It’s hard to know where to start, writing a post for a blog site that you’ve not used in over two years, a site that itself feels like a relic from a far distant and frankly alien life. It’s interesting to note though, that to post my thoughts here was the first thing that sprang to mind when I realised I had something important to share, something that needed saying and something that deserved to be heard not just in but also beyond the communities that I am now engaged with. Maybe old habits really do die hard, especially when we’re processing experiences that move us deeply, and the experiences I had with the Extinction Rebellion Buddhists on the streets of London last week did just that.

I think there’s slightly more behind this post than old habits though, and that’s a suspicion I developed when I looked back at old blog posts, trying to get my head around where to begin; if not to find an echo of my old voice then at least to select a pitch that would resonate in harmony with it. I noticed some common threads, you see, when I looked back over those dispatches from my previous life. Art, yes, and various teaching practices, but arts and teaching practices that had in common a desire to create space for connection between people and communities. Spaces in which they could glimpse their shared potentials. Practices that were not afraid to recognise difficulties and divisions, but that aimed to forge something of an arena for those to be held and interrogated only so long as they were needed as a platform from which to recognise a deeper truth of commonality and shared humanity. How close those ventures ever came to achieving that is not for me to say but it’s with a similar aspiration that I seek to share my recent experiences

If you’re new to, or never much followed this blog, I’ll fill you in a bit. I left a life of arts practice and teaching in 2015, after learning to meditate to try and manage stress and anxiety. When I went on to I learn about the teachings of the Buddha I felt I had found a new, clearer and somehow more honest way to try and live my life with integrity. I’d always tried to realise an ethically robust existence and I’d always believed there was little point in having a life if you weren’t going to try and make the world a better place with it, but I’d never before found such a simple and direct model by which I might try. So now, heading on for 5 years later, I am living in a community of ten women in rural Shropshire who run a retreat centre for other women to come and learn the same. Taraloka Buddhist Retreat Centre for Women is part of the Triratna Buddhist Community and it is with that global movement that I am training for ordination. Not a turn I necessarily expected my life to take but if I’ve learnt one thing in 38 years on the planet, it’s to expect the unexpected.

So, in a life fully committed to making the world a better place by helping women find happier lives through the teaching of the Dharma, what on earth would attract me to spend two hard-earned days off prowling the streets with XR? In my late childhood and early teens I’d been involved with various direct action groups from local to national level, and been passionate in my belief that such efforts could change the world. I leafleted, I petitioned, I lobbied, I made personal life style changes (to the derision of many peers and family members), I joined marches, I attended rallies, I even risked arrest. I felt for a time like I had tireless reserves of energy to pour into preserving the world for the common benefit of all species living on her and I believed that once everyone was appraised of the global injustices that were only too clear to me then the job would be done, for who could continue on that path of ecocide if they truly knew the impact of their actions?  Of course what I wasn’t prepared for, or equipped to oppose, was the equally bare truth of greed, hatred and delusion, threads of which can be found in all of us. I over identified in the success of the campaigns I aligned myself with, felt increasingly inadequate in the face of ever more depressing news and became utterly disillusioned upon encountering infighting and disharmony in those groups through which I sought to affect change.

So, it’s perhaps no wonder that I eventually resorted to tamer, more socially acceptable and ultimately institutionalised ways to try and do good in the world. More recently however, since beginning to question the true potency of those ‘safer’ channels, I’ve felt a stirring in deeper, more rebellious roots and started to see that with a spiritual practice behind me I might once again engage in direct action, sustained so that I can still come from a place of heart-aching compassion but balanced with the temper of a wider wisdom. I’m not alone in this either. I’m not sure I’d have jumped on a train and headed down south without knowing even where I’d sleep that night if I’d not known there was a sangha of Buddhists from various traditions all planning to do the same, and they as part of a wider interfaith movement. The plan was to add our voices to those of the Extinction Rebellion chorus but especially to support the planned daily meditations and uphold the non-violent principles of the XR movement.

Was there anything new in terms of legislation I needed to know about (what about the Criminal Justice Act!?). These were all things I wanted to know before I even considered whether or not to put myself in a position where I might find out the hard way. Perhaps reassuringly, much of the advice seemed pretty familiar, (Duty solicitor!? No fear!!) but there was a new flavour that filled me with hope. The Rebel Agreement can be found on the Action Consensus page of the XR website and outlines five principles to be followed by anyone acting in an Affinity Group of the decentralised, non-hierarchical movement. It’s the first of these that epitomises the key difference between my experience of early 90’s direct action culture and what I feel I am aligning myself with alongside Extinction Rebellion: We show respect to everyone - to each other, the general public and to the government and police. I knew I’d need to hold that commitment close to mind if I did find myself on any action front line.

Last October, when I visited the Preston New Road anti fracking camp and spent time chatting with resident campaigners monitoring the Cuadrilla site gate, conversation had soon fallen to their experiences of heavy-handed law enforcement. I’d known at the time that such confrontations would be frequently exacerbated by a (perhaps not entirely unjustified) tendency to vilify and mistrust the police and that such a divisive mind set could ultimately only bring trouble. I also knew how easy it would be for me to fall into a tempting trap of hate and prejudice myself. Hate breeds hate but love and understanding are not easy to stay in touch with during moments of heightened emotion and physical threat. Nonetheless, it was with an aspiration to keep the Buddhist precepts of non-harm, generosity, contentment, truthfulness and mindfulness close to heart that I packed a minimal bag with plenty of snacks, no ID, and a newly acquired not-very-smart phone before boarding the train to my old home town. I’d also just learned that the Preston New Road ‘Nanas’ had been successful in finally bringing an end to fracking in Blackpool, so a renewed confidence in the power of direct action gave me an additional spring in my step.

I arrived in London at about five thirty PM on Monday the 14th of October, the first day I was free to get there but the start of the second week of the rebellion. That was the day when activists had focused on the Financial District and blocked the roads at Bank. When I’d booked my train ticket, I’d imagined myself heading to Lambeth Bridge, where the Interfaith community and the XR Buddhists had originally planned to be but I knew from checking the XR website before I left that the camp had been cleared by police pretty quickly and that they were now based in the one bit of London where the protests were being tolerated: Trafalgar Square. I went straight to the faith area when I arrived and spotted a bright purple XR Buddhist tent immediately but it was empty so I ambled up to a small group sitting and chatting under a nearby gazebo. Since I was hoping to spend the night there, it seemed natural to introduce myself. I was quickly informed that a ‘congregation’ had just begun at St Martin’s in the Fields so I headed straight over. I didn’t expect to be ushered in by a police officer and didn’t quite know how to take his comment that they wouldn’t notice I was late.

I soon learned that the congregation was in fact a People’s Assembly, a collective decision making strategy used by XR that aims to ensure everyone gets a say and no one dominates. I quickly agreed to be scribe to my group; I’d had a go at group facilitation at an assembly in the summer and didn’t think I wanted that responsibility so quickly but was fairly sure I could manage note taking. The assembly initially questioned the wisdom of maintaining a presence in Trafalgar Square and upon establishing a consensus to do so, continued on to look at ways that presence might be facilitated effectively. The symbolism of the place was not missed in terms of the history of political demonstrations in the square and recognition that it could be a prime location for engagement with the public. It was agreed that opening the space outwards and making more efforts to invite speakers as well as performers would be positive steps in maintaining a purposeful presence throughout the week. The lead facilitator and note taker would take that back to organising teams to implement, but there was a sense that everyone in the room who would have any sort of presence in the square would take their share of responsibility for enacting it however they could. Some other ‘housekeeping’ points were discussed, such as how to helpfully interact with the local homeless community in whose living room we’d essentially deposited ourselves, how to ensure the no alcohol or illegal drugs commitment (Rebel Agreement point 4) stayed firm and an concensus on appropriate times for ending amplified music and other sources of noise. Things just seemed to be wrapping up nicely and I’d determined a ‘next step’ for getting involved (head to the welcome tent and sign up for voluntary stewarding or cooking slots) when the part of the note takers role I’d not clocked became clear to me; I’d now have to stand up in front of quite a large room of strangers and attempt to summarise the salient points in the discussion of about ten other people I didn’t know based only on the strength of my notes. For not the first time in my life, I appreciated all my years of teaching experience as well as my more recent dabbling in spoken word and fairly leapt up to confidently (ahem) précis ninety minutes of detailed discussion. I opted mostly for the positive bits that stood out to me, as well as the points hastily whispered by those who seemed more experienced. Anyway, it seemed well received.

Just after eight PM one by one or in twos and threes we headed back out into the dark, damp streets to enact our individual and collective resolutions. I noticed immediately that there were significantly more police vans outside the building and around the square than there had been two hours earlier. I acknowledged something bristling in me, some old conditioning from long ago, something complicated and afraid and furious, that had been raised on stories of battles on beanfields and taught from a syllabus of class war, fighting hate with hate. ‘Leave us alone!’ But there was nothing more to say or do other than gently remind myself that was not a helpful response, nor in line with the ethos of either the Extinction Rebellion or my adopted spiritual path, not even in harmony with the deepest truth that seems to reside in me on a subcellular level, beyond the logic of politics and the emotion of religion, a truth that quietly whispers to me that only love can save us.

Spirituality aside, what seemed more pressing at that moment was that I took some of my freshly arrived energy down into the camp to support those who’d been there a week already. Taking a night shift on a stewarding slot would at least solve the problem of where to sleep that night! There was a lively bustle in the square as I headed back into it and a singer with a guitar entertained a crowd who were equally enjoying generous portions of hot food from the kitchen tent. But all was not calm. As I introduced myself at the welcome desk, I couldn’t help noticing that the increased police presence wasn’t restricted to the vans; an intimidating circle of high vis yellow and shadowed faces under dark peaked caps was hardly a subtle addition to the dynamics of the city streets. Before I’d even finished offering to volunteer, the whispered word had come round that we’d been given an hour to clear the square. Everyone had to be out by nine PM. Any property remaining would be seized and any people left on site would be arrested. Confusion followed. It seemed so sudden and arbitrary, clearly not a step that anyone had expected. The volunteers who would be in turn inducting me into my voluntary role obviously didn’t know what to do, or how to advise each other, let alone me; a well-meaning new comer who was now going to have to work out for herself how best to help. The sound of song and guitar was halted mid-verse as a police officer commandeered the mic to begin reading something official sounding. His voice too was soon cut short as power was lost to the PA system.
 
I left the restrained panic of the welcome tent (I had, after all, learned one updated fact from my recent NVDA training, which was that if people started talking about sections and numbers, it was best not to hang about to listen) and headed back to the faith area where some ruffled Christians were attempting to pack up. Vaguely presided over by a worried looking vicar who clutched a rhinestone studded, ply wood cross bigger than he was and looked like he might at any moment burst into tears, they were piling things they knew belonged to their group in a central heap, where they hoped it would be collected by someone who had managed to park a car not far away. I offered to help. Time was ticking and it was clear no one had any chance of clearing the square fully within the hour. I hadn’t done much more than fold some camping chairs in what I hoped was a helpful way, when one lady asked where I was staying that night. I vaguely gestured at the purple tent. ‘Probably not there anymore!’ I conceded. Apparently deciding my accommodation was of greater import than the camping chairs, she quickly led me out of Trafalgar Square and to a Quaker Meeting House in an alley off St Martin’s Lane, where thanks to her introduction and after leaving only minimal details, I was very glad to give the warden £10 straight away for two nights on their floor, though he seemed embarrassed to accept it and tried to suggest I should pay when I left. I was able to leave my bag there then and so headed straight back to the square, unburdened in more ways than one and willing to get stuck in with whatever was needed.

The inevitable question soon came. ‘Do you know who this (gesture at gazebo we were all stood under) belongs to?’ ‘Yes!’ came the swift reply, ‘It’s ours, but we can’t take it tonight, we’ve not had enough notice and it won’t fit in our car. Can we come back for it in the morning?’ As I write this, I’m trying really hard to remain impartial and I wouldn’t accuse the police I met that night of brutality exactly, but I couldn’t help detect a sense of glee in the strongly negative response to what seemed a perfectly reasonable question. And so the structure was hastily broken down about our ears. I noticed at that point the purple Buddhist tent receiving a similar treatment and so sprang forward, demanding a pause in their efforts while I checked for ‘items of religious significance’. I don’t know if was actual respect or some other reason but I did win a few moments reprieve for the tent while I self-consciously rummaged through the contents of bags belonging to people I’d not even had the chance to introduce myself to. Apparently returning the favour, one of the women I’d been helping also stepped in and between us we managed to salvage just two bags of soggy things. I rescued wet some prayer flags, though the shrine had already been relieved of the Buddha and I couldn’t carry yoga mats or cushions but we did manage to salvage what seemed to be some recording equipment. What I couldn’t carry was broken down and swept away by an eager tide of law enforcement.
 
Painful as it was to watch, I tried to keep things in perspective.  We were not, after all, reliant on these structures for shelter or protection, unlike the millions of political and climate refugees who have been forced to leave their homes. We had all chosen to be there and had alternative places to be. Nor were we in physical danger from the police, who, I carefully reminded myself, were doing jobs they had probably taken from a desire as genuine as mine to make the world a better place in the only way they knew how. Despite the sense that we were witnessing an erosion of our right to protest, we were not being persecuted for our religious activities, unlike many the world over and did not have to hide our political beliefs or our cultural backgrounds. Most of us there had white faces, educated accents and the privileges that come with these features. What I experienced as oppression would probably appear like the fullest expression of liberty on a global stage.
 
Once the faith tents were no more, I felt free to lend a hand elsewhere and accepted a bin bag and a heartfelt instruction to ‘leave no trace’ from a steward. By this point it seemed that some sort of cooperation, if a slightly suspicious and reluctant kind, was emerging between protesters and police. We were there, after all, to raise awareness of the threat to life from environmental destruction, not litter the capital and desecrate a national monument (whatever your views on British military history might be). Small things of no value and scraps of litter went in the rubbish bags. Full ones were tied off and handed to police officers. Larger items that could not be so easily dealt with needed only to be drawn to their attention for disposal. I did actually try and help one officer carry two wet sandbags but was eventually glad to let his colleague take over since I was also still clinging to the bags from the Buddhist tent.
 
During all the activity, information was shared in a couple of ways. Individual stewards were moving through the crowd, dispensing bin bags and speaking to people to ensure everyone was either accommodated for the night, or knew how to get to one of the arranged sanctuaries. There were also frequent ‘human microphone’ announcements; a surprisingly effective method of addressing a crowd, relying on the amplification of multiple voices repeating a message announced by the call of ‘mic check!’ Practical information and gently calming reminders that police were doing their jobs and there to look after us, were all broadcast by this method.
 
After a bit of a breather, in which I managed to avoid arrest ‘on suspicion of loitering’ by determinedly fiddling with a stray bin bag in a totally nonsuspicious way that clearly communicated I was actually full of purpose, we received news that a van was coming to collect unclaimed items and store them as lost property. I was busily engaged in a team of people trying to move a small garden that had been planted on a sheet of tarpaulin to the van, when I was absolutely delighted to be greeted by the friendly face of someone I actually knew. ‘I won’t disturb you!’ she said emphatically, ‘I can see you’re busy!’ I took advantage of a pause for breath in the garden rescue squad (wet compost is heavy) to engage in conversation. She was keen though, she told me, to rush off herself, as she’d only just heard that the square was being cleared and had come to see if she could salvage anything from the Buddhist tent. ‘It’s here!’ I intoned darkly as I handed over what I knew to be all that remained. I wasn’t sure what was more enjoyable, the look on her face when I passed it to her or the fact that I now had two hands free to try and lump wet mud and wilted begonias across Trafalgar Square. We quickly swapped numbers and she told me of a 07:30 breakfast meeting round the corner where we could catch up properly. I was then back to my botanical philanthropy and she disappeared into the night. Freed once more from baggage, I kept going as long as I could. A wheelbarrow of camping equipment here, a box of random items there, a giant teddy bear, a sack of I know not what. Of course it was the police who were reported in the minimal media coverage the next day to have ‘cleaned’ the square, and had we not been so thorough it would no doubt have been the protesters at fault for littering but there have probably been worse misrepresentations of direct action groups in the press.
 
I don’t know how long those who did choose to lock on to tents and gazebos managed to stay put but I guess not long. Temporary structures don’t afford much anchorage. Eventually curtailed by my exhaustion and a looming 11:30 curfew at the Quaker Meeting House, I left the ongoing clean-up operation at Trafalgar Square wryly mindful of the signal sent by Nelson, from the HMS Victory 214 years ago and recorded at the base of the column; ‘England expects that every man will do his duty.’ I might certainly stand accused of a rather unconventional patriotism and not one to everyone’s taste but the earth of this land is in my flesh and I am proud of certain aspects of my national history; especially those that have found expression through my political ancestors who have fought generation after generation for a free and equal society. I see Extinction Rebellion as a continuation of that vision and I believe it is only in social, as well as systemic reform on a global level, that we stand any hope of facing the peril of ecological collapse. I believe I have a duty to this planet and the life on her and I believe I have an obligation to responsibly utilise the privilege that I unwittingly inherited when I was born in this country. An ideological descendant of Emmeline Pankhurst, I may well wince at the outdated gender bias of such a statement and I would reject outright any suggestion of military glorification but as I lay myself down gratefully on the floor of the meeting house that night, I certainly knew I had done my duty and felt resolved that I would continue to do so in the morning.

As I tried to get comfortable on the hard floor, hands still sore and filthy from the clear-up efforts and surrounded by the unfamiliar squeaks and snuffles of others also struggling to sleep, I reflected on why I felt so shaken by my recent experience. It wasn’t actually a perceived threat to my right to protest that I found most painful about the clearing of Trafalgar Square, nor a sense of disrespect or sacrilege to the religious groups, though I dare say they would have been justified feelings. The thing that caused my sadness more than anything else was the apparently gratuitous interruption of harmless community activities, peacefully carried out in a spirit of love, care and inclusivity for the benefit of many. The strong arm of the law, the voice of a system I believe to be powered primarily by greed and fear, snuffing out this flame of hope at the first possible opportunity. This living beacon of the way we might all live more connected and less harmful lives, denied a chance to fully shine and (call me a cynic) probably only because the Financial District had found its nose put out of joint. Yes, I might be a dreamer too but I’m not the only one either. I’m not sure I did actually dream that night but I eventually managed some broken sleep.

We talked a bit about who felt they were ‘arrestable’ and swapped numbers for solicitors considered to be experienced in protest law. We still had a couple of hours before the main action was due to take place at that point so those of us that didn’t then have to go off to work (not everyone can take two weeks off!) decided to conduct a walking meditation past Trafalgar Square and off to Millbank.

There were six of us that each wore an A2 sign bearing a photograph of the planet from space and the words ‘Grief and Love for the Earth’, walking in a line from Charing Cross station, chanting Maitreya’s mantra. I realised that there was a strand of fear running through me, just from engaging in in something so incongruous in that public place. I’m pretty confident that a large proportion of me doesn’t much mind what conclusions strangers care to draw about me or my fellows based on how we choose to display our religious convictions and yet there’s still a part that would really prefer not to stand out too much. One never knows what seemingly innocuous act might draw the wrath of another, nor how they might decide to communicate that to you. Still, I tried to keep my purpose in mind and feel into a meditative experience as we navigated amongst busy pedestrians and waited at road crossings. If nothing else, I told myself, the intention of walking through these troubled streets in awareness and love for those struggling on them, even aside from the wider planetary situation, can’t cause harm and might in itself be beneficial in a world where we're more connected than we can ever understand.

I didn’t have to endure the discomfort of public exposure for long, however. We barely made it to the south east corner of Trafalgar Square before we’d been stopped and detained, despite clearly communicating our intentions to keep moving past in a walking meditation, which had been given the go ahead by a different group of officers further up the square. We were immediately informed that we were in breach of Section 14 of the Public Order Act and as such we would now be searched for evidence that we were planning criminal damage. Thankfully the short burst of meditation must have done something for my mental states and I wasn’t feeling argumentative, else I might have pointed out that as I understood it, Section 14 of the Public Order Act actually related to assemblies, whereas this was clearly a procession and would need therefore to be a breach of Section 12 of the Public Order Act, which I didn’t believe to be in force.  I could sense an air of confusion and high stress amongst the police, however and decided that an ‘importunate nose ringed climate change protester’ telling them their job would probably only aggravate matters for all concerned. I therefore felt content to allow my two-day picnic bag to be unceremoniously rummaged through while I quite truthfully allowed it to be known that I had no ID with me, no, not even a bank card, and did not at this time choose to share my personal details though it had been nice chatting about my sandwiches, thank you. We were then informed that in order to avoid arrest, we would need to leave the square in different directions. I noted with interest that it wasn’t until that point that I actually felt particularly intimidated. Until that revelation, it had all felt fairly harmless. I once got stopped and searched for carrying a worm compost bin across Stratford Station concourse and that hadn’t resulted in any legal side effects. I was not especially surprised that we’d been told to stop chanting and wearing our placards either, though I was far from certain of the legality of that demand. Being suddenly denied the company of my friends however, felt like a whole new level of fear tactic, a deliberate alienation, a divide and conquer strategy. I see myself as a pretty independent person who is no more fazed by the streets on which she grew up than by the prospect of time alone but it’s never once occurred to me that I might be denied a choice in the matter and it seemed a disproportionate demand. We hadn’t been gluing ourselves to buildings, nor defacing monuments. The forced search of our persons and belongings should have demonstrated that we weren’t ‘going equipped’ for such acts either. We’d been engaged in a walking meditation, whilst chanting a peaceful mantra and wearing signs expressing an ideal of love.

My new found isolation didn’t last any longer than our ill-fated meditation and one of my friends drew silently alongside me as I crossed a road. Via a farcical scene involving veiled gestures, feigned absorption in text message conversations and a studious appraisal of the local bus timetable, we managed to each catch sight of one another and re assemble in, horror of horrors, an international public toilet chain that frequently tries to sell rapidly prepared food-like substances to users of its service. Someone bought a couple of limp, oily hash browns to justify our presence there which is frankly more than I’d have done but perhaps that was only fair to the establishments workers. Of course, the premises was itself full of police, but not the ones who’d separated us, so we seemed relatively safe, if unsettled, in our reunion.

We were all a bit rattled and slightly spooked but found some comfort in sharing those feelings and soon agreed that what we really needed to do now was to find a spot where we could actually do some meditation practice as much for our own wellbeing as anyone else’s. We set off in pairs to avoid detection and reconvened under a tree in St James’ Park, where we decided to ritually transfer our merits for the benefit of all beings before a twenty minute sit. We’d then hear a reading of the Shambala Warrior Mind Training before heading back out to various activities; work for some, further direct action for others.  As we settled to this, one of the group warned that our circle was being approached by police so we continued reciting the Transference of Merit with trepidation. We must have appeared less threatening on closer inspection however, and we were left in peace to our much needed meditation.

Allowing my attention to rest in the soothing sound of wind in the leaves above us and the sensations of the breeze on my face for some time was indeed nourishing and I could feel a calmness return to me that had been steadily compromised over the course of the morning. The words of the reading drifting into my awareness then galvanised me and reminded me of my purpose. ‘Do not set your heart on particular results.’ They coached. ‘Enjoy positive action for its own sake and rest confident that it will bear fruit.’ Those sentiments were moving enough in themselves but there was one line in particular that stirred a tear to begin its own procession down my cheek. ‘When forces of power seek to isolate us from each other, reach out with joy.’ We ended our meditation, shared a few snacks and went back out into the city in different configurations of two to continue our quiet but deliberate attempts to peacefully affect positive, global change for the benefit of all life on Earth.

Police were already present and a crowd watched anxiously from the kerb. My friend was keen to join them in solidarity but I didn’t feel sure how much that would help so I elected to show support by shouting messages of thanks and love to them instead. I was glad for her own safety that she’d not actually joined them when we watched moments later as they were hoisted each under an armpit and dragged roughly to the pavement. With a legal observer soon in attendance and several other people offering to stay with them, we continued instead towards Lambeth Bridge where we bumped into two more of our group.

Our friends had heard of an impromptu midday flash mob cum protest at Trafalgar Square in defiance of the move by the Met Police to ban all Extinction Rebellion demonstrations in London and we agreed from our experiences that morning it was something we would be keen to add our voices to.  We didn’t have long to get there as it was only a few minutes to twelve so we charged off down the way we came and back past the two activists still slumped uncomfortably on the opposite pavement. It can’t have been more than a hundred yards further up the road that we encountered a similar roadblock. Two men, locked on to one another and sprawled awkwardly over a wheeled suitcase in the middle of a pedestrian crossing. One was loudly and calmly shouting details and sources of recent scientifically accepted findings on the causes and impact of climate change. There was a ring of police around them and an outer circle of concerned or at least curious passers-by. One of our friends who had that morning announced himself to be arrestable took the decision that this was his moment to make that statement. He handed his bag to the rest of us for safe keeping and calmly stepped through the ring of police who were apparently there to contain the activists who clearly had no intention of going anywhere anyway. With clarity and deliberation, my friend drew his kesa from his pocket (an ordained member of the Triratna Buddhist Movement wears an embroidered strip of cloth called a kesa about their neck to symbolise robes during order gatherings and ritualised practice) and sat in the road beside the lock on.

It’s funny to think, given how distracted my mind can be for an hour in a silent shrine room, how quickly I found myself in a remarkably deep meditation. When I cast back to that moment now, trying to choose the words to best communicate the experience, I can’t even seem to find a memory of the familiar, narrow band of awareness I’m in the habit of referring to as my mind. There was a breeze. There was a solidity of tarmac. There were sounds of voices and distant traffic and police radios. Beyond those things that more readily lend themselves to description, I recall a depth and a breadth of experience that wave diaphanously at me across a shadow line of what can be articulated. I was aware of the life around me, all the beings, human and other, myself and friends included, who wanted no more than happiness and security and could yet achieve nothing but a deeper entanglement in the various chains of misery that bind us. Climate protesters, city workers, bus drivers, police officers, anxious parents, rough sleepers, café tenders, Members of Parliament, social scientists, urban bluebottles, feral pigeons, all on a level playing field of fragility and suffering. And that’s just the way it was. That’s just the way conditioned existence would always be. I found my mind moving then to the comforting familiarity of language and silently recited the Heart Sutra to myself, which I often find deeply calming. Soon enough but without consciously seeking it, I felt myself to be in the presence of the Bodhisattva Green Tara. I was aware of her seed syllable gently turning at my heart and a profusion of rainbow coloured light beams emanating from it, seeking to soothe and heal all they fell upon.

I had no inner sense of how long I was there for and I’d say it was one of those moments where conventional time seems meaningless but in thinking back I now estimate that we can’t have been there more than perhaps five minutes. I became aware of my friend beside me starting the Padmasambhava mantra, a deeply beautiful sound of steadiness and strength. I hadn’t the chance to join the mantra for even a full recitation before a new sense impression crossed my consciousness. I was for the second time that day being formally notified that my meditation was in breach of Section 14 of the Public Order Act. The voice continued to inform me that unless I moved immediately, I would be arrested, which would in turn jeopardise my future career and travel prospects as well as result in court fines and charges. The owner of the voice had clearly misjudged what I might find threatening for I was not perturbed by the risk of difficulty finding employment in a system I have already chosen to unsubscribe from as far as I can, nor was I concerned about a further reduction of my freedom to roam a globe that is scarcely open in its borders as it stands. As I listened to the voice edging syllable by syllable closer to the point at which my freedom would be temporarily denied me, I became aware that I was listening from a place of uncommon clarity and fearlessness. I did not feel afraid. I was not physically in danger or at risk from the bureaucratic process my arrest would initiate. I could have chosen at that time to join the ranks of those facing arrest to make a point about the imminent threat to life on this planet, and I could have done so at little personal cost. There’s one place in my life though, where I could see the potential for negative repercussions and that was back at home, in the Taraloka community. That’s not to say I didn’t think I’d be out of the cells in time to catch my train home and return to work in the retreat centre the next day. I didn’t even imagine it would be impossible to negotiate the days I might need for a court hearing. If I was charged, I believed I would be able to cover what I anticipated would be a small fine without needing financial support from the community. But I could see it would have deeper repercussions than that and I didn’t feel sure I was in a position to know what all of those would be. I had left home the day before clearly reassuring people that I did not plan to be arrested and going against that now would be a direct breach of a trust I honoured. It might also appear to question the extent to which I prioritise and value the world-changing work of Taraloka above any other activity I choose to align myself with. I didn’t know, but it could even threaten the integrity of Taraloka herself. What benefit I might achieve by allowing myself to be arrested at that point did not warrant the potential harm I might cause my community in doing so. Difficult as it was for me to leave my XR Buddhist fellows, I had made it clear to them that morning that Taraloka was my priority and this was the point at which I was required to stand by my assertion of that primary commitment.

Again, I’d be unable to guess how many seconds it took me to internally churn out that thought process but it was thankfully quicker than the spiel that was being outwardly directed at me. I continued chanting but opened my eyes, slowly stood and bowed deliberately towards those still engaged in the road block before stepping out of the gutter and back onto the pavement, honestly believing that my retreat would be enough. The voice continued to advise me that I would now need to ‘turn my back and walk away’ to avoid arrest. Turn my back on my friends. Turn my back on my beliefs. Turn my back and walk away from my right to speak my truth. Be a deserter. Be a coward in the face of oppression. My inner teenage rebel stormed in the depths but I met her with further words from the morning reading. ‘When you see weapons of hate, disarm them with love.’ I turned to make eye contact with the owner of the voice. I allowed myself to take in their mottled greyness and looked beyond the lines of historic pain and laughter that fringed them. I allowed the police uniform to fall away from my awareness until I was looking directly and compassionately at the human being beneath. I allowed myself to become equally liberated of assumptions and stereotypes and to stand once more on the level playing field of fragility and suffering that I’d not long left behind. ‘Sit with hatred until you feel the fear beneath it. Sit with fear until you feel the compassion beneath that.’ I stopped chanting and held out my hand. Confusion and uncertainty passed across the eyes I still held in my gaze but eventually the response came. We shook hands. ‘Thank you.’ I said before once more folding my hands at my chest and walking alone down Horseferry Road, continuing to chant the Padmasambhava mantra with not the least thought to the judgements of the public bustling about me.

At the next junction, and when I believed myself to be free from the risk of arrest, I crossed over and went back towards the roadblock on the opposite side of the road. I could see my friend had by then been moved away from the crowd and was in the process of being arrested. I could see my other two friends who I’d been sat with now standing slightly back from the kerb in something of a huddle but I couldn’t see any more than that easily and didn’t want to be too obvious so I carried on past and bought a cup of tea in our pre-arranged rendezvous café. It was about twenty past twelve by that time and I felt quite ready to sit down and do nothing for a bit. I waited until gone one before walking back past the roadblock. It was still in place but I could see no one I knew. Assuming the worst and realising I was by then quite hungry, I sat on the riverfront in Victoria Tower Gardens and disconsolately ate a day old sandwich. I felt strangely alone, slightly traumatised and very vulnerable. I decided to head towards Vauxhall, where I believed there was still something of a camp, though I also knew most of it had been evicted, despite having had permission from the local residents association to be there.

As I walked away from town, I spotted two of the participants from my discussion group in the People’s Assembly the night before. Feeling slightly self-conscious but in need of connection, I approached them and started to explain that I’d been split from my Affinity Group. I didn’t need to say much more before I was warmly invited to hang out with them and a few others for a while in another café up the road. I was bought a cup of wonderfully strong tea that made me realise how much the first one had been lacking (that's the difference between a proper greasy spoon and a posh coffee shop!) and settled into various conversations interspersed with periods of cynically studying the ‘breaking news’ channel displayed on a flat screen above our heads. I was particularly entranced by one of the group talking about her experiences in turtle conservation in Costa Rica and how one of her five concurrent PhD papers had looked at planting GPS enabled decoy eggs in turtle nests to help conservationists trace poachers. The spell of her tales was broken by an incoming call finally confirming what I had suspected. One more of our group had indeed been arrested and was currently being held in Brixton. We didn’t know the whereabouts of the other. The friend calling me was a bit shell shocked and shaky, and having retreated to Bethnal Green to be out of town needed some time to compose herself before getting back to me later with a revised plan. It wasn’t great news but it was news at least. Having finished our drinks, those of us at the café decided to head off towards the main action on Millbank. No sooner had we arrived at the outskirts of the crowds than I joyously spotted three more XR Buddhists, sitting behind the distinctive bright green banner. By the time I had finished hugging them all I found I’d lost my temporary buddies into the crowd, though I did manage to find them later to thank them and let them know I’d reunited with my crew.

By that time, we’d got word that our intrepid comrade seeking sanctuary out in Bethnal Green had no way of paying for a sorely needed lunch, having left her bank cards with another friend in Vauxhall. We packed up the banner, said our farewells to those who remained, and three of us set off across town on a mission to feed the needy. I think we all benefitted from spending some time simply hanging out together, in a normal sort of way, as you might expect to do with friends and there was indeed something of a relief in being outside of Central London and the imagined gaze of unknown eyes. After some recuperation time just being together, we started to make a plan. We called the XR back office helpline and they managed to ascertain for us that our other friend had been taken to Acton Town police station. It would be necessary for us to go our separate ways again, but that’s a lot less difficult when you’re at liberty to say your farewells. We walked up the road to the station where one of us would be able to get the train to a safe house for the night and where her bags had been taken for her following the eviction of the Vauxhall camp. The three of us remaining also went on to our different evenings; one to some well-earned rest in her community, one to Brixton police station, and me, with our friends bag, to my mission in Acton Town.

I arrived at Acton Town police station at about 19:30 and found a fairly jolly, if somewhat sober scene. A knife amnesty bin in the waiting room had been heaped so high with various snacks and treats that its original purpose could barely even be made out and a small forest of juice bottles and flasks populated its base. A group of excited teenagers were gathered outside waiting for a friend but they were very happy to direct me to the official XR Arrestee Supporters inside. A bizarre yellow telephone like the ones you see at emergency call points on the motorway allowed me to make contact with the custody suite and establish that my friend was indeed still there so I sat down to wait. I exchanged some almonds for some walnuts with one of the XR team and we chatted a bit about our experiences. After some eager anticipation from his friends and a very proud dad, one young man was released in to their warm congratulations. Happy as I was to witness their reunion, I sadly reflected how unlike the experience of many young Londoners that would have been. I only needed to wait about ninety minutes before my own friend emerged, looking a bit dazed and very confused by all the eager volunteers springing forward to offer him snacks. He gratefully and politely refused, explaining that actually, he’d only just eaten. I stood back to ease the crowding and waited while he accepted a post-arrest advice sheet and volunteered information to one of the XR team about his arrest experience. I was glad to hear that he felt himself to have been well treated and had no complaints. I don’t think it was actually until I managed to communicate to him that I had his bag that he recognised me; we’d only met that morning and I can’t say I was surprised given the excitement in the waiting room. After making a call home to reassure people of his release we thanked the support crew and headed back towards the Underground, to travel back into town together and spend the journey sharing our experiences. All things considered, reuniting my friend with his bag and being a (vaguely) familiar face to greet him seemed to have been the best possible thing I could have done with my evening and I was equally glad to receive the news that our other friend had also been freed. We arranged to meet near Tottenham Court Road for a slightly later breakfast meeting the next day and I was back at the Quaker Meeting House just in time to use the room that was only available from ten PM. I slept much better that night.

My train home on the 16th left Euston at 11:40 so I really couldn’t risk being delayed but I was keen to make the most of my morning to support the ongoing efforts of the XR Buddhists Affinity Group if I could. There were just three of us who met the next morning, but there would be more coming for other planned actions later in the day, so our little trio contented itself with a twenty minute street meditation under a dry(ish) part of the entrance to Tottenham Court Road Underground station. I sat for as long as I felt able, trying to feel open and engaged with my meditation and the street around me, but aware of the building pressure of my imminent departure, I found it hard to concentrate. It felt only slightly strange and perhaps entirely appropriate to get up and finally leave my friends as they continued to sit in meditation on the cold, wet pavement.

I had cut it a bit fine but I caught my train and collapsed gratefully into the reassuringly predictable dullness of the long journey. I listened to some music and tried to enjoy watching the world flick past the window but I began to feel nauseous (I don’t get travel sick) and couldn’t relish the inactivity as I usually do. I allowed myself to shed a few tears and began to reflect on the nature of what I’d experienced. From our position of privilege in the global north, it’s easy to hear the words ‘Climate Emergency’ as though they’re some kind of distant rhetoric but I really did then begin to feel that yes, this is what responding to an emergency feels like. Reduced comforts, living from moment to moment, thrown together with strangers and trying to respond practically to every situation based on no more than need and capacity. Sometimes separated, isolated, alone and afraid, not being sure where the next threat will come from. Making do with only what I could carry with little choice but trusting to the outcome of my best intentions, less question of me and mine and choosing instead to think of us and ours. What have we got? What do we need? I felt so proud, grateful and humbled to witness my friends, many of them new to me, putting themselves in the line of power and making themselves afraid and vulnerable all for the love of this planet and her beings. ‘This’, I wrote in my note book ‘is our work. This is our Dharma practice. This is for the benefit of all beings.’ I know not all opinions are united behind the current debates around how to address our globally precarious position and I know not everyone has sympathy with the methods of civil disobedience Extinction Rebellion is choosing to use to try and raise awareness of our plight. I don’t believe either that it’s the only way to achieve change or that engagement with it doesn’t come with weighty responsibilities. There are a hundred other, equally direct, and less disruptive actions that we also need to take as well as to somehow find our way to a consensus on the social and economic overhauls we’ll collectively need to make in order to move forward not just as a species but as a living planet. In sharing these experiences I am not claiming ethical superiority or assuming that I preach from some kind of moral high ground. I am not trying to tell others how to lead their lives or oppress different perspectives with my privileged lifestyle choices. But I am trying to share, because I believe it is by listening to each other and by being willing to speak that we begin to understand and not fear those with different views. I believe love and understanding are perhaps the most potent tools we have as a unique and sometimes tragically powerful species. If nothing else, I’ve often been told that my writing is engaging and can give expression to the views of others who wouldn’t have felt able to articulate their thoughts themselves. So I guess that ultimately my motivation for writing this piece is in respect of another of lines in the Shambala Warrior Mind Training:
 ‘Following your heart, realise your gifts. Cultivate them with diligence to offer knowledge and skill to the world.’  
May my offering benefit many.

Last time I wrote a blog post, I was reasonably fresh back to the UK from India. I’d been there for just under 6 months as a volunteer teacher. You can read all about that adventure on my parallel blog page; Maggamouse. I knew even before I came home that I wanted to return to India. There’s so much still to do there, so much help still needed, but this is expensive. To pay for my flights, my visa, my vaccinations, my travel insurance and to cover my costs while I’m there to avoid draining the already humble resources of the organisations I want to work with will probably cost me about £3000 (25000 Rupees at current exchange rate) I knew I had some work to do with getting that cash together and began to plan all sorts of things from epic walks to Buddhist centre talks, from sponsored poetry readings to free henna art (for donations). As it was, however; when I landed, a new responsibility closer to home needed my attention and I went to live as a carer to my elderly great uncle in Essex. This took pretty much all my time and energy so my fund raising went on the back burner. This story came to an end on May 23rd when my family and I said goodbye to him at Southend Crematory. Sad as this was, I remain grateful that I was able to do what I could to make his last weeks as easy and enjoyable as possible, as well as for the merciful fact that he was spared suffering a long drawn out illness.

I read that and I realised how appropriate those words were and how true they remain. I remembered that there are so many people in the world living with far, far less than I, in my privileged status as a Caucasian British national, will ever have. I remembered that you have to give up the mundane to approach the transcendental.

Well hello stranger, It’s been a while… I’ve not blogged for some time, but truth be told I’ve not had much to say. Or at least, I’ve not felt much like saying it. If you’ve been following this blog for a while (or feel inclined to scroll back a bit) you may remember that just over a year ago I made a few big changes, deciding to leave a teaching career and move from Manchester to Leigh on Sea in Essex. I’ve had a quick look through some older posts myself whilst deciding what to write and it occurs to me that when I wrote about “Winds of Change” on the 31st of May 2015 I had no idea how right I was, and goodness but they’ve been blowing ever since. It was on September the 1st of that year that I handed in my notice and set in motion a sequence of events that has brought me on a completely unpredictable and extremely challenging but incredibly worthwhile journey.

While all that was going on, perhaps especially because I was struggling to feel a sense of purpose in my new life where I was now making ends meet with bar work, I was keen to stay creative. Just before I left Manchester, I completed a new series of digital collages, developed from paintings and drawings inspired by Buddhist imagery. Titled The Impermanence Series, these were exhibited at the Manchester Buddhist Centre in November 2015, but had felt like ‘the end of the road’ for that set of work, a development of a development and with no inherent momentum to take forward.

While this was positive, it far from distracted me entirely from the gap that remained in my daily experience where teaching had once flourished. ‘So, what are you doing now!?’ people would frequently enquire with an excited enthusiasm that I felt anticipated the adventures they expected me to relate. And my heart would sink. ‘Not much.’ I’d say through gritted teeth, trying to sound nonchalant and not give away how cutting I found those queries. ‘Just some bar work for a bit… You know, enjoying not having to take my work home with me!’ Which wasn’t untrue. But it still hurt. When I was introduced by Sam Walker on Radio 5 as ‘having left teaching completely’ and ‘now working in a pub’ I could have crawled into a hole there and then. I found hearing someone else speak that truth an incredibly humiliating experience, in the truest sense of the word. I was humbled by it.

Because of these feelings, I knew my time in the pub could only be a temporary solution and that I would have to find a new path. It’s hard though, to determine a new direction on the map of life with eyes still blurred by the fatigue of your last voyage. I made a couple of half-hearted and unsuccessful applications to some arts opportunities. I did a bit of volunteering with a local community group, offering crafts workshops to disadvantaged children. I mulled over some options and found nothing that reignited any spark of genuine motivation in me. But my mind did keep returning to an inspirational talk I’d heard in October, at the Manchester Buddhist Centre. Delivered by a member of the Triratna Order, her description the work of a small charity called Young Indian Futures, at Aryaloka Computer Education Centre, a Buddhist social project in Nagpur that offers subsidised education to some of India’s poorest and most marginalised young people, gave me the fluttering of a memory of what I had once believed teaching was for.

So, it may not have felt like it at the time but it seems quite a bit has occurred in the last few months and I now realise that what has at times appeared to be a ‘wasted’ year has in fact been really very well spent. A field left fallow may appear to be wasted land, the soil untilled and dotted with weeds, but under the surface is intense and critically important activity. Organic matter is busy decomposing, being eaten and excreted by various creatures; at once a process of death and decay and yet at the same time nourishing the earth with the nutrients needed to provide the conditions for new growth, fresh shoots and flourishing, eventually to bring a new season of fruitfulness.

I remember once, during a heated ‘debate’ with a (soon-to-be-ex) boyfriend, being told with an air of distaste ‘You’ve changed!’ Well, yes I probably had and what’s more is that I’ve kept changing. A damn good thing it is too. ‘Stasis’ is not a word in the Glittermouse lexicon. I don’t know exactly what the next six months contain but I know I shall step back onto the shores of the UK as a very different person to the one that left, grateful too for this fact.

In September 2015, shortly after making the sad decision to leave teaching, I undertook some rather last minute fundraising for Teacher Support Network. Following this, I was invited to speak at their first event since reforming as Education Support Partnership; a discussion held at the Houses of Parliament on the current crisis in recruiting and retaining teachers. On World Mental Health Day in October last year, I wrote an article on my reasons for leaving the profession for ESP to publish on their blog and expected that I would simply be delivering a spoken version of this. When I found I was in fact to be one of a panel responding to questions concerning potential solutions to the problem, I felt a little overwhelmed. It’s one thing to read from a prepared text with boundaries you set yourself and entirely another to be openly debating such an intensely complex issue amongst well respected and expert professionals.

I immediately began to regret this decision when I saw the other panellists arranging their printed notes, yet still I tried to hit the salient points in response to the chairman’s introduction and found myself starting by summarising my main reason for leaving teaching. I have spent the last four months honing an uncharacteristically succinct response to questions on this from various individuals; mostly those on the other side of the bar I now pull pints at:
“I left teaching because I felt I was no longer a teacher, complicit instead in a complex form of educational fraud where I was unequipped to deliver the quality of provision I believe my students deserve.”
When I saw several heads nodding enthusiastically in response to these words I felt far more confident in elaborating on this and continued with the thoughts I have recently cultivated around the problems and solutions. Schools and colleges are required to pull out all the stops in publicly demonstrating a commitment to deliver quality provision but it is my perception that this evidencing is now valued above the quality of provision it seeks to achieve. Ticking boxes to prove that good teaching is taking place across the board in a ‘one size fits all’ approach despite the rhetoric around differentiation does not cater for individual needs and is not then the best way of empowering individual learners to be successful. It’s like tripping over your own untied shoelaces; the systems that are in place to assist delivery have become so cumbersome that they in fact undermine it. The solution begins not in funding but in liberating teachers from impotent bureaucracy and well-meaning but ultimately counter productive polices.

Staff need to know they are trusted, empowered and supported to build meaningful relationships with learners and to utilise their professional judgement to negotiate the right educational solutions on an individual level, not forced to jump through hoops to meet someone else’s misconceived ideals. We need to be permitted to really differentiate, not just fill in a ‘differentiation’ box on a pro-forma lesson plan so we can prove to the looming spectre of OFSTED that we know the difference between cognitive, psychomotor and affective learning styles.

When I say it’s not about funding, I mean I’m not asking for millions of pounds to be spent on swanky new state of the art buildings or equipment. Some of my most effective teaching has been delivered in pre fab huts or the middle of the street on study visits. I don’t need industry standard, highly expensive kit; I can teach the basics of painting with white emulsion on ripped cardboard and can explain what a pixel is using free packages that come with most standard operating systems. An interactive whiteboard can be handy but I’ve seen more spontaneous creativity spilled on to sheets of flip board paper with slightly-too-dry marker pens. The most valuable resource I need to teach well is time. I need 5 days a week to deliver a full time course, not two and a half including tutorial and Functional Skills. I need a class size that allows me to really get to know and respond to the students in front of me and I need to be part of a team with current, diverse practices who are engaged in their subject because they are being invested in and valued as the dynamic, creative individuals that they are. To back that up, I need an institution that will really listen to what I, my colleagues and my students say we need to function happily and effectively, a management system that is itself equipped to flexibly respond to the needs of each person, both staff and students. I need to be trusted to have the drive to do my job well, not mismanaged and undermined under a cloud of assumed apathy, with the wrong things constantly checked, hollowly monitored, and obsessively measured.

Let me do it my way and I’ll do it better than you ever imagined. That way, will be completely and delightfully different to my colleagues’ way of doing it. This is a good thing and this is why it’s critical that structures exist with enough flexibility to accommodate various approaches, which will also result in a far richer and more meaningful learning experience for students as they encounter and develop a full range of alternative transferable skills alongside academic or main vocational subjects.

Having been the first to speak on such issues, I was prepared for the fact that I would be stating my position before anyone else had declared theirs and was expecting a certain amount of disagreement. It was then a very affirmative experience to hear the next two speakers continue to not only agree with but expand upon my views, supporting them with considerably more experience and research!

Christine Parker, Head of Gladstone Primary School went on to discuss how she and her colleagues had achieved success through cultivating responsible freedom, collaboration, trust and mutual respect between staff and pupils. She spoke movingly about supporting teachers and including them in decision making processes, an approach which paved the way for Candy Whittome to discuss her current doctoral research using ESP data. These investigations support the working hypothesis that creative freedom for head teachers to respond locally within nationally imposed constraints was key to success. Interestingly, she also asked what cost we were prepared to commit in terms of staff wellbeing in order to achieve success for our young people.

I feel however, that we desperately need a wider social shift that allows us to value the needs of the individual learner above the needs of the college, or indeed the economy. I don’t want to teach people to be effective earners. I want to teach them to be self-confident, happy people; I can guarantee you that a majority of them will then turn out to be economically robust anyway.  I feel very fortunate that following questions from the floor, I was able to put that perspective forward as a final word for the night. I sensed that though applause at the close was inevitable, there were at least one or two more vigorous bursts of clapping in agreement with that sentiment.

Whatever your political leaning, from the discussions I enjoyed after the event and the heart warmingly supportive messages I have received since, I appear to have spoken in a way that resonated with many teachers. It’s wonderful to feel that I am far from alone but this is tinged with a deep sense of sadness that so many feel as isolated, frustrated and desperate as I did. I set off on an unplanned bike ride in September feeling that maybe I could channel these feelings in a positive direction to help others by raising funds. I hope I have been able to continue this aim by speaking out on behalf of those who have encountered and continue to work with the same challenges.

A couple of blogs ago, I related the fact that I was soon to be moving on from Manchester and that coincidentally, the final show of work I was exhibiting before doing so contained sketches and drawings from my new area. This was the Impermanence Series, shown as part of the Manchester Buddhist Centre's Arts and Imagination Festival show 'Touched by the Dharma'  throughout November 2015.
I use the word ‘coincidentally’ in a fairly loose way really as anyone who has followed my work particularly will be well aware that despite various tangents, application of different disciplines and materials and a fairly widely ranging visual language,

I recently had to make a rather sad but very big decision. I've never run a 'teaching' blog, but since I have always felt that my teaching and arts practices have strongly informed one another (I do, sorry, did teach art after all) this seems like the most appropriate place to explain why. It's not directly arts related but it shares a flavour...

 Put simply, I'm leaving teaching because I love teaching. The following explanation of that apparent dichotomy is a personal perspective that aims to accept as much responsibility as it delegates.

Recently I’ve no longer felt that I am a teacher. Though in college my official title is 'lecturer', my goal is the same. We could debate semantics until Geoff Petty comes home and argue that you can't 'teach' anything, just facilitate opportunities in a 'learner centred environment' but that's beside the point and the chance to do either of those would be a fine thing. A chronic misalignment between my perception of the role and what I feel equipped to deliver has caused a great deal of personal stress which ultimately resulted in illness. Trying to do a job without the necessary tools is never easy but if you’re driven enough to achieve the outcome, you’ll get by. I can’t imagine anyone goes seriously into teaching without passion, determination and a genuine interest in the development and wellbeing of others, values that fuel us to persevere, find ways around difficult situations and dig deep into reserves of energy and goodwill long beyond the expiry date of our own mental health. This is neither noble, nor in the best interests of those we support so it was with no pride that a week after finally resigning, I realised I had left it too late. I was sleeping poorly, experiencing recurring headaches, stomach cramps and an elevated resting heartrate at over twice what is normal. With chest pains, shortness of breath and tearful episodes I realised I was not well enough to professionally take a class and felt no choice but to call in sick. My GP agreed this was work related stress and when I sought treatment through CBT I was advised by the counsellor that these techniques may not work as ‘they are designed to address irrational feelings’. Not a pleasant way to feel vindicated.

Now I’ve had space, I see this has been a long time coming. In the last few Septembers, I've thought 'it's got worse than last year' before berating myself for catastrophizing and determining to buckle down, get on with it and do my best for the young people I have the privilege to meet. Facing their challenges with them, communicating my love of art and supporting them to find creativity in their own unique ways. Helping them make their own tools to write their own stories, I never expected it to be easy or gratifying. Like many teachers, I found myself sharing more mistakes than successes and representing an institution to rebel against as adolescence was battled before me. I watched potential bloom in unlikely places, relished being proven wrong and occasionally enjoyed being proven right. I expected to be constantly pushed, questioned and tested. Those challenges are all part of the deal and worth every second of tight-for-time coffee-scented staff room complaining when you harvest those glimpses of personal discovery and success.

Sometimes you’re thanked for it but that's a bonus, not a right. Parents sob when progenies 'fly the nest' but teachers experience thankless abandonment annually, watching successes launch into promising sunsets and those who have yet to find their feet sadly coast for another year. All that emotional investment poured into a future you'll never share in. That's expected too and well worth absorbing any stress to buckle down and get on with. Bit less time this year? We'll manage. Few less staff in the department? We'll cope. The planning you did to respond to that new policy now needs completely re writing in order to meet requirements of the one that's just come in and strangely mirrors the one we had before the last new one got scrapped? Sure, let's do it. Not because it noticeably benefits the students (though we’ll make it if we can) but because we can then get it out of the way and focus our energies on the stuff that does. Because that's who matters right? The students?
It was no surprise to return after the summer to an email from senior management (although I think they now call themselves the ‘Strategic Development Team’) stressing that this year “high attendance and outstanding retention is critical.” When have teachers ever not wanted classes to be so enjoyable they’re rarely missed or courses so inspiring they result in achievement? That’s the human perspective though and humans are becoming milled into statistics because for each ‘planned number’ comes a fixed sum for the college, which leaves if they do.

I’ve stopped counting the ‘motivational’ talks I’ve witnessed aiming to demonstrate the sincere concern of the institution for individual lives. Pictures of happy faces achieving, stories of triumph over adversity, celebrations of our positive impact. It’s never long though, before these give way to pie charts, bar graphs and data tables, to statistics, targets, benchmarks and suddenly all the ‘real life’ smiles dissolve into a mire of political rhetoric and institutional dogma.
I’m not naïve enough to think stretched national funding doesn’t need criteria for local distribution but equally, I’m not cynical enough to ignore the counterbalance to each aforementioned success. These are the lives we can’t help because they fall the wrong side of this cut off or fail to meet that requirement. Recently this balance is tipping and for each achievement, I’ve encountered a different young life who’s had another handful of tacks scattered under the wheels of their ambition because they simply didn’t tick the right boxes.

Those who find themselves fortunate enough to meet entry criteria that are increasingly geared to funding targets instead of individual needs aren’t unaffected by the politics either. For all the talk of ‘quality’, they get what they’re given as staff attempt to squeeze into a 15 hour week everything needed to coach them through ticking yet more boxes. Demonstrate you can tick this box and jump through these hoops then you pass. Where learning was about experimenting and evaluating mistakes, without the staff, time or physical resources this genuine process increasingly takes a back seat to its own documentation. These are the futures further compromised by classes cancelled due to lack of cover or inadequate assistance in class for learning difficulties when staff have been ‘redeployed’.

I’m not framing senior management or national government as shadowy, malevolent figures secretly conspiring to undermine future generations. I know it’s impossible to help everyone and things can never be perfect but as long as teachers, support staff, managers, governors, MPs, parents and society generally are complicit in maintaining this system then it’s never going to be better than it is. I’ve no interest in apportioning blame, nor do I seek somewhere to point my finger. I’m willing to shoulder my share of stress as long as it achieves something but I no longer know what we are achieving. The longer my colleagues and I try to function effectively in an environment that erodes our ability to teach, the more susceptible we become to symptoms of stress which impact further upon our students.

These problems are complex, but I believe a key issue is in the requirement of colleges to operate as businesses in order to minimise reliance on public finances. Priorities shift from people to targets that generate statistics to justify business plans. We use limited resources to form partnerships that invariably benefit employers more than students. As a result, we’re losing sight of our purpose. Since when was passing skills to the next generation a business opportunity that can be qualified in a spreadsheet? When was the human mind commodified? I don’t pretend to have answers that will drive out through the classroom into the wider socio-economic and political worlds to solve public sector financing and indiscriminately rescue every troubled teen or anguished adult learner but I do believe we must be the change we want for the world, which is why I’ve stuck with teaching for as long as I have. This year though, I no longer believe I can change the system from inside; I don’t have the resources to be a good teacher and the only way I know to address this is to get out.

Feelings of professional inadequacy have now given way to a whole host of others around my poor mental health. Shame and humiliation before colleagues and students that I apparently ‘can’t cope’. Resentment that we’re silently expected to operate in unacceptable conditions. Relief that I made the decision to leave before I became ill, but anxiety that I might now appear to have 'gone sick' for reasons of laziness. Frustration that I’ve had to take responsibility; it’s me that’s sick, me that’s not managing. Scared of what it will mean for my future. Beyond these emotions however, one stands out; sadness. I felt grief in reaching the point where I decided to leave teaching but now I’m additionally bereft of what I’d planned as a positive last term.

Having taken a laid back and flexible approach to producing work for The Serenity Series, (as would only be appropriate for the subject matter!) I didn’t set out with a goal in terms of how many pieces I expected to produce. 

I’m not yet certain where these new sketches will take me though I’ve titled the book ‘Everything is Changing’ and I’ve enjoyed their creation so far, which can only be a good sign! I’ve now added some them to the Sketchbook pages of this site and have recently published two new poems, (linked below and also on the More Words of Mouse page) which instead engage with the concept of impermanence from a literary perspective. 
In writing this update, I have also just noticed the title of my last posting; how right I was!