Regrets, I've had a few

I am a regular listener to Radio 3's Late Junction. I like the different presenters' individual approaches to the music they feature. I always enjoy Max Reinhardt's choices and this week has been amazing. I often fall asleep to the sound of something new to me, and I am very grateful for the programme's website. Recordings of Pharoah Sanders playing with Gnawa musicians in Essouira has been a particular pleasure. I try not to do regret, but back in 1981 I was spending a few days in Essouira before I returned to England after a year's teaching English in Morocco. I was travelling with two girl friends. One evening there was a knock on our hotel door. A new Moroccan friend had come to invite us to listen to some traditional music. Not all of us wanted to go, and we had an agreement that we would stick together. We were a little uncertain of what was on offer. I realise now that this was an invitation to listen to Gnawa music, and it is one of the regrets of my life that we didn't take a chance. Who knows what we missed. Listening to Late Junction this week has made me wonder.

Move on up

An article about Curtis Mayfield popped up on Facebook today. Singing his praises for the role he played in the Civil Rights movement, singing his praises for his beautiful voice and inspirational lyrics. Last week I was enjoying a coffee and chat in the wonderful Cafe #9. Move on Up came on over the speakers. It's a song that always stops me in my tracks. It has on occasion made me cry in public. It was released as I was going through a dreadful time in my late teens, and it became a personal anthem. Curtis Mayfield's lyrics both comforted and encouraged me. ' Hush now child, and don't you cry, your folks might understand you by and by'. But the line that always leaps out is 'Take nothing less than the second best.' A light hearted but serious discussion broke out in the cafe. My friend revealed that he had interpreted this as the ultimate compromise. The song and the singer had disappointed him as a result and it had lost its meaning for him. For me, at the age of seventeen, these words were realistically comforting . Curtis seemed to be saying that you could get where you wanted to be in steps and stages. Keep expectations and dreams manageable and you won't be let down or disappointed. In time I realised that he was writing about the Civil Rights movement as much as he was writing something relevant to my teenage dilemmas. In the week when the world's attention has been focussed on America, and history seems in danger of moving into reverse gear, Curtis Mayfield's music has never seemed more relevant.

Wood for the trees

Today I have been on a demonstration. Organised by STAG, the Sheffield Trees Action Group, we encircled Sheffield Town Hall with yellow ribbons to raise awareness of the plight of Sheffield's trees. If you have been following the tale of the trees in Sheffield you'll know that a dawn raid to cut down trees on Rustlings Rd made the world news a couple of months ago. If you are familiar with Sheffield as a city, you will also know that its leafy suburbs and urban woodlands, combined with a setting flanked by hills and defined by river valleys, snaking out to the Peak District, all make Sheffield one of the greenest and most attractive cities in the country. Sadly the local council doesn't seem to be able to see the wood for the trees, and have committed to a contract that involves felling healthy mature trees in order to do work on pavements and utilities. When the news broke about Rustlings Rd I was reminded that my late father in law was born there. As we wait for the arrival of the second baby in our family to be Sheffield born, I have thought about the city he was born into. Did he hear the leaves rustling outside his bedroom window? He didn't live here for long. We all thought he was from Widnes! It was only when we moved to Sheffield in the early 1990s that he revealed it was his birthplace. Listening to Radio 4 this morning, I heard an item on the problems and dangers of city pollution. Trees and green spaces are one of the answers to minimising its harmful effects, improving health and the quality of life as urban sprawl spreads. Ironically much of Sheffield's urban woodland is a legacy from its early days as an industrial centre. Smelting required charcoal, also known as white coal. Woodland was managed to provide the fuel needed. Nowadays this same woodland is a rich resource, both environmentally and ecologically. Tree lined roads help balance traffic pollution. Sheffield is streets ahead, and other cities should be green with envy at what Sheffield residents take for granted and the local council seems unable to appreciate. Looking back at the woodland heritage of the area, management was key. It is obvious that opportunities for managing the rich resource of Sheffield's trees have been badly handled, as has the public relations disaster of recent felling. As we circled the town hall with yellow ribbons, wearing yellow coats, jumpers, hats and scarves, whatever we had got to make a splash of colour, there was a real sense of celebration and purpose. Once upon a time we might have been dismissed and disparaged as tree huggers, but environmental science and town planning is on the side of the trees now. From fuel for the furnaces to safe air to breathe, we have so much to thank them for.

Christmas present

I read another blogpost from an old friend today. Like me, she hadn't posted for a while, and like me she has had a big year of changes on a personal and family level. We both grew up politically through the sixties and seventies, and like me, she is struggling to make sense of what is happening as we move towards a new year and what seem to be turbulent times. The dark days of winter are symbolic of many things. A time for growth, underground and unseen, ready to burst forth in Spring. A time of hibernation and dreamimg, as we prepare for the challenges of the new year. And because we don't hibernate like the lucky bears and tortoises, the butterflies and the dormice, it's a time when we can surround ourselves with those we love. If they can't be there in person, they are there in spirit. My own run up to Christmas has been a strange one. Working in an environment that makes a commercial business out of people's desire to get into the Christmas spirit, the pressure to fulfill visitors'expectations has been exhausting and relentless since early November. Work colleagues have been a great support, and there have been some magical moments scattered like fairy dust, but serving up the Christmas experience is very different from enjoying it. Inevitably at this time of year, I have a sense of Christmas past. Childhood memories of waiting for Father Christmas, the first Christmas when my dad was working abroad, the first Christmas when both parents were abroad and we travelled on our own, three young sisters, from a miserable boarding school in Derbyshire to the exotic jungles of Borneo to join them. A Christmas in Casablanca and Tenerife. A Christmas when I dropped out of University. A Christmas waiting for a January baby, just as my daughter is doing now. Christmas with and without my children, as we took it in turns as parents after my marriage broke up. If I put my mind to it, I can probably recall where I was and how I felt for most years since childhood. This Christmas present has been about helping my daughter and son in law turn their first house into lovely home for them and their imminent first baby. It's about having my children with me for our first Christmas in my new home. It's also about the relief of knowing my mother has managed a successful move to a new flat at the age of 87, thanks to help from other members of the family, who pulled out all the stops when I couldn't. This Christmas present is also about the pride I feel for my three children and their achievements this year. Christmas future is about having a grandchild to join us all next year.

A single to Sheffield

I often ponder my relationship status, having been single for many years now. There have been times when I have longed to meet a soulmate. There have also been times when I thought I had, only to be disappointed. I've been thinking about this topic as a suitable subject for discussion for a while, and I have to admit that it is the inclusion of the fictional singleton, Bridget Jones, on the Woman's Hour power list this week that has spurred me to action. Much as I enjoyed the book at the time, I can't begin to identify with her desperation and never did. At a completely different stage of life, with three children, two former marriages and about to become a grandmother for the first time, I can look back over my years as a single parent and responsible adult with a sense of achievement. I embrace my single status and appreciate celibacy and all. Sometimes I wonder if I'm a natural nun, in spite of the traumas of a convent education. Do I have trust issues? Definitely ! I also love my strong friendships and they haven't always been compatible with being one of a couple. There are times when it would be wonderful to have someone in my corner with practical help and emotional support. To have someone make me a cup of tea first thing in the morning and rub my back last thing at night. Someone to admire and appreciate me. I think it was Adrian Henri who wrote' Love is a fan club with only two fans'. I'm lucky because I see those strong and loving relationships close by me, for my children and my good friends. I know they exist and I can admire and appreciate them. Over the years I've resisted well meaning attempts to match make or to get me to sign up for Guardian soulmates and Internet dating. Not my way, though I'm sure it works for some. There are times when I wish I was part of a couple. I never expected anything else when I was younger. There are times when I realise how much I enjoy living alone. There are issues of freedom and status in society that still take me by surprise. People say a trouble shared is a trouble halved, but I am aware that in a relationship the opposite can happen, and it results in double trouble. Life is so complicated! So thank you family and friends for being the love of my life.

Stumbling on the side of twelve misty mountains

Bob Dylan's song A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall has been in the news this week. Patti Smith sang it for him at the Nobel prize ceremony, stumbling over the words of the second verse, the black branch with blood that kept dripping. It's a song I have been familiar with since it was first recorded, thanks to my father's passion for Dylan, Joan Baez, the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem and the rest.The lyrics have meant different things at different times in my life and I associated them with the civil rights movement, the Cold War and nuclear threat during my teens. Listening to the lyrics again this week, images were conjured up that reflected the history of the last half century, images that didn't exist in popular consciousness when the song was written. The song looks to the past and to the future in its form and meaning in a remarkable way. It comments on world events, environmental concerns, politics, war, famine and greed in a way that is as relevant now as it was in 1962. That should be depressing, but somehow it isn't because it's the fate of a poet to speak to truth, to enlighten and to create awareness. From awareness comes the opportunity to make changes. One line leapt out for me : I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains. That line sums up this year for me. Each month has brought unexpected challenges. I've been negotiating my way through unfamiliar paths, uncertain if I'm heading in the right direction across those misty mountains. But as the landscape of the year reveals itself, as the sun breaks through the mist, I'm aware of a huge sense of achievement for myself and my loved ones. I salute the poet.

What will survive of us is love

Listening to the news this morning, I heard an item about Philip Larkin's memorial stone in Westminster Abbey. It doesn't include what has become his most famous quote, but it does include the equally meaningful line I have chosen as the title for this post. A friend asked me this week ' What's happened to the Ditch?', and I realise it's been months since I wrote on this blog. There are several reasons for my silence. One is to do with my move earlier this year. Prosaically, now I'm living on the Edge I'd wondered whether to change the name. In reality I live below Brincliffe Edge, but the play on words works as this has been a challenging year, beginning as it did with a major move. And those challenges, which have involved family and friends in my close circle as well as political events in this country and elsewhere, haven't stopped me thinking, but they have made me reconsider my writing and what it's all about. As the national and world view became more incomprehensible to me, I found myself focussing on those I love and their place in my life. Focussing on what I can understand, influence, support and cope with. This doesn't mean I haven't tried to get to grips with Brexit and Trump (and the rest), but I need to be grounded in my own world when the wider world seems so alien. It has been a year of dislocations. Not only have I moved, but my children have had moves and changes. Even my elderly mother is on the move. It's been about finding personal places of safety and refuge, comfort zones and familiarity. For me, it has been about moving back to an area I knew over 23 years ago and finding my place here. It's been a good move and next week I will have my daughter and her husband living round the corner, with a baby on the way. First time granny. I can't wait. So I have been thinking a lot about living in hope. It isn't naivety. Hope is as important as love. It comes back to the old trio of faith, hope and love. So when I woke this morning to Philip Larkin's quote it made a lot of sense. Perhaps one day I will write about his better known quote!