Charla's space

riding along on the crest of a wave

The sun is shining, and the views over the Thames are most extraordinary when days like this come along. To fully absorb the vistas and the warmth, I decide to journey to work along the river on the Clipper. One of the stops is right at the end of my road, minutes from the door. No rushing to the tube, no stumbling over pavements as my feet try to run ahead of the rest of my body. I see the boat coming up as I'm strolling down the ramp. No crowds. A handful of people standing in the sun, smiling to each other. I can breathe. I see a stack of Metros and I take one. The woman next to me asks with surprise if it's free. I nod and smile. After a minute we both leave the papers and comment that the day's too beautiful to keep our heads down.

Every time I've taken the boat, it's felt like entering a parallel London universe. One that's expansive and not so sooty. Getting to my destination feels a bit like starting a vacation. The crew are so friendly and open that my imagination creates a film scene where each passenger, as we walk on, is offered a cocktail with an umbrella. In so-called reality, hands do reach out to help passengers embark and disembark (okay this might be about avoiding lawsuits, but it does feel nice).

When the Clipper gets moving, sometimes, like today, it goes fast enough to send sprays on either side of the boat. I daresay the speed creates crested waves to bounce along. My small but delighted smile belies nothing of the yippee dance that I'm doing inside. I can almost feel the wind through my hair. By the time I get to Savoy Pier for the short walk to Embankment tube station, I have post-carded images of London montaged together in my head. The Eye, Tower Bridge, Canary Wharf, the river diamonds, the sky, red buses over bridges...There's a richness to my senses that I take with me as I disappear underground.

georgia pines/nyc

Nostalgia calls. Thinking of places I called home. Some sense of freedom pulling me there. And laughter, the smell of green. Yet nowhere is home. My displaced, dispersed roots tangle me every time. Response is strong. Like the streets of New York City, miles from here, miles from there, they pulse with excitment and vibration. Anything seems possible there. Is possible. Far-flung all of this. An ocean away. Lifetimes ago.

silent voices

There are so many people without voices. There are so many voices crowding others out. In our own countries (many of us have more than one land we call home) people are outcast due to lack, a lack so pervasive as to silence whatever human and creative expression they possess. This lack can range from tangible resources to self-esteem.

Everyone has a story. Everyone has a light. Everyone has a frustrated artist in them. Being, existing, is artistry. Creativity and expression are pieces of everyone's domain. Yet we don't listen. I mean really listen. To the woman in prison; to the prostitute on the street corner; to the older people with dementia sitting side by side in a home not able to reach out to each other; to the severely disabled people who can't communicate verbally, but who express their choices when given a space to unfold; to the small children growing up in poverty next door to us; to the parent who abuses; to the partner who's been abused; to those facing mental health challenges.

We don't listen unless a Hollywood movie has been made about someone's plight. For every one person whose story is heard there are possibly hundreds who fall through the cracks of society's fabric. To not be heard is analogous to not existing, or just as potent, feeling non-existent. And so there's a broken bridge between the normal and those who we might like to forget. Yet if we're all connected, and we all share this earth, how can we continue to split the other from ourselves? To make another country evil, makes our country good. To make someone abnormal, makes us normal. But don't we each hold all extremes?

Paracelsus said that humans are a sun and a moon and a heaven filled with stars. Vast and opposing. Jung spoke of the sitting with, or in, or on the edge of internal paradox until a third entity emerges, the transcendent function, or union of opposites. Creatively, from this marriage, new situations and conscious attitudes may arise because the perspective has shifted. I’m not suggesting this is easy, but a small step can have a large impact.

Victimising those with weak voices is not the answer. An attempt to understand might be. Understanding comes from listening without judgement. To listen also means to allow and support someone else’s voice. Respectfully, on both sides. Offering people the choice to tell their story, to use their voice is a way to be truly inclusive. Is it possible? Or will some people remain silent because the jump is too high or the space isn't available?

I don't know, but I do know that I'm inspired by the individuals who are attempting to create technology that potentially gives all people a chance to be creative and to be heard, if they choose. Hopefully that ethos of equality will make a dent in our daily lives, so that we may integrate our beliefs with our actions and truly listen to and tell each other our stories, no matter how different they may be.

I come at this discussion from a psychological perspective as I facilitate, without technolgoy, enactment and storytelling and spontonaity in my dramatherapy work. My boyfriend fills in the technology bit and is doing interesting and thoughtful work through his blog with communities and technology and creativity. And I happened upon Ejovi Nuwer's blog Technically Speaking which made a bridge for me to my country and the silences that are there.

Beautiful Distortion