18 Months - The Best of My Life

Eighteen months ago tonight I came out to myself as transgender, as a woman, in a way which left no possible room for denying the truth about who I am.  That night was the end of a process of finding space, of allowing myself to explore my thoughts and feelings with an honesty which had not been possible before.  On that night I stood in front of the mirror in a skirt and blouse, for the first time able to dress in such clothes without feeling great shame.  And I recognised myself for who I am.  I spent much time talking with myself as I stood at the mirror, and welcomed Clare into her existence - I already knew my name through dreams.  Until that night I could, had I so chosen, locked everything away again and gone back to the way things were, put the recent thoughts and experiments down to an aberration, a mistake.  After that night there was no possibility of going back.

That was the end of a process of experimenting with self-honesty but it set the course for the rest of my life.  Eighteen months on I look back and can say that it has been the best time of my life.  The best.

Here are just some of the things that have happened:

• My mother died of cancer.
• My father became seriously ill with dementia.  He's now in a care home having spent several months in hospital.  He broke one hip while in a different care home.  He broke the other hip while in the hospital.  And being hundreds of miles away I've been able to do nothing to help him and have had to leave everything to other family members.
• My cherished Christian faith died, very painfully, over the course of a year.
• We've had all the usual sort of family problems here - plus a few more.  But I don't talk of those online.
• I have been sexually assaulted.  The police couldn't find the assailant.
• I have received much verbal abuse in the street for dressing as I dress.  Thankfully that's pretty rare now but to being with it happened pretty much every time I left the house.
• I've spent sixteen of the eighteen months waiting for medical treatment.  That treatment has only just begun.

Yes, plenty of horrible things have happened.  Most people would say that the year in which they basically lose both their parents, their faith, and undergo abuse and assault would be among the worst in their lives.  Circumstances have indeed been pretty poor in many respects.

So how can I say that the last eighteen months have been the best of my life?  How bad must the experience of my first forty years have been if so much can have happened and it still be my best time?

It's simple.  I have lived these months as myself, free.  I have learned to love myself.  I have learned that the truth of who I am does not to be utterly crushed, despised.  I have learned that I am not a thing of shame.

And I've remembered and healed a lot of my past.  All the clues and thoughts and acts that I'd suppressed for so long.  Many painful memories and many confusing memories.  They're still coming to light now.  Just this week I remembered things from my childhood.  Words said to me by my parents - who were of course doing their best but in the 1970s couldn't see past their little boy.  But words that led me further into Hell and the long attempt at self-annihilation.  Remembering them hurt.  A lot.  But now they can be left behind and peace can be found.  Some of that language may sound over dramatic.  I promise you that it isn't.

It's been the best eighteen months of my life.  And that brings my past into sharp relief.  I knew it was bad.  For thirty years even the best of days contained the shadow of depression, ever felt.  So many episodes of mental illness.  So many years of not knowing if I'd be alive by Christmas.  So many years in which others had to suffer through that uncertainty.  Looking at photographs from my life is hard as there are very few in which I cannot see signs of that shadow.  Even on the days of many smiles those photos display pain, if you know what to look for.  Comparing my present with my past shows me just how awful my inner life was for all those years.

There are a lot of challenges involved with being transgender.  But the chance to be who I really am outweighs pretty much any rubbish that life could throw my way.  Because, accepting myself and being Clare took away the cause of that shadow of depression

I've lost friends.  But I've gained more friends.  And my wife and child stand by me giving full support for me being who I truly am.  I am truly fortunate.
I've lost that faith.  But I've gained a better faith.  And have written much about that wild journey.
I've cried many tears in the difficulties.  Many more tears for my parents.  Many more tears as the past has come to light and been grieved for and healed.  But I've also learned the meaning of crying tears of joy.
I've suffered transphobic abuse.  But I've grown stronger through battling onwards regardless.  And I've been fortunate.  The abuse has only been verbal.  I know others who have been less fortunate.
I've been sexually assaulted.  There aren't many "buts" to that.  But it could have been a lot worse than it was.  Many women are sexually assaulted.  I don't want to belittle what happened to me but so many women have suffered far worse assaults, or repeated assaults, or rape.  I count myself fortunate.
I've experienced fear as I never felt it before.  But I've overcome that fear in walking into freedom.
I've lost my mother.  But that last year was precious, to be able to share just that short time with her, knowing she was proud of her daughter.
I've lost my father - though he is of course still living.  I must admit that the silver lining is harder to find when I think of him and the sadness we all have for everything that his illness has brought to him.
I've remembered much pain from my past.  But I've been able to clean those events and words, repair wounds, and leave them behind so the future can be better.
I've waited so long for treatment - for the physical help in being who I am, having transitioned mentally and socially last year.  But the treatment has begun, just about.  I'm now on the lowest dose of oestrogen and waiting for my next appointment which should lead to increased hormonal treatment.  Waiting impatiently - as every timeline I've been given in the last eighteen months turned out to be a false expectation.  That next appointment, from what I was told, should have been this week.  It will be next year.

I know who I am.  And I accept who I am, embrace myself in love.  That in turn enables me better to receive love from others and to show love too.  The changes are immense.  I find myself doing things, frequently, that the old me wouldn't have done.  I'd either not have conceived of being able to do them or felt great shame that I couldn't do them.

I know that there is still quite a way to go.  The healing is not complete.  And without too much trouble I could make a long list of things I don't do but would be better for doing.  And a list of things I do and say that would be better left undone or unsaid.  A long way to go but the difference between now and then is to me nothing short of a miracle.

Yes.  The past year and a half has been full of the most difficult things I've ever faced.  Full of pain.  Full of challenge.

Yes.  Those months have also been the very best of my life so far.  The very best.  By a very, very long way.  Simply because they have been lived free.

Honest Thoughts About My Father - His Dementia, His Care, His Being So Far Away

This is the day my dad finally leaves hospital for a new care home - the same one that was looked at in the summer before social services moved him to a completely different one without anyone's permission or consultation.  That was awful.  My cousin (why my cousin?) was phoned and asked if he could collect my dad the next day and take him to a different home.  None of that had even been mentioned to my mother and moving my dad wasn't discussed with anyone.  It was a done deal before any family member knew anything about it.  My mother hated the fact that she wasn't consulted, that she had no say whatsoever in the care of her own husband.  That was pretty heart breaking for her.  Yes.  Social services broke the heart of a woman who was dying of cancer.  It's as simple as that.

My dad has been in hospital for very nearly 3 months having broken one hip in the care home and then broken the other in the hospital.  For legal reasons I cannot write about the circumstances of the falls that led to either broken hip.  The new home looks pretty good - certainly better than the old one.  I can safely say that much, based on Care Quality Commission reports.  The report on the old one talked a lot about under staffing, people left very unsupervised.  Including the inspectors finding one person left alone, naked, hanging over a bath.  To think of people paying £800 a week for that to happen is shocking.  The report on the new home has lots of nice green ticks and none of the red crosses in the report on the other home.  Reading the report on the old home was so worrying.  I never passed the report to my mother.  That would have broken her heart even more to think of my dad being there.

It's a relief that he'll not be in a hospital room all day every day but be somewhere where specialist care - nursing and activities and so on - are offered.  And it's a great relief that the CQC reports I've read are not scary but say that residents are well looked after.  It's still annoying though.  My brother visited the new home back in the summer and it was thought that when my dad was moved from the first home he was in it would be to that one.  We thought it was basically arranged.  Four months on he's going there, recovering from two broken hips he doesn't know were broken and with various extra health issues picked up along the way.

It would be so good to be there in Sussex and be of some use.  It would have been so good to be able to have been there for him through the months.  So frustrating to be so far away and to be basically useless in any of this.  Family there have had to pull all the strings and be the visitors and they've been marvellous in finding the care home, liaising with social services and in sorting the finances.  They deserve so much credit and thanks for all they've done.  Shame I couldn't be there but for a number of reasons (which haven't been mentioned online or have just been hinted at) it's not been a possibility.  Hard not to feel deep guilt even though life had to be as it has been.  If only I could be in two places at once - supporting him there and supporting those non-online things here.   And we can all say 'if only', so many times.

I have considered the possibility of moving him to a care home up here - definitely not the local one though.  But up here there's only me and down there is a wide family and in theory friends too - though the latter are invisible.  Had that support network not been there I'd have definitely sorted that somehow.  Though I don't know quite how you move someone from a hospital in Surrey, under the care of Sussex social services, to a care home or hospital in Tyne and Wear.  In the end it may be better if he moves here if there's a decent enough home that can be got to regularly.  That might end up being better for him - certainly better for me because I could be of some use and keep up the visits - but that's not a decision for now.  Have to see how things pan out into next year.

I may have to cancel the essentials at some point soon and go down and quickly clear and sell a house - depending on what the rules are about paying for the care that will either be urgent or not.  I look at those essentials and wonder how or when.  It depends whether care is dependent on the money being in the bank of if there will be an account to be paid once the house is sold.  I should know about that soon.

And then thinking about those essentials, all that needs doing, and grieving for many things, my brain fries - it's very fragile at the moment.  I've put a little of that online but only a little - I'd prefer to focus on the good things most of the time if I can rather than focusing on just how close I came a few days ago to using a knife in a less than productive manner. Years after self-harm the memories and mental scars remain and the knowledge that in the very short term it helped get me through a hundred inner crises.

Nobody knows, or can know, the prognosis for my dad.  Two years ago nobody could have known any of this, or known that my mum wouldn't be there.  Less than 13 months ago they were here.  He was ill of course but we were still able to do so much.  This illness rather ignores the words of Terry Pratchett that a person with dementia can still write several novels.  His deterioration has been rapid.  That may continue or he may plateau.  Impossible to say.  I just hope that in the time and health that remains he will be reasonably content in the new home, will be well looked after and that if he eventually ends up here the local care home would be just as good.


Of course most of us are at the stage where we have to be honest and say that, for his own sake, we'd prefer him not to stay alive for too long.  It goes against my old Catholic instinct of saying that life is God's gift to be cherished in whatever form it takes.  But it's how most people come to feel about any close friend or relation with dementia.  For him to die while he still has something, while he can still find an enjoyment is a far better image than thinking of him utterly helpless, unresponsive, unfunctioning in the corner of a room for year after year.  It is an awful feeling to almost wish your own father would die.  But it's a common one when we witness so much suffering, so much emptying out of the person who used to be there, so much damage to the brain.  It's hard not to feel deep guilt about it all even when you know that it's entirely a matter of mercy not malice.  It's clear to me that life should not be prolonged at any cost, that life is not just the beating of a heart.  And even in the hospital, at a time when he was pretty sick, there was a DNR order for him.  That was decided upon by the family there but I was in full agreement.  If he goes, let him.  Don't save him for a continuation of the decline.

It would be so good to get there this year to see my dad (and to sort that house some more).  But looking at things as they stand I'm guessing that probably won't happen - I guess at February.  And possibly by then he won't know who I am - he just managed it during the summer but of course could only know me as he not she.  Which was fine.  He's the only person on the planet I'm happy to have refer to me as he.  Because it's not his fault.  I wish he could have got to know me as she before getting ill, but this is life and we so often can't have what we wish for.  We'd all wish for many different things if it would ease the suffering of ourselves, our loved ones and seven billion strangers.

I just hope that in the new care home, with proper care, he will be reasonably content and find things to be able to smile at, while smiling is a possible.  I hope he settles there and is encouraged to be as active as possible.  I hope that, whatever the illness continues to do to him, he is more or less at peace whether living in a real world or a world that is only real to him.  I hope so.  And I will see him again, when that can happen.

Renewing My Baptismal Vows - As Clare, With Brand New Faith

Something good happened at church last night.  Next Sunday I will officially become a member of Northern Lights Metropolitan Community Church.  Before doing that I felt it necessary to publicly renew my faith in some manner, a break with so much of the past and a cleansing - even if just symbolic - in readiness for the new and for whatever my future brings.

I discussed this with our pastor who suggested renewing my baptismal vows, and she designed a short liturgy for this.  There were the traditional vows you take at baptism, more vows relating to the faith and practice of the local church, and between the two a symbolic hand washing to wipe away the past in a sacramental fashion and through the prayer prayed as my hands were dried.

As part of this I was asked to write something brief about the reasons for the renewal.  I don't do brief!  An edited version was in the church newsletter and I read the full version at church last night.  What was read is roughly what follows - though just as when I used to preach I don't stick to the script no matter how hard I try!  I was very well behaved last night, so the changes were minor.

Mentally I've been having a rough time recently.  Some quite major struggles.  My wife says that whenever I'm doing good things I get clobbered.  And there have been so many things recently, so much of a move to becoming a better functioning human, in the places where I am meant to be.  Saturday night was the worst I've had in years - but it led into a Sunday that was excellent.  I realised yesterday morning that among other things I was grieving, mourning greatly - for my mother, for my father, and also for the years that I could not live as who I am.  All those mourning processes are needed but piling it all up together isn't easy.  On Sunday as I was on the way to another church in the morning I opened my Bible to the next chapter.  Happened to be Matthew 5, the start of the Sermon on the Mount.  So I read, "Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted."  And then the first song at that church had lines, also drawn from the Bible, about mourning being replaced by joy.  Sometimes God knows what God is doing!

Truly, this weekend contained very low points, mourning, sorrow.  And it contained high points of commitment, friendship, and joy.  Life can be so amazing in its variety.

 _________________

Last night, during the service at Northern Lights MCC I publicly renewed my baptismal vows. For me this is a needful step before formally becoming a member of the church. I know that's not the case for most people so wanted to publicly explain why I am renewing those vows.

Firstly it's because I was baptised under another name, another gender, and was a very different person then. I'd love to be re-baptised as Clare but of course that's not a theological option. Baptism is a one time event – and I've already gone through it three times as an adult. I cannot be baptised again but I need to publicly express that, as Clare, those vows I made as “him” still stand and that they stand more firmly than they ever did in the past.

That's the obvious reason: My present,living as the woman I am, is such a changed life from my past, forcing myself to live as the man I never was.

But there is a second reason. It's even more important to me than the first. Many people in the church will know some of my story of faith over the last eighteen months. As I sat at MCC my Christian faith died a slow death, a painful death. Every service was a kind of torture for me. And some in the church put up with my many words, my complaints, my deep pain through that process. I cannot thank the church enough for supporting me through the death of my faith and through everything I said, and felt, and did.

My faith deserved to die. It really did. Good riddance to it! Not because of any doctrines or dogmas that were or weren't attached to it. But because the root of my faith was self-hatred, self-denial, self-rejection – arising from a firm belief that I was no good. Much of that came from received beliefs about my gender and consequently my near-constant urges to self-destruct. My faith helped to destroy me, helped me to eradicate myself, for twenty-three years. It was immensely important to me but it crushed me.

Eventually I was able to leave that faith behind, and rest secure in a faith that excluded any personal God. The plan was to leave MCC and never look back. That was the only future I could see. But throughout the whole journey I still believed in MCC, her vision, her people, and the place of healing that the church is. And, solely because of certain of the people, I stayed.

Many of you will have noticed a not so subtle change in me since the start of October. At church one evening everything suddenly clicked. I could sing the songs, pray the prayers and knew it was OK to receive communion again for the first time in a long while. And I was extremely surprised that night to find myself on my knees, hands in the air, lost in worship and thankfulness to the God I didn't believe in. The “God of Surprises” entered again and renewed my world, my heart.

Faith returned. It's a new faith. Brand new. It's a far healthier faith, one that accepts the love of God, and one that can honestly say with the Psalmist;

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
my soul knows it very well.

As I renew my baptismal vows it is my freedom to be Clare, to be authentic, that I celebrate. But more than that I celebrate my return to faith. A purer faith. A very different faith than that I had before. Based on self-love rather than self-condemnation, on authenticity rather than self-squashing, on freedom, on love, on grace, on hope, on acceptance, on inclusivity, on joy, on light and life and on so much more.

As I publicly vow myself to God and to the centrality of Jesus in my life, I do so based on the solid conviction that God is love, and his love is for me and for all of us. And I do so based on a response of love that seeks the beauty and life of Abba, Jesus, and Spirit.  At this point I do not know exactly what I believe down to the x, y and z of doctrine.  But I know in whom I have believed.  In God, who is my parent and source.  In Jesus, saviour, who is my example and who died.  In Christ who lives, and lives in me and in all of you.

A Day to Remember

Let us remember:

The British troops who died in war.  According to some things I've read that's all this day, Remembrance Sunday, is about.  Yes.  Remember them.  So many brave men and women standing for causes they believed in.  So many other brave men and women forced to stand for causes someone else believed in.

But let us remember not only them.  Not only our British troops.

Let us remember those of all nations who fought and died with the British in war.  Those of all continents and many countries.  The Sikhs, Hindus and Muslims and people of other faiths who fought with the British and are so often forgotten, sidelined in the commonly told histories.

But let us remember not only them.

Let us remember those of all nations who fought and died on any side in war.  Those we called enemies.  Those who called us enemies.  For the nominal enemies weren't any more bad or good than the troops who fought on "our" side.  And those who fought in wars our nation had no connection with.

But let us remember not only them.

Those of all nations - whether armed or civilians - who died in any war.  Those who chose to fight.  Those who were forced to fight.  Those who chose not to fight.  Those who served their societies and died without entering the fight.  Those who we pass off as "collateral damage".

But not only them.

Let us remember ALL who suffer and have suffered because of the hell that is war.  In so many wars that is almost the entire population.  And even for us - most of whom do not experience war on a daily or yearly basis - we will know people who have been affected and have suffered as a result of war.

Let us remember all those who refused to fight.  The conscientious objectors, the pacifists, the humanists and religious people who stood against the killing.  Let us remember their bravery and their own sacrifices..

Let us remember the innocents caught up in the hell.  Those who will die, be wounded, lose family members, be forced from their homes, go without food, because of the wars taking place right at this moment.  Those who have been exiled because of war.  Those who have to flee their countries only to be demonised by the British media if they have to flee to here.

In 1919 we said "Never again".  When will we mean it?

If we just remember the dead soldiers but don't live and work for the peace they sought then their deaths will ultimately be without meaning.

Yes, today is a day to remember, to mourn the wars of the past, to celebrate the good men and women who lived, suffered or died in those wars.  Most of us know stories - or know people - who have fought and sometimes in their service done much good.  There is a song by Robb Johnson that I cannot find online.  It begins as an anti-war song addressed to the artist's father.  How could daddy have held a gun and fired it at his fellow human being?  So the question is asked repeatedly and angrily:  "What did you do in the war, daddy?"  The answer came back eventually:  "I liberated Belsen.  Me and my mates, we liberated Belsen."  Let us remember the past and the people who lived through it.

Let us remember the stories.  The triumphs.  The despair.  I will think today of the German prisoner of war who drew a picture of my mother and her parents one Christmas.  I wonder what happened to him after he returned to Germany.  I wonder if he had children and grandchildren who would be amazed to know that he is remembered here through his pictures.

But this is also a day to look forward.  A day to live in hope.  A day to proclaim "Let there be peace.  Let us learn to love one another.  Let us learn to embrace the differences we allow to divide us."  For me this is never a day to give any glory to the concept of war or to a past and present in which nations have felt such a need to go to war so often.  This is a day when I look for a time that the red poppy - the blood, the long reality of warfare - is a memory and the white poppy - the call for peace, for the unity of humanity - is a present reality.

To close with famous words of John Lennon;

"You may say I'm a dreamer

But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you will join us
And the world will be as one"

One Year Ago - My Parents Visited Newcastle For the Last Time

A year ago my parents came to visit us for what turned out to be the last time.

We knew my dad was ill of course.  His symptoms had got worse since we had visited Sussex in the Summer.  But he was still driving everywhere and got on with everything we did when my parents were here.  Nobody knew how quickly his health would deteriorate or that barely six months later he would be living in a care home.

But my mother was still full of life and the excitement of finding new things to do, to experience, to photograph.  We had a packed few days and she had so much zest for everything we saw.  Nobody would have guessed then that her cancer would return so aggressively, that just ten months after arriving to visit us, full of life, she would be dead.

I will treasure those days for the rest of my life.  My dad never got to meet Clare when he was healthy - even in the summer his health problems (and I suspect his upbringing too) meant he couldn't fully deal with his son becoming his daughter.

But my mother got to meet Clare when she was healthy.  Last summer when Kit and I were in Sussex for a few weeks I was in the early days still, experimenting and finding my way and lacking in confidence.  Everyone knew I was Clare, but it was very scary for me - as it turned out more scary than it needed to be.  Even so, she could see the changes in me - the new light, the new joy, the release from so much of the past.  And the difference in the less than two months between then and my parents' visit was quite astounding.

So the visit a year ago was the only time my mother got to experience not just her daughter, but her confident daughter.  I treasure those days.  And I know she treasured them too.

My mother wrote a lot about that visit.  I'm not going to say much more - just link to her blog posts.  There are short ones she wrote when here and then posts with lots of photos that she wrote after the visit.  Sometimes it is good to look back.

To be honest I'm putting my mother's posts here for my own benefit so I can find them all easily in one place.  If you want to take a look - and there are great photos of family and the local area - then do.  Regular readers of my mother's blog will know that they did all sorts of things and the blog, before the sad endings, is filled with descriptions of lives well lived.

People who have only met me in the last eighteen months should be warned against scrolling back in the blog.  I know many actively don't want to learn my old name.  And there are some photos that are quite scary.  There are some relatively decent photos of me - but not many.  Yes, I know I'm biased in my opinions of pictures of me!  But I can see the darkness, the sadness in my eyes, behind even the best of the smiles I gave when living as a man.

First the diary posts during the visit:

http://grandma-p-ramblings.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/the-day-we-went-to-newcastle.html

http://grandma-p-ramblings.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/our-trip-out-today-in-north.html

http://grandma-p-ramblings.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/briefi-lost-original.html

http://grandma-p-ramblings.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/two-lovely-days-in-north.html

http://grandma-p-ramblings.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/we-didnt-take-isaac.html

It's a good thing they didn't take Isaac given how things developed.  And Isaac himself got ill and died during the summer when I was in Sussex.

And then the posts after the visit with lots of photos.  The posts between these ones make for much sadder reading - many of them deal with stress and anxiety about my dad.  Even on days out to places they loved such as Nymans Gardens or the Bluebell Railway there is still the anxiety in evidence.

Newcastle residents may enjoy the pictures in some of these, especially of our walk through Jesmond Dene, Armstrong Park, Heaton Park, and Jesmond Vale and then to the Biscuit Factory.  That was a great day.  To think that a year ago my parents were both up to doing so much.  My dad needed encouragement but he could still do it all.

http://grandma-p-ramblings.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/northumberlandia-woman-of-north.html

http://grandma-p-ramblings.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/druridge-bay-and-amble-northumberland.html

http://grandma-p-ramblings.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/barter-books-alnwick.html

http://grandma-p-ramblings.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/alnmouth.html

http://grandma-p-ramblings.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/newcastle-rural-walk-part-1-jesmond-dene.html

http://grandma-p-ramblings.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/newcastle-walk-part-2-armstrongheaton.html

http://grandma-p-ramblings.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/newcastle-walk-part-3-jesmond-vale.html

http://grandma-p-ramblings.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/newcastle-walk-part-4-biscuit-factory.html

No photos of the fourth and final day.  On that day we went to Tynemouth Market, satisfying the urge to buy things for my mother's antiques dealing.  And then to North Shields for the market there and for lunch at one of the cheap pizza places on the fish quay - three courses for £3.95.  Many photos taken of the boats and the river with interesting lighting effects thanks to the weather.

Such wonderful days.  There will be more wonderful days.  I feel joy that we had those days together.  And still much sadness because we cannot have more days together.  I'm still grieving for my mother and unfortunately am not able to help my dad at this time in all his problems which have been far worse than anyone could have expected.

But for today.  Looking back to better times.

Surprise! A Reconciliation with God and with Church.

Some of you may have noticed that in much of what I've written in the last year I've had lots of bad things to say about traditional views of God and about much of what goes on in churches.  I've not been shy about being outspoken in my rejection of a personal God and my embracing of a nontheistic belief.  I've not been shy in talking about how painful attending church services has been and about the causes of that pain.

Things in my life seemed to be sorting themselves out.  I was coming to know where I stood with my non-personal god of being, god of wonder.  I was settling into worship with the Quakers, The Religious Society of Friends.  And I was settling into worship in a very different service style with the Unitarians.  And I was actively planning my departure from Northern Lights MCC - the only place I've attended recently in the last year where the majority of people have some kind of traditional notion of a theistic god.  In fact I knew I was leaving.  Every service was painful no matter how hard I tried to ignore it.  I was only staying for the sake of a particular friend who I knew would be upset if I went.  She's moving away from the area soon so I'd done a deal with myself to stick around at MCC until she goes and then leave the place.  I'd miss the people.  That's true.  But I'd be glad to get away from the pain, from the parts of the service that stung my wounds and the parts I just couldn't participate in at all.

That was the plan.  Leave MCC.  And then possibly join the Unitarians.  Or stick with the Quakers and consider joining them in the future - Quakers don't just take anyone into full membership on a whim so it would have to be the future.  And the plan included going elsewhere too, seeking spiritual light wherever I thought it could be found and wherever my nontheism would fit into whatever was going on there.

That was the plan as a confirmed nontheist.  No personal God.  Just wonder and awe in being.  Which is an exciting, massive thing in itself.

Yes, that was the plan.

Plans sometimes change.

There has been a lot going on recently in my spirituality and spiritual practice.  Much of it - the meditation, the writing, the listening, the work with chakras, and so on - I'm not going to write about here.  So much going on that I can't just write off and blame on a bit of oestrogen.  Minor transgender update: I've officially started the HRT treatment.  Hey, this is me.  Gotta get the gender issues in somewhere!

But of God I write ...

Imagine my surprise to notice that my meditation language was becoming firmly Biblical - from that book I hadn't picked up at home for a year because just the idea hurt too much.

Imagine my surprise when some of what I "listened to" pointed out verses from the Bible and said they applied to me.

Imagine that surprise when messages from that "listening" told me that Christ is still my way, my path, and that in reality I never stopped loving God.  I'd blog all that I've written down but I think that would remove any doubts people may have as to my sanity.

Imagine how I felt when I sat down at church two weeks ago and everything suddenly clicked inside.  I knew I could sing the songs.  I knew I could pray (most of) the prayers.  I knew I could receive communion for the first time this year.

And imagine what a shock it was to me, committed nontheist, to find myself later that evening at the back of the church (I'm not keen on pews for these things!) falling to my knees, lifting my hands, singing words of thankfulness and being very lost in worship of a personal God.

There had been many surprises that week.  That one out surprised them all.

Yes, me and God have had something of a reconciliation.

I won't say much more now.  There is a lot to say.  I've watched myself recently and seen someone doing, saying, thinking things that she would never have said before.  It's been very nice to observe her.  And it's been very nice to be her and break out of some old ways.

The strange thing is that I am still a nontheist.  I am just a nontheist who happens to worship and sing and pray to a personal God.  I know full well that this is some kind of contradiction.  But I'm fine with that.  The Real is often beyond contradictions.

Much more to say.  People have seen the changes.  I know this.  They've commented.

Oh, and those church plans?  I am leaving one of the churches I thought I might be joining.  I'm staying with the other at least for now, because it is good for me.  And the church I was leaving in the near future?

I am officially becoming a member in the near future.  And I find that I am very pleased about that.  That place, those people can do me good.  And I believe I'll be able to do good there if I allow myself to become the person who is becoming free.  I've deliberately kept myself on the outskirts of that community because I believed I wasn't staying in it.  Now is the time to being to pack up and move into the church's city centre.

It's all good.  It's where I'm meant to be.  And as our pastor pointed out once, through all the trials and pain and spiritual problems and doubts and fears and struggling to find a healthy spirituality, through all of that I never stopped believing in Northern Lights MCC and her reasons for seeking to do what she does.

Responding to "The Toll of Our Christian Theology on the LGBT Community"

Last night I found a link to a Christian blog post about the way LGBT people have suffered at the hands of Christians.  That's not news to me but the blog post touched me greatly.  I wept about it last night.  I wept about it again this morning.

http://johnpavlovitz.com/2014/10/07/distorted-love-the-toll-of-our-christian-theology-on-the-lgbt-community/

It's worth reading.  I urge you to read it. 

John Pavlovitz hadn't expected to write this post - it's a direct response to the hundreds of people who wrote to him following another post, hundreds of people each with direct experience of suffering at the hands of Christians for their sexuality.  If I'd written the original post I wouldn't have expected that outpouring either.  But sometimes these things just happen - such as with a post elsewhere on "Post Traumatic Church Disorder".

The biggest of my tears this morning were when I read again the sentence "It certainly doesn’t look like love to the sweet, 12-year old middle school girl in your church whose been repeatedly told she’s an abomination; that God already despises her."

Now I've been told by a church minister that I am an abomination.  But I was 42.  I was totally sure of myself as a transgender woman.  I was totally sure that being transgender was not any kind of a problem for God - whether a "God of the Bible" (I'd already gone through the "relevant" verses) or any other God.  But I thought of this girl.  She was 12 not 42.  She didn't have all the adult experience or two theology degrees and the ability to research more theology.  She didn't have the wonderful support of a church like Northern Lights MCC here in Newcastle.  So I thought of her and what this perfectly "Biblical" treatment would have done to her.  And I wept.  I wept over other stories too.  I am very close to tears again now.

John Pavlovitz's post from two weeks previously is also worth reading.  It's about what he would do if he found that his son or daughter was gay.  To sum that up in a few words: He would love them.  That's what caused the outpouring of response.  Just that.  That a father would love his child.

I posted a link to the blog on a friend's facebook status asking whether she had seen it.  Part of my response to a speech by a Catholic Archbishop who said that "Homosexual relationships are destroying our human identity."

The report about the speech was posted by a good woman.  A Catholic who posts things from either side of the moral arguments currently raging in the Catholic church and expects responses and discussion - from both sides.  And she's good enough to put up with a lot of non-Catholic words from me which to be honest is quite impressive at times as I'm not exactly toeing the party line!  She's doing her best in life and seeks to walk in love of people and in devotion to her God.

Someone responded as follows:  "Hang on a second, acting on being gay and physically attacking others, are both sins in Christian Theology. So because others sin by attacking, it must be the fault of the Theology? That reasoning is beyond moronic..."

You can always tell a loving, rational person by the way they descend to calling someone's intelligent writing "moronic" within three sentences!

I responded to that.  Because yes, I believe it is the fault of the Theology.  It's a theology I once promoted too - much to my shame.  One day I'll write about that.  A post along the lines of Mea Maxima Culpa!

__________________________________________

Sorry - this is long.  A length borne of passion.  A length borne of seeing people hurt, again, again, again by Christians and so-called Biblical views and of Christians turning away again and again and saying "It's not OUR fault, our ways wouldn't hurt anyone."  I am so utterly sick of seeing LGBT people destroyed and then being blamed for their own destruction by the Christians who killed their spirits.

Acting on being gay is NOT a sin in Christian theology.  It is a sin in SOME Christian theology.  Get that right.  "Christian theology" is not a blanket term.  It's certainly not a sin in my theology.  Nor in the theology of a local minister who leads Bible studies on the subject covering every possibly connected verse in great detail, solely relying on the works of highly respected scholars.  Nor in the theology of a great many Christians and a great many skilled theologians and Biblical scholars too.

When the theology is that a dignified human being, made in the image of God, beautifully and wonderfully made is also an abomination merely because of who God has made them to be, then yes the theology is at fault.  Or to be more exact, the people who have such a theology and refuse to look beyond the preconceptions of the centuries of homophobic abuse into a more enlightened age where human beings are accepted for being who they are.

I have so many friends who know what the effects of homophobic theology are.  It's not just a matter of people attacking them but also a matter of the beliefs guiding that action.

So many scholars now have accepted that the anti-homosexual clobber verses don't in reality have anything to do with Christian homosexuals.  More will follow.  And in the end the churches will accept that this is a normal, and completely healthy, part of the range that makes up human beings (and many other species too - if like the Archbishop we want to bring in what is "natural").  

That day cannot come too soon.

A day when I as a transsexual married lesbian will never risk encountering a church where I am rejected, told to repent of being who I am, told that it is impossible even to be Christian unless I at least want to repent, told I'm abomination, told that the God of mercy will make me burn in pain for eternity if I don't stop being who I am.  I will never again encounter a Church where my very existence is said to be anti-God (such as the Catholic Church and the certain articles written on major Catholic websites as a perfectly logical result of the teachings of Pope Benedict XVI)

Jesus accepts me.  He accepts LGBTQIA people.  He loves us as we are and has called us to be who we are.  He made us this way.  Yes, God created gay people to be gay people.  He created transsexuals to be transsexuals.

It's just a shame that Christians turned the love of God for gay people into a sham.  The love they show is not love.  No matter how many flowery words are used.  No matter how much Christians try to justify themselves.  It's not love.  It's closed-minded, bigoted, hatred justified by years of doing the same thing.

And yes, I am a Christian.  And I firmly believe God called me to live the life I lead - as a happily married transsexual lesbian.  My wife would agree with that.  And I know the hell it was to believe what other Christians taught - that all these things were evil, disordered, unnatural.  That I should be someone else - and indeed I tried to do it for decades.  Misery.  And to my shame I believed the lies that my gender and sexuality were disordered, evil.  And I believed the same thing about the gender and sexuality of others.

The theology needs changing.  Precisely because the theology leads to the attacks.  The theology directly leads to a hell on earth for innocent people.

The theology needs changing.  Precisely because the theology leads to thousands and thousands of wounded, crushed lives, and not uncommonly even to suicide.

The theology needs changing.  Precisely because the theology forces people to run from Jesus because the Jesus of the theology does welcome people with open arms.

The theology needs changing.  Precisely because the theology gives a church that is not a place of safety but instead a place of death for people against whom other people have a prejudice that has no basis whatsoever in reality.

I see the results of the theology.  Regularly.  It is heart breaking.  I am so thankful for a better theology.  One taught by some of the churches here.  And I am so thankful for the MCC congregation here and for the way crushed people are healed there and enabled to find peace and fall in love with Jesus again after the pain caused by well-meaning Christians.  So, so thankful for the light and love in that place.

Something Wisely Removed From The Funeral Address For My Mother

A while ago I posted the address I wrote for the funeral of my mother.

I'd written the first draft four days before she died.  Thoughts had been circling my head while sitting with her in the hospice.  That morning the plan had been to go to the local church but people going in looked too happy and they had a big baptism in the service so I decided I couldn't face being there so walked back to my parents' house and found myself writing, getting some of these thoughts into a written form.

In the two weeks between that day and my mother's funeral I edited and amended what I'd written frequently.  And I lost the whole section that I'd initially written to begin the address.  It just didn't seem to fit or to flow and I couldn't find a conclusion for that section which seemed good enough or real enough or in any way wise enough.  So I just deleted the whole thing from the address and began where I began.

I think that's a good thing and the final article was improved greatly by not including the original starting section.  Those thoughts had come to me first and were almost written before beginning to type but I felt they had to go.

What follows is that section and it still lacks any coherent conclusion and still wouldn't lead into the address as it was spoken.

But it's here anyway and the question of "What is good and what is bad?" is a valid one even if I couldn't find the words to ask it about the death of my mother.  I still can't find those words.  I know it's not a grand global tragedy for a seventy year old to die and I know it is a source of joy that she didn't die twenty years ago when death was the most probable result.  But I find, a month after her death, that I still can't really contemplate the question in relation to her passing.

Anyway, here's what was lost from the funeral address, still in the form it was written on that Sunday morning when writing the first draft.

I'd like to begin with a story told by a Taoist teacher.

Many years ago a man lived with his family on a mountain road in China. It was a hard life and the man had to work long hours growing enough food for his family.

One year the roof of the house was leaking. This was a bad thing.

The man gathered the tools to repair the roof and climbed up to do the job.

The job proved easier than expected. This was a good thing.

But that meant the man relaxed too much.

He fell from the roof and broke his leg. This was a bad thing. The family would struggle to hire someone to harvest the crops.

The man and his family spent the night fretting about everything.

The next day a contingent came from the Emperor. Every able-bodied man in the area was to be conscripted to fight as cannon fodder in the latest pointless war. Probably nearly all of them would be killed by the enemy.

The man, with his broken leg, was left.

Suddenly his accident – the bad thing – became a good thing.

What is good? What is bad? Can we tell. There are hundreds of stories like this from Taoist teachers and all ask the same questions. What is good? What is bad?

Today as we remember Paula we can only feel it is a bad day. We feel the pain of our loss.

Paula and her family have felt that pain before. My nan died young, also of cancer. She didn't get the chance to see her grandchildren grow. I never met her as she died several years before I was born.

At that time Paula, her brother Roger and her family could look and say it was a bad thing. Indeed their sorrow was very real and an early death is always tragic.

But looking at things today, 45 years later, we can see the good that came out of the bad.

My granddad, Harry, remarried. Jenny is here today. And they had children who in turn have children of their own. Of course I can't say what would have happened had not my nan died young but I can say that had she not died Matt and Ruth would not now exist and the world would not have been given all the things they have brought to it. Certainly the childhood of myself and my brother would have been poorer had not Jenny, Matt and Ruth been a part of it.

The last months of Paula's life would have been very different too had not her mother died young. I'd like to publicly thank Jenny and Ruth at this time. They are busy people but have been able to give so much time, energy, comfort and practical help to Paula in her illness. I know they take it for granted that this is just what you do for someone you care for, but that in itself is an amazing thing. Without Jenny and Ruth the last months of Paula's life would have been much harder. Thank you Jenny. Thank you Ruth. 

So what is good? What is bad?

At this time of grieving and loss it's hard to look at Paula's death in the same way as we can look at her mother's death. We are in pain. It's right that we should know that we have lost someone important, who brought light and love into our lives. And it's hard to see that any good may eventually come.

The Pressures on Women. The Extra Pressures on Transgender Women.

I am blogging this for my own benefit.  Don't any of you feel under pressure to read it.  This was a post on facebook and I decided to post it here so I don't lose it.  It's a picture of some of my thoughts as they are at this time and I find I can look back at these posts and see the developments and changes in my life, generally as related to transgender issues or to spirituality.

There are things here that I could not have written a year ago or even six months ago - things about my own body and the physicality of a "real" woman.  To be challenging the narrative of "I was born in the wrong body" has consequences, not least in that it allows greater freedom and changes the reasons why I choose to do the things I do.  What follows is not the complete picture.  And it's a view that's still in development.  Bear with me but feel free to constructively criticise if there are massive errors.

A couple of days ago I posted this on Facebook:

Laser treatment today for the first time in ages.
So it's a no make-up day, something that can add extra idiot encounters to life followed by an obvious burnt-black stubble ten days which can also add to the level of idiocy encountered in the streets.
Being transgender in public is only easy if you don't look transgender - if you've spent loads of money and time in order to conform to what society says a woman should look like.

And don't any of you say the same pressure is there for all women. It really, really, really isn't. But someone usually says it anyway.

Perhaps that was an over-negative and irrational post.  A post that came from a view that what happened in the past would inevitably happen again.  A throwback to the events of last year and the memories of common abuse.  But last year was different in part because I was different.  I didn't have the confidence and self assurance that I have now and that changes how I walk in the streets and so changes how people react to me.

Of course there were responses from friends.  All of them came from women and they're all women who support me and completely affirm me as Clare.  But the responses were mainly saying the same thing:  "I have to wax/shave/laser too because there is pressure." See, I was right.  Someone says it anyway even though it isn't the same thing.

And so I accidentally wrote this response on the pressures women face in our society and the pressures transwomen face in the same society:

Oh God forgive me! This is long. It was meant to be short. If I didn't need to find food it might have got even longer. You don't need to read it. Nobody needs to read it. Writing these things helps me greatly in working out more of what I think and feel and how I want to live or need to live. It might not help anybody else in the slightest. But at least it ends positively. And all because this isn't just about facial hair. It's about the question "What is a woman?" It's very tempting to delete it all or just stick it as a document only on this machine. Tempting to blog it too in some form and annoy even more people. I wish people would challenge some of the things I've written on that blog - some of them are quite radical if not outrageous. And some may even be ludicrous.

Here it is anyway:

Yes. I agree. Of course I agree. Society pressures women to wax/shave/laser and do much more besides and presents a view of women that everyone knows is illogical and unrealistic but which most women below a certain age and many women above it follow anyway because it's a heck of a lot easier than experiencing the consequences of rebellion. Yes, we live in a society where to be a natural woman with natural hair, skin, fat, wrinkles is portrayed as being some kind of disgusting, horrific freak rather than as being a wonder to be celebrated. "40 year old star has cellulite. The shame! The shame!" We live in a world where every other advert encourages women to eradicate their so called "imperfections" and "blemishes" and where every other photo is photo-shopped into an image of a near impossible creature. A world in which we are told to make that image our aspiration and dream. Is that over-stating the extent of the lunacy?

It's awful really and I hope that one day we'll all wake up and crush this insane system rather than going the other way and starting to incorporate men more and more into the same madness. And I say that as someone whose armpits were lasered this morning which in a way shows the level of my own conformity - although due to a printing error it made the morning cheaper than just having my face zapped and that's my genuine excuse.

But all of that is not the same thing as the pressure on a transgender person.

If you don't wax/shave you don't get people telling you every day that you've forgotten to bring your trousers or get called a tranny bastard or get jeered at as the cissy in a frock. I know what my life was like when, pre-laser and without make up, I began to wear the clothes I like and head out alone dressed pretty much as I still dress. I got abuse pretty much every single time I left the house on my own and wondered how the hell I'd ever be able to get through it all. At no point was I tempted to give up being who I am but the obstacles seemed vast. Thankfully there was much support around me.

The abuse only lessens if you're cis-normative or perhaps if you develop a thick skin, massive self belief, and a far from average style. This is 2014 - such admiration for those who walked this path in previous years when it was so much harder and the abuse more frequent. But we still have that dialogue - in the media, in the NHS, elsewhere - where the transgender person gains social validity and Brownie points by striving to appear cisgender and by how much success they achieve in that quest. Rebels against that inspire me. I'm not such a rebel - but mainly perhaps because I happen to like embracing this look. It's part of who I am - but I've not deeply analysed why.

With or without a bit of facial hair you all still look like what society says is a woman and society treats you accordingly. As a woman. Perhaps as a woman suffering from frequent societal pressure to be hair-free, but still as a woman. My life isn't about being treated as a hairy/non-hairy woman. Me, I'm not wanting to be treated as Kate Moss, not even as a woman of "average" appearance, just as a woman. To never be insulted for not looking like a "real" woman. And never to be congratulated - by friends and allies - for looking like a "real" woman, with the not so friendly implication that I'm not real. To never be called out if I let my genitals hang naturally instead of forcing them into unnatural positions. To never have been told in different ways for 42 years and so come to deeply but erroneously believe not that I have too much facial hair but that I'm in entirely the "wrong" body. Because objectively my body (and of course yours) is not wrong. It's the society that is wrong.

Of course there are pressures in being a woman - that we can either succumb to or ignore depending on how we want to live our lives - but it really, really isn't the same pressure. In the transgender world we call it cisprivilege - something most people only notice when they lose it, and which too many people argue doesn't exist. One day we'll all move beyond that - and much progress has obviously come already - but the day is most definitely not here yet. And I have it much easier than some because I'm so comfortable in one of the binary camps. Much harder for those who don't happen to fit in what is really just an artificial box.

Help! At this rate I'll turn into some kind of gender theorist/activist which has never been the plan for someone who just wants to get on with life as best she can. I never thought I'd be typing anything along the lines of any of the above but then I realised, at least intellectually, that I am not a woman stuck in a man's body. I am a woman in my body, which is thus a woman's body. On other levels I haven't grasped that and perhaps never will because the effects of the last 42 years run so deeply.

But enough moaning - most days now are fine. Such a massive contrast to a year ago. Today was fine.

Actually today was good. And I didn't even have to spend hours repeatedly slapping on the aloe vera post laser. And a possibility of some good laser news for the future. And someone was very apologetic for not stopping for a chat when they passed me on Saturday. No need - I hadn't even spotted them! And a 90p cheese and onion toastie was enough for lunch in town. I've even had a visitor, which is almost an annual occurrence.

Tomorrow will probably be good too. And if there is abuse that's normally fine. Most days I just ignore it now. It's verbal not physical so unless I'm having a bad day it doesn't really wound. Yes, tomorrow will be good.

If you've read all that and are wondering, the next day was good.  Time spent with a friend.  And zero incidents of transphobic idiocy in the three miles walking to and from her house.  Stubble is more obvious today but intellectually I know that I notice it far more than anyone else does.  And I'd forgotten just how sore it can be to shave in the days after a laser treatment and how black the burnt hair under the skin looks.  Ouch. But it's worth it.

Another Transgender Way - To Not Transition

A video has been doing the rounds in transgender groups in the last week.  It's worth watching and is only five minutes long.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lX3yYkkEulY

It asks the question, "What does it mean to be a man?"  We can just as easily ask "What does it mean to be a woman?"

So here is another transgender way:  Being able to be who you are and being comfortable with your own body in the face of whatever society may throw at you.  We don't all have to transition, to pass, to live a life where people say well-meaning but actually insulting things to us like "You look just like a real man/woman."

I've thought about this way of living before.  The way of living openly as your gender in a body which society has told you doesn't match your gender.  For me that would be to dress as I do, go where I go, and form the friendships I do without changing a thing about myself physically, beyond a feminine hair style.

It's logical.  It's right.  I am not defined by my body.  Nobody is.

But it's not my way.  It doesn't mean my way is wrong.  There is more than one right way.  I can see my need to change my body isn't because there's anything objectively wrong with my body or with the idea of a "woman" with a supposedly "man's" body.  But so many other things in my life history mean that deliberately deciding not to do what I'm doing physically would be a near impossibility.

I'm a woman.  It's part of who I am.  Hormones and surgery and laser treatments and voice therapy won't make me more of a woman.  Not having them wouldn't make me less of a woman.  Intellectually I have no problem with the idea of a hairy woman with a penis or a man with a vagina.

But inside something else screams out against my intellect and trumps the logic.

I'm doing this for my own psychology after forty-two years living as male.  I have that need even on days when I think, "Why the hell should I care?" or "This is my voice, why should I be pressured to force my voice box to behave abnormally?"

But I must admit I'm also doing it for an easier life in which I might "pass" in society for what and who I already am.  To not care much about "passing" takes a vast amount of self respect and an ability to shrug off frequent abuse without being broken down by a thousand wasp stings.  And that quest to pass - and the expectation to seek to pass that even many of my friends have of me - is really not a healthy quest when considering the long-term future of transgender people.  Can we be who and what we are?  Or must we continue to have to aspire to a goal of invisibly fitting in with the cisgender masses around us?  We transgender people are not cisgender.  So why should we have to seek to appear cisgender? - is it because of a prevailing view that we are disordered?



See, I know the logic.  The arguments make sense.  But I am a product of my birth, my childhood, my schooling, my adult life living as a man and filled with unhappiness.  So for me my only choice is transition, hormones, surgery and everything else.  Sometimes I wonder whether this is hypocrisy.  But are these things so deeply rooted that I have no option to even consider that other path?  Perhaps a question with no single answer.  Perhaps the difficulties involved in being transgender mean that any path we freely choose in how to transition or how to not transition is the right path for us, worthy only of support not deep analysis or doubt.

The courage and self-assurance of those who deliberately don't choose the path of "passing" is immense as are the social challenges of their decision.  But in the long-term their choices may lead to a brighter future in freedom for others than my choices and needs.  My choices may help bring a future in which we can be who we are without fear of abuse or rejection or discrimination.  The other way may help bring a future in which we can be both who and what we are, a future in which prevailing views of gender and physiology are transformed into something that fits everyone rather than just fitting the majority.

This man deserves so much respect.  Friends who have chosen similar paths are people to admire.  As are all people who choose to express their gender and fully live their gender (or genders) regardless of physiology in a society that continues to equate gender with physiology.  And the wonderful thing is that most of these people would shrug off that respect and say "We're just living our lives."

Funeral Address for My Mother, 8th September 2014

Yesterday was the funeral of my mother, Paula Monk.  At some point I will write more about her though many people reading this blog will have known her well and some will have followed her own blog for many years.

What follows is the funeral address that I wrote a few days before my mother died and then tweaked until the time came to read it at the funeral.  That was difficult - I'm not quite sure how I made it through to the end without breaking down and passing the reading over to someone else.  It was difficult but I am glad that I did it.

In response to some requests from people who couldn't be at the funeral, and a few people who were there, I'm posting the address here.  As I read this publicly a few things changed slightly, as was always the case when I used to preach.  But in the main the following is the address as spoken.

For anyone wondering, the entrance music for the service was Going Home, by Mark Knopfler, from the soundtrack of the movie Local Hero.  We had time to reflect in the service while Who Will Sing My Lullabies? by Kate Rusby was played.  And we exited to the song mentioned in the address which my mother, many years ago, said she wanted played at her funeral.

My half-uncle, Paula's half-brother Matt Frost ably led the service.  He's a baptist minister but in accordance with Paula's wishes led a secular funeral.  The only mention of the Bible was that which follows.

I'd like to begin with a reading from the Bible. It's not just any Bible. This is my mother's Bible. She wrote her name in it, 54 years ago. The reading isn't from any of the printed words but from a piece of paper Paula kept safe there for a long time. It's something that was said by her mother in the period leading up to her own early death.

When the time comes you will find you will quite enjoy dying. It's a wonderful struggle.

Mummy

Paula was involved in that struggle for many years, having been first diagnosed with cancer in 1991 and since that time never had excellent health. Every day has included a round of tablets and medicines and for the last seven years, since she had cancer for a third time, she had a urostomy bag to add to everything else.

Twenty-three years of struggle. In 1992 she struggled so much to survive. In 1993 she remained ill and received much help from St. Catherine's Hospice, as she did in the last days of her life.

Paula very nearly died and was in hospital for 3 months. At one point she had a 10% chance of getting through the following few hours. Some of us will remember clearly the struggles and the suffering she went through in order to live. And some of us have seen in detail the manner in which she has struggled this year and the dignity with which she accepted her own mortality.

And I believe the way Paula faced the struggles can be a lesson for us all. Her aim throughout those years was to live. To live each day in the fullest way her body allowed her to live. And we have seen the way she's done it and what she's been able to experience over the years. She lived to see Jamie and I married and settled. She lived to see her grandchildren and get to know them. She and Bill were able to visit Slovenia several times and walk in the mountains. They were able to visit Thailand to spend time Jamie and his family. She's seen the births of nearly fifty grand-nephews and grand-nieces and could name them all.

And she has lived. She and Bill went back to athletics and continued their role as timekeepers until quite recently, enjoying helping, enjoying the sport and perhaps most of all enjoying the banter and friends on the time keepers' stands. She has enjoyed dealing in antiques and collectibles and the relationships and friendships forged over the years. She and Bill have enthusiastically embraced digital cameras as the many albums at home testify, each containing wonderful pictures of the hundreds of places they visited together, the hundreds of people they've met and the countless family visits and celebrations.

On a personal note I am so glad that my mother got to see who I really am. I am so glad that she was so glad to meet me as her daughter. Because of my mental health history she has worried greatly about me over the years. I am very grateful and she was very grateful that she died knowing that she did not have to worry about me any more. Our friendship on Earth is over but we ended it in freedom, truthfulness and even in joy.

Truly, most days Paula did Carpe Diem – she did seize the day. Even on the darkest days when seizing the day was the last thing she wanted, she still triumphed and grasped the future. In 1993 after over two years of being ill she wrote in a poem “Bugger Carpe Diem!” But she came through the darkness and seized, and seized, and grabbed at the fullness of life. She lived beyond the mundane. Paula did not become famous. Instead she walked the “little way” doing all the little things as well as she could. And as in the Dire Straits song which she loved so much, Paula did the “walk of life”.

In our time of loss it's easy not to see the light. But we have a lot to be thankful for. In particular today we can all be thankful for the last 20 years, for the light Paula has been in all our lives and for the joys and triumphs she's known.

It's difficult looking at all the struggles not to ask a question. It's a question that she asked at times. It's a question many of us have asked about Paula. And it's a question we've asked when we've seen others suffer greatly or die young. All the great religions, the philosophers and the poets have asked it.

I found a book in the house before my mother died. I've seen it before but had forgotten it existed. The book contains a collection of things she wrote and some poems and sayings by others too. The first page was written in August 1980, around the time her younger brother, Robin, died. Paula asks the question about him – but we can in turn ask it about her.

My heart screams out

“Why you?”

I don't want your burden – but still

“Why you?”

I see you -

Glad, good

Game for living.

“Why you?”

I see you -

With strength you struggle

As ever

To stamp the seal

of your own individual person

on life.

With your first faltering footsteps

Into the future

You flung down a challenge to fate.

Fate answered,

With higher and higher hurdles.

You have jumped over with joy,

Climbed over with courage.

But still -

“Why you?”

Strength and daring

Are not deserving of such punishment.

I wish you well

And wonder again

“Why you?”

We can ask that question. “Why you?” And I'm sure if we haven't asked it already we will ask it. But for today, as we are together, let's try not to ask the question. Let's try to be thankful for each of the seventy years Paula lived and especially for the last twenty years that she nearly didn't see. Let's be thankful for our friendships, relationships and as we keep her firmly in our hearts and minds today let's talk of all the good times; those we lived with her and those she lived with others. And let's be thankful that nearly all her 49 years of marriage were good years. It is tragic that Bill is sick and cannot be here today but today let's think of the life they shared. Let's remember all those good times. Share our memories. Laugh. Cry. And support one another in the way Paula would ask us to.

To close, with a poem by Anne Bronte, written down by Paula in her book:

Farewell to thee! But not farewell

To all my fondest thoughts of Thee;

Within my heart they still shall dwell

And they shall cheer and comfort me.

Life seems more sweet that Thou didst live

And men more true that Thou were one;

Nothing is lost that Thou didst give,

Nothing destroyed that Thou hast done.

In our loss, in our sadness, remember that:

Nothing is lost that Paula didst give,

Nothing is destroyed that she hast done.

Nothing.

Nothing is lost.

Farewell to thee, Paula. Farewell my mother. Farewell.

You are gone. Yet you remain.

Nothing is lost.