Do you dare to dive into this funny old thing called life?
Embrace the courageous choice of radical self-expression
August 1971 on the banks of the river Nene in East Anglia UK, myself, elder sister, younger brother, Mum and Dad. A weekend excursion not far from the RAF base where we lived. As my Dad was an Officer but not a pilot we moved as a self-contained unit and not with the Squadron. I loved the nomadic life, the thrill of scrambling through a new house and the tantalising promise that I would make friends this time. The picnic? Likely suspects are cheese and Branston sandwiches, juice, and fruit. Certainly no fancy-pants biscuits, sweets or crisps. I was nourished by home-cooked food yet longed for 1970’s convenience fare of Angel Delight and Frozen Findus crispy pancakes.
That day I walked my three and a half years old self into the river until I was submerged, only the crown of my curly mop visible. As Dad was cradling his son, Mum dived in and extricated me from the water. Blurry vision is all that remains of before and after the event, save the memory of being squelchy wet and standing by the boot of the Morris Minor, our family car. Mum was always the driver and we headed back to the Base, the picnic aborted and apparently had restorative baths.
What I do remember in startling technicolour is my surreal fantastical experience of being under water, which I have not shared until now.
As context consider this Collins Dictionary entry Phantasmagoria:
a shifting medley of real or imagined figures, as in a dream
films a sequence of pictures made to vary in size rapidly while remaining in focus
rare a shifting scene composed of different elements [C19: probably from the French phantasmagory production of phantasms, from PHANTASM + -agorie, perhaps from the Greek ageiein to gather together].
These descriptions reflect my “memory” and with hindsight one and three the closest. I can also envisage that the scene I conjured that day would fit category two as a sequence in an abstract art house film or a series of experimental avant-garde photographs by Lee Miller.
Contrary to stated facts, in my kinaesthetic memory I floated face down. I witnessed on the horizon an ocean liner that moved across my line of vision, right to left. It was in its entirety both above and below the water line. It was like a Titanicesque apparition that existed on different levels simultaneously. The waterbed was a golden sheen of white sand, with scattered pearlescent shells, while whispers of melodious plant fronds were dancing. At that age I did not question my utter sense of affinity and I was yet to develop the cognitive faculties to rationalise this alternative reality. It is unlikely I inhabited this world for long, but my sense of time was disrupted; as an adult I describe it as being suspended in time. Equally the waterbed I saw was not compatible with the actual ecology of this river.
This peculiar experience was my first remembrance of finding refuge in my interiority. As a child I was gloriously aided and abetted by the books of Roald Dahl and ancient black and white films, the staple of Sunday afternoon television. In my room I created musical extravaganzas with my soft toy collection. Later on I roped in my younger cousin to these shenanigans, the stories improvised, never written, but taped on my cassette player. I was smitten by the children’s programme Mr Ben, with its animation that now looks so simple and wonderfully naive. In each episode Mr Ben entered a Tailor shop changing room and transformed into another character based on the clothing laid out by the proprietor. https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=mr+ben+cartoon.
A week after the “drowning” incident I sneezed a stone out of my left nostril. Mum thought it lodged there when I was underwater. Probably not, more likely one of my hidden experiments. But this little stone became a treasured talisman, which I loved to hold and manipulate. As a child I used Rosary Beads for self soothing, far from their intended purpose and now I curate a private collection of tumble stones.
These stones are my version of Hansel and Gretel’s trail into the forest or even Ariadne’s red thread into the Labyrinth, so I can find my way back to the here and now. I elevated these forays into the world within sans peril to explore and integrate the secret self, both monstrous and sublime.
I love the alchemy of tumble stones and beach pebbles that transform into luminescent wonders when wet, just like child Lucy in the River Nene. As I grew up the external world was confusing and alienating. I felt discordant, aping normal as a shapeshifter, and often experienced an infinite well of profound sadness, usually when I was praised for all that I did for others, or if I amused myself and made no demands. It was well into late adulthood that I began to unravel what this meant, in spite of having a PhD in developmental psychology. That tiny stone ejected from my nose and my current collection represent the existence of “magic”, a precious otherworldly and whole self. I am my own talisman.
The folklore of the Changeling fascinated, and a younger Lucy imagined an earnest and conscious connection to these paranormal beings to reflect and process my idiosyncrasies. These myths refer to fairies who place their offspring (the Changeling) into a human household and kidnap the human child with blondness a premium factor in European culture. Co-incidently I yearned for tumbling tresses of gold unlike my unruly dark curls the texture of the fur of a Terrier dog and equally water resistant. The swap is sometimes benign, to provide the fairy child access to milk and nurturing, or a lascivious lust for platinum. The outsourced fairy child is plagued by notable design “faults” internal and external. These legends and myths are found across cultures, the type of the creature varied, yet united in essence of a magical being.
Diversity and difference is so ubiquitous it is mainstream. My extras are not who I am, rather one of the many aspects of an ever evolving self and constant work in progress. Whatever belief systems you kindle we are all fleeting dust motes in our physical presence in the world. The vehicle of the body, the fallible home of mind and emotions, the I -ness, me- ness are a mishmash of fluid states, sometimes horrid, sometimes glorious, average and challenging.
I have a splash of ambivalence about special interest groups, silos, labels and fixed identities, with a mild to pungent flavour of Others versus Us. Yet I applaud the promotion of multiple and unique perspectives as the norm in the swirling mass that constitutes humanity. Forums, spaces and magazines that do champion unheard voices are a critical resource, empowering and spicy. Space to exhibit our creativity, to take up space. It is important to me that all of us are at home in the mainstream, proud in the spotlight, not confined or defined. We can have our special places too where we just know, words do not need to be grappled with, we just can be. Have your cake and eat it with gusto.
Why not?
Until next time
Lucy