Personal Responsibility

I'd been meaning to catch him all day. We'd taken a break for lunch and I'd spent a while trying to negotiate my way around the dining hall towards him, watching the other students hover around him like wasps on a jam sandwich. He was a older man who had presence, and was well known within the Spiritualist circles. He had demonstrated his mediumship abilities and taught healing to students for years. At that time, I'd only been practising mediumship a couple of years, sitting in my local Spiritualist Church every Tuesday night, trying to see colours and 'feel' other people's energies. I was twenty years old.

Closing the door behind me, I stepped into the green of the small courtyard gardens, taking some fresh air and a deserved break from the heady workshop. Among the flowers and carefully slabbed paving stones, he was sat on one of the stone benches. For the first time that day, I saw that he had nobody around him.

"Sorry to interrupt, but do you have a second?" I asked, a little nervously, edging towards him.

"Of course." He said, smiling warmly at me. "Are you enjoying the course?" He shifted up on the stone bench to let me sit down.

"Yes, it's great. I had a question I wanted to ask you, though." I paused, thinking about how to put the question without sounding too crazy. "Well, in the last year I've been starting to see energies much more clearly, and I feel that it's all coming quite naturally to me, if you know what I mean. Sometimes, I feel them about me quite strongly, it's almost like I'm buzzing. I find it hard to just switch off from being that way, y'know? I'm often lying in bed, trying to sleep, and all I can see when I close my eyes are colours and faces that pop in and out of my mind, a bit like a flicker book. Don't get me wrong, it's intriguing, it's just not great when I want to fall asleep."

I quickly scanned his face, looking for signs of disinterest or amusement. But he was listening, so I went ahead and asked the question, leaning in a little as if I was telling a secret.

"I just wondered... Well, my question was, how do you turn it off?"

He took a deep breath, and exhaled, in a manner that suggested I was asking possibly one of the most complex questions to answer in the whole wide world. Then he said something that surprised me, and made me feel uneasy.

"You are very open to energy, especially for someone so young. And because you're young, you still need to learn control. You see, at your age, you need to be focusing on other more..."

He paused and crossed his arms pointedly, seemingly trying to fish the right word from a very large pool of wrong ones. His face contorted into slightly grotesque shapes as he moved his lips expressively, lengthening each syllable.

"more...important things, like getting married and having children. My suggestion is, we shut you down completely, and then in twenty years or so, after you've done everything you should be doing when you're young, you can open up again and practise your mediumship. You know, it's an ability that never goes away, you'll just be far more controlled when you're older."

He sniffed. He seemed satisfied with his response.

I stared at him, my mouth open and my cheeks flushing pink. I thanked him politely for his advice and turned and walked swiftly from the garden. His words etched deeply into my thoughts as I began to trace them over and over. 

Married and children... Shut me down?... Completely?... What was I, some sort of computer? 

Whilst that young, free and indignant side of me shunned his dusty opinion, in that brief conversation, I felt my confidence shatter slightly, which only nudged my sense of right and wrong into clearer view.

----

A while back, a friend of mine opened her new shop in Richmond called Inside Out Retreats. Inside Out Retreats is an urban retreat centre promoting good health and harmony of spirit and I decided to take a trip there just before Christmas. Which is how I found myself sat in a warm, beautiful space, with a cup of peppermint tea and the opportunity to talk with like-minded people on a Saturday afternoon. All kinds of people were chatting and as I walked through the rooms and drifted in and out of conversations about super foods, creative expression and empowerment techniques, I felt a long way from the hustle of Richmond's bustling Christmas shoppers. I took a sip of my tea and swirled the teabag around in my mug, enjoying the lovely atmosphere, when I noticed a lady sit down opposite me. I smiled at her and nodded.

"Hello!" She said brightly. We chatted for a moment, before she leant forward and asked me a question. The one question that always gets me slightly hot under the collar on how to answer it.

"And what do you do?"

I hesitated, reluctant as always to label myself with my job. But given we were in a place promoting harmony of spirit I was doubtful that she had much interest in me being a receptionist. I decided at once that the question leant more to 'what are you into?' (of the spiritual variety), but it hardly calmed me any more than the last question had. Over the years I'd come to realise that there was a definite art to working out who I could admit my interest in mediumship to, as in the past I had discovered that not everyone agrees with mediumship and some just plain don't accept it.

'Tarot cards, psychics and mediums are all of the occult.' My Religious Studies teacher from secondary school had warned me, after I'd sought out her opinion as someone who I knew was a good, Church-going Christian.

'So, if I was interested in finding out more, I'd be going against the Bible?' I'd asked cautiously, rather hoping not to be.

'I'm afraid so.' She had replied. I remember worrying about that for a very long time.

Elizabeth thinks she can talk to ghosts - the report had stated, in hard, printed letters. It continued: I therefore put into question how stable she is mentally. Also I wonder what kind of influence she might be on my other children. 

I swallowed, hardly daring to believe what my own father had written about me to Social Services. I wondered if it was what he truly believed about me, or whether it was a new low in the seemingly endless acrimonious divorce battle against my mother.

"Is he joking, Mum?" I asked my mother who leant silently against the kitchen table. She looked tired and fraught, as anyone who had had their parenting ability unfairly questioned might look. He wasn't joking, and neither was I- after spending an hour and a half on the telephone, justifying both my beliefs and how I was in fact very normal to a rather sceptical social worker.

It seemed that whilst I was proud of the abilities I'd developed over the years through the many books on the subject I'd read, the workshops and courses I'd attended and the evenings spent in group meditation, I'd also developed a bit of a fear about admitting it to anyone. A fear that niggled inside me, whispering cruelly that I was too young and inexperienced to be a medium. It liked to remind me that people might be horrified if I told them, or worse, they might use the fact that I believe, against me. 

Remembering suddenly that I had been asked a question, I pushed my fear deep down, straightened my back and hoped that my eyes hadn't been staring at the fairy lights decorating the bookcase too long. I looked at the lady sitting opposite me on the sofa, only deciding at the very last second what I was going to say. She had a kind face.

"I do mediumship. I know I look quite young, but I've done it for almost seven years now." I laughed, nervously. 

"You don't need to apologise! That's great." She said, smiling at me.

The bell on the front door rang as I left the warm, open space of Inside Out Retreats. The lady I'd spoken to hadn't seemed remotely shocked that I was a twenty-six year old medium. In fact, quite the opposite; she had asked me for my business card.

I walked slowly, but with purpose towards the station. Around me, Saturday shoppers darted in and out of the crowd, distracted by bright lights and the ever looming closing time. Little did they know that the girl they were dodging in the grey duffel coat and converse trainers, was having an epiphany.

Age means nothing at all... Nobody can tell anything about you based upon just your age. It's a number, not an explanation. Your thoughts and personal experience shape you into being exactly who you were meant to be.

I thought about the eight-year-olds I have met who have the sense and maturity of eighty years spent on this planet, and similarly recalled a few eighty year olds who I'd seen stomp their foot and throw a tantrum as if they were eight years old. I concluded, quite pleased with myself, that only I can decide what I can possibly be and it is my responsibility to prove it to the rest of the world.

cited

Spirit Saturday

The Saturday before last, I behaved like many people suppose a twenty-five year old should. I spent two hours getting ready; painting my nails a metallic grey, choosing some wet-look leggings, picked a black vest top, ironed my luminous yellow cardigan and lined up my black patent shoes (with a luminous yellow heel, nonetheless) by the back door. It was Liam's birthday night out, and we were heading for Brixton. We popped open the champagne I'd been given from work for Christmas, and I thought about changing my outfit about three times before he finally dragged me out the door, the bottle left empty on the coffee table amongst the entire contents of my make-up bag. I started with a pint of lager, thinking 'beer before wine is fine - wine after beer is queer...' and all that. I was hoping the champagne didn't count.

Well, it did. And so I ended up at 3am in MacDonald's in Brixton, threatened to be kicked out by the security guard, for possession of a bottle of wine (which wasn't even mine). Really.


This Saturday night just gone, I didn't behave remotely how people suppose a twenty-five year old might. I pulled on my thick woolly socks and my comfy brown leather boots. I turned off the heating in my flat, and switched all the lights off (except one, which I left on for the cat), and locked the door behind me. It was really blowy outside, and colder than I'd expected, so I buttoned my coat up and walked quicker to keep warm. Two buses, and one missed bus later, I reached the brick alley way which turned right off the main road. The first time I'd come, I hadn't noticed the painted sign above the alleyway, which read Spiritualist Church in faded italic lettering. I looked at my phone, and realised I was half an hour early. Well, I suppose it made up for the last time. I'd got lost, and frustrated with walking up and down the road counting door numbers without my glasses on, I was ready at this point to turn around and come home. By the time I'd realised my destination was through the painted arched blue door down the alley, I was ten minutes late and spend another five hovered at the entrance, unsure whether I was just that little too late to walk in and sit down.
This time, I thought, I was so early, they may not even be open yet. But I took hold of the large hooped metal door handle, pushed, and the door creaked open slowly.


"Hello?" I called out.


"Yes, 'ello. Come in." Came the voice from inside.


I'd walked into a make-shift porch, which was really a part of the room sectioned off with a heavy navy curtain.
Blimey, who'd said that?
But I'd never heard a spirit talk in a Jamaican accent before, so I thought I would be safe to pull aside the curtain. A little old lady, in her coat, hat, scarf and a blanket on her knees was sitting in the far corner of the room, doing a crossword from the paper.


"Come in, lovey - take a seat." She said, lifting her newspaper my way in a gesture of acknowledgement.


I smiled and nodded, making my way past the rows of plastic chairs (the kind you see in doctor's waiting rooms), choosing one with a pink cushion, and sitting down.
Being early, it gave me good time to take in my surroundings. It was a large room, with windows set up high all around the four walls. I took my coat off, and immediately wished I hadn't - it was obviously hard to heat a room this size. It had high ceilings which made the room look bigger, which was lucky, since much of the floor was occupied with furniture of some kind, spread higglety-piggelty all around the room. A coffee table which looked like it hadn't been moved since the 1960's, a mahogany bookcase with different coloured leaflets scattered among it's shelves and a beautiful Victorian arm chair next to a fairly modern desk - which would have looked at home more in an office.
In the centre of the room, to which all the chairs faced, was a platform. Now, I guess that's where the Medium will stand to demonstrate. It was cluttered, but cared for, bursting with baskets of flowers, and bowls of fruit. It took me a few minutes, even with my glasses on, to realise that they weren't actually real. In fact, looking around the room, I suddenly noticed many more vases of artificial flowers - irises, lilies, poppies, carnations - and even though they weren't real, I felt someone had thought about them, the sentiment was there.
As the clock on the wall made it's way to a quarter past the hour, more people walked in from behind the navy blue curtain. There was a room to the left, which I'd decided was probably the kitchen. As if to prove me right, I suddenly heard the clink of glasses and a lady strode through the door carrying a tray of small glass tumblers and a jug of water, placing it carefully on the table which was to the front of the platform.


You'll always spot the Medium in a Spiritualist Church. They're the one dressed up in a suit, or in similar smart attire, looking unlike anyone else in the room. I was told once it was so they looked presentable; dressed suitably for public speaking. 'Gives a professional image', my teacher had said. And there he was, his expensive looking suit contrasting spectacularly to the room he was demonstrating in.
If you've never been to see a demonstration of mediumship, or indeed, a Spiritualist church, I could completely understand you feeling the way I first felt, sat nervously at nineteen, right at the back of the room about to see my first demonstration of mediumship and wondering what on earth I might be about to witness.
I remember thinking at the time:


So, this bloke thinks he can talk to dead people.
And he thinks he can prove it.
Oh, come on...
Why is he wearing a suit?
Actually, please don't make me see any actually dead people...
Well, at least I'm sat near the door - just in case I need to run. 


But I didn't need to run. There were no spinning heads, apparitions or ectoplasm floating through the air towards me from the platform where the medium that night stood. I wanted him to be a fake. I would have left, satisfied, with my inquisitive mind put to rest that it was all a load of rubbish. But he seemed just like a normal bloke standing on a sort-of stage in front of a group of strangers. He had no crystal balls or tricks of the light as far as I could see. It was as if invisible information was being streamed into his ear, and out through his mouth.
He described events in great detail, spoke of memorable dates and brought to life images of people who he claimed had passed away. The descriptions he used weren't the ones you'd expect, there was less of the; "Hm. I've got an old lady with grey hair, here. She liked cooking..." And more of the real-life random specifics you might expect if you'd spoken to each different member of the audience in depth, and found out about their personal family history. Such as; "The car accident in Australia involving that red truck." Or perhaps, "There's a gold pocket watch of your grandfather's, kept in the top right-hand draw of that dark, wooden desk."
He chose people in the audience to talk to, and promptly made them nod, gasp, then whisper to their neighbour about the finer details - and a lot of the time they would cry. It seemed as if everything he said, really meant something to those people. But to me, it seemed ever so subjective. So my mind remained still just that little bit wondering, but quite rightly, skeptical.
After about half an hour of sitting on those plastic chairs in Clapham, my bum had started to go numb. I was chilly, so placed my coat over my lap and tucked my hands between my knees. My mind started wandering. The Medium was spending quite a while on each message, and, I'd noted, was rather good at reeling off the names of the apparent deceased. All very well, I thought, but who doesn't know a James, Shirley, Mary or William? I wasn't hugely convinced. I had started focusing on the way his eyes darted about, and the way he expressed himself with his hands - the things you notice, when you're drifting. When I heard him speak somewhere distantly from the back of my mind:


"She was the kind of woman who'd never give up, she was really determined, and even though she was sick, she didn't want anyone to think she was weak..."


I looked up. He was talking openly, and to no one in particular. He carried on.


"She would have had problems with walking. I see her using a stick, then feel later on she would have used a wheelchair. But where her body deteriorated, her mind was very sharp - right up until the end - which would have made her feel very frustrated..."


By now, I was listening carefully. The description resonated with me. Grandma was just like that before she passed.


"Can anyone understand this description?" He asked out.


Where I had begun to slouch in the chair, I shuffled up a bit so I could see him properly. I looked behind me and all around the room before finally accepting that no one else could take what he was saying, then I very slowly raised my hand. His eyes flicked in my direction and he smiled, but his poise remained still. Focused, it seemed, upon the invisible information being streamed into his ear.


"I'm getting the impression..."


He paused.
His hand went to his throat, and he clutched it, as though in pain for a moment.


"...That this woman couldn't swallow - or she couldn't speak. There was a problem with her throat."


I nearly fell off my chair completely.


"Yes - both. She couldn't swallow or speak towards the end." I whispered, my voice unusually quiet.


I didn't tell him, or anyone else just how accurate this invisible information he had received, was. You see my Grandma died of Motor-Neurone disease at seventy one. A disease which left her with an increased loss of mobility in her limbs, stopped her speech, and left her unable to swallow or really breathe. She was a sharp woman, who was proactive in life and to describe her as determined hardly hits it... but it seemed that this man might just have. It was subjective information, that was for sure. No other person in the room other than myself could understand what he'd said. The description fit my Grandma perfectly. But could what he'd said be a coincidence or a lucky guess? I would be left wondering as usual. But deep down, instinctively, I believed it to be true.

The demonstration came to a close and teas and coffees were offered, and I was finally relieved of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, which had started to dig into my back, only to be placed upon a wobbly wooden one in the kitchen.
The chatter got louder in the little tiled kitchen which contrasted from the one voice that had spoken aloud all evening. Strangers huddled around the table helping themselves to bourbon biscuits from a Christmas tin, beginning to get to know each other better. I knew I'd have to leave soon. It was a friendly atmosphere and I could well have stayed for another mug of coffee, but it was already 9:30pm and the prospect of taking two buses home on a Saturday evening loomed over me. I just knew I'd end up sharing a seat with a rowdy drunk on a boozy night out in Clapham, if I didn't leave now. The Medium was propped up in the corner, in his suit, sipping his tea. I walked over to the sink and tipped the dregs of my coffee away then rinsed the mug in the bowl of soapy water. I took one of the faded flowery tea towels which hung on three tiny hooks, dried off the mug and placed it on the full-to-the-brim draining board, hoping I hadn't overstepped the mark by washing up my own mug in someone else's kitchen.

There were plenty of you-must-come-again's and lovely-to-meet-you's and I assured them I'd had a lovely time, and thanked the quiet lady in the corner for my coffee. As I pushed the heavy wooden front door hard, and stepped out into the dark cobbled alleyway, I could still hear the babble coming from the kitchen, but much fainter now, and the light shone onto the cobbles from the mottled glass windows of the church, making me feel safer as I made my way back to the main road.

I stood by the bus stop and carefully rolled up a cigarette before lighting it, all the time keeping one eye on the red lights on the screen to see how long the 219 bus to Clapham Junction would be.

No, it definitely wasn't a normal Saturday night out. But I wouldn't say I was a completely normal twenty-five year old, either.