Encounters with Covid

Having somehow managed to escape the dreaded Covid-19 for more than two years (more by luck than judgement, although to be fair, I wasn't having parties, sorry, work meetings, during lockdown), I guess it was always going to get me in the end.

And while I would very much like to be out soaking up the atmosphere of the Commonwealth Games in Birmingham and catching up with friends visiting for that purpose, if it was going to get me this summer it was, on balance, probably the best timing I could have hoped for: I'd have been devastated if it had struck during refugee week or before the opera, and I should be well clear of infection before I am due to go away on holiday; and hey, I can lie on the sofa in my pyjamas watching wall-to-wall commonwealth games coverage without feeling as guilty about it as I would in other circumstances. All in all it definitely could have been worse.

Having woken at 5am feeling shivery and with a sore throat, on Thursday morning I knew I should do a test before heading out. Despite the fact that, at that point, I felt ok, the dreaded second red line didn't really surprise me. I figured that I'd have some commonwealth games watching, but also the opportunity to catch up on some long overdue admin as I sat out a few days of isolation. I exchanged messages with my colleague about arrangements for the day, and let a few people know I had finally succumbed.

It wasn't long before the middle-of-the-night paracetamol had worn off and I discovered that I was going to be in no fit state to do any admin or, in fact, anything much at all. By late morning I was back in bed and slept on and off all day. I woke up sufficiently to relocate to the sofa for the fabulous spectacle of the commonwealth games opening ceremony.

There followed two days of lying on the sofa in my pyjamas in front of whichever sports the BBC chose to throw at me because even selecting which stream I might most want to watch felt like a lot of effort. I don't think I have ever experienced exhaustion quite like it, where even the smallest of tasks feels like really hard work. I did manage to do some washing up on Friday evening but even just standing up for that long wiped me out and I genuinely needed to sit down and recover.

Today is day four and the fact that I feel up to writing this is an indication I am now well on the road to recovery. I'm not back to full strength but certainly have some energy back, about which I am both very glad and very relieved ... because I don't think I am very good at being ill. I have, fortunately, had very little practice. I guess the next trick is to not immediately overdo it and so give myself the chance to properly recover.

I still might get some of that overdue admin ticked off before isolation ends, and I am still optimistic that I will be out and about enjoying some of the Commonwealth Games atmosphere soon, but for today I'm going to appreciate walking to the kitchen to make a cup of tea not feeling like a massive effort.

Refugee: What do you know about me?

Many months ago, over a cup of tea in the Waterstones Café, I said "yes" to Stories of Hope and Home doing "something" in collaboration with Welsh National Opera. At that point it was all very vague and I had no idea what that "something" would turn out to be. 

Separately, an email from someone at Birmingham City Council, put me in touch with the REP Theatre, where we found a very warm welcome and started meeting in their community hub and making ourselves at home.

And so we launched into the project of creating, producing and performing "something". 

We started off by working with writer Steven Camden, who did an amazing job of drawing out stories and identifying and collating the words and phrases that spoke of our experiences. Most importantly, he helped us capture the essence of what we wanted to express: the struggles and frustrations of a hostile system, yes, but above all the laughter and the joy of who we are. When he turned up on his second week with a box of samosas it was pretty clear he'd understood how we roll! 

With the script written it was the turn of the composer, Dani, and singers and musicians to come in and create a score to reflect and enhance the words. After the first session one of the members of the groups summed up how we were feeling about this bit by stating, with admiration, "they speak music" ...  

Even before the score was complete, the third stage of practicing and preparing to perform was well underway. Not everyone in the group wanted to be on stage, and there was never going to be any pressure to do so. The cast shifted and changed week by week (up to and including on the day itself!) but we also watched as people's confidence grew and something we could imagine seeing on stage began to take shape.

Each stage began without us knowing the exact direction it might take. Each stage resulted in something beautiful.

Eventually, after a few changes along the way, a date and venue was set and invitations were sent out to schools across the city, optimistic of a positive response but without really knowing what the uptake might be.

Yesterday, members of Stories of Hope and Home, together with singers and musicians from Welsh National Opera performed "Refugee: what do you know about me?" to an audience of 500 school children and their staff and other invited guests in the main house at the Birmingham Rep.

It was a magical day, the culmination of an incredible project.

Of course, like with any significant project there was a lot of work involved and a few stresses and strains along the way: it would be silly to suggest otherwise, but the they had all dissipated by the time the house lights dimmed. 

There was the sharing of stories to evoke pain and frustration and stories to make people smile or laugh.

There were beautiful arias and catchy choruses.

There was speech and there was song. 

There were words and music combining to tell stories that need to be heard.

There were performers and an audience who felt like they were having a lot of fun along the way.

There is no doubt in my mind it was definitely worth it.

*          *          *

Stories of Hope and Home can trace its origins to a play my St Chad's Sanctuary ESOL class performed during refugee week 2019, a beautiful day and experience from which I came away thinking "more of this". Stories of Hope and Home was the "more of this". It was always part of the plan that there would be another play in refugee week 2020. It wasn't to be. 

Plenty of other things have happened in the interim and the project has developed in expected and unexpected ways and become something more beautiful than my wildest dreams of what might be possible in the beginning. 

It may have taken longer than expected to get back on stage but what a stage it was, and well worth the wait! What a privilege to share a stage with this truly wonderful group of people I am lucky enough to call my friends.

I am not planning to use this latest performance as a springboard for setting up an entirely new project: Stories of Hope and Home still has so much more to give and to to be. But I remain excited for what new adventures lie ahead for this project and the people in it who make it so special.

Journeying through June

My theoretical "I want to write stuff" and my practical "sit down, show up, write stuff" seem to be rarely in sync with each other. And while I could use the "just too busy" excuse, I don't actually believe that myself, so I'm not going to try and convince anyone else of it. 

I recently saw this quote by Octavia Butler: "First, forget inspiration. Habit is more dependable. Habit will sustain you whether you're inspired or not ... habit is persistence in practice." Somewhere inside me, I know this to be true. Waiting for the inspiration will not make the inspiration appear. Sitting down in front of an open notebook, pen in hand, scribbling nonsense, just might.

So I'm back, trying to form a habit.

During June I decided I would write, every day. I knew well enough that just saying that to myself wasn't going to be enough. How? When? About what? So I set myself a challenge ... each day I would go on a journey: not some dramatic adventure, just the everyday wanderings that are part of normal life. Every day I would write about that. Something, anything. Without thinking too much or trying too hard. Words on paper. 

I sort of managed it. If I'm honest I didn't write something every single day, but I did write something about every single day and that still feels like quite an achievement. 

Later, I went back through everything I had written. I highlighted the sentences or phrases that I liked or that captured my attention. I chose one for each day. I strung them together, edited the odd bit, added a few words here and there, played with the sequence. And lo, poetry (of a sort!) 

Journeying through June

This is the story I should be telling:

Baby steps still move us forward
But sometimes we should pause
Intentionally
To appreciate early morning hints of warmth.

For long enough to get our breath back.

Even when sheltering from the rainstorm,
When wondering why someone is watering the flowers with their hood up,
When it is a day for staying indoors, padding barefoot down corridors,

Even when between the brightening, there is the threat of rain

There are always
Enough blue skies and shades of green to lift my spirits and restore my energies
And then comes
One of those days where, as soon as you step outside,
Warm sun permeates the whole of your being

So on those days
When I run out of energy whenever I am faced with an incline
When faced with randomly frustrating anomalies
When the day involves a lot of time on buses

I remember
The places that will be forever associated with joy
And a goodly dose of relief
The special texture to the blues and golden yellows of the evening
Wending through woodland, dappled light breaking through canopies gathered above
The controlled wildness which suits my tastes
A family of goslings, a pair of fluffy ducklings,
Unequivocal highlights
Unexpected delights

But also
The mere minutes of the everyday,
The strikingly unremarkable and familiar,
Little gestures of community to treasure
All because I paused and responded to a stranger
A slightly wonky front gate, the turning of a key,
One, two, three … jump… one two three …
Breathing free

Those little things that make your eyes smile

Isn’t it ironic that it takes a bamboo puppet to rehumanise real people?
Isn’t it funny the ways memories are created and association forged?
Isn’t it amazing how the human brain works?

So I set off on a journey
Made of more than fifty per cent faffing
And seamless changes of direction, noticed by no one but me
Which in the end will,

More by luck than judgement,
Be timed to perfection

Guided by the promise of a party
And laden down with cake
I dance until the very end.

I wouldn’t want it any other way.