When I left Hereford

I'm still experimenting with styles. 

I blogged before about how I use writing to work out what I think. That's still true for how I approach data analysis; writing is a key element of analytic work. 

Here, I've used writing to work out what I am thinking and feeling. I wanted to see what happens if I use artifacts as a lead-in to exploring things that are less tangible.

When I left Hereford, I kept my first toy. Yellow Ted travelled with me. He grew up with me as I grew into an adult, and a parent myself. Technically he is now my husband's. I could think of no greater gift of myself to him than the one who saw all as I grew up. My own memory of childhood is almost non-existent.

My father died, and I have been clearing the family home. I found the loft toys. I had remembered none of them. Yet as they emerged from the loft, parts of my childhood emerged with them and I remembered me as a child holding them and playing with them. These flashes of first-hand childhood memory left me motionless, not breathing, then blinking. So different from all previous, second-hand childhood memory, my dissociative dispassionate observation of another life, a different child.

Yellow Ted is now back where he belongs. With the toys from the loft. With the cot duck, floppy bunny, the spirograph, and Cubby who was too delicate and precious to be allowed to play with me. 

The loft toys did not grow up. They remained in my childhood. And my childhood remained as separate from the adult me as the lofted toys remained from Yellow Ted.  

Those flashes of me as the toys emerged from the loft are the first taste of a me that crosses the generations within me – child, young adult, parent to children. I am disconcerted, scared and curious. 

For now, cot duck and Cubby sit on the mantelpiece at home. Their friends are back in their storage bag. There is only so much memory one can handle at a time.

Bellringing

Bellringing is more like riding a bike than riding a bike.

I tried riding a bike after decades of not riding one. It wasn’t like ‘riding a bike’. It was unpleasant and scary as I tried tentatively to get on and pedal away. I managed to tweak my hamstring, skin my calf with the pedal and bash my chest on the handlebar. And that was before I made it near the road. I won’t be trying it for another few decades if at all.

Last night I went bellringing after three decades of campanological inactivity. I went because of the power of twitter to connect people who have no connection and make you feel like friends. Bellringing had been part of my school days (lunchtime sessions to learn to ring at Hereford Cathedral) and part of my undergraduate days (our reputation was that we drank more than the rugby club). And then it pretty much stopped.

I went last night because I still feel vulnerably unconnected down South. Empirically, I am better connected than many people. If someone carried out a quality of life or community connectedness audit with me, or checked if I was ‘accessing the community’, I’d score higher than most. I guess the clue is in the ‘vulnerably’.  Mental health wise, I thrived being embedded in a number of different social networks in North Wales. My multiple arenas of connectedness felt like safety nets for my safety nets for my safety net for my immediate close family and friends. It shared the burden when I was unwell, and it grounded me in reality when I was finding it difficult to locate myself without reference to outside points. “I am Anne. I live in… I am part of…” style grounding is highly effective for me when I dissociate. Saying “I am Anne. I used to live in, but now I live in… I was part of, but now I’m just beginning to be part of...” doesn’t have the same grounding effect. It can feed the sense of dislocation. 

Connected is not just the knowing, it’s the being known by others. It’s knowing that others know you well enough and in enough contexts to hold your identity when you are finding it difficult to hold it yourself.

Bellringing.  If you’d asked me to remember anything about how to ring, I’d have struggled. Never mind whether I could remember the mathematical patterns to ring methods, I couldn’t have reliably said how to pull off or set the bell, or what senses you use to make sure you keep your place in the bom ti tum ti tum ti tum ti bom rhythm of plain rounds. (and, yes, I know it should start with a ti, but for whatever reason, I’ve always started with the bom of the tenor bell – as if the first set of ti tum ti tum ti tum ti – is just leading up to the first solid reassuring bom.

I’m greeted with enthusiasm as if I am already part of the community. I am given so much support and encouragement. I’m given consideration. I’m not treated as an outsider, but as part of the tower from the moment I’m invited to raise one of the bells ready for the start of practice.

And it’s all so familiar. The people are like ringers I grew up with.  I could almost match them to the people I knew. After a reminder to coil the rope before starting to raise the bell, my body remembers how to ring. We are fine as long as I don’t try to think, and just feel. After standing the bell, I tie the tail end (dangly end of the rope) without thinking. When I think about it, though, I have no idea how to do it. We ring some rounds. I try some called changes. We play with the simplest method – Plain Bob. Later I have the fun of being the ‘bom’ keeping time and marking the end of each round while the others have the fun of ringing a method in front of me. I remember that you can either ring the method by remembering your place in the dance of the bells and just ‘feeling’ the pattern of the others moving around you, or by learning which bell to follow and watching their ropes so you know when to pull yours. I can’t remember the patterns to be able to follow by eyesight. But I can remember my place, I can feel the pattern of the others (thanks to the others being skilled at keeping their own places) and, as I keep my eyes unfocused, I start to see the pattern of the ropes and so be able to see who I’m following.

It's an addictive feeling for me, that sense of being part of a harmonious whole. I will be back next practice night. I have much to rediscover. I need to relearn how to hold the sally and tail end gently so I don’t earn myself ‘rock climber fingers’ next week from gripping too hard. As with weightlifting, I need to re-learn to adjust my movement fractionally. It was too easy last night to over-correct for being fractionally early by over-pulling and then needing to haul the bell back to prevent me being seriously late.

But bellringing, unlike bike riding, proved to be just like ‘riding a bike’. And I feel as if I’d added another layer to my connectedness. Bit by bit, the interlocking web of safety nets will come into place.

So, thank you Chris for your enthusiasm. And thank you Twitter for enabling strangers to connect. And thank you Square Peg because Chris and I only met in cyberspace through a shared love of your work. And thank you to the tower captain and ringers for being, simply, awesomely awesome at welcoming in the stranger.