This is incredible

360 Degree Project: ballet.  (Click to watch video!)

And this is how I feel {a birthday post}

Today I turn 28.  Happy birthday to me!

I took this picture today, walking round the docks on my new favourite route.  It made me smile to see how the sculpture had lined up with the sunlight, the clouds, the vapour trail, something I hadn't planned when hitting the button on my little fake blackberry.  And it made me laugh as I realised how well this sculpture sums up my feelings as I enter my 29th year.

I feel bold, I feel like I'm striding into something very new, something adventurous.  I feel somewhat fearful too - I will need armour, I will need help, my stance is sometimes for show - faking until I make it.  I mean, that's how it works - adventure, newness, is scary - that's why you need boldness, right?

I feel solid and secure.  I also feel fragile, laid open, vulnerable (because maybe I'm learning that I am not the source of my solidity and security?).

I feel beautiful and strong.  I also still have the voices in my head that love to tell me otherwise, voices I often believe.  But I finally feel like I'm learning a little bit of what it is to be a woman, and more than that, a daughter of the King.  My identity is slowly shifting away from outward and towards inward.

And so I laugh - here I am, a mess of metals and shapes, of odds and ends, of new parts and old parts.  I'm a tangle of solid and tough and delicate and brittle.  But boy, what a sight when the pieces, good and bad, are assembled by a sculptor with both an eye for detail and a sense of the bigger picture.

Beautiful.

New favourite song: The Gravedigger's Song by Mark Lanegan

This week I am mostly listening to this on repeat.

On the eve of my birthday, it strikes me that the past ten years have seen a sea change in my music tastes.  Ten years ago I was still swept up in music made by men who (mostly) looked like women.

Then, two things happened.  One, I discovered Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.  Two, at the age of 19 I attended the Reading Festival, saw Metallica for the first time, and fell in love with James Hetfield.

Oh, I still love music made by men who look like women.  But now I have a lot of space for music made by grizzly, growly, older men.

No comment on whether this influenced my choice of husband.

Receipt

It reads "10/02/10  07:20AM".

A combination of jet-lag and excitement got me up, washed, dressed and out exploring at the crack of dawn that Saturday in October.  Ready to start my day with some coffee and breakfast, it wasn't long before I stumbled across a Starbucks.  Lame choice huh, Heather?  Oh no, but you see, this wasn't any Starbucks.  This was my first American Starbucks (sticking American in front of pretty much anything made it exciting).  So I headed in, placed my order, and sat at a window seat with my bible and my notebook.

I still have the receipt tucked in my bible, in the midst of the Psalms.  It doesn't mark a place or serve as a bookmark for my current reading.  But I can't bring myself to throw it away.  For me, it is a slightly odd Ebenezer - not a stone of help, but a receipt of help, a marker for a significant time in my life where all I could and all I can do is wonder at God's grace.  

See, we all know that I dislike flying, that I'd once sworn never to fly again, but over time had managed to get back on planes, gritting my teeth as I did so, even on short hops.  This trip presented such a wonderful opportunity - visit friends who are practically family in South Carolina, by way of New York, with my husband and some of our closest friends.  I'd always wanted to go to the US.  I'd always wanted to see New York.  I longed to see our friends - friends I used to see every week until the time came for them to return Stateside.  I wanted to have an adventure and I couldn't think of a better group of people to go with.  

But the flight.  All 7-8 hours of it loomed before me.  You know, if I freak out on a two hour flight, it sucks but it's not too long before it ends.  But if I freak out on a flight like this?  And what if I need the loo?  Usually I can't even stand up on a plane in flight, let alone walk around.  And not just the flight - there's the build up to the flight, the anxiety, the panic attacks, the IBS, the dizziness.  

But I did it.  I sat, strapped into my seat, between my husband and my good friend, holding my husband's hands as the engines started roaring, and as the plane took off, God spoke to me.  And I got goosebumps and my eyes teared up and I smiled as though my face would break in two.  It was fine.  Better than fine - I relaxed, I looked around, I watched some films, I ate plane food (surprisingly good, on the flight over at least), I got up and stretched and walked to the loo.  

Courtesy of the Husband

And eventually we landed and made our way outside and I saw some yellow cabs and, oh, how good did that feel?  My soul soared and yet all I could do was watch and marvel at God's grace.   The trip itself was incredible - everything I'd hoped for, and more on top of that.  So, I keep that receipt, my receipt of help, to make me smile as I remember that woman sitting incredulous in Starbucks at Union Square so early on an Autumn Saturday - that is me.  

Havens

I work in what must be one of the most densely populated areas of London - I looked it up and apparently around 90,000 people work in Canary Wharf.  I love people, but I'm not great with lots of people, and when my company moved here just over a year ago, my heart sank.  Longer commute, slightly airport-departure-lounge-style clinical atmosphere, and, the aforementioned hoards of people.

BUT!  God is good and I have been pleasantly surprised.  I learnt fairly quickly where to avoid (The Mall), but it took me a while to discover what are pretty much Heather-designed havens.  For rainy days I have the library (small, but plenty of couch space, and an extensive catalogue).  And for sunny days I just have to decide to turn right or left.  Turn right out of my office - bustling crowds of people amid the high-rises.  Turn left out of my office - silence and solitude by the docks. Perfect for me - wonderful views of Canary Wharf (for I do love the urban landscapes - I've always found them beautiful) without the people.

Today I found a new route - down some slightly rickety metal steps, through a boarded up walkway, down through beautifully quiet roads by the old docks, and then back through to Blackwall dock.  Today was bright and clear - the sunshine warm, the wind chilly, the sky vast and blue with streaks of cloud.

My new route took me around 40 minutes, although that was partly because I didn't know where I was going, and kept gawping at the scenery.  It gave me time to stretch my legs, breathe some (slightly) fresh air, think, or not think, pray, imagine.  Slightly ironic to think that the space that now give me so much enjoyment and peace because of its quiet and solitude and calm was, little more than a hundred years ago, heaving with dock workers and merchants and traders and all kinds of people.

This year, one of my aims, is to be glad.  Glad is one of my words for 2012 (well, that makes it sound like I have a whole list of words, and I don't) - I want to cultivate thankfulness and contentment.  It's a challenge: I like to worry and I like to complain.  But today it was easy.

Don't Let It Get To You

This song has swooped on and off my radar for a few months now: I'd hear it on the radio, my face would light up with glee, I'd tap happily along to it...then I'd promptly forget to look it up later, and then lose the scrap of paper on which I'd written the name of the song.

I love it because it is dreamy, it is wistful (I love me a bit of wistful music), it's got this awesome jangly, loping beat, and it reminds me of summertime.

Summertime when I was a kid to be precise: we lived in quiet suburbia, and there were lots of kids our age, so my brother and I would spend the summer playing outside, a gang of us running around in baggy t-shirts and cycling shorts (the girls) or Umbro shorts and football shirts (the boys).  Cycling round and round the block (we could go round as many times as we liked provided we didn't leave the block), burning each other's tyres, attempting to ride with no hands, racing to imaginary finish lines (that tree!  the post box!  your gate!).  Or water fights in the sunshine (who had a Super Soaker?), or the time we tried to "rescue" a cat (it blatantly had a home somewhere else but we agreed it was lost and that we'd be much better owners, pooling our pocket money to buy catfood, not really considering where it would live longer term.  Don't worry - the poor cat put up with us for an afternoon and then returned to it's actual home).  Or the year Nynex came to lay television cables (ooh, the future!) and we "helped" them by sweeping the dusty pavements with their big road-sweeper style brooms.  Those are the kind of adventures you have in suburbia.

For whatever reason, there's something about this song that has unlocked that little section of my memory and transported me to summers past...which, right now, is lovely.  I'm a fan of sunlight, warm sunshine, long days, evenings that stretch out beyond bedtime.  This year I'm doing my best to embrace winter, but in my heart, which is a little subdued in the darker months, I cannot wait for the summer to come.

This Is England '88

This Is England '88

Yesterday I decided to catch up on some television viewing, and ended up watching all three episodes of the latest "This Is England" back to back.  Good grief.  I don't usually go in for hard-hitting drama - I understand there are a lot of programmes out there that deal with difficult topics, tough subject-matter, in a thoughtful, real and interesting way, but mostly I avoid them.  I much prefer light-hearted things.  But I have a soft-spot for This Is England, even though I know it'll feature some really rough scenes to watch.  And '88 was true to form - a mix of comedy and tragedy, aspects of the tragedy incredibly harrowing.

So, I got to thinking about why I watch this, why I make an exception, and I think it comes down to the fact that this series has a lot of heart.  These characters are very real - we see the ordinary, the imperfect, the frustration, but we also see heart, whether it's worn on sleeves, hidden below the surface, or buried out of harms way.  There are few characters who appear entirely beyond redemption - most of the characters are incredibly sympathetic, even when they're frustrating or annoying or getting stuff wrong.  They're characters you'd want to befriend if you met them, and so you're willing to stick with them to find out what happens, how they fare.  I love the dynamic of the gang, the group of friends.  In interviews with cast it becomes clear that they're friends off-screen, and this really comes through on-screen - the banter, the silliness, the mickey-taking, the heartbreak, the betrayal, the hurt - all feel so authentic.  Yes, I'm going to invoke my favourite word, but there's community here, imperfect people who mess up but stick it out and try to stick together through thick or thin.  And when that doesn't happen, when there is estrangement or isolation, then that becomes even more poignant, because the dynamic is still so powerful.

I thoroughly enjoyed watching this series, although I would hesitate to recommend to anyone without some strong caveats, as the subject matter is really rough in places.  But, it's handled incredibly powerfully - the third episode contains a scene of deliverance so jaw-droppingly painful and frightening and beautiful that I was almost left gasping for breath by the end (and I admit, I couldn't watch some of it, but hearing the sound was still powerful enough).  So, if you want to watch, I'd recommend checking out the previous incarnations first, to get some back-story, and a sense of the group dynamic: This Is England (film), and This Is England '86 (4-part TV series).  Roll on This Is England '90.

Apples and Cuttlefish

Today I finished a project I've been working on since, ooh, June or July perhaps?  A simple patchwork quilt, my first.  I chose it because I knew it would be slow and simple - I decided to hand-sew the patchwork squares, since this would give me something to do with my hands whilst watching television or chatting with friends (save me from Spider Solitaire or tearing up beermats/flyers/random bits of paper).  I liked the idea of an ongoing project, something I could pick up and put down, something that would keep me going for months.  And it has.

But today it's finished, and you know what?  I feel pretty bad about it.  Not because the project is over (although I do feel a little adrift), or because it went completely wrong and is unusable.  No, I feel bad because it's not perfect.  The lines aren't entirely straight, the wadding is bunched in places, the edges aren't even.

So, instead of looking at my little quilt and feeling satisfaction at finishing and pleasure in a pretty good, certainly functional, first attempt, I get my measuring stick out and feel deflated.  And who or what do I measure myself against?  That blogger I admire who sews beautiful things to sell; those friends who appear effortless in both creativity and ability to craft wonderful things; my high school textiles teacher, who's voice whispers in my ear: if only I'd been a bit more careful, if only I'd watched her a bit closer, if only I had a bit more skill, if only I was like her star pupil...

Ugh, does this strike you as ridiculous too?  I write it down and I'm even more aware that even if I should be measuring, at least I should compare apples with apples right, instead of ooh, I don't know, apples with cuttlefish?  Quiche?  Lego pieces?  But no, not only does brandishing a measuring stick to start with rob me, but comparing myself with gifted people who have worked hard to grow their skill finishes the job by clobbering me over the head.

I am a beginner.  I am just starting out with limited skills but lots of ideas and lots of excitement.  I choose to take heart that I have finished a project, that I have successfully sewed together a quilt of my design.  I smile at the time taken - months of hours snatched here and there, measuring, cutting out, pinning and stitching.  I love the fact that conversations have been spoken over my quilt, that friends have helped out in the construction, that I've watched wonderful films, needle and thread in hand.  Yes, it's a bit wonky, yes it's a bit bunchy, no the sewing isn't spot on - but here I have a fantastic, colourful, warm quilt.

A while ago, this wonderful clip was doing the rounds on the interwebs.  I watched and absorbed and was encouraged.  And clearly then forgot, so here's a good reminder.

Original found here.

Genie

Another video, with a bit of a story.

So, a good few years ago, I entered a competition on the radio - I can't remember what the question was, but I got it right!  Woo hoo!  And, I won the competition.  My prize - tickets to see John Martyn at the Fairfield Halls in Croydon.  I had no idea who John Martyn was, but hey, free concert is always a good thing, right?*  So, I roped in my lovely best friend, and the two of us went for dinner at Nandos and then headed over to the Halls.

Finding our seats in a packed hall, we settled down, completely clueless about what we might experience.

The support act, a Mr John Smith, completely blew us away.  Just him, his acoustic guitar and beautiful beautiful songs filling the hall.  We became instant fans, the free tickets introducing us to someone we might never have come across otherwise.  My best friend bought a CD, and the two of us went to see him again, months later, at a teeny tiny venue in Camden.  Awesome.

Today, listening to Marc Radcliffe and Stuart Maconie on the wonderful 6Music, I heard Marc mention John Smith and a new album of covers.  He played one and again, I was blown away - both by his voice but also by his unusual choice of song.  It made me smile, so here it is, a Christmas present to myself and any readers out there.

Merry Christmas everyone!

* John Martyn passed away a few years ago, and apparently he was a bit of a legend in the folk scene.  Unfortunately, at the concert, my friend and I did not appreciate what we heard.  To us, it sounded like terrible lift music, and so, after giggling our way through three songs, we left.  I feel a bit bad about that now -  I've subsequently heard some songs of his that I enjoyed, and especially since there are probably people out there that would love to have seen him.  But hey, what can you do - all we knew was that we just didn't get what the rest of the audience seemed to love...which translated to fits of giggles that we desperately tried to hold in before we made our swift exit.  Apologies Mr Martyn, but thank you, also, for introducing us to Mr Smith.

"This is the day your life will surely change..."

Continuing my Manics theme, the video to their cover of "This is the Day", with the footage that made me shed a wee tear on Saturday night (it's nice - don't worry, nothing terrible happens.  I'm just a softie).

Enjoy!