Gum on My Shoe: January 2025

Wednesday, 15 January 2025

Making the Dream Work: Why Workplace Recognition Matters

Teamwork makes the dream work.
— John Maxwell
You can design and create, and build the most wonderful place in the world. But it takes people to make the dream a reality.
— Walt Disney

This was inspired by a recent social media post congratulating a dear friend of mine for being commended Veterinary Nurse of the Year at her place of work. I couldn’t be happier for her. Louise and I have been friends since 2019 and she’s one of the most fun, caring, and genuine people I’ve ever met. It was a delight to see how many of her friends and colleagues feel the way I do about her. As I commented on the post, “I have tears in my eyes reading this, Louise! Congratulations! So so happy you exist!” She’ll be a touch embarrassed to read this further tribute to her existence, but I’m confident she’ll forgive me. (Love you, Lou!)

It reminded me of a success of my own. A few months ago the team I’m part of was recognised with an award for working so well together. The following is excerpted from the announcement on our regular all colleague call.

And the winner of the Dream Team award is the [xxxx] team. Well done indeed! The team demonstrates the essence of teamwork, which is required in this fast-paced environment, supporting [things] 24/7 through strong collaboration. They’ve got some people with thirty years of experience, some new starters who’ve fitted in perfectly and brought their enthusiasm and new ideas.

As one of those with over thirty years’ experience, I tend to be cynical of workplace commendations. They can be an easy way of “rewarding” people without paying them any more money or improving their working conditions in practical ways. As I described last November, the official recognition of my three decades of continuous employment left me less moved than I might have been, although the flowers were appreciated. I likewise groan a little inside at the corporate “Wonder Wall” where you can post a short message of thanks or recognition for a colleague.

This felt different, though. I think that’s because it recognised publically what we already felt within the team. We get along brilliantly, adapting to the shifting demands of the job with enthusiasm (mostly!) and a sincere desire to do the very best we can. We congratulate each other, simply and spontaneously, when one of us does something a little extra or impressive, and are generous with our thanks when someone takes on a task they wouldn’t normally do to share the workload more evenly.

The difference in our ages, work and life experience is a bonus. We bring our respective strengths and talents to the table, keen to share and support one another. As the award announcement recognised, “It’s common to see them gathered around somebody’s desk learning from each other and troubleshooting. And all this is sharing knowledge, sharing learning, [supporting] each other’s and the team’s personal growth.”

Our teamwork extends beyond the work itself. It’s not uncommon to find us sharing what’s going on in our lives outside the office, listening and supporting each another on a personal level. That kind of vulnerability speaks to the degree of trust that exists between us. It’s something I value immensely.

Whether on a personal or a team level, awards such as these are no substitute for more tangible recognition, reward, and compensation. As much as I wish it were otherwise, I can’t buy groceries or pay utility bills with my Dream Team award. When they’re employed sensitively, though, they can and do make a difference. As Fran reminded me when I told her I was writing this piece, awards give colleagues and friends the opportunity to express their thanks and appreciation too. I think Louise would agree. (You may have more luck at the supermarket with your Special Recognition trophy, Lou. It’s pretty impressive!)

We didn’t get a physical trophy but I changed our Teams chat icon to a golden trophy 🏆 to remind us — and everyone else — of our success. The Dream Team award may go elsewhere next year but we’ll always know we’re the best!

Photo by Giorgio Trovato at Unsplash.

Wednesday, 8 January 2025

One Day at a Time: Celebrating 50 Years of Diary Writing

On January 1, 2025 I took up my favourite fountain pen and began my diary entry, as I have done every day since January 1, 1975. That’s fifty years of daily diary writing, with no more than two or three entries missed out of 18,263. This is my tribute to the achievement. I’m grateful to Fran for suggesting it as something worthy of recognition.

How did you start?

My first diary was a Christmas gift from my parents. I think I’d been given one in previous years but the idea of writing in it every day hadn’t caught on with me. For some reason, 1975 was different. I wrote an entry on January 1 and kept going. Day after day. Month after month. Through that year. And the next. And the next. Fifty years later, here I am.

What do you write about?

That’s not easy to answer, because it’s changed a lot over time. In the early years I mostly wrote about which lessons I’d had at school that day, which teachers I fancied, and what I’d watched on TV. There wasn’t much else going on in my life worth recording. It’s just as well, really. The pocket diaries I was using only had room for a few sentences each day.

1979 was a signal year. I turned eighteen. My father died. I passed my A-level exams and my driving test, and left home for university. Even at this early stage I was selective about what made it into my diary and what didn’t. There’s no mention of the many weeks my father spent in hospital thirty miles from home, the final time I saw him, or the early morning phone call that told us he’d died in the night. There’s not a word until the day of his funeral.

Friday April 27, 1979
Had the day off school today for Dad’s cremation at Anfield Crem. Afterwards, everyone came back to ours. Val and Dave [my cousins] had the baby with them — she’s lovely. Had quite an early night.

I wrote considerably more about studying for my exams. My diary is full of which topics I was revising, practice papers, and the exams themselves. My university place was secure, but I was keen to get good grades. I wasn’t disappointed. My diary for August 15 records my grades: Maths BU, Chemistry A1, Physics A, General Studies A. “Couldn’t quite believe it! Ammy and I went into town to get my [university] grant form, then after lunch we went on our bikes to see Auntie Ed. Auntie Beb came after tea.”

The most significant thing for me that year was leaving home for university. Apart from a six month period when I was on placement in Liverpool and occasional visits, I never looked back. The boundary between my old life and the new is marked by these consecutive entries.

Tuesday September 25, 1979
Mum and I went out to the village this morning. After lunch I had a shower and did my hair. Auntie Ed, Uncle George, Uncle Norman, and Auntie Beb came to tea. Saw Rickie Lee Jones on TV.
Wednesday September 26, 1979
Off to Bradford this morning. Arrived about 1:00 and was met by some of the other students. Revis Barber Hall [my student accommodation] seems OK. Room is good, food is not bad and there seems plenty of it. Met a couple of blokes on our floor and a girl who’s doing pharmacy too.

Once I left home, it was clear I’d need more space for all I wanted to write. I bought bigger diaries and filled the pages with everything that was going on in my life. I recorded what I was doing — the lectures, lab sessions, presentations, homework, revision, and exams — but also how I was feeling, who I spent time with, and who I wanted to spend time with. New experiences. New people. Anything and everything flowed from me onto those pages. I didn’t want to write a diary. I needed to. Alongside the poetry I was writing at the time, this was how I explored and made sense of my life.

Transitioning from one diary to the next became a beloved ritual. In the final days of December, as well as recording my regular entries, I’d write a summary of the year as a whole. I’d highlight key moments and experiences, and review where I stood with important people in my life.

My diaries have always been handwritten and largely unadorned, but as the years went by I added occasional sketches. Room layouts, self-portraits, silly little drawing of friends and coworkers that even now can take me back to a specific moment in time. I’d sometimes tip in letters from friends or drafts of letters I’d sent. Despite being a keen photographer, I can think of only one photo I’ve ever included. (Hi, Dawn!)

I find I record less about how I’m feeling these days, because I process what’s going on for me in other ways. Primarily, that’s in conversation with friends and in my blogging. My diary entries are correspondingly shorter than they have been in the past, but that’s subject to change and there’ll always be things I find easier or more appropriate to explore in my journal than with other people or in a public blog post.

How much do you write?

This has varied a lot over the years. Between 1975 and 1980 my pocket week-to-a-view diaries provided only a very small box (6 x 2 cm) for each entry. I experimented with a somewhat larger diary in 1981 (9 x 10 cm day-to-a-page), before deciding a further upgrade was in order. For almost thirty years I used hardbound day-to-a-page diaries by W H Smith, moving from A5 (14.9 x 21 cm) up to A4 (21 x 29.7 cm) for many years, then back to A5 as I found I was no longer writing as much.

At the close of 2010 I was faced with a dilemma. I’d been using A5 day-to-a-page diaries for several years. This was fine but now and again I’d need to tip additional pages in. I was writing more than one A5 page each day, but not enough to warrant returning to A4. Taking a deep breath, I abandoned one-year-in-one-book diaries and moved into undated journals. Since January 1, 2011 I’ve used Moleskine Classic Notebooks (hardbound, black, ruled). At 11.5 x 18 cm they’re smaller than A5 but I can write as much or as little as I wish each day. When I reach the end of one journal I simply start another.

I’m on my thirty-eighth such journal. On average, it takes me 130 days to fill one, but that average is misleading. As the below graph shows, for the first 13 or 14 volumes I wrote around one and a half pages per day. This then increased fairly steadily over the next dozen journals until I was filling about four and a half pages per day (between February and March, 2020). Since then, I’ve become gradually less prolific, to the point where I’m currently writing around one page each day.

In general, I write more when there’s a lot going on for me or when there’s more drama, questions, opportunities, and issues to process and navigate. I fill fewer pages under calmer and less challenging circumstances. That’s not the only factor, however, and it would be naive to deduce from the numbers that my life has grown more and more sedate since 2020. There’s some truth there, but more fundamentally I’m writing less because I channel and explore things differently. Increasingly, I process things in conversations with my friends, and in my weekly blog posts here at Gum on My Shoe.

When and where do you write your diary?

I usually write my diary in the evening, but I keep it close to hand and often add to it when I’m out. This means a single day’s entry might comprise two or three separate updates, depending where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing. I record the time and location if I’m not at home. During the Covid pandemic many entries opened with “Lunchtime, Fawdon Walk bench” because I’d routinely take my diary with me on my local walks. Saturday entries almost always begin “9:30 am, Costa Kingston Park.”

When I sit to write I’m usually recording that day’s events and feelings. That might seem obvious but for a long time I routinely wrote my diary for the previous day. So, I’d sit down on a Wednesday and write up my diary for Tuesday. That gave my entries a subtly different feel, in that I was looking back on what had happened from a new day’s perpective. The main disadvantage was it was easy to forget what had happened or how I was feeling if I was unable to write for any reason. Occasionally, I’d have to catch up on several days. I think the longest I ever left it was a week. There were times I’d dread the prospect of upcoming exciting or dramatic days because I was already behind with my diary. I’d sometimes take rough notes and write them up later when I had chance.

What do you write with?

In the early days I used whatever was to hand. That was usually a ballpoint pen, although I used a pencil on occasion. When I was about seventeen I bought a fountain pen and used that every day for many years. I used gel pens for a while but eventually returned to fountain pens. My favourite is the Lamy Safari with an extra fine nib. I’ve had several in a range of colours. My current is the gorgeous violet-blackberry model. I’ve experimented with different ink colours but always come back to black. It’s simple, elegant, and classic.

Why do you still do it?

I’ve asked myself that question at various times over the past fifty years. The first reason is that after so long, writing my diary is a habit it would be hard to break. It’s part of my daily routine. A part of me. Journaling is also central to how I process and make sense of my life. This is especially true if I’m feeling low, lost, or alone. Although I use my diary less for this kind of inner work than I used to, it’s the one place I get to be as honest as I choose to be without fear of upsetting other people or exposing myself to public gaze in my blog posts.

There’s also the very real fear of stopping. The following is taken from my 2023 article Communicate or Hide? The Creative Dilemma. I’m discussing my reasons for writing in general.

If I’m honest, I write because I’m scared to stop. It often feels to me as though writing is the only thing I have that has any real meaning, value, or purpose. If I stopped writing, what would be left? At different times, I’ve thought about stopping my personal journal. I’ve certainly considered giving up blogging, or at least taking a break from it. In both cases, the very routine — daily journal entries and weekly blog posts — imposes an imperative to continue. Were I to interrupt either, I’d find it very difficult to pick up again at some later date. And so I continue, as much from fear as anything else.

There’s another aspect to this too. My diaries comprise a record of and testament to who I’ve been throughout my adult life. More than anything else they capture and evoke who I have been and who I am. This aspect has taken a greater focus this year as I’ve begun to think about end of life planning and my personal legacy.

Do you reread them?

I used to take certain volumes down from the shelf on a semi-regular basis. I rarely do so these days, but there are exceptions. I quoted extensively from my diaries in High Tide, Low Tide, the book Fran and I wrote about our mutually supportive friendship. I often reference my diary entries in my blogging, especially over the past couple of years where I’ve shared increasingly about my own life and situation. Earlier this year I revisited my diaries for 1983 and 1984 for a post about attending the Glastonbury Festival . The experience affected me deeply, leading me to explore wider aspects of what we remember and fail to remember. Being reminded of things we’d forgotten can be perilous. As I noted, “what we forget is important, too.”

Journaling allows me to release thoughts and feelings onto the page so I no longer have to carry them around with me. They can be retrieved, but there’s no imperative to do so. Opening a diary — including one’s own — is a perilous undertaking. My 1983 diary contains much more than my three-day weekend at the festival. It was one of the most intense years in my life to date, which is saying plenty. Engaging with it now is not without its challenges, as warm as most of the memories are. I’m content for some things to remain unremembered. My diaries serve their purpose even if they remain on the shelf, unread.

It was interesting to note how I still have many of the same hang-ups and insecurities I had forty years ago, though there are others I recognise I’ve grown out of or have learned to reframe.

What will happen to them?

Until this year I’d never given thought to what would happen to my diaries after I die. The question gained more traction when I began thinking about my personal legacy. I haven’t come to a decision yet. Do I want my diaries, with all the events, doubts, fears, excitements, crises, and private musings they contain, to be read by those who’ve known me partially, as we each know one another?

Our friends — how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown; a phantom, sometimes seen, often not.
― Virginia Woolf, The Waves

On the other hand, I’m not certain I want all that personal history to be lost after my death. There are established journal repositories such as The Great Diary Project which I want to check out before reaching a decision. Hopefully, I have a while in which to explore my options. In the meantime, I’ll keep adding to my journal collection. One page at a time. One day at a time.

Saturday, 4 January 2025

Our Top Posts of the Month (December 2024)

Check out our top posts for the past month. Posts are listed by the number of page views they attracted during the month, most popular first.

Our most visited pages were:

Photo by Martin Baker.

Wednesday, 1 January 2025

2024: My Year in Photos and Blog Posts

Since 2020, I’ve marked the closing of each year by sharing one photo and one blog post for each of the preceeding twelve months.

Continuing the tradition, here’s my personal look back at 2024 in photos and blog posts. I hope you’ll enjoy looking through it as much as I did putting it together.

January

This photo was taken late afternoon on my way home from a day in the office. The gentle light from the setting sun and sparse treeline evoke thoughts of endings rather than beginnings. It’s a theme that runs through the majority of my deliberations this year.

The blog post I’ve selected is The Last of the Irish Rover: A Tribute to Shane MacGowan, who died in November 2023. As I wrote, “His death has given me a great deal to think about in a number of areas, including political history, national identity, resilience, mental health, and addiction.” Before I began researching the article, my knowledge of him was pretty much limited to Fairytale of New York, a song which had taken on some specific and personal resonances in recent years. I was blown away by the raw energy and talent as I familiarised myself with MacGowan’s songs and performances over the years. I was particularly moved by the public response to his death and found myself considering my inevitable demise and legacy.

I’ve never given much thought to my death and funeral. I won’t be there, so why bother? I’ve come to realise that’s unfair to those I’ll leave behind, and have committed to addressing the basics at least. For certain, the event won’t be televised globally, as Shane MacGowan’s was. There’ll be no live band, dancing, or singing. No eulogies or readings by the likes of Nick Cave and Johnny Depp. No presidential attendees. My name and memory won’t be toasted in pubs and bars around the world. But what kind of legacy would I like? What do I deserve?

True to my stated intent, I’ve spend considerable time and energy this year on end of life planning. No elegy by Nick Cave or Johnny Depp, perhaps, but I’ve drafted my obituary and put a lot of thought into how I’d like to be commemorated. There’s plenty yet to do (and hopefully plenty of time to do it) but I’ve made a start.

February

I’m proud of this photograph! It was taken as a grab shot on my way into the office early on Valentine’s Day. It’s one of those “lucky” images which become archetypal, emblematic of a mood or feeling beyond the captured moment itself. As they say, a picture can speak more eloquently than a thousand words.

In How Do I Feel? I discussed alexithymia, a condition I’d lived with all my life without realising it had a name. Also called emotional blindness, alexithymia is characterized by significant challenges in recognizing, expressing, and describing one’s emotions. I explored its impact on my life further in How Do I Feel Now? Living with Alexithymia. Check it out if, like me, you ever find yourself struggling to put your feelings into words.

March

This t-shirt with its quotation from The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus was a birthday gift to myself. The photo was taken when I wore it into the office for the first time. I must say, I thought it might evoke more comment or questions than it did! I wrote about Camus’ Absurdist philosophy late in 2023 and it continues to inform my thinking and perspective on life. The quotation reminds me that the only purpose or meaning worth having are found in the messy business of living. “The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

Speaking of happiness, in I Don’t Know You but Thanks: Ten Content Creators Who Make Me Happy I shared creators whose work I enjoy. I don’t know any of them personally, but one way or another they mean a lot to me. The ten I chose to highlight are Elyse Myers, Mentour Pilot, 74 Gear, Len Pennie, Grey St Opticians, Abraham Piper, Dad Joke Guys, Jason Ladanye, The Pior Family, and Tom Scott.

April

This photo makes me smile! It was taken in heavy drizzle on Holy Island (Lindisfarne) in Northumberland. It was the first time I’d visited the island since 2019 and it felt great to be back. I walked on the shore and climbed to the former Coastguard observation tower on the Heugh, which is open to the public. Despite the weather, it afforded excellent views of the island and mainland. Cosy drinks and good conversation followed at Pilgrims Coffee House before the drive home.

The blog post I’ve chosen for April is Why Are You Here? Thoughts Inspired by “The Cafe on the Edge of the World”. Fran gifted me a copy of the book for my birthday and we read it together. The following is quoted from the back cover blurb.

In a small cafe at a location so remote it stands in the middle of nowhere, John — a man in a hurry — is at a crossroads. Intent only on refueling before moving along on his road trip, he finds sustenance of an entirely different kind. In addition to the specials of the day, the cafe lists three questions all diners are encouraged to consider:
Why are you here?
Do you fear death?
Are you fulfilled?

I enjoyed the book, though I found little that resonated with my perspective on life. As I wrote in my blog post, “I no longer believe — if I ever truly did — in an ultimate Purpose for Existing for any of us. The very idea is absurd to me, in the sense of the absurdist philosophy of Albert Camus. [...] The universe exists, and we exist within it, devoid of meaning or purpose. And yet, undoubtedly, we are driven to seek both. Books such as The Cafe on the Edge of the World pander to this existential ache without addressing its futility.”

May

This photo was taken in the Pitcher & Piano on Newcastle Quayside, looking across the river to the Baltic art gallery and the Millenium Bridge. I’d previously enjoyed drinks there with friends after various sponsored walks. Two Jingle Bell Walks in aid of The Chris Lusas Trust, and Memory Walks to support the Alzeiheimer’s Society. On this occasion, I was on my own and I enjoyed the opportunity to reminisce.

This was the first time I’d been into Newcastle city centre since August 2023. I used to spend almost every Saturday in town but that momentum was disrupted by the pandemic and never resumed. What drew me into the city on this occasion was a landmark exhibition of work by English painter J. M. W. Turner at the Laing Gallery. That day was one of my highlights of 2024. It built on an occasion earlier in the year when Fran took me on a virtual tour of her local art museum in Maine. I described both visits in The Art of Friendship: Exploring the Portland Museum of Art and the Laing Art Gallery With My Best Friend. As well as the Turner exhibits, I showed Fran the rest of the Laing collection, including Lizzie Rowe’s haunting painting Dysphoria.

June

This photo reminds me of broader themes I was working on throughout the summer. A chance conversation in the office inspired me to write about going to the Glastonbury Festival in the eighties. For research, I reread my diaries from 1983 and 1984, the two years I attended the festival. That was an interesting experience it its own right, and brought back many memories. June’s Party in the Park on the playing fields near where I live was a far cry from the heady experience of Glastonbury. I hadn’t planned to go, but as I passed the site my interest was piqued by the assortment of stalls, food vans, and funfair rides. I treated myself to a tray of chips, and found a chair at one of the picnic tables. For half an hour or so I sat contentedly, enjoying my chips and listening to the live music and the sound of families making the most of the occasion. It wasn’t Glastonbury but it was fun.

The blog post I’ve chosen is Navigating Mental Health Miles Apart: An Interview with the Co-Founder of Gum on My Shoe in which I answered questions generated by the artificial intelligence app ChatGPT. The questions were insightful and relevant, and gave me the opportunity to discuss my role as a mental health blogger and author.

July

This photo was taken by my friend and fellow blogger Aimee Wilson of I’m NOT Disordered on a trip to Blyth Beach in Northumberland. It was a bright, blustery day and the photo captures the spirit of our little adventure. It began raining shortly after this photo was taken, and we retired to Aimee’s place for pizza. A grand day.

In Lost and Found: Glastonbury 1983 and Other Memories I shared my experiences attending the Glastonbury Festival. I mentioned the backstory to this piece earlier, but it went deeper than simply recalling the events of a long weekend away with friends. I used the opportunity to explore memory and journaling more generally.

Opening a diary — including one’s own — is a perilous undertaking. My 1983 diary contains much more than my three-day weekend at the festival. It was one of the most intense years in my life to date, which is saying plenty. Engaging with it now is not without its challenges, as warm as most of the memories are. I’m content for some things to remain unremembered. My diaries serve their purpose even if they remain on the shelf, unread.

Those diaries sitting on the shelf comprise a first-hand account of my life since I was fourteen. I can’t imagine not keeping a journal and have no plans to stop, but what will happen to them after I’ve gone? What to I want to happen to them? It’s an aspect of end of life planning and legacy I’ve yet to address.

August

I included this photo to remind myself of the many hours I’ve spent at my favourite table at Costa Coffee. It’s one of my four happy places and also featured in my round-up of favourite writing cafés. Pretty much every blog post I’ve written this year — including this one — was written at this table.

I was invited by Aimee to write a piece about supporting someone who has survived rape or sexual abuse for her Shake My Hand Campaign. I Believe You. It wasn’t Your Fault. You Are not Alone. Being There for a Friend Who’s Survived Rape or Sexual Abuse was published on the Shake My Hand website as well as here at Gum on My Shoe.

September

This lovely bench was just too late to be included in my July tribute to benches I’ve known. It appeared unannounced one day in September, a few hundred yards from where I live. I’ve no idea who decided there should be one there. It’s not the most obvious location, being close to a bend in the road with no stunning view to command. Nevertheless, I’ve sat there on occasion, grateful for the opportunity to take the weight off my feet for a few minutes. I don’t know anything about these two friends watching the world go by, but I’ve seen them there a couple of times. They had no objections to me taking their photo.

The blog post I’ve chosen for September doesn’t mention benches, but it does involve sitting for hours on end. In a World of My Own: The Gentle Art of Losing Myself describes how I’m at my happiest and most engaged when ensconced at my favourite table in my favourite coffee shop, writing. As I noted, “it’s not uncommon for four or five hours to go by. That’s not four hours writing without a break, but for most of it I’m head down, lost in what I’m doing.”

October

This photo was taken on a gloriously sunny day at the Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust in Washington, Tyne and Wear. I saw squirrels, a woodpecker, various woodland birds, geese, and lots of ducks, but it was these two penguins that really made my day!

I mentioned end of life planning when I was discussing the tribute piece I wrote in January for Shane MacGowan. It took several months, but I finally began making progress in that direction. Letting Go of the Balloon: End of Life Planning for the Overwhelmed is my introduction to the subject.

It’s hard to imagine anything more personal than our relationship to death, yet few of us give it more than a passing thought. I’ve mourned those I’ve lost, but until recently I’d scarcely considered what death itself means to me, how I wish to approach mine, or what legacy I’d like to leave.

As I wrote, “if you’ve thought about end of life planning but didn’t know where to start, this is for you.” I explored the idea of legacy and remembrance further in How Much Do You Want to Know Me? Preparing to Write My Obituary. These are topics I’m certain to return to.

November

This photo was taken on one of my lunchtime walks on a day I was working from home. I took plenty of photos this autumn, but there’s something special about this one. I knew immediately that I wanted to include it in my end of year post.

In Togetherness Apart: Walking on the Beach With Friends I recalled time spent beside the sea with friends, illustrated with diary entries and poetry written at the time. The earliest and most archetypal of these was in January 1981 on the shore of Morecambe Bay at Silverdale. Others include Sheringham in Norfolk, West Wittering, Crosby in Liverpool, Tynemouth, and Blyth beach. These precious and intensely personal memories span four decades. It was quite a journey, retreading those steps.

December

One Sunday afternoon in December I did something I’d been meaning to do for ages. Instead of visiting my local coffee shop as I usually do after lunch, I decided to retrace the walk I took many times during the Covid-19 pandemic. It featured in my end of year post for 2020.

My daily walks for exercise gave me the opportunity to explore my neighbourhood, including the narrow strip of wilderness between a new housing development and the Ouseburn stream. It soon became a favourite haunt.

I wasn’t sure it was still possible to get down there. There’s been a lot of residential expansion in recent years, with new roads and at least one bridge being built over the stream. I was pleasantly surprised. Not only could I walk as far as the bridge, there’s now a footpath beneath it. This meant I could complete the circular walk I used to take, rather than having to turn round and retrace my steps. I took Fran with me on a video call, which added a great deal to the experience. I showed her everything I could see along the way, and shared stories from previous visits when this walk afforded me space and time to myself. I’ve seen horses, deer, dragonflies, and heron there in the past. The horses were on the far side of their field and we didn’t see any other wildlife, but it was fun keeping a look out just in case. We passed my local pub on the way home. It had only recently reopened after a major refurbishment and I stopped to check it out. Sitting on the porch with Fran was a very pleasant close to a lovely afternoon.

The article I’ve chosen to highlight was written for National Grief Awareness Week. In There’s No Wrong Way to Grieve I highlighted what I see as a key message about loss and mourning. The theme of this year was Shine a Light. As I wrote, “The light I’d like to shine is that there’s no wrong way to grieve. It’s important to remember this, because it’s easy to fall into thinking we’re doing it wrong, too much, or not enough.”

I explored my emotionally muted response to loss over the years, drawing parallels with the character of Meursault in Albert Camus’ novel The Stranger. As I wrote, “I’ve felt other than for not grieving as others do, wary of being judged uncaring, unfeeling, and cold. [...] In the novel, Meursault’s lack of emotion at his mother’s death is held against him as indicating a cold and unfeeling character. I can relate, although I hope to escape his ultimate fate.” Spoiler alert: Meursault is executed for murder. Relating to the end of life work Fran and I have been engaged in this year, I had a few thoughts for those who will survive me.

A time will come, of course, when we are mourned by those we leave behind. [...] It’s hard to think about my friends, family, and loved ones grieving my death but I hope they will feel able to do so as much or little, for as long, and in whatever ways they feel moved to.

This might seem a sombre way to close out the year, but I find it oddly comforting. Taxes aside, death is the one thing we know will find us. It feels healthy to explore my relationship to death at a stage in my life when there is — hopefully — still plenty of time left.

Post of the Year

This photo was taken in July on the final evening of my summer vacation in the Lake District. I’d spent most of the week revisiting favourite haunts and activities. The boat ride on Windermere from Ambleside to Bowness. Brunch at Mio Mondo. A steam train ride on the Lakeside and Haverthwaite Railway. Chips at the little chippy overlooking the ferry terminal at Waterhead Bay. And a welcome return to one of my all-time happy places, the Wateredge Inn.

As the light faded on the porch, my thoughts turned to people and events from my past. I’d been doing this a lot since rereading my diaries for the article about attending Glastonbury Festival in 1983. I rarely revisit old diary entries and it affected me more deeply than I’d expected. At the close of another year, especially one in which I’ve spent a good deal of time thinking about end of life planning and legacy, it feels appropriate to record my attitude to regret. As I wrote in my diary that evening in Ambleside, “I don’t believe in regret. It makes zero sense to me, [especially] as I’ve come to embrace the idea that free will doesn’t exist. What happened is the only thing that could have happened.” This doesn’t mean I’m happy about everything I’ve done or not done. I can and do wonder how my life might be now if past decisions and events had been other than they were. But it’s fruitless to spend time and energy on regret. Life is what it is. It was what it was.

In November, I shared an insight into holding space for a friend. As valuable as this can be, it’s not always easy to be there for someone who’s going through difficult times, especially if it’s someone we know well and care about. It can be hard to listen without interrupting or offering suggestions and fixes. We may also find we’ve taken some of the other person’s stress, anxiety, or worry onto ourselves. In Teardrops and Waterfalls I offered an analogy which Fran continue to find helpful.

Imagine you’re standing beside a waterfall. If it’s a small waterfall with a small pool, you can stand close by. If it’s a big waterfall it will have a bigger pool and more spray and splashing. You would stand further back so you can appreciate it without getting wet.
Depending what and how much is being shared, you can hold a smaller or larger space between you and the other person. Everything they are sharing flows into that space, like the pool below the waterfall. You both get to acknowledge it, observe it, then allow it to flow away.

Insights such as this remind me there’s always more to learn from and with our friends. Most of the pieces I’ve written this year have arisen from conversations with Fran and other friends. Such conversations and the writings they inspire help me explore my thoughts, attitudes, and perspectives on life. It’s how I learn and grow. I’m immensely grateful to everyone who’s joined me on my journey this year. That includes our lovely readers!

Here’s to 2025, whatever it brings.

July photo by Aimee Wilson. All other photos by Martin Baker.

Gum on My Shoe

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