On the weekend of 22 -24 June Ricky Dragon and I, Predencia Dixon represented Writers Without Borders at the Solas Festival in Perth, Scotland. We were invited to perform by the UNESCO Chain in Refugee Integration through Languages and the Arts. It was my first festival and I was unprepared for the warmth of the other festival goers, the range of activities, the caliber of performances and the ‘buzz’. It helped enormously that the weather was so beautiful.

Our performances were very well received, so much so that we have both been invited to join the UNESCO group of artists. We will certainly remember Solas, and I think they will remember us. Looking forward to performing here again.

Such is the pressure of PhD work that a visit that took place on 19th January is just being written up and shared. It was a bitterly cold day in Stoke on Trent but there were warm welcomes in both places. Middleport Pottery had royal intervention in the form of Prince Charles’ Regeneration Trust to save it from being closed in 2011. Since then it has been authentically renovated as a working pottery.

It was interesting to watch workers maintaining some very old traditions. Could transfer printing actually be classed as intangible cultural heritage? The ladies in the room were the last ones in this country with these skills, and with only two new apprentices and an aging workforce, they may well be the last, unless something can be done to encourage more young people to take up this work.

It was good to track the process from clay to finished articles. Even the tea in the cafe is served in Middleport Pottery. Would highly recommend this visit.

Belonging Village for people with dementia has created a heritage night-club to help people remember their youth. Unfortunately they were unable to show us any more than an empty room as the space is still under construction. May be more interesting to see it when it’s finished.

So good to get out from behind the desk. Thanks Jamie.

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are, I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow; if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human…..

I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it’s not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence…..

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

Oriah Mountain Dreamer

A few days ago I commented to my friend that I’ve never experienced a hurricane, and wondered what it must be like. It was not a request to the universe just a passing comment.

Well, it seems like I will soon get a chance to know what it feels like to be in a hurricane. It’s been kind of weird listening to the news about the effects of Hurricane Matthew across some of the other Caribbean islands while life remains so tranquil and beautiful here.

The only evidence that all is not well is the restlessness in the sea. We swim every morning, and for the last few days there’s been a lot more movement in the water, more buoyant, more insistent as it pounds the rocks. The sand, used to being caressed, must feel like it’s being slapped by an angry lover.

The regular updates on the news and internet tell of the increasing intensity of a storm sitting 450 miles off shore with its eye fixed firmly on us. I now understand the difference between a tropical storm and a hurricane.

When the storm reaches hurricane status the government holds emergency meetings to work out our national response. Warnings are issues and those who make their living from the sea all called in first. Hurricane waves are merciless, takes no prisoners.

The thing is, while all this preparation is going on the sun shines brightly, the breeze is soft and soothing and the few raindrops that fall are welcomed for their cooling effect.

Ironically, I’m travelling to Kingston tomorrow, a trip planned prior the hurricane alert. Kingston is likely to experience the worst of the hurricane. ‘Why go?’ a friend asked.

Two reasons. The first is that I will be with my family and if I have to experience this, where better to be? Secondly, hurricanes are capricious and can change their minds and their direction without warning. Can decide to go and bother someone else, or just go out to see and burn themselves out.

June to September is officially hurricane season. I was born in hurricane season. Someone asked if that’s why I was capricious and volatile. Maybe a younger me would have demonstrated those qualities, but not anymore.

Like the hurricane, I have the right to change my mind without having to explain it to anyone.

Finally Madam Bonkiyung makes it to the stage. 3rd September sees it premier at the Mango Lounge in Birmingham. I’m very excited by the interest in the play. Please order your tickets early as they are going fast.

What a lovely surprise to find that one of our local Birmingham radio stations – Genesis – has been playing one of my poems three times each Tuesday to Friday mornings. Chicken George presents the morning show between 7 a.m. and 10 a.m. on these mornings. He usually plays the poem not long after the news which appears on the hour. The poem’s called I’m Ready. He thinks its a great get-up-and-get-going call.

I’m Ready

I’m ready to soar
To fly high in the sky
To unclip my wings
To spread them wide
I’m ready to glide on the currents of love
To swirl and twirl
to feel the air in my feathers
I’m ready to sing, to twerp and tweet
I’m ready to feel the highest branches
beneath my feet
I’m ready to hover
by the beating of my own wings
I’m ready to stretch life
until it pings

I’m ready is from my CD Raw (vols 1 & 2) Copyright Cymbals Publishing

Yesterday I attended a Black History Month Service of Remembrance which took my breath away. It was held to honour our enslaved ancestors in a way I have never seen done before. Many of us accept that the enslavement of Africans by mainly (but not exclusively) white Europeans and Americans was cruel, exploitative and , which is probably why so many people want to forget about it, to ‘draw a line under it and move on’.

This remembrance service, held in the Holy Trinity Church, an Anglican church in the heart of a black community, to a different view. ‘Today we celebrate the strength, courage, perseverance and heroic actions of enslaved Africans… bringing some restitution to this painful and enduring legacy.’ The programme was clear about the purpose of the service.

In a very well thought out service the ancestors were honored with drumming (Chester Morrison) in song, (Negro Spirituals sung by Byron Jackson) poetry, (Maya Angelou’s Arise and Claude Mackay’s If We Must Die) sermon, (delivered by Robert Beckford, an exquisite mix of politics and religion) music (Rivers of Babylon and many others) and dance. (The whole congregation).

Chester Morrison drummed us into the service in true African style

The Reverend Canon Eve Pitts began by asking us to use both hearts and head in our

The Reverend Canon Eve Pitts dancing in the aisles.

remembering. The service was a combination of history, current day legacy of slavery, praise and honour for those who kept our African heritage alive even as they died, and a celebration of the fact that because of them we are here.
It was electric! The service made us laugh, cry, sing, dance, toast, and eat the delicious food that was prepared. The ancestors could not fail to feel honoured. I felt honoured to be a part of it.

Practicing the masked dance

End of an amazing day. Completed another dance for the play (The masked dance). Lunch with a friend I haven’t seen in nearly 2 years (4 hours and still we hadn’t fully caught up) and an evening of spiritual discussions, followed by a couple of glasses of Sauvignon Blanc. End of a fabulous day.