short sentences let me know that I was in a safe space to be myself.

I officially joined that church.  Two years and a few days ago.  Much to my own surprise.

I officially left again this year.  Which was also much to my own surprise.

I am very glad I did.  Quitting, putting a definitive stop to my church going, has given me a great deal of freedom to explore more about who I am, what I believe, how I want to live and so on and so on.  I'm still exploring.  That will never end I hope.  And in the exploration I am finally learning what it truly means to live as myself and finally learning what it is that I can be passionate about without it being a self-destructive passion.

Thing the Third

I have a bus pass.  An autism diagnosis may not have brought me many practical, physical benefits.  But it's brought me this one.  A bus pass.

And it has changed my life.  In a staggeringly big way.  Especially once I got it through my thick head what having it could mean.  That didn't happen until April 22nd - a date I've written about in this blog.

I can now go places and not worry about us not having spare money to afford to go places.  Today I went to Morpeth - a Metro ride and a bus ride away.  I wouldn't have done that without the bus pass because of the cost of getting there.  Last week it was Woodhorn museum and a park.  Since April I have been out exploring and visiting places more than I have for the previous five years put together.

The bus pass has removed a worry and enabled a better life.  Which leads me on to 

Thing the Fourth

Photography!  I had taken photos before this year of course.  But I've taken far more this year and developed a love for it that may develop further as the next year progresses.

I have quite a cheap phone and it's the source of all the photos I've taken since replacing an even cheaper phone.  I'm counting the new phone as thing the fourth even though that's slightly cheating.  Oh well.  It's my blog and I make the rules!

Photos have brought me joy.   Taking them.  Posting them.  Remembering them.  A record of all the places that bus pass enables me to go and of the places I'd have gone to anyway.

Thing the Fifth

Blob Thing.  Yes.  My small pink soft toy has unexpectedly helped me.  He was made on New Year's Eve last year and I didn't know what to do with him.  The way he has become an important part of my life has astonished me.  His blog currently contains 119 posts.  And that way that's developed has astonished me too.  I love my soft toy dearly.  And I love his sister too who was added to the soft toy family in July.

Thing the Sixth

Writing.  Yes, that's new too.  It's not that I wasn't writing a year ago.  I was.  Sometimes.  It's that my whole relationship with writing has changed in the past twelve months.  I want to write about that more at some point.  A year ago I would write a blog post.  Every now and again.  I'd written a few not-good poems in the previous couple of years.  This year it took off.

After an enthusiastic beginning in December 2013, between 2014 and 2015 I wrote 57 posts on this blog.  This one will be the 176th this year.  That doesn't include the 119 posts on Blob Thing's blog.  That's 295 posts so far.  In 336 days.

But that's not all.  This year I've found the confidence to go along to something called The Writers' Cafe, a regular meeting for writers that takes place in a cafe.  The clue was in the name.  I've known about it for ages but would never attend myself because hey, I'm not a proper writer.  How could I ever hope to fit in among all those other people who must be proper writers because they go to The Writers' Cafe?

Just before the summer break I plucked up courage.  And why?  Largely because that friend who had clicked "Interested" about the first She Choir rehearsal clicked "Interested" on a Writers' Cafe session.  It sounded interesting and seeing her interest was enough to spur me to be brave and attend.  Was she there?  No she wasn't.  And I have never seen her there.  She's a very busy person and can't be everywhere she wants to be but has greatly improved my life through not turning up for things!

I found a warm welcome from the "proper" writers and was amazed to find that I did fit in, that the free written exercises we did were good for me and that what I wrote didn't seem to be total crap compared to everyone else.  In fact nothing I heard that day sounded like total crap.  We produced very different results to each other and some other people were also worried about sounding like total crap.  Aren't we a strange bunch of people.

So I went back and when time and mental health have allowed I've kept going back.  I've met good people and hope to get to know them all more next year and to meet more people connected with the many writing events that happen here.

The blog.  The cafe.  But that's not all.  I've written more at home too.  Stories.  Little bits of prose.  I wrote a 9,500 word story for Amanda's birthday and will one day return to it, improve it, and extend it.  I've written shorter stories, quite a few short pieces from prompts, things that won't ever see the light of day too.  I've written a 7,500 word monologue from an unrepentant killer.  I have nearly finished the draft of a Christmas story that will head towards 10,000 words.

In short I have written far, far more this year than I ever have before.  And I have loved it.

And that's not all.  Last month I had a moment of total clarity and as a result of that moment I gave up something in my life that could have been very good.  I gave it up and gave it away.  Because I knew that it wasn't what I was meant to be doing.  What am I meant to be doing?  Yep.  Writing.

I am very excited for next year because I know that I will allow myself to write more.  My skill will improve and I'll learn new writing skills.  I'll work through a course or two too.  I'll meet people and share the writing experience.  Perhaps I'll even find the bravery to get up and read things I've written, to perform.  And if I see something that looks exciting perhaps I'll even submit writing to publications or competitions, without caring much whether it is every published or prize winning because I'm writing it for my own joy.

Yeah.  Writing is big in my life right now.  And as I head into 2017 perhaps it's the thing that is bringing me most excitement and meaning.  I am loving it.  I find I am gradually releasing a passion into being.  I believe that writing will take me somewhere.  Somewhen.  Those unknowns are exciting too.  But if writing just leads me to my own joy and satisfaction then that's fine too.

Thing the Seventh

The Sunday Assembly.  Especially the Sunday Assembly Newcastle Gratitude Group on Facebook.  If you read this blog with any regularity or irregularity you'll have seen it and seen how I got a bit obsessive about trying to post in that group every day.

Thing the seventh is really this: Gratitude.  It's finding the joy every day.  Even on the days that are pretty crappy, the days on which I want to give up.  It's trying to look past all the rubbish bits and find that blessing in everything.  The group has encouraged me to do that and I've only missed nine days in eleven months - most of them because I was too busy doing good things and forgot to post.

Gratitude has helped me greatly this year.  As the song by Tankus the Henge says, "Smiling makes the day go quicker."  I could link that into another of the good and unexpected things this year has contained for the first time.  There's been a lot of crap in the last twelve months.  A lot of crap.  But it's been a great year.

Seven things.  That's enough.  A 250th blog post filled with happiness.  My closest friends and family might point to my list and say "What about this?"  "Isn't this thing new and important?"  My list of six isn't exhaustive.  I know full well that this year has contained many other brilliant things, some of which will come round and hit me with their meaning next year. 

The list is joyful.  It's positive.  And it all looks to my future with confidence.  This is part of me.  Now.

This is my life.  It's not quite what I expected.  But it's mine.




[3292 words]

Days Of Gratitude - Mistakes, Challenges, Adventures And A Wonderful Time

I write this having been at home all day.  The weather hasn't been the best and I'm not particularly well.  That doesn't mean it's been an awful day of course.  I had been able to rest.  I've been able to catch up on some rubbish television watching.  And I've been able to write.  I've also cobbled together a makeshift cover for the hatch to our loft (or roof space) which has been open for a few weeks.  The noise of the wind over the roof was impressive from the hall this morning and now the weather has got colder having a large open hole in the ceiling isn't the best idea.  My plan worked so now we have a cover made out of a piece of kitchen work surface and an old kitchen shelf.

The days I'm posting about today were amazing.  Each day had another photographic challenge - and I've posted about all of them so most of these photos have already appeared on this blog.

Ten days in a row I've gone out in search of things.  I didn't succeed yesterday in finding a gorilla in a tutu.  I won't say I failed.  Just that I haven't succeeded yet.  The giver of the challenges did succeed in my non-successful challenge.  And she found a pink flamingo too today.  And a winged unicorn.  She has amazing finding skills.

Today I had to take a day away from photo challenges - although the challenge has been set I am leaving it a day.  Instead I've written from a writing prompt I asked the giver of the challenges to give me yesterday.  That's been an enjoyable pastime.

Okay.  Some amazing days.  A writing prompt is a little thing.  It doesn't contain a story.  And for each of these days the photo challenge acted much like a writing prompt.  The challenge was a seed but it wasn't the story.

What story will arise tomorrow from prompts and challenges? - and from my first cinema trip of the year, at a little 51 seat independent cinema.  Looking forward to it.

29^th October

Another day. More challenges! Photos of a butterfly, a pink flamingo and a marble run.

I completely mucked up the thing I was meant to be doing in Sunderland with nice Christians and so wasn't there at all. But that gave time for challenges and getting distracted.

By bedtime I had completed the three challenges. But on the way in Sunderland I'd walked down a few streets I'd not walked before. And there was art. Lots of art. (It's all on my little blog)

All that art made me happy. Just as playing a little in that water and getting a bit wet made me happy.

And the shelves of the liquorice shop made me happy.

Even spending a good half an hour discussing things with three of the fundamentalist preachers in Sunderland city centre couldn't bring me down, and they were of a particularly vile variety!

30^th October

Grateful to have been able to be at a certain event and to be mentally well enough to get to the end and still feel okay.

Grateful for going for lunch with SA people afterwards. It was great.

Grateful for my hunt for a robot and taking enough photos on the hunt to fill another blog post.

31^st October

Grateful for a really good morning, spent alone, on a quest to take a photo of a duck. This simple challenge transformed my day completely.

Grateful for free museums. Grateful for walking into random buildings I didn't really have any business in. Grateful for the fun of a slide in the play area. Grateful for dinosaurs. Grateful for swans. And trees.

Grateful to have taken enough photos to fill two blog posts.

And grateful to have photographed a duck!

1^st November

Grateful for having a lot of fun on a dog related challenge.

All I had to do was photograph a white dog. And I knew where it was before I began. But the adventure has turned into three blog posts! In part because Newcastle is such an awesome place.

2^nd November

Grateful for a moment of absolute clarity when standing at the top of a cliff. I wrote a sentence about that moment and it turned into a blog post.

Grateful for another silly photo challenge because without the challenge there would have been no adventuring and without the adventuring there would not have been the clarity.

Challenged To Take A Photograph 5: A Robot

Another day led to another challenge.  Photograph a robot.

I made it harder for myself than I needed to.  I responded, "Not a droid."

That would have been too easy.  There is a droid in this house.  Too easy.  In any case, my challenger has somehow managed to avoid absorbing information about Star Wars.

Our house also contains a Clockwork Man from Doctor Who.  There are probably other forms of robot too.  One thing we don't have is the robot from the Magic Robot game, the one that pointed to all the answers to general knowledge questions because it was so clever.

I remember in primary school I would be a little jealous when people brought that game in for the last day of term.  Briefly jealous.  Only briefly, because after five minutes the game started to get a bit dull, the novelty of the robot having worn off.  I never had that game.  It wouldn't have helped me either for this challenge because the BBC pointed out that it "is not a robot" so it would have only gained a false success by photographing it.

I wanted to find a robot when I was out.  A proper robot.  Preferably one that looked like a proper robot.  Like Robbie, or the one from Lost in Space or Metropolis.  A proper honest-to-goodness robot of the kind someone of my age would have drawn at school if asked to draw a robot.  There are so many kinds of robots - one of our local hospitals was the first in the UK to have more than one robot surgeon.  But I wanted a proper one.  The kind you might have found on the cover of Isaac Asimov sci-fi novels.  A robot with three laws.  Not a welding robot from a car factory.

I caught the Metro into town and made my way to the Sunday Assembly, all the while looking for robots.  As I left the Metro station I encountered three artificial men.  Here's one of them.

This is one of the potential selves of a man.  He is artificial, sculpted from bronze in 2003.  But he's not a robot.  I walked on.

I deliberately passed another creature and was sad to see that some attractive graffiti I'd photographed a few months ago had been totally spoiled by horrible graffiti.  The original had added to a wall in a back alley.  Now it was just ugly.

Even had it been unspoiled, this would not have completed my quest.  Because a cyberman is not a robot.  It is a cyborg and that's a very different thing.

On the other side of the back alley I spotted that a homeless soft toy had been sleeping rough.  Homelessness - of humans, not soft toys - is a big problem here just as it is across the country.  I read this morning that the number of homeless people has doubled since 2010.  Another example of the results of the policies of our caring, sharing Conservative government.

I walked on and approached the venue for the Sunday Assembly.  This is The Core, the first of many buildings forming an area of the city being redeveloped mainly for scientific enterprise.  A science place.  Maybe I would find a robot there.

But no.  There was no robot.  Death was there though.  Also attending the assembly were a witch, a zombie, a vampire and a range of other curious people.  After the assembly I went for lunch with some people.  An uncharacteristically social thing for me!

I was among geeks and so asked if they knew of any robots to photograph.  Inevitably the conversation then descended into definitions of robot and also to complaints about an exhibition held at the Centre For Life here earlier in the year.  It was called Robot.  It included Iron Man.  Not a robot.  An alien from Mars Attacks.  Not a robot.  An Imperial Stormtrooper.  Not a robot.  The Borg Locutus.  Not a robot.  There was some justification for the complaints.

After lunch I went on to the geek shops of Grainger Street.  Surely I would find a decent robot to photograph in one of them.  But no.  They are full of superheroes, Star Wars, Doctor Who, and Warhammer.  Robots aren't the big thing and there wasn't a decent robot anywhere.  I did spot this though, which has made me want to reacquire a copy of all the books and read them again for the first time in many years.

I seemed unable to find a robot.  It was tempting to fall into despair and agree with these two droids - who would have meant the completion of my quest had I not banned droids from my challenge.

I walked on and spent some time having my eyebrows threaded.  I used the time to consider my quest.  And also to consider spirituality and religion because that kind of thing is in my head a lot of the time.  The threading location didn't have a robot.  It had some attractive Hindu deities but no robot.

Leaving the salon I looked up at this.  The Emerson Chambers.  Surely a building such as this one might contain a robot.  Especially as it contains a bookshop with some toys and a children's section.  I entered, full of faith that my quest was nearing completion.

As I walked around the children's section I had another thought.  What if I could find something in addition to a robot.  What if I could find and photograph something like this:

Yes.  That completed the second challenge from the previous day.  To photograph a pink flamingo.  I found these in a gorgeously illustrated book, Midnight At The Zoo, by Faye Hanson.

But it wasn't a robot.  I couldn't find a robot anywhere in the children's section and was beginning to give up hope as I explored the rest of the shop.  I had already worked out in my head how to create a robot of my own when I got home.  But then, a miracle.  A blessed miracle.  [Okay, so it wasn't a miracle in the strict sense of the term.  There had been no suspension of the laws of nature as a supernatural being stepped in to override the universe on my behalf.]

I found this.  A robot.  And nobody could ever tell me that this isn't a robot, because it says "ROBOT" on the front.

I also found this creature but he would not have counted as a success for the challenge.  I could only photograph the box, not the robot inside.  I asked him whether he would agree to come out but he was a particularly shy robot and said he preferred to stay inside.  I explained to him about the photographic challenge and that he would be helping me a lot.  After some hesitation he did agree to come out of his box.  But he would only do so if I agreed in return to give some money to some people standing behind a counter.  Bribery!  I wasn't going to give in to that.  And so I only photographed the box.  It was fortunate that I had already found the other robot.  A robot who was only too glad to have its picture taken.

I left Emerson Chambers happy.  I had completed the quest.  And I walked through the city centre with a new spring in my step.  It was quite uncomfortable as the end of the spring dug into the sole of my left foot.  It also made it quite difficult to walk.  I only had one new spring.  My right foot was springless so I was quite unbalanced and I must have looked even stranger than usual stepping off one foot gently and bouncing three feet into the air from my other foot.  It's a wonder I didn't cause an accident.  As I approached the end of the street I sat down on a bench and removed the new spring, carefully placing it into a recycling bin.

I had time to wait for my bus so I spent the few minutes wandering.  I was tempted to walk to the hospital and see if I could take a picture of someone smoking in front of a no smoking sign - the photographic challenge I had refused.  But I wanted to get home so just took a couple of pictures from the university campus.

It had been a good day out.  The Sunday Assembly.  Yay!  Lunch with nice people.  Yay!  At the bun shop.  Yay!  And an enjoyable and successful robot quest.  Yay!