I am delighted to be bringing some winter songs to my local community centre in the company of Glasgow legend Bill Wells, the wondrously joyful Harry Harry and a brilliant bevvy of vocalists - Aby Vulliamy and Kate Sugden - it’s a rare and lovely thing to share - with each other and with you - if you happen to have a music sized window on Saturday afternoon in Glasgow!
A cosy corner in dark times.
All love Jude x
Beans on toast . . .
Read MoreOh crikey the turning of tears for all that’s lost.
Good grief, in this softening
in the morning, when I am quiet
when I breath into the spaces of my body,
forget to resist but instead rest into the comfort of gravity,
before the needs or calls of another,
when I awaken more deeply to the size of the well of grief,
in tender surrender, release into the losses.
//
How much of our time do we resist the full depth of our emotion because it’s not ‘ladylike’ or ‘man enough’? Because it’s uncomfortable. Because it pulls us from the race into another mode . . . might make us live differently, live other than?
There’s a calling to wake up - another kind of alarm. Or are we on the road to no where? Or knowing where . . .
Knowing where we might love deeper despite the reality that everything changes, dies, leaves . . .
Our relationships are shadows of what they could be for fear of utter intimacy…
Our lives are kept small so we have less to lose…
Can we open to death in order to embrace life?
Good grief.
To love that which cannot truly ever be ours - a dancing child, a flower as it fades into autumn, the eagle. Yet we are all of those things. A child stepping into independence, a petal falling to the earth, every circling bird. Our separateness - the fight to be other than is so, so much of our human struggle.
So today I’ll be the rain. I’ll lean into death, into gravity. Let things rise and fall, for they will regardless . . .
The perfect circles that fall in puddles - let the beauty break my heart everyday.
For all the wonder we are and could ever be.
Good good grief.
mummy? does this give you the the heebie jeebies?
squealed little P this morning mid executing a near perfect split down 3 concrete spiralling stairs with her little 4 year old legs.
whoa!
I’m holding on! - she pronounces proudly - she knows my edges.
She was indeed holding on to the yellow climbing rope banister that spirals to our front door - as much in place for my dear dad as her.
It does give me the heebie jeebies Peggy and [quick turn around!] it’s great you are so brave.
I genuinely love that she meets the world like a playground - and that she pushes at the edges of my fears.
come on love - I overtake her on the stairs -
wait mummy! watch this - is this a fancy trick?! - I turn round to see her as she jumps hands free down the next concrete step.
Oh yikes! - as I try not to visibly flinch - imagining her careering head first down the next 8 steps into the broken and bleeding bundle!
That gives me the heebie jeebies, yes - and I can see how much joy it’s giving you.
Watch this mum! - oh cricky . . .
//
I understand my parents better - as I watch my daughter grow. I try not to let my heebie jeebies become what she holds on to - to give her enough support for her to want to take leaps and risk - to be the author of her own edges - and it pushes at mine.
//
She is poised - ready to launch herself off the last 3 steps into the garden. I watch as she tests her grit. She’s psyched, I’m tempted to shout - watch you don’t fall over your dress, remember to bend your knees . . . I hold my tongue, let go my fear and watch her fly -
Weeeeeeeee! A seemingly perfect landing which she walks away from slowly.
You ok love?
I hurt my feet.
Huh? Did you land with a bit of a wallop?
Yeah. - we take each others hands.
Did you give yourself the heebie jeebies?!
Yes - she’s laughing. We both are.
It was a great jump, P.
Did you see it mummy? Did you really?
Yes love. - and I felt my tummy jump too!
yes I'm pregnant
no I don't have a wedding ring
can you not find joy in one without the other?
//
It’s been shocking to me how much shame has come up - in and around me - being a single mum.
A single mother - oh the media imaging, the hushed tones of ancestors, the apology of explanation. I try out other forms for it - solo mother, flying solo. Simply mother. But a mother [and indeed father] without the other is still other - the flickers of shock and pity have not yet washed us beyond these hetronormative expectations - expectations I have not lived up to. And so I am banished to a land of otherness.
I have been othered by myself and society, assumptions have been made that have cut bitter and sore. In some way it has made me queerer than my under the same roof counterparts. My dear friend who studies queer theory delights! I understand the inbuilt shocker of people ask questions with so many assumptions inside them.
//
I’m in the park with my daughter.
What does your husband do?
I don’t know. I haven’t met them yet.
//
My daughter asks me if we can get married.
Oh darling. We don’t need to get married love. We’re a family. Us two.
I love you, shamelessly, no vows required.
In sickness and in health, til death us do part.
I pack a bag, take a train, then a bus and wait. For a long enough time to begin to wonder if it’s the right tree by the right pub near the Caledonian Forest. All I have is an out of signal mobile and the remnants of a hangover, that and a massive rucksack. . . I’ve signed up for ‘dance, body and the environment’ for dancers, artists and choreographers. A little leap beyond my musical theatre training but something deeper calls me on.
The waiting dance ends . . . my lift comes. Some bending roads later and I plonk my rucksack by my bunk bed side and join the evening circle. I am the last to land.
We are artists gathering round a fire in the company of Jennifer Monson, Simon Whitehead and Angus Balbirnie. [All worth checking out]. I’m curious, making a version of The Red Shoes for Tramway later that year and wishing a dose of the wild to dance with, perhaps a dose of courage - of the heart.
There are a couple of folk I am half familiar with in the circle but mostly new souls. The introductions begin - where we’re at and if we have any injuries to report before we set out on a moon walk . . . it’s a necessary kind of delightful awkward that every rehearsal, workshop, read through in a performer's life begins with. I’ve learnt to enjoy the squirm. The tone gets set here somehow. The ensemble of first impressions.
Injuries are reported - mostly dancers in attendance so there are a fair few of them - knees, ankles, backs, things to take care of. I’ve not broken anything - sprained an ankle in a dramatic jazz leap a few years previously that put me out of action for a while but mostly mended. The only thing that’s ever been broken is my heart. So I say this - with enough comedy to warrant a ripple of laughter round the room.
[I am often ‘the funny one’ - comedy is my friend when it comes to social tensions - grief and joy is my duet it seems!]
It’s Jennifer’s invitation. We are to partner up and walk out as the sun sets, the moon rises and the world begins to invert into black and white. Other alliances have been made.
I’ll walk with you, she says and takes my hand. She knows what she’s doing. I feel glad of her sturdy grip and sure footedness. After the day, after the month, after the year.
In silence, we walk together into the darkness. I have not known this space by daylight so I am in trust of Jennifer and my feet.
Something inside switches on, my other senses waken. My eyes adjust, the light inverts and though distance is harder to measure, time also shifts, we settle near the river, clamber over logs and nestle into grass, earth. We sit back to back till our breath unites.
Jennifer moves first, she is stag, stone, rock. I move, get closer to the earth, lay my face down into the grasses, let my body curl into the branches and invert, surrender to the moon.
Back to back we breathe again and then the moths come. An eclipse of moths. They circle us.
Flutter, flit, whisper a softness of wings I’ve never been closer to.
The moths are many and winging their way around us.
What are we to them? If anything. Perhaps a little warmth?
A moth takes pause on my heart. Slowly opening and closing its wings.
I rest in tender breath between Jennifer’s back and the moth on my heart. Not wishing to whoosh it away.
Breath, wings, heart.
Open and close, in and out.
As tenderly as it must, as I must, as we do.
Opening and closing, in and out.
My heart, the wings, our breath.
Oh my heart. How we dance.
running late for nursery this morn -
bollocks, no milk, I dry shampoo my hair and use mouthwash!
let’s get a taxi and stop for coffee and croissant on the way?
super fast speed - let’s make it happen.
Today you want to pretend to be Alice the school girl and carry your bag - ok great.
Let’s go!
the taxi man is waiting - he is grumpy…
or maybe something more…
how are you faring? I ask.
Dreadful, hen.
the story pours out …
a trio of imminent losses and resources - mentally, physically, emotionally and financially - are depleted.
So we chat at the curb and stop the hurry. It doesn’t matter that we’re late. Perhaps it’s perfect. Just like this.
That people meet at the right time, in the right way and connect beyond the losses and the lateness. We meet somewhere in the middle. Human to human. My little one announcing herself as a giraffe - bringing laughter and release. Me announcing myself as a celebrant that works with the wonderful ‘A Quiet Revolution’ who currently have an offer for free services to families who need them - bringing hope and relief. And the taxi driver announcing himself as someone who could be in need of a celebrant - I hope relieved.
I give him my number, I hope he phones.
And I know I’ve spilled my breaking, grieving heart to many a taxi driver on the road to the Beatson to meet my fading mum. I know. I know that grief is hard to hold. And I’ve learnt not to hold it. To contain it, yes. But not to hold it. To find ways to release it - in manageable waves, in searing oceans and howling aching cries in song.
So me and a little giraffe walk slowly together - perfectly on time for nursery suddenly - can you take your bag please, love? No I don’t want to - she is skipping. For what’s the hurry? Today I only have self imposed timelines.
We get a croissant and coffee.
Why was he grumpy, mummy?
Well, love. You never know what people are carrying.
She needs more information to understand. And I walk with my mum, as I share with Peggy, as she munches into her chocolate croissant which leaves a dusting of snow on her little nose.
Sometimes when we are carrying a lot of sadness we try and hold it in and it makes us grumpy. Our emotions can get heavy and sometimes we need someone else to carry our bag. So we can skip a while.
I have wondered - for way too long - about my roads and choices -
if I was one thing and one thing only if I identified [and was identifiable] as one clear thing
simply a jazz singer, would I be further down that road?
a theatre maker
a performer in other people’s work
purely a celebrant . . .
utterly a vocal coach
and yet and yet
what unites them all?
this life, this particular vehicle of expression?
My me-ness, your-you-ness. Our we-ness.
Our absurd, beautiful and heart wrenching, gut mangling human-ness.
So I shall forever more stop apologising or excusing - inwardly or outwardly - my sense of too much-ness. Too vagueness, to scattered-ness. It all adds up.
It’s a multifaceted rode we walk . . . roll, skip and dance . . .
and yet and yet
what unites them all
the threads of this, my working life
human specificity, a deep love of story, joy of connection, shifting atmospheres, facilitating transformations - inside and out, visible and invisible transitions. All of that. And feeling the feels.
One of my earlier memorys of voice, story, connection was lying in my bedroom aged 10 - the lights out - and singing ‘Maybe’ from Annie and crying, crying, crying, tenderly the tears streamed. [For those of you that don’t know the musical wonder* that is the 1982 original Annie* please see footnotes!]. And my mum had starting working shifts again so in my little 10 year old system I did feel abandoned, alone, in the dark and lost somehow. My real life actual dad came through to check I was ok - yes, I’m just singing to myself.
I was singing my feels / practising my twang, empathising into the darkness for every little someone who felt utterly lost, alone, abandoned, grieving. Finding creative ways to tap into the unfolding of a human heart.
So it is, with jazz, acting, theatre making, ritual tending, event creating, ceremony writing, in conversation with life and death. We find ways to connect, to get vulnerable and transform this to that, maybe…
Maybe it’s time for me to own it - in song, writing, ceremony, mothering, gardening, cooking, dancing - all of it.
pending your threshold for American twang! [My Granny by the same name - Annie - couldn’t stand it!]
Borrowed from Wikipedia: In 1933, during the Great Depression, a young orphan named Annie is living in the Hudson Street Orphanage in New York City which is run by Miss Hannigan, a cruel alcoholic who forces the orphans to clean the building daily ("It's the Hard Knock Life for Us"). With half of a locket as her only possession, Annie remains optimistic that her parents, who left her on the doorstep as a baby, will return for her ("Maybe").