tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32022483839468425222024-03-14T20:40:30.394-07:00Antonia RollsI am a painter and work holistically with people facing dying, grief and loss. I paint portraits and anything that I am requested to paint. I also work on the A Graceful Death exhibition, portraits and words from the end of life. My latest project is called Addicts and Those Who Love Them, working with addicts through words and paintings. I love sitting on my sofa in my pyjamas, wrapped in a colourful blanket, drinking tea and thinking.Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.comBlogger210125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-26915357584892430892022-04-21T11:31:00.002-07:002022-04-21T11:31:10.726-07:00<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizsVwCMUPJUkf1aRjoDpDl2weN2pFU7YKKELg50pVBd7Y4b9s36JjvsibyqTmImy95yuXcjblLlbT6v6Z24hbcUSxE31zF4JA2fimc81pUNT0N784EwmJlGuPTXY-UfMlKFfn9hUT1DoghZKvgGJYJUnPkvri6FF9H9nvDoyx2ylMeDIsvVQqd_fn1/s516/costya%20detail%20on%20hospital%20trolly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="378" data-original-width="516" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizsVwCMUPJUkf1aRjoDpDl2weN2pFU7YKKELg50pVBd7Y4b9s36JjvsibyqTmImy95yuXcjblLlbT6v6Z24hbcUSxE31zF4JA2fimc81pUNT0N784EwmJlGuPTXY-UfMlKFfn9hUT1DoghZKvgGJYJUnPkvri6FF9H9nvDoyx2ylMeDIsvVQqd_fn1/w640-h468/costya%20detail%20on%20hospital%20trolly.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Overdose on a hospital trolly. Detail of one of my addiction paintings.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p> Sometimes I doubt myself. I think, it isn't really that bad. Sometimes, it isn't that bad, I am right. Other times it is scary, unpredictable and I don't want to deal with it.</p><p>What am I talking about? I used to say it is just dealing with someone who is high as a kite, incoherent with medications, aggressive, unreasonable and needy with alcohol but now, I am thinking again. Yes, I feel all that anxiety and yes all those things I described are hard to deal with but I am thinking it isn't really the substances though they make things much more irrational. It is the mental health that is behind it all. It is the emotional, mental, spiritual pain that drives the need to self medicate in the first place. </p><p>I used to think, with an addict, treat the addiction and everything will slot into place. For a long time, I believed that the big thing with drugs and alcohol is to remove the addiction bit, because that is the worst manifestation of wrongness a person can have. When it is gone, dealt with, sorted, then life will be better. In many ways that is true, the actual addiction thing is fantastically awful to deal with, live with, have. But the more I look into addiction and addicts for my upcoming exhibition <i>Addicts and Those Who Love Them,</i> the more I realise I know nothing. It is as complex a matter as the stars in the sky. Someone suffering from addiction often has chronic social, emotional, mental and spiritual needs that are unmet, unaddressed and overwhelming. Becoming clean and sober is a first step but then the hard work begins. How do they live in this world that seems hostile, flat, hopeless and unkind without something to take them away from it all? They need and seek escape. Who are they in this world, and how can they cope with life, especially if life is so very hard and painful? As yet, I have not met anyone who either just took one dose of something and become hooked, or who had the best life ever and decided to give it all up for drugs and alcohol. The people who do give their best lives ever up for drugs and alcohol are possibly not actually having their best lives. Maybe it looks that way, maybe it is supposed to look perfect, but really isn't. </p><p>I am wondering whether, in some circumstances, being stoned or high or drunk is a better option for addicts. A nicer place for them to be. Less connection to the awful realities in real life though not good for everyone else to deal with. I watched someone recently become so high on whatever they took it was impossible to do the things outside their home that they said they wanted to. It was really annoying but that is because I can come and go without a moment's thought. This person was so afraid of life, so addled with self doubt and bad choices, so mentally unwell and so sure they would suffer outside the home, that they became incapable of leaving. The drugs successfully covered the distress of dealing with life. </p><p>The people in my exhibition on addiction all teach me deeply personal and important things. I don't take drugs (except tea, which funnily enough is a drug) and I don't drink alcohol, I do not know anything about that world except for what I am told and observe. It seems that behind all the addiction behaviour is depression, isolation, distress, shame, abuse, trauma, confusion and self hatred. Lack of connection to others. No wonder they all take and took drugs and alcohol. No wonder. And as I have said before about all this, I have no idea what to do about it. That is why I am creating this exhibition.<br /></p><p>I am learning that there is a difference between drug dependency and drug addiction. I am learning that only about 10% of people become addicted, which leaves about 90% who don't. I am learning that the messaging about many drugs harms is hugely exaggerated, and that the worst performer on the drugs harm scale for harm to oneself and to others, by a long shot, is alcohol. I am discovering just how many people take illegal drugs because they like it and do not go mad. Drugs work. If you want to heighten your experiences, they work. I thought one sniff of heroin would get you addicted. I thought all drug takers were addicts. I thought addicts could get better through rehab, and then I thought they couldn't. I also see that all addicts are people, and all of them were someone's little child once whether that was a good experience for them or not. I also learned that drug taking does not necessarily create brain damage. And most important of all, I am now convinced that the war on drugs is one of the biggest failures of all time. Drugs laws are not working and I never thought I would think this, but I do. Big time. With knobs on.<br /></p><p>All of the above is why I sometimes doubt myself. I do not know much about being addicted. I thought I did, but I don't. The addict in my life may not be an addict after all, as they have always told me, which I poo pooed. Of course you are! I thought. I am dependent, this person said, and that is different. I am beginning to see that it is different, and dependency is serious stuff too. I am less afraid of drug taking now. There is so much behind it, so much I don't know yet, and asking questions of people for my exhibition has brought the person, the people, behind addiction, to the front. It is making me see addiction in my own life differently. That has to be a good thing.</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoKC7iUXDLsgdqpNj6kV0SmaiITAlkTlC73u6l8SoTA-cB-nZmfG9A8DG2zyu_ktlH0mpWZ-s-LQZ_pJ7Pm6F4KDFrx0izOkTvqSj5naTJ3ZzIF4VShGJliDeYKEzYD26LBvwO56I-5DR1UrnCW7WT9yBngYrl4vHxBLh6duZ8xyhWO_XtTnFMKVK1/s2338/Brighton%20Fringe%20Poster%20A4%20DIGI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2338" data-original-width="1654" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoKC7iUXDLsgdqpNj6kV0SmaiITAlkTlC73u6l8SoTA-cB-nZmfG9A8DG2zyu_ktlH0mpWZ-s-LQZ_pJ7Pm6F4KDFrx0izOkTvqSj5naTJ3ZzIF4VShGJliDeYKEzYD26LBvwO56I-5DR1UrnCW7WT9yBngYrl4vHxBLh6duZ8xyhWO_XtTnFMKVK1/w452-h640/Brighton%20Fringe%20Poster%20A4%20DIGI.jpg" width="452" /></a></div><p></p><p> </p><p>My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b></p><p>Follow me on <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">Facebook</a></b> and on Instagram @antoniarolls</p><p>Support this work on my <b><a href="https://www.justgiving.com/crowdfunding/antoniarolls">Just giving crowd funding page</a> </b></p><p>And on my <b><a href="https://www.patreon.com/antoniarolls?fan_landing=true">Patreon page here</a></b><br /> </p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-36942569712366810922022-02-26T10:21:00.002-08:002022-02-26T10:22:47.146-08:00What do I really think? Publicly? I can't tell you that.<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhT1CbGACVaR4whLhXcEK_U6V_7G3pVlrpyV4cFVBXsllVorZANC1TaWUvq5hG6rp0YXlhzxMeF9p5pkq811O6fAlsAXQdAmn6_XQfZK8w_k0xMz6TuS3Wa9Up38_ozRK_V1EjNHOLn3Fnp_zRRGyhIHvjx5dG_wEam0Wwj1K8vEkScRMpZUcYRDVMJ=s997" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="997" data-original-width="818" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhT1CbGACVaR4whLhXcEK_U6V_7G3pVlrpyV4cFVBXsllVorZANC1TaWUvq5hG6rp0YXlhzxMeF9p5pkq811O6fAlsAXQdAmn6_XQfZK8w_k0xMz6TuS3Wa9Up38_ozRK_V1EjNHOLn3Fnp_zRRGyhIHvjx5dG_wEam0Wwj1K8vEkScRMpZUcYRDVMJ=w526-h640" width="526" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Keeping mum. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>What do I really think? Publicly? I can't tell you that. Friendships depend on you not knowing. I need support for my work so it is best that I don't say, although luckily, no one has asked me incendiary questions recently and so for the time being, I am safe.</p><p>This is not quite how my life is, I am not in that terrible position where I have to, or choose to, make public choices about life, politics or health. I am not a politician or a famous person or an activist, I don't belong in the great big world of opinions and pronouncements. This is a huge relief, I would not survive at all, I don't like conflict and I absolutely hate annoying people (though I know, I do annoy some of you sometimes). I like peace, agreement, harmony and happiness. I live alone in my colourful house and it is filled with loveliness because no one is here to challenge it. I find refuge and real happiness here but oh. When I look outside at what is going on in the world, I am very alarmed. </p><p>I do not have a television or a radio, and I do not read the newspapers. This is a choice I made two years ago when I began to question the stories I was hearing and reading, and so decided to stop hearing and reading them. I was as bad as anyone else, very comfortable in being right about everything and so when I began to see cracks in the stories that gave me so much comfort and moral correctness, much against my will, I had to let go of trusting everything I heard and read, and start again. Instead, I looked around me at the life of my family and friends, and based much of my local knowledge of what was happening to them. I have a huge network of both, so felt very updated at least on their lives and times. For news and updates from further afield and abroad, I found podcasts by as many sensible people as I could, and expanded my horizons. I looked on YouTube and found a vast array of news from many different angles, and now I feel I know as much as I did before, but from a few more perspectives than before I banned newspapers, radios and televisions from my life. <br /></p><p>But back to not saying what I really think - I have come to this conclusion while watching people get </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSrpjDNQgPcARzvpzBWufm4WsLRSVrQdGpWJaBm4nGihjPxahf0SzH1Cye1IqYq5r5y7fqw6pMLd81XRbwBt-GLjd4Ss7LsgZzHtBk56tfIB2kEE8XC4a5bzGYsCPTzS70jlz1ILfokaXoT2tjvSIBqOcPnYTEO08mqLmETTHZpY8hyTmSKJLfDi7L=s1080" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1041" data-original-width="1080" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSrpjDNQgPcARzvpzBWufm4WsLRSVrQdGpWJaBm4nGihjPxahf0SzH1Cye1IqYq5r5y7fqw6pMLd81XRbwBt-GLjd4Ss7LsgZzHtBk56tfIB2kEE8XC4a5bzGYsCPTzS70jlz1ILfokaXoT2tjvSIBqOcPnYTEO08mqLmETTHZpY8hyTmSKJLfDi7L=w200-h193" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Fisticuffs online<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table>into trouble on social and mainstream media. I have, for the life of me I don't know why, a Twitter account which I don't use except to see how mean other people are being to each other. I have Facebook and Instagram accounts to post my jolly stories and see what my friends and people I like are doing but of course, it never is just about our friends; once I have checked in on them, I am drawn into reading and watching conversations, posts and articles that sometimes make me wonder what planet I am on. And here is the difficulty. I cannot tell you what they are, or what they are about, because all these points of view and opinions seem so very personal to the people that put them up and to those that reply and either argue or agree, that if I even hinted at what they are I would be in on the fisticuffs if any of them read this and took offense. I may incur the kind of wrath that I see around me, so the best thing is to say nothing at all and only whisper my opinions to my closest friends and tell them to keep it to themselves. <p></p><p>I read news on social media and You Tube and am send snippets of more news by my family and friends that make me wary of letting anyone know what I think and believe. I admit, that as far as lockdowns go I have spoken my mind, and I do know there is footage of me on the anti lockdown and anti vaccine mandate marches in London and for that I got a wee bit of flack. Those really did count as incendiary opinions, though surprisingly an awful lot of response was positive. Still, it gave me a taste of thinking things that other people wanted me to stop thinking. </p><p>There are so many contentious things online. I wonder if it is the same in real life? I look online and see that people are divided into hysterically opposing teams. There is footage of them all being very rude and unbalanced about each other, whatever it is they are fighting about. There are so many subjects it is dangerous to engage in. Despite the fact checkers checking their opponents out of existence, they have not stopped all the shouting. I went onto Twitter just now to see people misreading what other people had said and using all manner of horrid words in their responses. It is the same on other social media platforms, and sometimes I see things I utterly disagree with too and think are bonkers but I do not respond. Even though sometimes I want to say something really witty and cutting, I don't because then I am entering the battle. And it is a one sided, unwinnable, irrational battle that goes nowhere and does no good. And online, it appears, if one is wrong enough, one loses ones job and has to hide from angry mobs. I don't want any of that, I need you all to support my work and love me, I really can't have my opinions and beliefs made public at all just in case. But I have noticed in real life, I don't see any of this behaviour. No one I know shouts people down if they are speaking in public. I don't have any friends who scream at other people or break windows in mostly peaceful protests. That may be because I live in Bognor Regis, and we don't seem to do a lot of that kind of thing here. It does happen in the wider world, and has already happened to lots of prominent people though, and I am horrified that it does. But so far, because I have not said anything too wrong, I have got away with thinking unsafe things - such that they are because never having tested them I do not know, I am just guessing by seeing who gets bashed and why on social and main stream media.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEho0TYr1nK7zX7FHMBMW1aftzIbrH-75-KQAs1VU6OVX-FhaLJv-g9hGXmRE-hGL_8W8JJ1moEecUOI0L5j5bWbMnjkA6WDhkK2s2P_5Q-Db38n8lAxHMOmdX5uxwWBGn27gNVMrx1Mw0-gzLkkG7zZfKKC1Pmp6pV-jROtIWj1faJ9nK_RlhKNu1Vw=s1297" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1297" data-original-width="725" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEho0TYr1nK7zX7FHMBMW1aftzIbrH-75-KQAs1VU6OVX-FhaLJv-g9hGXmRE-hGL_8W8JJ1moEecUOI0L5j5bWbMnjkA6WDhkK2s2P_5Q-Db38n8lAxHMOmdX5uxwWBGn27gNVMrx1Mw0-gzLkkG7zZfKKC1Pmp6pV-jROtIWj1faJ9nK_RlhKNu1Vw=w112-h200" width="112" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I aspired to this<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table> Perhaps I am showing my age. Perhaps we humans were always thus, and I just think in my youth everyone behaved better. But we didn't have the internet and so the dissatisfied youth of my day had pitched battles in the town centres instead. I remember football hooligans fighting each other with broken bottles, I remember dreadful gangs looking for foreign youths to attack at night after the pubs closed, I remember being very afraid of a terrible thing called skinheads. And when I saw one, they looked so odd in their braces, boots and shaved heads that I would run away. And then I remember Punks. They were all about anarchy and spitting and mayhem. I was 16 then and thought they were a great idea and so became a kind of fairy version of one. I wore all the clothes, did my hair like a goth and wore tons of black eye makeup. I didn't spit though, or throw up on anyone. Punks, being into anarchy and destruction, could wreck the joint in no time at all. I didn't do that, but I did put safety pins all over my clothes like they did though of course, they put them in their ears, noses and mouths too. I wafted on the edge of punkdom feeling very grown up and not getting hurt.<p></p><p>But my parents and my grandparents thought the world was ending when they saw me joining in the anarchy as a pseudo punk. Oh how they lamented the way we youngsters were going. No one did this in their day they cried - until they remembered the teddy boys of the 1950s causing trouble and the astonishment around Bill Haley's record Rock Around The Clock which ushered in Rock and Roll and the end of civilisation. At the time, none of it was heard of. It seems that each new generation has it's own version of bad behaviour. It just seems the ones we were involved in were better and the stuff going on now is worse than we ever were.</p><p>So back to not saying what I really think on social media. While writing this, I am thinking, it doesn't really matter what I think. I don't post my feelings online because I am private and it isn't because you lot may come after me with a pitchfork (of course you won't, I am just being dramatic), it is because <i>I don't want to</i>. Whatever everyone else is doing and saying, it is nothing really to do with me, and even though I get a bit anxious when I see how much nonsense there is, no one needs to know my deepest thoughts unless they are a close friend and standing next to me. I get drawn into checking the madness, and getting cross about it, which is nothing but wasted energy. And actually, I don't really <i>care</i> what they are all saying. It isn't anything to do with me, I have my work and my life taking up as much time as I have to spare, so I am actually living in real time with real people and projects. I think I have sorted my thinking out now. Thank you for listening, I am fine now. I had better not say any more than I love kittens and Mother Theresa, and that I want to save Polar Bears. Now I can still be friends with everyone and have you all support my work. Phew. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4v_hPO7Qj34tdjsWqS8RhFp_BYNOFqDeLv_UcTPRKmCJabaRw3vllusvhY3m20ZCKYBMg-JhCTZAPPWpi_dUNyO6-c7jSryyp0hunjuyPSMSUgg0MVLwAxwYBbKq0F4Wig5LTfb8s5KmEDxNlscV_oKQULMhu0JACQZU8qlEWJTl-6cWlQXGQR4SE=s1080" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="820" data-original-width="1080" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4v_hPO7Qj34tdjsWqS8RhFp_BYNOFqDeLv_UcTPRKmCJabaRw3vllusvhY3m20ZCKYBMg-JhCTZAPPWpi_dUNyO6-c7jSryyp0hunjuyPSMSUgg0MVLwAxwYBbKq0F4Wig5LTfb8s5KmEDxNlscV_oKQULMhu0JACQZU8qlEWJTl-6cWlQXGQR4SE=w640-h486" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>What was the world coming to. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>Support my work in real life here on <b><a href="http://www.patreon.com/antoniarolls">Patreon</a></b> for just a fiver a month <br /></p><p>Donate to my <b><a href="https://www.justgiving.com/crowdfunding/antoniarolls?utm_term=6gvJaqXyr">Just Giving</a></b> page to help fund the Addicts and Those Who Love Them exhibition</p><p>Follow me and my stories on <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">Facebook</a></b> and <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">Instagram</a></b></p><p>Subscribe to my twice monthly <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">newsletter</a></b> - news and updates from my studio and life<br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-57153027875447839832022-02-12T16:12:00.002-08:002022-02-12T16:12:56.830-08:00How dare lots of strangers not give me likes and loves? <p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghfK6lp3Vxcgo-PCD-nkNRKsFeSzH414MuNJblgQjQ0iucqtIx0xfuqXB3tOHVMEpo2r2xMg7ESWhgVKifIBCRR0JJJhVopRcgSFfP7Gd8lIT2zdVWNE7jWMhF2GZW2TeqUUx6gd4Ii-ZPAN6ClbzuxxZQXgjfu0_0ZZn3-ka8k3ZplzgxeO4TUl8v=s1196" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghfK6lp3Vxcgo-PCD-nkNRKsFeSzH414MuNJblgQjQ0iucqtIx0xfuqXB3tOHVMEpo2r2xMg7ESWhgVKifIBCRR0JJJhVopRcgSFfP7Gd8lIT2zdVWNE7jWMhF2GZW2TeqUUx6gd4Ii-ZPAN6ClbzuxxZQXgjfu0_0ZZn3-ka8k3ZplzgxeO4TUl8v=w578-h640" width="578" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Fed up and pouting<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I got fed up recently. As I stamped my foot, folded my arms and pouted, and as the words, "It's not fair," formed on my lips, a little angel tapped me on the shoulder and whispered into my ear, "Look at what you already have."</p><p>And therein lies the rub, as Shakespeare's Hamlet said. </p><p>To backtrack, what has led me to this point of pouting and stamping my tiny feet, is summed up as follows. I am creating the <b><a href="https://antoniarolls.co.uk/events/#addicts">Addicts And Those Who Love Them</a></b> exhibition. Despite having wonderful help and support, there is only me creating this work and putting it together, and it is a huge amount of work; I am trying to complete nine new portraits and nine new stories all before 12 May. That is fine, it is just as it should be, it is my project and and I asked for those paintings and stories. But I work very hard for long hours and often become discouraged as I can feel underappreciated for the time I put into what I do. What I am trying to say is that I didn't think I was getting enough online attention. <br /></p><p>What made me frown and refuse to go on was looking on social media and seeing other people were more successful than me. I looked at people who seemed to sweep the public before them with (in my opinion) barely anything to say, I looked at people who seemed to have it all, and I looked at my own social media presence and thought, Damn. Nobody loves me.</p><p>Before I show some common sense and insight, how did I get to this point?<br /></p><p>I am sixty one years old, slightly unconventional, and drawn to work with difficult subjects such as the end of life (see the <b><a href="https://antoniarolls.co.uk/projects/#graceful">A Graceful Death exhibition</a>) </b>and as you know, Addiction. I am established as an artist and have made good and bad decisions along the way. It has been both wonderful to follow my heart and a struggle to make ends meet over the years. However delightful it is to have the time now to create my own projects because I no longer have dependent children at home, it is also very demanding. Each portrait I do starts out like a toddlers drawing. It is that bad. I never show anyone my works in progress unless they look good; my aim is to present you with a fantastic painting. I try not to allow anyone to see the utter rubbish I produce at the beginning, preferring you to think I knock them off without effort because I am clever. It actually takes a great deal of time to think of, create and finish any work of art but I keep that secret. We don't get to see me struggle, we don't get to see my bad days and we certainly don't get to see my mistakes. I once spent a long time painting someone with a fascinating face, only to find, when I stood away from it at the end, that I had painted the eyes so far apart they were almost on the side of his head. I had painted ET. There was no choice but to re paint the eyes and put them where they should be. It turned out fine in the end, and I never admitted this mistake to anyone. It took a great deal longer to re paint the eyes as all our features are linked to each other, and the whole face needed to be redone. But no one knew this because I presented the painting as if were effortless, and easy, because I didn't want anyone to know I was only human. </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjtJbg3R46IqWn6YI5oC6aUri3Rv6-YKQa2vdhrknF6I85gnR2UyjE1GS4dgdD3ZqwmBfFmPLR0LIsRx5hHuwhbzzwEpm9-EoUWcLV8D_dhhElS8jWrLj9ZxeiUhn6hcwvXN7Kf5iVCx7aExwO0CcLViU2iX27YcOA4gE6_ES_pBQdIabu-M9vsngbo=s705" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="705" height="568" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjtJbg3R46IqWn6YI5oC6aUri3Rv6-YKQa2vdhrknF6I85gnR2UyjE1GS4dgdD3ZqwmBfFmPLR0LIsRx5hHuwhbzzwEpm9-EoUWcLV8D_dhhElS8jWrLj9ZxeiUhn6hcwvXN7Kf5iVCx7aExwO0CcLViU2iX27YcOA4gE6_ES_pBQdIabu-M9vsngbo=w640-h568" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>How my paintings start. They get better. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table> </p><p> My social media profile has me as a fairly unconventional, uncomplicated, artist, grandmother and eater of food. I'm always having tea and wholesome get togethers with my friends, I have loads of grandbabies always turning up, and I always look as if I am having an effortlessly grand time. When my friends say that I always seem so happy, and I have such a wonderful life, I confess that my online life is pure Hollywood. It is a very well crafted bubble of jolliness, even when everything is falling about me in ruins. You wouldn't love it, I say, if I show you my really fat days when I do absolutely nothing but avoid my Urgent To Do list and eat crisps. </p><p>Working hard to create art, busting a gut to organise an exhibition while looking after grandchildren and having fun times with my friends, should make me irresistible online and get me millions of followers, likes and hearts. I should be drowning in comments like Tell me more, and OMG you're so amazing. But I am not. And I think, why not? What is wrong with me? Why don't you all love me?</p><p>It is a slippery slope to madness. The angel who whispered into my ear to ask me to look at what I already have was very wise. It is so simple, and when I had a look, I was reminded <i>again</i> that the online world is not real. My real world <i>is</i> real, and in my real world I can look my friends in the eyes and feel the warmth of their friendship. In my real world, I am surrounded by support for my work, surrounded by happiness from my friends and surrounded by a sense of belonging from my family. I had a team meeting recently to update everyone on the upcoming exhibition and afterwards, with lists written and ideas discussed, I was struck by how amazing all those in the meeting are. These people are with <i>me</i>, they are full of quality and strength, and they are the real thing. I don't need a heart from a stranger on social media with these people on my team. This lot are <i>full</i> of hearts. And good ideas. What else have I got that I was not seeing? I have feedback on the paintings I am doing from the people in them. They love the paintings, they love their words on them. They mean it, and they say it to my face in my studio, they don't text me and send me an emoji. What else do I already have?</p><p>I have a sense of community in my community. I have a sense of purpose in my work. If things get really tough I can count on my brothers who I know will help me out, on my friends, who will listen and do what they can. And, about those friends, I have them everywhere. In Ghana, in Dublin, in London, in Bognor, in Birmingham and many more places. They don't need to send me likes and hearts for me to know they are there. They are still expected to contribute to my Crowdfunding pages and Patreon requests however, and if they don't, I know where they live. </p><p>What else do I have? I have a sense of wellbeing. I have a sense of anticipation about the future and a sense that the future is huge, and exciting, and a little unnerving. I have all this outside of my computer and when I am finished in my studio, I can walk out if it and into my kitchen where I can experience, in real life, fresh bread and butter and jam. </p><p>To conclude, online life is seductive if I let it. If I am creating sheer Hollywood with the stories that I post, then so is everyone else. That angel who tapped me on the shoulder and told me to look at what I already had knew what it was talking about. My life isn't virtual, it is real. What do I know about who is watching me on social media, and what their lives are like? And really, what gives me more satisfaction - brain storming with my friends over tea and chocolates, or having fifty strangers give me a thumbs up or a heart? It is really <i>nice</i> having attention online. <i>But it isn't real life</i>. Real life is when my friend Gill took me out to lunch at a new arty cafe in Littlehampton and fed me sweet potatoes and rock buns. And when someone tells me my home is light and loving. And when my four year old grandson tells me I forget things because I am so old and soon I will have to die. That is definitely not virtual. <br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMowxxunkivM04n6FoyLKSf6ElxS2JymbzK88GUDGQ83L3CaVWBG2i91uVbtGm3YL503I9w3CU2u9LvIkM0t7f8g_99SlYkKoIEcXzyC-YlSXOU2nEshzohUpfk_U6sLUZoNyF-SeK2rmE9cQCZXBrGfD1o2vO8TIXJQonF5qJIZHEN5A-eTJljykH=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="773" data-original-width="1080" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMowxxunkivM04n6FoyLKSf6ElxS2JymbzK88GUDGQ83L3CaVWBG2i91uVbtGm3YL503I9w3CU2u9LvIkM0t7f8g_99SlYkKoIEcXzyC-YlSXOU2nEshzohUpfk_U6sLUZoNyF-SeK2rmE9cQCZXBrGfD1o2vO8TIXJQonF5qJIZHEN5A-eTJljykH=w640-h458" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>With the grandbabies, not dying quite yet. But still, in the real world.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table> </p><p>Please give a moment to consider supporting my work by subscribing here to my <b><a href="http://www.patreon.com/antoniarolls">Patreon</a></b> page. For as little as £5 a month, you will help to keep my painting, story telling and awareness raising work going. For this you will receive little benefits from me to say thank you for helping me.</p><p>Or perhaps you would like to donate to my <b><a href="https://www.justgiving.com/crowdfunding/antoniarolls?utm_term=MwX9P4nEQ">Just Giving</a> </b>crowd funding page. Here, you can make a one off donation to help me with all the costs of hosting and creating this exhibition. Thank you very much. </p><p><br /></p><p>Subscribe to my twice monthly newsletter, news and views from the studio and life <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b></p><p><b> </b>Follow my <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">Instagram stories</a> </b>and my <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">Facebook stories</a></b></p><p>My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b><b> </b><b> </b><br /></p><br /><br />Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-42879031839627654462022-01-28T15:51:00.001-08:002022-01-29T07:06:51.682-08:00What if we changed our minds about the badness of drug taking? <p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLvGqA-MieR7S26kcZ8EswyJIb-jShdDonGU7M1Y6higvUJtkqUVZ3LIreDbGnt4JTbqqkU-pikyyo26macbJWoXQEf_-QFhjqwcjd4B2n5SD9ImAdY_Hkn2_7xEU6pa6pcgM7Gs7AEbtbHdaZkXVTVHF1rL-1OO0LhSPv1WFPhPaIQtgJckjHv3tR=s1600" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLvGqA-MieR7S26kcZ8EswyJIb-jShdDonGU7M1Y6higvUJtkqUVZ3LIreDbGnt4JTbqqkU-pikyyo26macbJWoXQEf_-QFhjqwcjd4B2n5SD9ImAdY_Hkn2_7xEU6pa6pcgM7Gs7AEbtbHdaZkXVTVHF1rL-1OO0LhSPv1WFPhPaIQtgJckjHv3tR=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Once a ho - from the Addicts exhibition 2018<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>I have the ghost of an idea which is not yet clear. It involves drug taking, and drug behaviour. I am speaking to loads of people about their drug use for my Addicts exhibition, keeping in mind my own family member with addiction difficulties, and there is a rebellious thought forming.</p><p>What if it was OK to take drugs. What if there was a way to accommodate drug taking and change our approach to it? I am talking, as I say, to a good few people, some of whom suffer difficult and crazy addictions, others who did not become addicted but who took drugs and alcohol to such an extreme that they were utterly out of control. But when these latter people decided to stop, they found a way to do so without rehab or AA. Stopping was not easy, and the way of doing it was possibly unorthodox but they did it and knew that they could - but I am discovering that the whole drug taking and drinking to excess world is utterly unorthodox. I remember one such person telling me that there is addiction and there is dependency. At the time I thought they were the same thing, and this fellow was just using words to deny his problem, but actually, I wonder if he has a point. It is beyond my experience and understanding, mostly because I am teetotal and do not take drugs and until I started work on the Addicts And Those Who Love Them exhibition, I had not come across people who are in this other universe. Damn, it is complicated. I wonder, how has all this addiction and hellish behaviour, hellish outlook and lack of interest in providing solutions got so bad. How has it? Is what we think about drugs correct? Is our response to drug taking working? Are we all part of the problem? And it is a bloody awful problem. Really it is.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgu5ppuDMKQGCuIT47ftxSp5oTIBykBwiWjUYXH36M8ix9W-1GsXj_opMtyDhGcHR4dVX26vgig4VV5uHk1XhZA9W0WZZDX6_e1StDSXnjW81Nl8NYr4SckzUGRssy199fitIP1twuFAwL6FgdAf6QGSA7RI3vpsPYtWQZUTrpHorzj7zTPH4ipSEOx=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgu5ppuDMKQGCuIT47ftxSp5oTIBykBwiWjUYXH36M8ix9W-1GsXj_opMtyDhGcHR4dVX26vgig4VV5uHk1XhZA9W0WZZDX6_e1StDSXnjW81Nl8NYr4SckzUGRssy199fitIP1twuFAwL6FgdAf6QGSA7RI3vpsPYtWQZUTrpHorzj7zTPH4ipSEOx=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> Crack pipe. A fairly dreadful substance.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> Here is my rebellious thought. What if we have caused the crisis of addiction and mental health and associated crime by our response to it? I am wondering if the fears we have and the stories we think we know about each drug is wildly out of balance. The more I look into it, the more I talk to people, the less I know. What I think I know is that all drugs are bad. Addiction happens instantly and cannabis is a gateway to other addictions. I know that addicts are dreadful people, their addictions make them manipulative, cruel, without conscience and borderline psychopaths. They commit crimes to fund their habits and much senseless violence is the result of the drugs trade. All drugs need to be banned. And much of this may be true. The amount of manipulation, lies, stealing and bad behaviour I have experienced from addicts I have known is very hard to deal with. The way some of these characters casually commit crime is shocking to a law abiding nice person like me. I watched them do it and laugh about it, and I thought - they do not belong in my world nor I in theirs. </p><p>And this is where I am beginning a thought experiment with myself where we turn everything on its head. Millions of people take drugs and millions of people drink alcohol, they always have. According to research done by Professor David Nutt at Drug Science, only 10% of people become addicted. That means 90% don't. Do drugs make the users anti social? Sometimes, yes. And sometimes, no. Are all drugs absolutely lethal? No. What is the one drug that causes the most harm both to the user and those around them? Alcohol. Is cannabis a gateway drug? Not necessarily. On its own, it is pretty harmless to most people, as are psychedelics including MDMA, magic mushrooms and LSD. The harms that may occur from all these drugs are possibly less than the harm caused by alcohol, which is legal. Is alcohol a gateway drug? Well, yes, I think it is. It seems to go very well too (from a drug takers point of view) with all manner of more serious and harmful drugs like cocaine, opiates, benzodiazepines and all manner of legal and illegal substances. And there is no doubt that anyone taking all this kind of stuff is going to be pretty difficult to deal with.</p><p>Then I think, why do people take drugs? There are so many reasons, one of which is because they work. My friend Ian, a true success story if ever there was one, sober and clean now for ten years after forty years of insane drug and alcohol abuse, said that if your life is so bad, so difficult and bleak, and something you took put rose tinted spectacles on for you, then why would you not take it? That is what he did. People self medicate through drugs, they take away pain and hopelessness. They make you feel you can cope. One man I spoke to started drinking at thirteen. It gave him a sense of who he was, he lost his shyness and felt that only alcohol could help him with feeling so powerless as a child. And here is another revolutionary thought, people take drugs because they like to get high. People love to get high. <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGDPRzrxNwEovUKVHRZ_DPLC-8DBTUU_VdmseqEbiI_YbEyVMYwGoadrrTRn3JdHrQJ9EEICYOQS2snnZ7-tE8x0Qicxolk5nQj52eKSPBD35gZfsgqz9-sALdBI7V0YXIbeH_V6w7e86ZTcG1maH6-oIYrS4KwE-78lueUFCwHWorMGzQYBJJP6tS=s3279" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3279" data-original-width="2597" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGDPRzrxNwEovUKVHRZ_DPLC-8DBTUU_VdmseqEbiI_YbEyVMYwGoadrrTRn3JdHrQJ9EEICYOQS2snnZ7-tE8x0Qicxolk5nQj52eKSPBD35gZfsgqz9-sALdBI7V0YXIbeH_V6w7e86ZTcG1maH6-oIYrS4KwE-78lueUFCwHWorMGzQYBJJP6tS=w506-h640" width="506" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My friend Ian. From the Addicts exhibition 2021<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p> My thought experiment made me wonder, what if we asked drug users what they want? How would their lives be better? I used to think abstinence was the only goal to have in recovery. I don't think that now. Many many addicts cannot come off their drugs. The cycle of trying to get clean and sober, and relapsing, and trying to get clean again is impossible and maybe, they should be allowed to take their drug. Our culture hates addicts. We punish them, we think they chose this life, they don't deserve our help. Or time. Or money. We don't give to addicts on the streets because we know they will spend it on dope or drink. We are pleased with ourselves, we were not fooled and they need to learn. I say, have you ever seen someone withdrawing? They don't need a lesson from us, they need their substance. Nothing we have will be as bad as that. Give the money and don't judge. Addicts do not give up their drugs because we ask them to. Alcoholics do not stop drinking because we make life difficult for them. An alcoholic I spoke to told me each time he went to prison he worked in the kitchen because he knew how to make alcohol from the scraps of vegetable peelings. Prison didn't work for him, it was irrelevant. But here I have to say that though alcoholics are addicted to their alcohol, I don't suppose my thoughts on drug reform is relevant to them. It is a whole different subject but I hear that research into using therapeutic psychedelics under a licensed practitioner for alcoholic recovery is very exciting and successful. Watch that space. <br /></p><p>If drugs laws were changed and drugs were decriminalised, everything would turn on its head. Imagine, the reason the dealers and gangs are so appalling is because there is no legal control over their stuff and their business models. They do what they want - who is to stop them? Who do you complain to if your supplier puts rat poison in your dope? Who regulates the prices you pay? Who do you go to when it all goes belly up? So if your supplier was the government, and instead of back alley transactions there was help available and offered, the whole concept of drug taking would change. The dealers and drugs gangs would be out of work. I believe that at one point fifty or so years ago, doctors were able to prescribe heroin and there were a fraction of addicts then. With the prescription under control, people were able to work, to carry on as normal, under the safe eye of the doctor. When that was made illegal, and those poor people needed their heroin as normal, the only way to get it was to break the law. And a downward spiral of illegal supply and demand took over. Of course, if drugs are illegal, then anyone can step in and create the supply with any amount of dangerous adulteration, and no one can do a thing about it. In America, during prohibition, when alcohol was illegal, more people died of alcohol poisoning because of the substances added to the drink to make more money, than when it was legal. What if all drugs were made legal and taken over by the government, what would happen to all the dealers and gangs? All the resources in place to fight drugs and drugs crime - which makes such a tiny and temporary dent in the trade - could go to treatment, to research into what actually works, and to safe, clean, monitored spaces in which to take the drugs.</p><p>Addicts are not like us. They don't respond to instructions. They are chaotic and unreliable. Their world is made up of the search to find their fix and everything they do is illegal. The buying, the taking, the acquisition. They can't give up because we tell them to. The law makes no difference to their need to use except that it makes them live outside the law and against it. Many addicts can't stay clean. Hence methadone. And even then users top up their methadone with other stuff. And even then, there is shame, judgement and punishment. <br /></p><p>So my rebellious idea which is shared by many, many others, is that what if we asked our addicts what they wanted, and what if we ended the war and make it a peace on drugs with help not punishment, and what if we understood that those who are addicted, need patient, kind, consistent help to take their stuff if they cannot stop? What if we shone a light on drug addiction and changed our minds, to find sensible, practical and humane ways to bring addicts and addiction back into the fold? What a thought. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9erh9sgCGIPRUOs_H5Yw3a-5c7mAd8NupTzgRifX4wiKghmo12JRFda79q4qbK4KQTxAGxponT-5dno5XeMeiBWzOsDTaU_glfJ7ekL4LpvHTz2aWJr28WQd3pE4zQZjvKN9f-h9lGRgjmtTQryTfQe2JX-lgDnEH4MOtUsFXcgq6pX67POx2BA4e=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="554" data-original-width="1080" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9erh9sgCGIPRUOs_H5Yw3a-5c7mAd8NupTzgRifX4wiKghmo12JRFda79q4qbK4KQTxAGxponT-5dno5XeMeiBWzOsDTaU_glfJ7ekL4LpvHTz2aWJr28WQd3pE4zQZjvKN9f-h9lGRgjmtTQryTfQe2JX-lgDnEH4MOtUsFXcgq6pX67POx2BA4e=w640-h328" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Safe injection sites are popping up. Controversial, but successful for harm reduction.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p> Support my work on Addicts And Those Who Love Them on Patreon <b><a href="http://www.patreon.com/antoniarolls">here</a></b></p><p>Subscribe to my twice monthly newsletter, news and updates from the Studio and life, <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b></p><p>Follow my stories in Instagram <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">here</a></b> and Facebook <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">here</a></b> </p><p>My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-69127643510628856332022-01-16T13:48:00.007-08:002022-01-17T14:22:48.774-08:00Art, Addiction and Vegan Sausage Rolls.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiL3noVGtW_5gxZJY1Poy1OVB0sPzvyOl6KbLpO3FlRjnR18c4mZbYRHOEnGPbw7s76Kky5yfkza865hbIGoOYmBBRzcyADAjh-8ef7Z8F724JpDXQ8s6KGlBliKMwWHu37aioiMKQom_R1cakpBMVIfDyxgKgXQPzpsWOV0aLt86NC_i-m09luzitk=s960" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiL3noVGtW_5gxZJY1Poy1OVB0sPzvyOl6KbLpO3FlRjnR18c4mZbYRHOEnGPbw7s76Kky5yfkza865hbIGoOYmBBRzcyADAjh-8ef7Z8F724JpDXQ8s6KGlBliKMwWHu37aioiMKQom_R1cakpBMVIfDyxgKgXQPzpsWOV0aLt86NC_i-m09luzitk=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The artist in the garden in the rain. A busy bee. </i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I finished a portrait for the Addicts exhibition this week, and made several videos about portrait painting in the studio for my Patreon page, had an online book launch for my book <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/As-Mother-Lay-Dying-tapestry/dp/1838298606/ref=sr_1_1?crid=YRWEYKAU16C1&keywords=as+mother+lay+dying&qid=1642361209&sprefix=as+mother+lay%2Caps%2C70&sr=8-1">As Mother Lay Dying</a></b> with my friend and colleague Mandy Preece (her book is <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Being-Rock-redefining-listening-heard/dp/0992848326/ref=sr_1_1?crid=4W45DEI9PKLG&keywords=being+rock&qid=1642368391&sprefix=being+rock%2Caps%2C70&sr=8-1">Being Rock</a></b> ) and I completed a seven mile walk along the Downs as I have signed up to do another marathon walk of twenty six miles for Macmillan Cancer, in June.</p><p>Do you want to be sick yet? I sound very cheesy.</p><p>I did do all of those things, and all within a week, and it was a lot, but it was the result of hours and hours of struggling to even start, and huge amounts of time going into the kitchen to have more tea and my absolute (current) favourite thing, bread and butter. And of course, most of those things above were <i>finished off </i>this week, begun quite a long time ago, so it is not as if I created and produced and organised an entire portrait, lots of studio videos and a book launch all in one week from scratch while training for my marathon walk. However, it has been a good week and I am feeling strong and pleased with the portrait, and it did my ego a great deal of good to start this blog with that list, even though it did need explaining.</p><p>We all know I spent the Christmas period in bed feeling rotten with the flu (see <b><a href="https://antoniarollsartistextraordinaire.blogspot.com/2022/01/not-just-any-illness.html">Not Just Any Illness</a></b> ). New Year came in over my sleeping head as I was still in bed feeling rotten, and don't remember any of it. It took a while for my energy to come back and for a couple of weeks I thought I had aged prematurely and would never leap out of bed like a lambkin in the morning ever again. But here we are, and I don't remember the day when everything shifted back to normal, but it seems I am back on the treadmill of work and creativity and feeling full of beans again. Though I stopped leaping out of bed like a lambkin a good decade ago so that was never going to be a measure of how ill I felt. It sounds good, but a more accurate take on feeling I had aged prematurely is to say I thought I would never get myself out of a chair again without a hoist.<br /></p><p>My Addicts And Those Who Love Them exhibition opens in five months time. This exhibition is about addiction, about the craziness of it, the madness, hopelessness and the lack of treatments for it. The whole title includes the words "behind every addict is someone traumatised by loving them" and as there is addiction in my family, I am that person traumatised by loving an addict. But, the key word is love, and though it is so hard to cope with a relationship with an addict, those of us who do have relationships with addiction, still love, and despite all the trauma and insanity, we hope. And there is hope, addicts recover, and miracles do happen. And so for this exhibition, I am working with addiction in whatever form I can, and asking questions, telling stories and painting portraits. Because I don't know what else I can do.<br /></p><p>I am starting to pull all the strings of the exhibition together and not only create all the paintings, but find people with stories to tell through painting and words. I have done that, I have some very powerful people to work with. I have children of alcoholic parents to paint. I have people who work with drugs and addiction through charities, research organisations, and the police involved in the exhibition, and I have addicts who take their drugs and drinkers who drink their alcohol and all of them have much to say. In my studio, here in Bognor Regis, I make lists on large whiteboards of all the people I am painting and what they say to go onto each painting. At the beginning of this mega week of getting things done I went into a local store to buy art materials only to find they had hardly any paints. Obviously I need paints, and was not too impressed with an art supply shop that had hardly any paints, so am now considering a trip to Brighton, a good hour away at least, to Lawrence Art Supplies which I know from old has everything in the world that I want and need. But, also in Brighton, is a brilliant shop that sells hot flaky vegan sausage rolls, so I think that makes it all OK, for art's sake etc, as it is a bit of a haul to get to Brighton and back. Also in Brighton is the Fishing Quarter Gallery along the seafront, the venue for the Addicts exhibition later this year, which I may just pop into to remind myself of the space and ambience of the place. It is such a good gallery, it will be perfect when we open in May and the weather is getting warmer and the light stronger. I think a trip to Brighton for paints, vegan sausage rolls and checking in with the gallery is becoming more and more important the more I think about it. I will have a bit of a jolly.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhHtShFsnmibX-qXMF6QGNahE8HoCeWnzPsqs4XbcXJ_Cuziim9PckHLVyPRTsaG9Cc8Gwcl3iTvXy8_kPequITpIscvqHrM6vHmVbXVhp_zvJ4M_xYdYMdpfcxnqBzrhEJqZ36PyPTOzsL89Fcv37i4FK-cWvdlhYE1HfAzVwemYRU7eslIc3e3V3b=s3648" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhHtShFsnmibX-qXMF6QGNahE8HoCeWnzPsqs4XbcXJ_Cuziim9PckHLVyPRTsaG9Cc8Gwcl3iTvXy8_kPequITpIscvqHrM6vHmVbXVhp_zvJ4M_xYdYMdpfcxnqBzrhEJqZ36PyPTOzsL89Fcv37i4FK-cWvdlhYE1HfAzVwemYRU7eslIc3e3V3b=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Profess or David Nutt. I have yet to add his words.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>The portrait I have just completed is of the Neuropsychopharmacologist Professor David Nutt. He is a neuroscientist, a psychiatrist and a pharmacologist, researching with his colleagues at the Drug Science Organisation into the harms and benefits of drugs both legal and illegal, with a view to helping with addiction, alcoholism, depression, PTSD and other conditions of the mind and brain. I am very glad he has agreed to be in Addicts And Those Who Love Them. He has much experience of treating addictions and has a great desire to find a way to treat all mental illness and conditions with compassion and the best science and medicine can offer. <br /></p><p>I am talking to and painting the portrait of Fiona Measham, Professor of Criminology, Sociology and Social Policy at Liverpool University and founder of <b><a href="https://wearetheloop.org/">The Loop</a></b>, a charity that sets itself up at festivals and raves to test the drugs that are in circulation during the events. The Loop works with events organisers and the police to make sure any contaminated and dangerous drugs that are sold there under the guise of something else are highlighted and information circulated. Drugs can be taken to the Loop tent and tested, information and help given, and lives saved. The Loop is interested in harm reduction and education, and there are branches of the Loop opening in various countries in Europe which is a huge success. What I love about The Loop is that Fiona Measham puts her money where her mouth is, and actually does something to make the insane world of drugs and addiction better, despite all her other commitments. I am really glad to have her join us for the exhibition. Another fascinating prospective member of the Addicts exhibition is an ex police man who worked for years undercover infiltrating drugs gangs. His story is very powerful, and moving, and once he confirms he is happy to be a part of the Addicts exhibition, I will name him. I am hoping to meet him here in Bognor this week, and am really looking forward to it. </p><p>In May last year at the first showing of the Addicts exhibition I met two amazing young people. Both aged 18, and both dealing with alcoholic and addicted parents. I am really glad to be painting these two articulate and far too wise young people. They will add something of a world of which I have no idea nor experience. And there are other excellent people that I am working with, not least a young Australian nurse, Mae, now a mother herself and the eldest of six children of addicted and alcoholic parents. Mae was the oldest child, and raised her siblings as best she could in a destructive, dangerous and damaging household until she could leave, taking as many of her siblings with her as could come. She is very worth listening to, and I have started her portrait today. <br /></p><p>In the past, I have used crowd funding to pay for my exhibitions. Instead of managing a new Go Fund Me campaign each time I host an exhibition (which I have done for two exhibitions on Addiction, and for all my A Graceful Death exhibitions over the last ten or so years) I have decided to ask for more permanent contributions. Many of you know I have created a Patreon page and am looking for people to subscribe monthly to support the work I am doing. It goes without saying that I do not charge for anything I do, and I rely on the generosity of the general public to keep it all going. Patreon, for those who are not familiar with it, is an online subscription platform where creatives of all sorts - art, writing, performance, podcasts, crafts, journalism, music, comedy and so on - ask for monthly donations of about five or ten pounds to support the artist, and in return the artist offers small benefits to the Patrons as a thank you. This is a safe, effective and ongoing way to support all the work I do on Addiction and, when I host the A Graceful Death exhibition, on the end of life. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/lt0pNJQpijE" width="320" youtube-src-id="lt0pNJQpijE"></iframe></div><br /><p>In the video above I explain what the exhibition and my <b><a href="http://www.patreon.com/antoniarolls">Patreon page</a></b> is about, and hope that you may consider helping me and this project (and all the projects that I do, including the end of life exhibitions) by becoming a Patron. Having a look at my page does not commit you, only you signing up commits you and you can cancel at any time though of course, I hope you won't want to because it will be so much fun on my page watching behind the scenes videos, interviews, and updates. And other small benefits that each Patron receives depending on the tier (amount you pledge). </p><p>Well. Tomorrow is Monday and a new week ahead. Will it include flaky vegan sausage rolls? For the sake of art, yes. </p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQga9_6Qt2zNtCO634F5rIVchSELUD3cRBkk4eZIY7UHexvls2oRhcr6gp6PPT-knPR-LAdpjqUvIClzsdnNCN2RZBL-HdqeeP7AayZ79Ffd2Q3TCsAtqWiaJHskuIegceRTAZ_F-wiEs2-8XIccRNfxullkp7G2_ExMgcblPJSvYLPESKxSR2JWDH=s1080" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="1080" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQga9_6Qt2zNtCO634F5rIVchSELUD3cRBkk4eZIY7UHexvls2oRhcr6gp6PPT-knPR-LAdpjqUvIClzsdnNCN2RZBL-HdqeeP7AayZ79Ffd2Q3TCsAtqWiaJHskuIegceRTAZ_F-wiEs2-8XIccRNfxullkp7G2_ExMgcblPJSvYLPESKxSR2JWDH=w640-h350" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>In the name of art. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table> <p></p><p>My Patreon page is <b><a href="http://www.patreon.com/antoniarolls">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Sign up to my twice monthly newsletter with news, views and updates from the studio and my world <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b> <br /></p><p>Follow my Instagram stories <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Follow my Facebook stories <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Buy my book "As Mother Lay Dying - a tapestry woven of memories and insights from the bedside" <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/As-Mother-Lay-Dying-tapestry/dp/1838298606/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1612179096&sr=8-1">here</a></b><br /></p><p> <br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-22182230550205150512022-01-01T02:54:00.000-08:002022-01-01T02:54:16.212-08:00Not just any illness <p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwUZcNAVLhBH_MC0sWiQeyj8g51t0pP1fzp0T4c075Y9sr4T4e8bm4JAZmnGrXKvk0HSiqDbx2ffLO_9yySnStRYTewScqmQ-pSrhv5JiINl5yU_B8ukjNVIvJsBe_3UpzQZ9ZXfD-s5O94DVJa5Fu-LLsV9-uCb4KzW3FZdCr2kh7v9O_7xMhxnEh=s904" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="847" data-original-width="904" height="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwUZcNAVLhBH_MC0sWiQeyj8g51t0pP1fzp0T4c075Y9sr4T4e8bm4JAZmnGrXKvk0HSiqDbx2ffLO_9yySnStRYTewScqmQ-pSrhv5JiINl5yU_B8ukjNVIvJsBe_3UpzQZ9ZXfD-s5O94DVJa5Fu-LLsV9-uCb4KzW3FZdCr2kh7v9O_7xMhxnEh=w640-h600" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I wish I had looked this pretty while sneezing like a warthog<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Over Christmas, I began to feel unwell. Uh oh, I thought, I have been here before, it doesn't feel good. Usually I shake off bugs and lurgies but now and again, I don't. My throat started to hurt, right at the back, and so I dared it to do its worst. Do your worst! I thought, I am stronger than you! But I wasn't, I just about got through Christmas and on Christmas night I had crazy dreams and woke up with no voice. Damn, I croaked, I was going to record a video today, and now I can't. I was beginning to feel absolutely awful. And, the day after Boxing Day, I was to have my two oldest grandboys aged four and six, to stay for three days. Best buck up for that I thought, have an early night and get myself in gear for two little boys who absolutely love to stay with Grandma and who have been champing at the bit to come. It will be fine! I said to myself, ignoring all the signs that it was not really fine, and carried on. The boys arrived, my cold developed, and for the next three days I spluttered, sneezed and blew my nose while they had the time of their lives. I took cold remedies which did wonders and for most of the time I could pass for normal and thank goodness for that. We went out for walks, for runs (<i>they</i> ran) and bought lego with their Christmas money. We had fifteen meals a day because they like to eat, and we had late nights till 8pm watching films on the sofa. They froze little kiddie yogurts with spoons in them to make what they called popsicles, and they woke up long before dawn to get on with another exciting day. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhV4Of4ofRTrDEO3Px4eneds4WRvuhvC12MkHrIfb0vXZKLB2yae8-PYWk-83Gl26PSf3qchAQZjhVjPKPejb5o95CxdyfmK6N0k8vzRFMOqh_i9Z_pbE3oEnIH2dzVfVY3QqUL1JWIijAgRQOIQ0c4Oe8X5wRRkFExtd5hnc5aYY3EumDWcEFs2vBW=s5120" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5120" data-original-width="3840" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhV4Of4ofRTrDEO3Px4eneds4WRvuhvC12MkHrIfb0vXZKLB2yae8-PYWk-83Gl26PSf3qchAQZjhVjPKPejb5o95CxdyfmK6N0k8vzRFMOqh_i9Z_pbE3oEnIH2dzVfVY3QqUL1JWIijAgRQOIQ0c4Oe8X5wRRkFExtd5hnc5aYY3EumDWcEFs2vBW=w240-h320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>George, 6, decorating a gingerbread man<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I remember the thrill of being with my own beloved grandparents. My grandad worked at Cadbury's chocolate factory in Birmingham and had pockets full of sweets and chocolates that had failed the high quality standards to be allowed out for sale. He would bring them home for his grandchildren when they, we, were staying and as he had 24 grandchildren, that was a lot of square cream eggs and odd shaped bar sixes. Our grandmother made us chips all day long as we would eat nothing else while with her, she made the best chips in the whole world and none of us were allowed chips at home so Grandma had to do it. And she made us sweet tea in little glass cups and saucers. She did all this with delight because she was perfect. And that is my role model for my two little boys here, despite my cold making me feel as if I had been run over by a freight train. There would be an end date for this stay, the boys would be collected and taken home, and I would then dig my own grave and lie in it. Not really, but that is how I felt. </p><p>The meds worked brilliantly. I got away with it. Mostly I looked a bit under the weather but even though I had moments when I thought I would have to call in the army, all went to plan and everyone had a lovely time. When the darlings did go home, I went up to bed and let my cold out of its cage and struggled with what seemed like a life and death flu dragon. I felt so awful but oh it was lovely to be in bed. I think it was the flu, proper flu, because I began to go a bit potty and dream I was trying to get into a medieval village with a gang of paupers and cripples in order to have a good Christmas. I coughed and spluttered, my eyes and nose ran, my head ached and I thought, what have I done to you, God, that I should have to have this? Now, I was able to give in to the lurgy, and fight it out in the comfort of my bed, a battle between good and evil, between life and death, between having flu and not having flu.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhO4E2y9Rx6xJHbYB2Gs46Ww8RLq5Nu7MXMKrhRot03VMdXzihrZsqxQo9g3f4y5twiN7hKS7ogZAJJ0gnx68qs-_V3ZsCOGzDUKLVmvweEbs4lxSpOdM1TN13gNh4NmzUlPzUHIj4H_nFG-wnvTqesmGGp6BpC84L2qMjveZ-gBKC9WyMlaWeHTDjL=s1151" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1151" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhO4E2y9Rx6xJHbYB2Gs46Ww8RLq5Nu7MXMKrhRot03VMdXzihrZsqxQo9g3f4y5twiN7hKS7ogZAJJ0gnx68qs-_V3ZsCOGzDUKLVmvweEbs4lxSpOdM1TN13gNh4NmzUlPzUHIj4H_nFG-wnvTqesmGGp6BpC84L2qMjveZ-gBKC9WyMlaWeHTDjL=w600-h640" width="600" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Trying all night to get into here with my band of cripples and paupers<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>I am a healthy person. Mostly, I shake off any twinges very quickly and I regularly rest and take time out. I don't usually get as far as manifesting any symptoms. As I lay in my bed though this time, a few days ago, when not trying to get into a medieval castle in my head, I remembered how we used to get the flu in the old days, and how it was just one of those things. My step grandmother would get what she called a "bally stinking cold". At my boarding school, I would dry my big cotton hankies on the radiators in the classrooms during lessons so I could keep on using them when I had a bally stinking cold. It never occurred to me to do otherwise, I thought I was being extremely practical. My mother occasionally got flu and when she did, it was bed, warmth, rest and lots of cups of tea till she felt better. My father, my three brothers and I and anyone who was visiting (20 first cousins and 12 uncles and aunts just on my mother's side of the family, plus the old great aunts from Ireland) would go and see her and smooth her furrowed brow, bring her more hankies, and go about our business. No one panicked, no one left food outside her door, no one gave a monkeys, and mum got better and life went on. At school, if we became ill enough, we went to the infirmary where the wonderful Sister Francoise had a small kitchen full of little brown teapots with hand knitted cosies on, which she would use to make tea four times a day for any lucky girl that got to stay in the infirmary with her. That was bliss, that may be where I picked up my teapot and teacosy habit. </p><p>So back now to my sick bed here. I am, for your information, still in it. Day three now of giving into the demons, and I feel much better. But these days it is not good to be ill and not good to be displaying the symptoms I had. Headache, runny nose, cough, tiredness all sound like the current no no virus, and it is impossible to tell unless one tests for it. And the tests are not reliable, and so we all assume the worst and go a bit mad. </p><p><i></i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZXMHFrPCA72mRxXcvNVp-mIi1WePYsdQvJhg5sfzvT3Zzi-P-wM3d3sxp2oDyycHvYQwDHX1nJ0_Ze_e_64uF9zMzHl3wPtvOKVP1nz4D_tu9p8w8kZmtIEmw1QyJc2cB8Osjf7LUUxtweM6xXISrK-vqhLm00wUsCz4BUAqqtKdSineVeTvwQlq8=s934" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="934" data-original-width="824" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZXMHFrPCA72mRxXcvNVp-mIi1WePYsdQvJhg5sfzvT3Zzi-P-wM3d3sxp2oDyycHvYQwDHX1nJ0_Ze_e_64uF9zMzHl3wPtvOKVP1nz4D_tu9p8w8kZmtIEmw1QyJc2cB8Osjf7LUUxtweM6xXISrK-vqhLm00wUsCz4BUAqqtKdSineVeTvwQlq8=w564-h640" width="564" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The boys just gone home, about to do battle with the life and death flu dragon, still in my lipstick. </i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>I do not assume for a moment that you go mad, I am sure you don't, people who read my blog do not go mad - but the general accepted way to proceed is to advise the ill person to test themselves, over and over again because it must be <i>that</i> illness, which when at last you do test positive for it, means we rush to all the new protocols for a biohazard. Except you are now the biohazard. No Christmas or New Year for you matey. Hide in that there bed and do not come out for two weeks and we will throw your food in thought the window from a safe distance and may God have mercy on your soul. Again, I do not say you do that, but it is the kind of thing that does pass for sane and practical and that, as you can tell, does not sit well with me. </p><p>Kind and good people suggested to me day and night that I should test myself for our new variant of this no no virus. But I have had flu before, I know what flu is, and this is flu, I said. Well, they said, just to be sure. Of course they suggested it, it is the latest craze, and it frightens a good many people. If I tested and it said Yes! I would have to stay in bed and keep away from people and everyone who knew would run a mile and wash their clothes if they walked too close to my door. If I tested and it said No! I would stay in bed for the same amount of time as a Yes! result, and people would go about their business and leave lucozade at my door to make me feel better. Either way, I would stay in bed for the same amount of time and come out when I felt better. The difference to my mind is the amount of fuss involved. So I have not tested myself, and have thanked my kind friends who are suggesting what they think is the right thing to do, and had none of the fuss. My flu is getting better, and no one else got it. </p><p>It seemed to me that once I became ill, it was expected of me to not just have any old illness, I needed to have this one special illness. All the symptoms were the same, I was told, in which case, perhaps the other illness is flu. I don't know. But I had just the same old winter illness we have all had for years, the flu. I thank you.</p><p><i>I understand that what I think may annoy the hell out of you, and I am sorry about that. The thing is, I feel very strongly that when we are ill, we need each other and not stigma and a shut down. If what we have is as bad as the bubonic plague, then yes all bets are off and I am with you. I will happily throw your food in through your open window and run. In the case of bubonic plague, the bodies would be visibly piling up and no one can mistake it for anything else. Perhaps this is not a sensible comparison, our no no virus is not the plague, and though it is horrible for anyone who suffers from it - and many do not - it is not likely to scythe you down in your tracks and kill all your family in a weekend. </i></p><p><i>Common sense tells us that anyone who is vulnerable needs to stay away from illnesses they can catch, and common courtesy makes us respect that vulnerability. Wild horses would not drag me to see my friends, like Marie or Claire who are compromised with chemotherapy and other difficulties, and anyone recovering from surgery should not need to worry that I will turn up shouting Flesh Wound! I won't, until it is safe for them and they are happy to see me. <br /></i></p><p><i>But enough now, I am through the worst of my flu and it has not affected a single other friend or family member, and all of us have lived to another day. </i></p><p><i>Happy new year and thank you for sticking with me, and for reading my blogs. You are wonderful!<br /></i></p><p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCRbLP5UTFniEdFwndHCd4XESWDoiOjTUV-H6VOyWN36l85orhkQcCDS2NWI478H4wKwrDeCgrh3BAL94LeEaZC_S1YFu8VBuIO8B2r_bev0ohY4XHdwDqcmMajTy1SxDHlnUIgjMw48lb6LheajIMmDFe_fJl9y14wCRbcLbPv0Wu_V0nTBkIud_f=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="839" data-original-width="1080" height="498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCRbLP5UTFniEdFwndHCd4XESWDoiOjTUV-H6VOyWN36l85orhkQcCDS2NWI478H4wKwrDeCgrh3BAL94LeEaZC_S1YFu8VBuIO8B2r_bev0ohY4XHdwDqcmMajTy1SxDHlnUIgjMw48lb6LheajIMmDFe_fJl9y14wCRbcLbPv0Wu_V0nTBkIud_f=w640-h498" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I'm cured! </i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p> Subscribe to my twice monthly newsletter, news and updates from the studio and life, <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b></p><p>My new Patreon page is up and running on Wednesday 4 January 2022 - visit it on that day to sign up as a Patron - the link will be live in this week's newsletter. Subscribe now, link above.<br /></p><p>Follow my <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">Instagram</a></b> and my <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">Facebook</a></b> stories</p><p>My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b> <i> </i><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-31594453245723688592021-12-18T15:09:00.000-08:002021-12-18T15:09:23.910-08:00Dreaming of Christmas alone<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgaH-sBRHoshI1jMBPg2EP41_xWGP9Wf3UL6RM4tjmSvekYgSk6yxv74R5V8Dn_ymx8Pp4Gc-amxLx0aOpfrvj0GBfkZl7xXtZK7OqYpDu4qus5QfFB9H1MfBCPlF6Ocj5v8wYoWFzB0TBMnDkjJOWtQiE0897EN2zlhTcXELVX3fnBbPwgg0i1KAi1=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="875" data-original-width="1080" height="518" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgaH-sBRHoshI1jMBPg2EP41_xWGP9Wf3UL6RM4tjmSvekYgSk6yxv74R5V8Dn_ymx8Pp4Gc-amxLx0aOpfrvj0GBfkZl7xXtZK7OqYpDu4qus5QfFB9H1MfBCPlF6Ocj5v8wYoWFzB0TBMnDkjJOWtQiE0897EN2zlhTcXELVX3fnBbPwgg0i1KAi1=w640-h518" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It's always like this. That's me by the fire there with my current heartthrob. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Who would have thought it. I am an extrovert, one of a large family of three brothers, twenty four first cousins, fourteen uncles and aunts and fifty thousand second, third and many times removed other relatives. I am also known to enjoy a knees up. I had a mum and dad too, both of whom had friends, and so growing up was never really done in silence, or alone. It was a free for all most of the time. Add to all of this my two grandfathers, and three grandmothers - one of whom was my grandfather's second wife, who brought with her her own family, some of whom are still dear friends to this day. <br /></p><p>Who would have thought, knowing all this, that a silent Christmas this year on my own would be my idea of bliss. </p><p>The idea at Christmas is that there is lots of fuss. We can choose to join in and go up and have a lovely time, or go down and become an alcoholic and fight everyone. Or, we can opt out while secretly tagging along with our neighbour who loves the fuss, and say, "Oh go on then," pretending we didn't really want to. Or, we really can opt out, and make a little bolt hole for ourselves under the table with plenty of snacks and watch back to back Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers films, feeling smug. </p><p>I have done all the glitter, the presents, the huge Christmas lunches and the trees over the years. I have agreed to have everyone in the world over for Christmas Day, fed them rich boiled fruit cake from my wonderful Irish Great Aunt Nina's recipe and done my best to make everything perfect just as it is supposed to be over the festive time. </p><p>When I was a little girl, when Christmas was so big, so magnificent and so full of magic and excitement, I never wanted it to end. All that wrapping paper, all the hiding of presents for each other under our beds and all the wonderful foods being prepared and stored for the big day made my brothers and me giddy with excitement. Our Christmas day started on Christmas Eve with midnight mass, followed by bed in the early hours of the morning with our stockings ready at the end of the bed and so much excitement about getting to morning to see what we had got. <br /></p><p>Oh and then there was the food. There was always so much food over Christmas. Such wonderful, once a year treats! We had a big cold larder room in our house, ideal for preparing food in advance and leaving it while Mum got on with all the fresh foods. Mum fed so many people over Christmas, I do not know how she did it, it was a banquet of delights for family, friends and assorted guests. But how magnificent it was to sneak into the larder in the week running up to Christmas day to peep at what was in there. Trifles and fruit salads made from scratch and upside down cakes waiting only for whipped cream; brandy snaps also waiting to be filled with cream, plates upon plates piled high with newly made mince pies, bowls of fresh brandy butter, dark pink savoury jellies made with beetroot and red cabbage, sprouts, carrots, potatoes all ready to be roasted, and Mum's famous roasted red cabbage and vinegar with raisins. There were crisp buttery shortbreads in their tins, and mixtures of both chestnut and sage and onion stuffings in big bowls with towels over the top, ready to go onto the table. And of course Great Aunt Nina's boiled fruit cake that took over four hours to make, three of them in the oven. It was, and still is, utterly fabulous. Outside in one of the sheds, the turkey, the ham and if we had any, the pheasants, were prepared ready for cooking and presentation at the big Christmas lunch.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjA7-jHpMqFBdorVsEYfYqfeB8Hu-4GyUBfEnSR25EqASR5DUwlU1YE1_Q9268YAULV_nFp5qgA6tkVKW95ZOyT4FCVIUSly4er3w6sFxLOdqYKZjp4BRaTZZRmabwEenjeSHdDT2bXtGXF0nuLsi4iDtg9-4iTUJzeUAJ7VRnAnQ8MlVx8oM3StmE7=s1451" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1451" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjA7-jHpMqFBdorVsEYfYqfeB8Hu-4GyUBfEnSR25EqASR5DUwlU1YE1_Q9268YAULV_nFp5qgA6tkVKW95ZOyT4FCVIUSly4er3w6sFxLOdqYKZjp4BRaTZZRmabwEenjeSHdDT2bXtGXF0nuLsi4iDtg9-4iTUJzeUAJ7VRnAnQ8MlVx8oM3StmE7=w476-h640" width="476" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This is how I FELT my mother's Christmas larder looked like<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> I love those memories. My mother worked hard to make Christmas wonderful and as a young mother myself I tried to recreate the magic and food that my mother had provided for us, for my own children. I was very poor, and chaotic, but did what I could - there was magic in my Christmases even if they were unconventional, and I always managed to find the money for presents, stocking presents and treats. I ended up buying enormous Christmas trees from some tough red headed travellers for many years, in a field off the main road near where I lived. All red haired, all trained fighters and all proud of it. Even the women. </p><p>Of course, this was nothing to how we got our Christmas trees while growing up. We lived in a remote farmhouse in the middle of the West Sussex countryside then, and if you were the farmer or landowner then and reading this now, we are all very sorry. Once a year in late December, at about midnight, my father and brothers dressed in their darkest outdoor clothes, got the axe, some rope and a torch and set off across the fields to where there were plenty of trees in the woods. Only once did I go too, when we were all a bit older, and saw just how exciting the whole venture was. So, in the freezing cold at nearly midnight, I joined my father and three brothers to trudge quietly in single file in pitch black across the fields to the woods, select a tree, and chop it down as quickly and quietly as possible and drag it back across the fields with obvious tree drag marks in the mud across all the fields, right up to our front door. We didn't even think of that then, and no one ever knocked on our door to drag the tree back again.</p><p>We were nearly caught on that one time I joined them all. Just as we fastened the rope around the fallen tree in the pitch black of the woods to take it back to the house, we saw landrover headlights bumping along the track nearby and had to dive into the undergrowth as the landowner's steward did the rounds of his woods and fields, checking there were no poachers or other problems lurking about. Little did he know that hiding under the fusty piles of winter leaves and bracken, within a few feet of his car, was his very nice tenant who was a television producer for the BBC, his four teenaged children and an axe. <br /></p><p>He also didn't notice one of his trees lying at a suspiciously jaunty angle with a rope round it ready to be dragged off and decorated with tinsel and fairy lights. Just as well, as Dad was underneath it trying to look like undergrowth. Later that day, on Christmas day itself, the landowner and his wife would be
joining us all at the dinner table and he would never guess that our
fabulous twinkling tree was actually one of his. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQaKMAVsTxoNOWAhey7IWI2XXqeMfwp1to6MLhIxmipXZuBAgOnim22y33LCL26XoQCOBJdYE6CE7_H0yWIawHxH4QIjp7iVVd5vLlgYXwgfEw3nZsQyf-tl2SOhLgzjfrfeuz9JyuXtaSRLoZjLrRh2y2AMBdP_iJb6ERgEaHqo9QWs-BdXfyTLtS=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="854" data-original-width="1080" height="506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQaKMAVsTxoNOWAhey7IWI2XXqeMfwp1to6MLhIxmipXZuBAgOnim22y33LCL26XoQCOBJdYE6CE7_H0yWIawHxH4QIjp7iVVd5vLlgYXwgfEw3nZsQyf-tl2SOhLgzjfrfeuz9JyuXtaSRLoZjLrRh2y2AMBdP_iJb6ERgEaHqo9QWs-BdXfyTLtS=w640-h506" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The land owner had no idea that the lovely tree at his host's Christmas dinner was actually one of his<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>When my children were little, it was so easy to make their Christmases special. They had magic in their little hearts and eyes anyway, and loved the presents, the lights, the tree and the big Christmas lunch. My children soon learned that the more people came to visit, the more presents they got, and so they encouraged their own friends and anyone who would listen, to drop by on Christmas day. Sometimes, there were lots of people and presents, sometimes there were just lots of people. It did not always work out present wise for the kids, and no one minded. But I was a single mum, and it was exhausting to make everything come together and look easy. I never had much money, often none at all, but somehow we always did Christmas. Somehow, we pulled through. </p><p>So now, let us come back to this coming Christmas and why I am dreaming of spending it alone. </p><p>I have loved my Christmases past. My parents worked hard to make them special, and I worked hard when it was my time, to make mine the best they could be for my own children. It took so much energy and effort, so much planning and preparation, so much scrimping and saving and so much cooking, preparing and cleaning up that I was often utterly exhausted at the end of it, and felt that though I was delighted to have provided Christmas for everyone else, I did not really have one myself. I, and my mother and almost all mothers and fathers before us, did not get time off, did not have a restful and lazy time, and we were at all times responsible for everything. The buck stopped with us. We did everything. Despite it being so exhausting and stressful for those in charge, it was all completely worth it when I was young and energetic, but now I lack the will to put so much effort into what will end up being only one day. A fabulous day, a holy day, a fun day, but such a significant one that I find I am weary before I even start. I am too old, and too tired, I don't want to do all that work. Instead of wanting to cook, and celebrate, and spend time with all my friends and family, I actually want to close all my doors, turn my phone off, and spend a magical day on my own in my studio. I have a vision of Christmas Day being somehow mine, and special, and my studio warm and inviting and undisturbed. That is where I would love to spend my Christmas Day. Alone, not speaking, not seeing anyone, just painting and pottering and listening to talking books. Of course, there will be a little bit of preparation, and I will have fairy lights and some candles in there, and at the appropriate time, a time of my choosing, I will probably have a whole packet of mince pies. I anticipate at least six. No one will need anything of me, no one will disturb me, and no one will ask me any questions. It will be the one day in the year where I can actively disengage from all expectations, and, a big deal for parents and all those who produce big Christmases, I will not have to try. </p><p>But, as with all good things, I have compromised. I will, because the grandchildren have asked, be spending Christmas Day with them. I will enter this Christmas, then, through the eyes of my tiny grandbabies, and revisit my youth through their excitement. I will be fed there, made to sit down, and asked to look at lego superheroes by my six year old grandson number one, give my two year old granddaughter all my jewellery because she wants to wear it, asked whether I will get a disability scooter by my four year old grandson number two (and then, he asks, if I do get the scooter, will I die soon after because I will be so old) and dribbled on by my eight month old grandson number three. I am delighted to be going there.</p><p>On Boxing Day, the day after, I will have my day in the studio with six mince pies instead.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8TntR90-z2e4xmax7Splh5-EQKOSMeudibaq6TgEDsaQY6yXT9prPWLPMlCkP2XlRUPvWeh6RVhBiZ5Ku-7h_POxWEsdxMZoiHoWJToyXN8w0K887Zq9uBAHX6pWy4Z7XNaCCNZGuj5_lj8OU8k0qB2r1AKo3rt9zS3ZTXvS-CvDpYY33XPCKZo6w=s1288" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1288" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8TntR90-z2e4xmax7Splh5-EQKOSMeudibaq6TgEDsaQY6yXT9prPWLPMlCkP2XlRUPvWeh6RVhBiZ5Ku-7h_POxWEsdxMZoiHoWJToyXN8w0K887Zq9uBAHX6pWy4Z7XNaCCNZGuj5_lj8OU8k0qB2r1AKo3rt9zS3ZTXvS-CvDpYY33XPCKZo6w=w536-h640" width="536" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>How I imagine my studio looks over Christmas. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><u>BEFORE YOU GO - </u><br /></span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Subscribe to my twice monthly newsletter, news and updates from the studio and life<b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></span></b></span></i><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></span></span></span></b></p><p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Follow my Instagram stories<b> </b></span></i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: white;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">here</a></span></b> </span></span><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">and my Facebook stories </span></i><b><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">here</a></span></span></span></b></p><p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">My website is<span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></i><b><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></span></span></span></b><br /></p><br />Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-23757904777483816362021-12-04T02:41:00.001-08:002021-12-04T02:41:13.319-08:00Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return<p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Me</span></b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxNFcU7EUsJxPlS2KVtpUxYKl5UXI3247D6MiQw9z7nq5ToQ5earox7alqSBZ7APHVnpCYEqSJxSksh9ld5msdMlfNFOUWFm7_FOzpe94d7luAea2BU48Cf4dB8pPzeIHj64PWJvQ0iWTGq-kBE7V2QppRlUpp4Fvjiu3OG7e5AjhzSfJJlYrH9DSQ=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="827" data-original-width="1080" height="490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxNFcU7EUsJxPlS2KVtpUxYKl5UXI3247D6MiQw9z7nq5ToQ5earox7alqSBZ7APHVnpCYEqSJxSksh9ld5msdMlfNFOUWFm7_FOzpe94d7luAea2BU48Cf4dB8pPzeIHj64PWJvQ0iWTGq-kBE7V2QppRlUpp4Fvjiu3OG7e5AjhzSfJJlYrH9DSQ=w640-h490" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ash Wednesday ashes</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p> When I was a little Catholic in my long ago youth there were some truly beautiful and memorable words during the Mass that have stayed with me. "Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return" were stern and serious words. They remind us of our mortality at the beginning of the Christian Easter cycle of prayer, fasting and celebration. They are spoken on Ash Wednesday which in the Christian calendar, precedes six weeks of fasting and prayer called Lent. This leads to the bleakest day of the Christian calendar, Good Friday, when Jesus, who Christians believe is the son of God, was crucified and died. Three days later is Easter Sunday where Christians believe in and celebrate the fact that Jesus came back to life after his crucifixion, and other people eat chocolate bunny rabbits till they burst.</p><p>My Catholic upbringing brought lovely things to me. The beauty and mystery of the Latin mass, the security of the services, feast days, holy days of obligation - we all knew where we were and what was happening and how to do it, and I learned (and keep) a respect for reverence and belief. I did not stay in the Catholic faith, nor did I leave it as such, I just thanked it and moved on. But there were many times during the masses as a child that I felt awed and affected by the mystery of what the priest was saying. During the Ash Wednesday mass, we would all line up for the priest to mark our foreheads with the sign of the cross in ash as a reminder of our mortality and mutter to each of us in turn, "Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return." I felt this message was meant especially for me. It did not frighten me, I did not really know what death was, but somehow I understood what was being said and I felt a knowing and a reassurance that I could not explain. I come from dust, I shall return to dust. Remember this. I am mortal, I am here and gone in a heartbeat, I come from ash I shall return to ash. The great comfort for a little Catholic girl was that when that happened, it wasn't just lights-out and that's your lot. Job done, life over, nothing to see here, eternal nothing. There was God, and angels, and Heaven, and Jesus and a whole army of saints and good people (now dead) to look after me. There was a whole new adventure coming.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtzQ9BbpzqatBDMwdvJtgCxD9bu1r08IyCEeeKJFFphL_ar5hsUcGnmBIXfqPjwfeMUX4jY4mKmG0v2ygoGHQw9WpYDbmogjCUayfMDz0M5-gL9DDiNBVLhLMFyRk-uBnSV55jSKgdTeIWO1lRKJfvG_Yxt43kjO_jU-jvqf-g7zoWqZ7d7wXxUPsS=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="792" data-original-width="1080" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtzQ9BbpzqatBDMwdvJtgCxD9bu1r08IyCEeeKJFFphL_ar5hsUcGnmBIXfqPjwfeMUX4jY4mKmG0v2ygoGHQw9WpYDbmogjCUayfMDz0M5-gL9DDiNBVLhLMFyRk-uBnSV55jSKgdTeIWO1lRKJfvG_Yxt43kjO_jU-jvqf-g7zoWqZ7d7wXxUPsS=w640-h470" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Looks good, can't wait.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>You</b></span></p><p>Are you afraid of your mortality? Do you feel that you are fully on this earth, or do you feel that you could be whisked away any moment? Perhaps you feel a bit of both. Our feeling of aliveness is so personal, so changeable, so up and down and so challenged by circumstance and so rewarded by experience. Most of the time we are simply getting on with our lives. Getting through the day with all our stuff is more than enough for us to be thinking of but sometimes, just now and again, we are brought up short and remember we are mortal. We catch a glimpse of what it means to end, to stop, to cease and it blows our mind. Most of us don't like it, we cannot conceive of simply not being here. Most of us are terrified of it. How can we disappear and how can life for us end? Not many people are comfortable with knowing they will die and perhaps, when it is not happening at that moment, those who say they are OK with it have no real conception of how it will feel when it <i>does</i> happen for them. Then again, I have been with terminally ill people who say they truly are accepting of their death and simply hope it is not too painful and uncomfortable along the way. And even then, these terminally ill people have moments when they are not wanting to go, and have to find a way to get through those difficult times. It can be done, it is done, and we all die sometime whatever we think or feel about it.<br /></p><p>There is something very special about remembering that we are mortal, that we come from dust and shall return to dust. It gives us perspective, there is a time line, and we are on it. It won't go on forever. </p><p><i>"Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return."</i></p><p>How are you living now? Look around you, what have you got? Who have you got? Where are you? Is this what you want? The miracle is that we are born at all, and have this span of life, and we cannot take it for granted because it will end. We have just this tiny part of personal time in which to make the best of ourselves, before we move on and return to dust. What do you want? Is it what you have? <br /></p><p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Us</span></b></p><p>Life is tough. It knocks us around and makes us work for our time here. But we humans are gifted with extraordinary things like choice and perspective, we can always choose where we are going, what we will do and who we will be next. We can say, Well that didn't work for me, didn't like how that turned out, better try something different. We choose what we have around us, and theoretically at least, we can choose to change it. Takes time and courage, but can be done. And this is where the magic of life can step in - people turn up and help us, circumstances change to support us, something happens and we have a sudden insight into what we are or are not doing, somehow life gives us a break.</p><p>Life is also beautiful. We learn about the hard stuff, yes, and we also experience the lovely stuff. We have to remember that we are allowed this lovely stuff, and not let the tough lessons take all our focus because unless we stop that, we will allow all the difficult things to dominate. We learn about love, and compassion, and appreciation. We experience satisfaction, praise, joy, wonder. We have insights, understandings, inspirations. We do things, we learn things, and while we are still here, still alive, we can choose to go up as well as down. Small triumphs, small successes, <i>especially</i> small triumphs and successes, give us another beautiful human gift, hope. Life is such a journey, it is your journey, and it is up to you, me, all of us to make of it what we can. If I don't like today, what can I learn about it, and how can I move on? How can I change it and what does it say about who I think I am? <br /></p><p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return</span></b></p><p>Finally, I am thinking that with so many different perspectives on life and death, living and dying, that my upbringing in a religious faith has given me just one set of beliefs in a world full of sets of beliefs. I am so grateful to have spent a childhood with the idea of a loving God and a whole universe of mystery. That part has never left me, and though I have shaken my Catholicism warmly by the hand, thanked it and moved on into a bigger brighter world beyond, I love the memory of some of the words, and much of the magic, the mystery and the beauty of it. Each of us has our own experiences, we make of it what we can. Now, onwards and upwards, the day ahead beckons and life is yet to be lived and experienced. <br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5-dJKMdHDheQ4CcgN5m-DEvLF_3qHDvcgUEa0lW6b_wnqSF2CX4hVuqXZ2KE44u2GuxgLdFzhB5nI8h8skYUNNXlC5_jfVmQoak5XLAPtpf4HiXgd5dpICrart-s4QYqwBBkWHT4wgXq6vqlMeASHvsQ8PiYs3jm3BmbCDsdQOF0XWEMZjSYdKbl4=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="670" data-original-width="1080" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5-dJKMdHDheQ4CcgN5m-DEvLF_3qHDvcgUEa0lW6b_wnqSF2CX4hVuqXZ2KE44u2GuxgLdFzhB5nI8h8skYUNNXlC5_jfVmQoak5XLAPtpf4HiXgd5dpICrart-s4QYqwBBkWHT4wgXq6vqlMeASHvsQ8PiYs3jm3BmbCDsdQOF0XWEMZjSYdKbl4=w640-h398" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>life is a journey, never too late to live it.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: verdana;">Don't forget, you can buy my book <u>As Mother Lay Dying</u><b>, </b>a tapestry woven of memories and insights from the bedside <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/As-Mother-Lay-Dying-tapestry/dp/1838298606">here</a></b></span></li></ul><p><i><b>"</b><span class="cr-widget-FocalReviews" data-hook="cr-widget-FocalReviews"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span>I loved this book, it really hooked me in and kept me turning the pages.<br /><br />This
is so helpful for being with those we love at end of life, so many good
ideas for making people more comfortable, feel loved and cherished.
However, the emotions that run through it are what I find most
interesting and helpful. There is such honesty about how, in fact, we
might really feel at these times and I much admired Antonia’s courage in
sometimes saying what we all might think but not be brave enough to
voice. I also found the end section on grieving so helpful.<br /><br />We
all have to experience death at some point in our lives, it’s not a bad
idea to be a bit prepared for it…..this book will so help." Pauline.</span></span></span></i></p><p><i><span class="cr-widget-FocalReviews" data-hook="cr-widget-FocalReviews"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span><br /></span></span></span></i></p><p><i>"<span class="cr-widget-FocalReviews" data-hook="cr-widget-FocalReviews"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span>For
my work and my own life, this book held many important and meaningful
messages. It is beautiful, funny, honest and poignant. Written with
such grace, thank you for sharing Antonia" Claire<br /></span></span></span></i></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: verdana;">Subscribe to my twice monthly newsletter, updates and thoughts from the studio and life <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a> </b>(next one out this Tuesday 7 December)<b><br /></b></span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: verdana;">My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b></span></li></ul>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-34099286280834841882021-11-20T01:59:00.000-08:002021-11-20T01:59:03.670-08:00Going to hell in a handcart<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrapdKGzFq2ut6HVElAkl73ZN0yv1x9AIBA73qalybA1-1zvrqHODEI0rXUzw7hxOiz1LZoIQMd3Twn4VDapGzxyzMyGXkOKxJ36qM1qKjgcotKWKUPyY3KYVHVOqrxykOpL0Ycqg6pV8/s584/2021-11-18+17.13.04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="584" data-original-width="449" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrapdKGzFq2ut6HVElAkl73ZN0yv1x9AIBA73qalybA1-1zvrqHODEI0rXUzw7hxOiz1LZoIQMd3Twn4VDapGzxyzMyGXkOKxJ36qM1qKjgcotKWKUPyY3KYVHVOqrxykOpL0Ycqg6pV8/w492-h640/2021-11-18+17.13.04.jpg" width="492" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I think it's hell you're after, matey.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>Blimey yes. There seems to be an air of malaise and gloom about us in the world. If what I read and watch is accurate, something bad is happening almost everywhere. Even though I no longer watch the news, read newspapers or listen to the radio, I cannot miss the podcasts and videos on YouTube and from what I can see, there is no hope. And then I go out from my home here in Bognor Regis, and everyone is still as nice as they ever were, the shops are full of stuff and everyone is going about their business, bustling about together and living the good life. I wonder then, whether I am just protected in my tiny provincial town by the sea and the badness hasn't caught up with us yet. I see protests in big cities on YouTube. I hear Australia is now a totalitarian police state. I see Austria has declared a lockdown for their unvaccinated citizens with Germany and Europe set to follow suit and in America, the vaccine mandate is not only now steamrolling ahead regardless, it is successfully legally challenged and still it is steamrolling ahead. I see on YouTube and in various articles that I do read that Gibraltar has cancelled Christmas, Canada and New Zealand have become wet and authoritarian beyond belief, and I wonder - why is Bognor Regis still managing to get by without all of this affecting us? Are we just not affected <i>yet</i>?</p><p>There is, if you look for it, a change in the psychic weather. Something has happened to we ordinary people and though most of us have retained our good manners and many are happy to go about our daily business, there are billions bound by a new fear, a new terror, that somehow they are going to die. Not the old existential we-are-all-mortal die, but a gruesome, germ-warfare die. It is here in the whole world, this fear. It is attached to a new threat that was science fiction only a few years ago, but now is, we are told, and we utterly believe it because why would we not, lethal, indiscriminatory and almost supernatural in its power. It is new and we are all going to die and it comes from China. Aaaaag. Certain actions will save us, we are told, and if we do not do them we not only effectively commit suicide (we die horribly and it is our own fault we were warned) but take others down with us too (they died tragically because we did not do what we were told to do and we knew others would die if we disobeyed, and still we did not do as we were asked and now not only are we dead, but everyone else is too thank you very much), so we are effectively murderers too. But despite religiously doing what we are told, the fear increases because we start to not only fear dying suddenly from something we can't see that seems to have all the power in the world, we fear <i>not</i> doing these things as if that too will strike us down, and then we fear each other and now, billions of us fear <i>everything. </i>And worst of all, this great invisible threat to life as we know it ignores all the roadblocks our great leaders and those in charge of what story we are told, tell us will stop it. As far as we can see, it is still out to get us. It knows where we live. And still, as far as I can see, life in Bognor Regis just tootles along. <br /></p><p>There is something that goes hand in hand with this fear. It is compliance, compliance with whatever we are told to do and believe in, which far from making the fear better, makes it worse. It gets worse because the information about the invisible super killing enemy in the air keeps changing, and the invisible super killing enemy is not taking any notice of what is in place to defeat it, so nothing really works and we have to find someone to blame. Well it is not us, that is for sure. It must be them, whoever they are, and we conveniently make them responsible for making we who have played by the rules, look foolish. </p><p>The compliance is understandable. The messages from our great leaders who thought up the life saving steps to defeat the enemy in the air, are clever, and make us feel like they care, and our great leaders have access to all manner of ways to make us believe in them. We are all so deeply traumatised by the Russian roulette manner in which they tell us we are all to die or survive, that we hang on to our great leaders' every word, even when not much of it makes sense. The thing about compliance is that it makes us feel as if we are doing something, we are in control, we are in this together, and as a group the thing we most fear can't get us. And our leaders tell us that we, ourselves, are the most dangerous thing of all and so despite being in this together, we need to be in it together but far enough away from the next person that we cannot touch or breathe on each other, so that this thing that we are now personally responsible for cannot get anywhere. Or at least, it can, but it may get my neighbour or the next person in the queue and not me, because I am obeying. I am safe. Unless I come across someone who is not complying and then it is an all over. Oh what to do! Tell us, great leader, and make it strict and tough so we feel that you care!</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpgwv2EUdyijSik0c23QoJrrQ_htcWDsV2DPvhO9zUH4J2LZJOCq4bO-rdouzTP02_v-ONp6Mt5Imp8SmFSCKxtl8rQR4ZW0VyCNuf9rHN861O51AcZng4LULw-RmLqKJM1f6bUALD8yA/s1080/2021-11-18+17.25.00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="701" data-original-width="1080" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpgwv2EUdyijSik0c23QoJrrQ_htcWDsV2DPvhO9zUH4J2LZJOCq4bO-rdouzTP02_v-ONp6Mt5Imp8SmFSCKxtl8rQR4ZW0VyCNuf9rHN861O51AcZng4LULw-RmLqKJM1f6bUALD8yA/w640-h416/2021-11-18+17.25.00.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Browsing the aisles in a carefree manner. Not yet in Bognor though. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>I do look at social media and I do look at headlines on the papers in the shops. What I see there is a mad, crazy world of blame and counter blame, a panic driven wish to hide whole societies under the kitchen table in hazmat suits and to denounce ordinary living as lethal. I see that vaccines are the answer, to protect the world from this armageddon. Great, that is a relief. But now I see that they lose effectiveness after about six months, and that they work wonderfully well (thank God) but they don't actually work that well, and it is all very confusing. The narrative goes now, that unless all people from birth onwards take this magical vaccine, life on earth will end. And to help us to do that, take the vaccine, we are given free doughnuts and cash prizes and always a pat on the back for our selflessness. And anyway, if I read the headlines, social media and YouTube correctly, if we don't get ourselves vaccinated (once, twice, three times and now four and possibly more ad infinitum), we are too dangerous to work, to shop, to travel and to be around. Best get it done then. Phew. And yet, many are not vaccinated, carry on living quite happily, and what does that mean for all those who are, and what does it mean for life on earth? Oh it is all so maddening. </p><p>Back to Bognor Regis. I do not know who is vaccinated or not and no one is dying in the street. There is no division into clean and unclean in Morrison's. People wear face masks that they take out, shake off the fluff from their pockets and put on in shops, and that is possibly the only way we are playing our part. We make our masks suit our outfits and feel lovely in them, taking them off to chat and eat and drink, and to smoke too of course. The fact that we have them, probably many of them in different colours, is enough. We have not had any riots or demonstrations, and so far, we are milling around and buying all our usual stuff on the High Street. Maybe those who are still very afraid are still under their tables in their hazmat suits, so of course we won't see each other. </p><p>But there is a malaise in the air. Things are different out there, beyond Bognor. It is not a good idea to be ill and need care at the moment. It is not a good idea to want to travel out of this country. It is not good to need to work and fear being made unemployable by not having a vaccine that you thought you had the right to decide to take or not take. Not good to fear our great leaders shutting down everything for our own good, except that it is not for our own good, if we cannot earn money to live. There is a malaise in the air and it is not good. If I believed all the hype, I would say we are going to hell in a handcart. It may be true, but so far, in Bognor, it is not. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWEOg7PPoapMH4TPk7uVyzZd2i6mE1JlHf8o-5pGL5g-ZVToeL3qiIx7Z3MCXMUmkXH5SkK_hydXe2TU6EDooptTISQyMSZ3NJkxkivrMOaNF5nXO6ihyphenhyphenxlBbP6A9kGEMIqF6mbA5ldCA/s1612/2021-11-18+17.33.49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1612" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWEOg7PPoapMH4TPk7uVyzZd2i6mE1JlHf8o-5pGL5g-ZVToeL3qiIx7Z3MCXMUmkXH5SkK_hydXe2TU6EDooptTISQyMSZ3NJkxkivrMOaNF5nXO6ihyphenhyphenxlBbP6A9kGEMIqF6mbA5ldCA/w428-h640/2021-11-18+17.33.49.jpg" width="428" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It's like this every day in Bognor. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Subscribe to my two weekly newsletter, updates and thoughts from the studio and life, <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b></p><p>Follow my Instagram stories <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">here</a></b></p><p>Follow me and my Facebook stories <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">here</a></b><br /></p><p>My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-33332314946804001112021-11-06T16:30:00.000-07:002021-11-06T16:30:53.341-07:00I'm turning into my mum.<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhapCjCeRPdbAAZtpH39D2M-ZcxneUyDXK9a_gReW136jfbQZN9QnOZMzDUm8t1tuHdBxYYI6T7GM6nkkv0OmSH8Mkh71-8_ewiY7fLnsRYqXX1JaedB0j2NqHCNXtx074VmWC6Nrw4pL8/s2048/IMG_20211106_225038_edit_15454171720037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1399" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhapCjCeRPdbAAZtpH39D2M-ZcxneUyDXK9a_gReW136jfbQZN9QnOZMzDUm8t1tuHdBxYYI6T7GM6nkkv0OmSH8Mkh71-8_ewiY7fLnsRYqXX1JaedB0j2NqHCNXtx074VmWC6Nrw4pL8/w438-h640/IMG_20211106_225038_edit_15454171720037.jpg" width="438" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Waiting in the wings to become shameless and lethal too.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>I'm turning into my mum. Blimey, it's not a bad thing as such, I love my mum. I have written a whole <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/As-Mother-Lay-Dying-tapestry/dp/1838298606/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1612179096&sr=8-1">book about her dying</a></b>, for goodness sake, she is big in my life even now. The thing is, I point my finger in the same way as she did, my hair is turning into her hair, I say things that she said, I feel myself walking like she used to walk and I find myself saying with feeling in the dead of night, "Back Mother! I am my own person!"</p><p>Mum was such a striking figure. Small, elegant and ferociously intelligent, she relished a fight with anyone who stood in her way. Never one to actually swing a punch, Mum would use her super power instead, a forensic perception of your weakness, and a pathological determination to bring you down, and use it without mercy. As she got older, she became more confident and delighted with the success of her encounters. Those left in her wake included bad salesmen, disrespectful shop staff, stubborn officials and anyone who refused to give her a bargain. </p><p>Mother was also very kind indeed, and her growing fearlessness as she got older made her step into situations where angels would fear to tread. In these situations, her forensic perception could be very strong and helpful. But as children, my brothers and I would relish the idea of someone trying to pull the wool over our mother's eyes when out shopping for, say, some good piece of cloth in a market. We knew that she could be underestimated, being small and beautifully dressed, but what they did not know was that she was going to kill. And nine times out of ten, she did. She got what she wanted - and somehow in the negotiations, mum would find out the name of her opponent, and their mother, father and grandparents' names and she would use them all to bamboozle the poor victim. It was a master class in assertiveness and sheer bloody mindedness. </p><p>Later in life, mother became quite openly shameless. We went on holiday to Ireland together a good few years ago, back to visit her family and see where she spent her childhood and I was to drive us around Southern Ireland in a hire car. On the big day, I picked her up from her house, and drove us both to Gatwick Airport with our bags and snacks for the journey. Though in her eighties, she was a powerhouse of energy and determination, and so looking forward to our holiday. We were like kids on school holidays - mum could be wonderful company. Walking happily from the airport car park, swinging our bags, chatting and planning our trip, we walked into the airport building and mother suddenly slowed down her happy, healthful and spritely walk and announced that she was disabled. She needed, she said, the special help that airports offer, the little car that drives you around, a wheelchair, and one to one care. I was mortified and wanted nothing to do with this charade because I knew from old that she was on a roll, and I was sure she was on CCTV skipping around outside. I told her she could go and ask on her own because I was going to hide. As she approached the desk for special assistance I watched her from behind a pillar in what I can only think was a perfect display of method acting. She limped, and sighed, and staggered, and moaned and blow me down, she convinced them that she needed help <i>immediately</i> at the head of the queue, and not only that, because she (now) couldn't walk at all, she said she needed - and got - the special kind of lift apparatus that lifted her, me and her wheelchair into the aeroplane before everyone else, and to be helped into a seat like a dying hero. I was mortified, mother was delighted and all the staff felt that they had helped an old lady live another day. It carried on in Dublin where mother (who was still very beautiful) convinced a nice (poor) porter to wheel her off the plane, through customs and then actually right outside the airport building to where the hire cars were waiting a good ten minutes walk away, and put her bodily into ours. He even fastened her seat belt because she had so little time left to live. That, is chutzpah.</p><p><i></i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihME7IQoK1jtjIkUZZmAaphpDGH-KtTCTBFSjlOpRXrUjZlxfz-W-EOCQ0rFJhfAbsiFLJgKvCkiOSBPTIb0va5x7WHO7Vfh1nHpAvaUZvLfrEkQRBVEiqdOZp1s2O2saBui-8djpetS0/s2048/IMG_20211106_224724_edit_15281851173188.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2039" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihME7IQoK1jtjIkUZZmAaphpDGH-KtTCTBFSjlOpRXrUjZlxfz-W-EOCQ0rFJhfAbsiFLJgKvCkiOSBPTIb0va5x7WHO7Vfh1nHpAvaUZvLfrEkQRBVEiqdOZp1s2O2saBui-8djpetS0/w638-h640/IMG_20211106_224724_edit_15281851173188.jpg" width="638" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>No pretending. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>But now, back to me. Obviously the above account is not me, (yet), and I do not want a fight (yet) with anyone. My mother was tiny, and I am tall. She was well dressed and loved quality and I, bless me, love colour and sequins. I look fine, but it is obvious I like the jumble sale look. How am I morphing into my mother? I find myself listening to people in exactly the same way that mum did. I remember how careful she was when listening and how she could tell if someone was not interested in asking her about herself. Sometimes Mum was a bit sharp but mostly, she had this strange kindness as if she knew it was important for her to just let them speak. I am aware that I am holding my head in exactly the same way that she did, and I hear myself responding using her words. There are times when my voice is exactly like hers and I repeat phrases and sayings that used to make me say, "Oh <i>muuuuuuum</i>!" in embarrassment when I was much younger. Now it is me saying them, and they are coming out from my mouth as if I'd always been speaking that way. I know my face is more like her than it ever was, despite me supposedly looking more like my dad. I can see her in there, she's in my face and when I put on my lipstick, which I wear because my mother always did so, she's taken over. </p><p>Mum used to say she loved a bit of hard, brown crusty bread and butter late in the evening with some whiskey. I couldn't think of anything more tedious when she was alive but now, what have I taken to having? I can't wait to have hard crusty brown bread and butter of an evening but as I don't drink alcohol, I have mine with hot milk. (Sorry Cousin Kirsten, this always makes her feel ill). When did a piece of hard brown bread and butter become beautiful to me? How? <br /></p><p>I see myself being her when I deal with my grandchildren too. I can feel myself being her. I know now how she felt looking after my children, I remember watching her and being very curious about the seamless change in her from being a mum with beautiful long black hair to a stouter white haired grandma. I find myself thinking about her and what she said and did, and understanding her now because I am also sliding seamlessly into being a stouter grey haired grandma. It is almost as if she knew the path that I would have to follow, that of getting older with all it entails, and also becoming a grandmother, and left little clues and presents for me along the way. And because she was my mum and played second fiddle to no one, she is making me look and act more like her just for the hell of it. </p><p>I am just waiting in the wings now to become shameless and lethal too. </p><p> <i></i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLoXOLN5eGaKdnSfa_KIXEOnKjR73df1DEmtVdRcaCrjKPVx3vJ0dsqr482sYVyxR8fkIuKg-ZkUaogAMDKZpf7PybrPh_tGAfzyx-QMZ9hJy_qiolnSD9QbW4AgybnHvpdiqBI_V_vRc/s640/mum%252C+by+lexi+november+2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLoXOLN5eGaKdnSfa_KIXEOnKjR73df1DEmtVdRcaCrjKPVx3vJ0dsqr482sYVyxR8fkIuKg-ZkUaogAMDKZpf7PybrPh_tGAfzyx-QMZ9hJy_qiolnSD9QbW4AgybnHvpdiqBI_V_vRc/w480-h640/mum%252C+by+lexi+november+2013.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hello Mum!<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p> </p><p>Subscribe to my twice monthly newsletter, news and updates from life and the studio <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b></p><p>Follow my Instagram stories <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Follow my Facebook stories <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">here</a></b><br /></p><p>My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-30037316515597009992021-10-24T02:00:00.003-07:002021-10-24T02:00:26.229-07:00I had a dream<p><b><span style="font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJ3yRIrDa8xA2I2_s9M9LKmlr91WavRoiFxubfu_R9C3lxGL9TiqxVzwosKg7b6sMwZrbDlxe0m7Nv326Di8-CgnSuBpLNV7tnOxJF7xQFz_dsy1tG-a-iL0lipOhtrYxGDxmzDqYs0U/s2048/blog+23+oct+2021+sleepless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2010" data-original-width="2048" height="628" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJ3yRIrDa8xA2I2_s9M9LKmlr91WavRoiFxubfu_R9C3lxGL9TiqxVzwosKg7b6sMwZrbDlxe0m7Nv326Di8-CgnSuBpLNV7tnOxJF7xQFz_dsy1tG-a-iL0lipOhtrYxGDxmzDqYs0U/w640-h628/blog+23+oct+2021+sleepless.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>No sleep, no dreams.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table>Pre dream</span></b></p><p>I rarely dream. I listen to friends who do dream and wish that I did. They always have so much fun, and if we were inclined to do so, we could spend ages unpicking them to find meaning. Sometimes we do, like recently my friend dreamed that she was looking for her Prince Charming. He's over there, someone said, up in the maths tower which you have to climb. My friend has a memory of swinging in through the window of this maths tower on a vine (like Tarzan) instead, so she didn't have to climb it at all. She did not say anything about Prince Charming inside so perhaps he had dived out of one window as she was swinging in through the other. Wonderful. We couldn't work out what any of that meant, so perhaps we will wait for her next dream and try again. I am told that I do actually dream, everyone does, but that I do not remember them. Possibly because I wake a lot in the night and they don't have time to really get going, or because what deep sleep I do have crams them all in and my brain explodes. I really do not know, and perhaps you can put me right on this.</p><p>Night time used to be a fearful place for me. Many years ago I did not sleep well, and did not want to face the darkness. There was something about the long quiet dark hours of the night in which I could not escape from my own thoughts that made me try and avoid it. I would resist going to bed, resist going to sleep, and keep the radio on to help me. To lie down and stay still, to know that all the chattering in my mind would be louder and louder in the quietness, and to feel the anxiety in my stomach in the early hours when I woke after only a small amount of sleep, made life very difficult. I did sort it out after many years and in the end, and it was quite simple. Mostly, it was a decision to stop dreading the night, and to have a proper bed time and wake time. I read a good book about sleep, put their recommendations into practice, and the long dark scary nights began to recede. I love my night times now. I sleep very well in my own way, and don't worry about it if I don't. But still, I do not remember my dreams. </p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">The dream</span></b></p><p> My life is full of meaning. The work I do, the people I meet and the places I go means that I am often concentrating hard on what the outcomes are. Much of what I do is about energy and energies which includes healing work, listening work and creative work. It can be very intense - it is intense - which is why it works. The deeper and more difficult things in our lives take time, focus and energy to deal with and when I am working with someone, I use love and kindness alongside time, focus and energy, and it draws on resources we forget we have. Sometimes, my work is an encounter with someone out of the blue, and I may not know who they are or what their name is but we encounter each other and for the time we spend together, there is an exchange of healing and experience. </p><p>When I go to London, I carry loose change so that I can give it to whoever asks for it. One time, a very misshapen young man, obviously not right in the head, left his cardboard box and beckoned me over. Would I go into the coffee shop and get him a sandwich and a coffee? With sugar? I did so, and while I was buying it, he wandered in looking filthy and strange. I feared the coffee shop owner would refuse to sell to me if it were for this man, everyone stopped and looked at him. But the coffee shop owner gave me a smile and said that as it was for this man, who he addressed by name, he must have cake too. Apparently this young man is often in the shop, and the owner loves it when people listen to him and buy him what he asks for. When they don't the owner gives him the food anyway. The young man and I left the shop, he asking me to come back another day, and buy him some more. The healing here was through the coffee shop owner, and the experience was for me. The vehicle was the dishevelled young man.</p><p></p><p>So, my dream. I dreamed that I was in a dark, black place, so dark that it was impossible to describe. The blackness had a texture to it, like velvet. It was not a frightening place at all, despite the deeper than dark darkness. I had a person, that was neither alive nor dead, and in the darkness I had to lift this heavy body and put it back into its soul. It was hard work, and I struggled to manage the weight of the body with me, and I remember thinking that I had no idea what a soul looked like, or where to find one. At that moment, to my left, a ball of light appeared which was so bright, so light and so beautiful that it took my breath away. It was flat, not spherical, and in the centre was so much love and I knew that this was the soul I was looking for. But I also understood that this amazing light was looking out for me too. Somehow, I raised the figure above my head and into the soul and as I did so, I knew the figure that I was carrying was that of my son who has so many troubles. In the distance I began to see other lights appearing, and I knew all was well.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb6G8swfIGYgH3S2dn14phIg_HaSCbooR98jdWDd9Hj9bNL3OSquekQkZbMz5w8bFFPHZx3-d9sZm1KmS6yTMjlUD0cPbLwXvoD32O-HwjFeJCAsifX4g_yk9Xi8LRdAEV4Q7XxuGrLdE/s2048/blog+dream+painting+oct+23+2021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1344" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb6G8swfIGYgH3S2dn14phIg_HaSCbooR98jdWDd9Hj9bNL3OSquekQkZbMz5w8bFFPHZx3-d9sZm1KmS6yTMjlUD0cPbLwXvoD32O-HwjFeJCAsifX4g_yk9Xi8LRdAEV4Q7XxuGrLdE/w420-h640/blog+dream+painting+oct+23+2021.jpg" width="420" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Finding the soul and it finding me.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>When I woke, I was filled with the beauty of this light, the feeling of peace after the body and soul were united, and the memory of the incredible blackness in which I was struggling to lift this body. Days later, I am still in awe of the whole dream and keep coming back to the light. I like to dwell on the power of this and feel the most important part of the whole dream is that the soul light, though it belonged to someone else, was magnificently looking after and out for, me too. Wow.</p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Post dream</b></span></p><p>Of course, it was a dream. But it felt more than a dream. It felt like something hopeful, something wonderful, something beyond me. I am reassured, inspired and relieved by it. We struggle along in our lives, and many of us feel we are alone especially when things seem never to improve. Life can be so relentless and lonely, and at times, we long for reassurance that we are not wasting our time, that doing our best will pay off, that somehow things will get better. Even those of us with a faith of sorts can feel abandoned. It is hard work, when the going gets tough. I do have a faith and I do believe in a God of love and kindness. I do think there is a purpose to life and that if we can remember it, we are not alone. Of course, we don't always remember it, how can we? We are only human and sometimes it feels like we blinking well are alone. But this dream came to me when I needed something to reconnect me with hope, and I think it was a spiritual experience in a dream. So much so that I have tried to paint the experience, which when I was doing it, boiled down to two colours, black and white. But I did paint it and used Prussian Blue and Paynes Grey for the darkness, because those are luminous and there is depth to them whereas black is matt and flat. My head is painted in matt flat black which shows up against the depth of the blue and grey, if you look carefully.</p><p>I went to see my son and decided to tell him. I showed him a photo of the painting, and he liked it. There is always a chance that when one talks of a dream experience like this, that it will not be taken seriously and dismissed as nonsense. My son was quite taken with it, and I am glad. Since I had to raise him above my head into his soul again, and he was jolly heavy, it was the least he could do. Ha ha.</p><p><i><b>Post script</b> - a dream experience like this does not necessarily change things in the world. It would be wonderful to think that suddenly all is well, and that we are all healed. We live our lives as we choose, and our stories are our own, even if we feel they are not. Life is nothing if not an ongoing, extraordinary, painful and joyful series of lessons, experiences, losses, gains and understandings. A dream like this, though I describe it as a spiritual experience inside a dream, is for me and I take from it that I, and my son, are not alone. I take from it a feeling of comfort and connection that is beyond what I normally experience, and a knowing that the whole of existence is vaster and more intense than I could possibly know in my day to day life. I like this, and it helps me accept a bit more what I cannot change. </i></p><p><i></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHS3yLYZuI3L9l-ep7E9Naaj1apQQ_roI5VWlLwasLUjj6A_12lalMb5URjJjfrdrHRk8TzIn2bSoxmQVclH-b_mzdcCrMKlqaQ79NZFBcyq74LtRcqjkq5-Kpr0pXs2x_8DGHUyoQqN4/s2048/blog+23+oct+2021+light+always+here.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1605" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHS3yLYZuI3L9l-ep7E9Naaj1apQQ_roI5VWlLwasLUjj6A_12lalMb5URjJjfrdrHRk8TzIn2bSoxmQVclH-b_mzdcCrMKlqaQ79NZFBcyq74LtRcqjkq5-Kpr0pXs2x_8DGHUyoQqN4/w502-h640/blog+23+oct+2021+light+always+here.jpg" width="502" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Light is everywhere, even when we cannot see it, which is most of the time.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><p><i> </i> </p><p>Subscribe to my twice monthly newsetter, updates from the studio and life, <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b></p><p>My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b></p><p>Follow my Instagram stories, posted daily in the stories bit, <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">here</a></b></p><p>Follow my Facebook stories, same as above for the Instagram stories <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">here</a></b><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-20374718678212267892021-10-09T13:08:00.003-07:002021-10-12T02:06:00.282-07:00Rebellion in my soul. <p><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9CexO1pm1M4-ECrqGonrQQpnFhS7bPA3-yJbiuc3AheqaMM6u4JCDvxPZm3ZhFE8fiK0Oq4vS2U_zUcBwVGsFdy6j4S4v8STV6YY3QoebDVYDl3aOibA6tZmnTeewKqczC2bCY9AEmHQ/s2048/blog+oct+2021+drawing+baby+me.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1874" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9CexO1pm1M4-ECrqGonrQQpnFhS7bPA3-yJbiuc3AheqaMM6u4JCDvxPZm3ZhFE8fiK0Oq4vS2U_zUcBwVGsFdy6j4S4v8STV6YY3QoebDVYDl3aOibA6tZmnTeewKqczC2bCY9AEmHQ/w586-h640/blog+oct+2021+drawing+baby+me.jpg" width="586" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Twin passions, net curtains and Ribena</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><b><span style="font-size: large;"> How it started.</span></b><p></p><p>I was born rebellious. A nice little girl, born to wonderful parents in a Catholic/Protestant household which was properly mixed faith in those days, I was brought up to behave well. Except, I did not always want to behave well. It seemed, to my little fairy brain, that behaving well meant no glitter, no dressing up in net curtains, no running away from nursery school. Why would we <i>not</i> want to do all those things? I wondered. Following my heart did not always turn out well though and I soon understood that it was better to do what was asked of me. I do understand, it is no fun having a class full of good little children with one wayward fairy disrupting everything. And I only ran away from nursery school once, but I did so with a pretty beaded purse I had found in a coat pocket in the cloakroom on my way out. My mother returned me and the purse to school where everyone was very nice because at five, I was considered too young to be a proper criminal. Later, at my nice convent school in Liverpool I found a shed full of packed lunches brought in by the children. I must have eaten a good third of them before I was discovered, and though it looked bad for me, I had no idea that these were lunches for other children. It was just a mountain of food, and so I dived in. I was discovered in a Ribena coma too, I had never experienced Ribena until I found it in all those lunches and could not believe anything tasted so good. I vaguely remember focusing on going through the mounds of packed lunches like an addict looking for more Ribena.<br /></p><p>At no point was I aggressive, mean or willfully naughty. I just did not understand the rules and so I went my own way. I suppose now I would be given a label and extra support. In fact, my father who always thought I was perfectly fine, did take me at my school's request to an educational psychologist. In their report he was told to give up, because I would never make O levels, let alone A levels. I remember that session and being asked to do some drawing. I drew male hippies in bell bottom trousers and flowers in their hair all over the place and did not really engage with anything else that was part of this assessment. So my father, probably a fairy himself too now I come to think of it, took me to another one. I must have liked this next educational psychologist because I came out as super intelligent. Everyone liked that result better, so we went with that one. I want to balance this, and say that I am neither educationally subnormal (first assessment) or super intelligent (second assessment), I am just a creative person much like other creative people. Very creative people (me) have a different take on life, and it is as simple as that. </p><p>However, I did get to university, I did go into the real world afterwards, and I did find it all very difficult <i>unless</i> - I could do my own thing. And therein lies the rub. </p><p> <span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Doing my own thing.</b></span></p><p>From the word go, I did my own thing if I could get away with it. I bleached my hair white in the early nineteen eighties and then coloured it pink. Instead of getting a job, which was very hard because I was inclined to be a bit unemployable, I squatted in old houses and flats in London and made art, met mad people, and became very alternative. But even that did not feel completely right. I <i>liked</i> being nice, and it upset my family that I was so far on the edges of polite society. Too right, polite society would have run a mile if they had had to engage with me. I could tell them how to break into empty houses, how to find the nearest reggae sound system and where to collect your dole money. But I was at heart too nice to be this far out of the loop. Despite living in squats and having pink hair, I was a moderate in the eyes of my companions, I was nice and I didn't smoke, take drugs or drink. I must have seemed odd even to them. I spoke well, was well educated, and thanks to my mother I knew how to make a proper bed and to wash lace. I did not really fit in. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSy8NyZ8b3PDdkXZy2aGm781-wbBOlbuSBcDk-rljzo4BSqzDtT9A-EGRM74KN023Iar-umq9prQyDaFS-hDvNiKfxxqp7wRqJ-RnMYxdja-YJeGg3lsQovBUjbiZa2zZs5Zuxz8hlc4/s2614/blog+oct+2021+me+young+drawing.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2614" data-original-width="1203" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSy8NyZ8b3PDdkXZy2aGm781-wbBOlbuSBcDk-rljzo4BSqzDtT9A-EGRM74KN023Iar-umq9prQyDaFS-hDvNiKfxxqp7wRqJ-RnMYxdja-YJeGg3lsQovBUjbiZa2zZs5Zuxz8hlc4/w294-h640/blog+oct+2021+me+young+drawing.jpg" width="294" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bolt cutters and a cheery smile<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I did get a job, eventually, and became a well paid member of an economic consultancy as a receptionist and then an assistant librarian. It was a culture shock, and very good for me. I really tried to conform, but it ate at my soul, and after ten years, I left. Not without much gratitude and respect for the lessons learned, and I think economics improved quite a lot after I had gone. I was not very good at my jobs. But people liked me, I liked them, and I think I was kept on as light relief. </p><p>Doing my own thing, trying to understand the rebel inside and living in the real world outside made me ill. I hadn't the courage to be really me, nor the ability to integrate the conventional world around me into my own world. It seems now, looking back, that I had many lessons to learn and most of them were about who I really was. Once I got that sorted, I could make sensible headway with everything else. </p><p>It was tough. I married my first husband, lost him (mutual agreement) and had my three children. (Before my husband left). I struggled with money and life but I managed. This is no sob story! The moment I began my upwards journey was when things could not get much worse, a friend offered me space in her studio to paint, and I took it. I became a full time proper artist. I was, at the time, a divorced mother of three tiny children and weighed sixteen stone. Within a couple of years, I had lost five stone, run a London Marathon and was calling myself Artist Exraordinaire. Well done Antonia. Except that I still couldn't work out how the world actually worked, and still had much to learn, experience and understand. Onwards and upwards, then, carry on with the journey of life.<br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>And now -</b></span></p><p>Here I am. Aged 61, once divorced, twice widowed, living alone and making my way as an artist and many other things besides. I have grey hair, four grandchildren (not linked), a studio and some peace. </p><p>The rebel in me is much quieter now, but more discerning. I have done much homework, I had to work out who I was and who I am and yes, it is ever changing. We never really arrive at the definitive Me, every time we think we have done so, life throws something else at us and back we go to square one. But as we get older, we retain the memory of who we have been and who we want to be, and somehow it is not as hard as it used to be when we were younger. So now, I feel better about stepping outside the box because I feel better about myself. I do not have to worry about so much. So now, acts of rebellion feel like the right way to go. Unless I get arrested or kidnapped, neither of which I want, I can always come home and shut my door and unless either my brain malfunctions or my hands fall off, I can write, paint and draw. I can cook, pick flowers, and make things. I can be creative, I can be a fairy. But a rather unconventional, grey haired fearless one. These days, I take my personal freedom very seriously. I live my freedoms and do not wish to comply with nonsense, but I do not need to make a fuss about it, I just do it. Once, long ago, when I had pink hair and frightened my mother's posh friends with talk of what bolt cutters to use on locks of empty houses, I felt I bumbled from one crazy situation to the next. Now, as I get older, I care much less about getting things wrong - though I do still care - I have enough history behind me to know I will probably be OK. In fact, it may be that this next stage in my life is where I man the barricades at last. Rebel Grandma has arrived.</p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMNXFQcldJituSVoqZZZq4vlGwgB4NN0iToBe1nGCQAUGN6WNd0Gdh3H9G-U1mWqJ_IP1uzQANEMe36mTQkXRKax98j_N2kQZ__Qsjn-3VwiIluxQEGA15Nb3ojw9ES5qr_RwYioL7z4Y/s2048/rebel+grandma+2021+oct.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1402" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMNXFQcldJituSVoqZZZq4vlGwgB4NN0iToBe1nGCQAUGN6WNd0Gdh3H9G-U1mWqJ_IP1uzQANEMe36mTQkXRKax98j_N2kQZ__Qsjn-3VwiIluxQEGA15Nb3ojw9ES5qr_RwYioL7z4Y/w438-h640/rebel+grandma+2021+oct.jpg" width="438" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Rebel Grandma. Naughty, but nice. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p> Subscribe to my twice monthly newsletter <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Subscribe to my YouTube channel <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPwvjunRhjo_wtfk8z2xKMA">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Follow me on Instagram <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Follow me on Facebook <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">here</a></b></p>My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-16651754853360967122021-09-24T01:58:00.001-07:002021-09-24T01:58:55.973-07:00What has lockdown ever done for me? Surprisingly, some good. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5eZgbOv9mUARhk98Fq5vAwXSFqPz1y3wRt7nQY1D8vsLkYS1VsaEEVnP5Yj-3GJFto3Amao-j28D8NrkF0feX2SoJ95hDBOKUvlB5ni5VUJIzM2NxNNvZm_aCZRuPgtIz7UixUGuiONY/s2048/2021-09-23+11.33.16.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1556" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5eZgbOv9mUARhk98Fq5vAwXSFqPz1y3wRt7nQY1D8vsLkYS1VsaEEVnP5Yj-3GJFto3Amao-j28D8NrkF0feX2SoJ95hDBOKUvlB5ni5VUJIzM2NxNNvZm_aCZRuPgtIz7UixUGuiONY/w486-h640/2021-09-23+11.33.16.jpg" width="486" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Waking up and smelling the tea.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I resist the idea that any good at all has come from such a destructive thing as a lockdown. It is well known that I do not agree with it and that I believe it has caused incalulable damage and trouble for everyone. Whatever I feel about lockdowns as a policy, they were used, will be used and are here to stay. And so, it's best I find a way to get on with life. This is something I have done, and somehow I am still alive, so are you, and the world has not ended. It may have tilted on its axis, but it did not end. I look out of my window and the honeysuckle in my garden did not give lockdowns a second thought. The sea at the end of my road went in, and out, and ignored all the madness of mankind. Walking on the Downs as I do showed me the beauty of nature was immune to all of this stuff, and gave me and all the other walkers there some hope, some joy, some perspective.</p><p>I am lucky. I live alone, I have a garden, I don't have to look after anyone and I can work from home. There are shops nearby to buy food and I have internet access to go online and I have a phone to call people. No one depends on me. I do not have to keep a shop open, find a way to make a business work, lose sleep over losing money with a lack of customers. Antonia Rolls is one lucky bunny rabbit. </p><p>All that aside, lockdown gave me panic, loneliness, fear, isolation, helplessness. Same as most of us. Lockdown shut down my great year, the one I had worked so hard to create, and my busy world came to a screeching halt. And, on top of that, nothing worked any more, all the support structures that I had unthinkingly depended on crashed. No one could mend my oven. No doctor appointments. No hugs from my grandchildren. No nothing from anyone. I was an island in my own lovely home, cast adrift forever under house arrest in a pretty prison in Bognor Regis. But I could still get takeaways delivered, that worked. And Amazon parcels were safe. And I could wave at people from my window, that was nice. Here in Bognor no one monitored how many times I went to Sainsbury's in a day so I was never arrested for forgetting the milk and having to pop back for it. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDGfKgfZ8d9NEcB1dDzUMb7IOBh0bEHcjUMh94bdNtUZxQ01FFp682JptRDYNON0wb7tW6kgcQludjOp72bmBNLoEvN4ngx4bxZ5XwY2mpACWt-RoTyJAfTgQ7GGVAY8UrYzzoiSKQgl4/s2048/2021-09-23+19.24.49-1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1742" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDGfKgfZ8d9NEcB1dDzUMb7IOBh0bEHcjUMh94bdNtUZxQ01FFp682JptRDYNON0wb7tW6kgcQludjOp72bmBNLoEvN4ngx4bxZ5XwY2mpACWt-RoTyJAfTgQ7GGVAY8UrYzzoiSKQgl4/w544-h640/2021-09-23+19.24.49-1.jpg" width="544" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Waving to the Amazon delivery man who is like me still alive. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>But. Here I am a year and a half later, in my Bognor home, alive and well and somehow changed for the better. I have benefitted from lockdown as well as suffered. And actually, all things taken into account, I have barely suffered. Not like those who have no money, no choices, no space, no help, no hope have suffered. I was angry and sad like most of us were, but my suffering was not helpless and distressing as those who were ill and isolated were, those with children and no options or resources in confined spaces were, those who were too terrified to go to their front doors were, those locked behind protocols over which they were powerless were. No, I had a great deal going for me in that I had space and agency and autonomy. I cannot say I suffered compared to those who actually did.</p><p>What changed? I was removed from the bustle and chaos of being permanently busy. I was forced to stop. I did not like nor appreciate it, there was a terrible realisation that all I had worked for was being dismantled without a backwards glance. I had a new exhibition on addiction as part of the Brighton Fringe all set up and ready to go in a venue of my choice. I had the A Graceful Death exhibition showing at a Dead Good Day Festival in Southampton, and a one woman show at that same festival. I had a marathon walk for Macmillan, fundraising for cancer help, and in my mind the gateway to international stardom was to be opened. It was all coming together. And I was fitting my book into this sparkling schedule. Of course I was distressed to find that it was all cancelled and all that beckoned was another morning in my sitting room in Bognor Regis. <br /></p><p>Thrown back onto myself, like many of us, to actually do nothing was impossible at first. I planned all the jobs I had put off and did them. I was still feeling busy and purposeful. Everything wooden in my garden got painted blue. Furniture I had wanted to upcycle got upcycled. I discovered gardening, I experienced zoom, I tidied my studio and hoovered the floor. I planned my meals, and eating became my highlight of the day and still the lockdown continued. My father still languished in his care home with his dementia and Alzheimers, now hidden from all of us and left to sink into depression and nothingness on his own. He could not know why none of us visited any more, and once when I tried to zoom call him as he lay in his bed, with the help of one of the carers who were so wonderful, he tried to find the phone where my voice was, and flailed his arms around making small frightened sounds. I did not do that again, it made me cry and it showed in my voice. In the end, he simply stopped living and I made a video about his dying and death. My brothers and I made it to his bedside in time but it should never have been this way, and you can see the video here <b> <a href="https://youtu.be/xW1UGsqDozU">Dying Not Quite Alone In Lockdown 2020</a></b><br /></p><p>During this enforced time of absolute leisure, I began to question myself, what I believed in, and how I was living. It was a painful process. For one thing, I saw just how much I had taken for granted. It never really occurred to me just how hard doctors, shop workers, all those businesses out there who's main job was to make my life easy, work. Now that they were all gone, I saw just how much I relied on them. Another home truth I did not want to acknowledge was that if I was all over the place, which I was most of the time, did it mean I could be a little superficial? I did not like that. It became clear that the more I was doing the less I got done. Now, when the country and world had closed and I was alone against my will in my house, unless I planned my days one after the other so that I could keep busy, there was free time. Free time was scary. I began to sit down more often and think. And then I found I would day dream. And then I found I enjoyed it and soon, I would spend whole afternoons on my sofa doing nothing. Perhaps I would read, perhaps I would stare out of the window, perhaps I would make lists. But I discovered that time passing was not my enemy and that there was a much quieter, less anxious person inside me. I began to enjoy and accept the passing of time and I began to notice the play of light across the days in the rooms of my house.</p><p>Another thing happened. I began to question the news. I had wholeheartedly accepted everything I heard and read until the first lockdown, and now I began to ask questions. Things did not match up and now that I had time, I could see that what I was seeing, living and experiencing was not what I was being told I was seeing, living and experiencing. This too was uncomfortable. I was being challenged to think for myself. Many things that I held dear because they were so easy to believe turned out to be more complex. Much more complex. All my easy certainties needed some careful unpicking and now that I had time to do it, now that I was not distracting myself by being so busy that I could not think, I found I had to rethink many of my beliefs. I stopped listening to and watching the news. </p><p>My spiritual life changed. With this new time on my hands I began to ask myself what do I actually believe in? This went hand in hand with looking at what I thought I knew and questioning how authentic I thought I was, and asking myself what I was afraid of. Why do I keep busy? Why does it matter if I succeed? What do I mean by succeed? What and who are my priorities? And how much time do I give to looking after myself? Does any of it matter? Not in the sense of hopelessness, but in the scheme of things how important are any of these fears? <br /></p><p>A wise person once said that nothing is all just one thing, it is made up of balances. So lockdown has forced me to wake up in a way that nothing else has and not for the reasons I would have imagined. I still got Covid, and obviously, recovered. But being in lockdown took me off the hamster wheel and made me take a look at my life. It has forced stillness on me and made me see that constant movement is not necessary. Quietness, contemplation, simple things are just as necessary as movement. It has put my feet on the ground and given me space. It has also made me more aware of the world around me and given me focus. I did not know I lacked focus until recently. </p><p>I have, in effect, woken up and smelt the coffee. (Except it is also well known that I drink tea, but waking up and smelling the tea does not have the same punch.)</p><p><i>Post script - it is also well known that I am in no way an evolved human being, yet, and that though I am grateful against my will for having been shaken up by something I do not agree with, nevertheless it has started something good. All I have written about here is true, but knowing things are true and living them are very different things. All I wish to say is do not be fooled into thinking I have the answer to the universe now. I do not, not yet, and when I do, I will of course let you all know.</i></p><p><i></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQKlkNSSOZBtRXCe9z9aYfQlQ9NCHpWBBODYvtPcAMc-_9mdfaeCUmQwVaTpARzqtc3Jmz-5wlW-iUwE5bku-OY6jAqP9_uLs0-5mcp7-lIHqbels5ZKsgBlxYC_DmnPV2IbMD0xs6GRM/s2048/2021-09-23+11.59.38.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1272" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQKlkNSSOZBtRXCe9z9aYfQlQ9NCHpWBBODYvtPcAMc-_9mdfaeCUmQwVaTpARzqtc3Jmz-5wlW-iUwE5bku-OY6jAqP9_uLs0-5mcp7-lIHqbels5ZKsgBlxYC_DmnPV2IbMD0xs6GRM/w398-h640/2021-09-23+11.59.38.jpg" width="398" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not yet perfect. Unfortunately.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><i> </i> <br /></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Subscribe to my twice monthly newsletter, news and updates from the studio and life, <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Watch my YouTube channel <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPwvjunRhjo_wtfk8z2xKMA">here</a></b></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Follow me and my stories on <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">Facebook</a></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Follow my <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">Instagram</a> </b>stories</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b></span><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-39164359341037796842021-09-11T13:35:00.000-07:002021-09-11T13:35:20.925-07:00The healing room. Making earrings in the sunshine.<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHfFkwV1utCVfziZzWoKtbeBaBpTCatx1J7Gw8Losjfh74zeGIUF6ltbqChdQPhltNcTgaL8D9L6rnOQUKw7YFzDxSBtkTCeqMCWDtFMXOZ3HTRAXDbNjlSZrItr-22bPFTWnvx7bCktY/s1072/2021-09-08+13.09.11.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="712" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHfFkwV1utCVfziZzWoKtbeBaBpTCatx1J7Gw8Losjfh74zeGIUF6ltbqChdQPhltNcTgaL8D9L6rnOQUKw7YFzDxSBtkTCeqMCWDtFMXOZ3HTRAXDbNjlSZrItr-22bPFTWnvx7bCktY/w426-h640/2021-09-08+13.09.11.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Claire working on a piece of complicated jewellery loveliness<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">Ups and downs </span></b><br /><p></p><p>I witness many stories. It is what I do, whether through art, words, image or presence, I witness lives, livings and sometimes, dyings. Though I have experienced my own fair share of stuff I do not know half of what other people have to deal with. It is always surprising to see how other people deal with the lot that is dealt to them and how, when I think I would not manage to cope, they do. And also sometimes, when I think I would cope, they do not. There is so much tied up with living. It is never a simple straight line, peacefully stretching without interruption from morning till night for ever and ever. Oh no, it is a bumpy, complex affair that can hold both peace and conflict at the same time if it wants, can defy our logic and reason. It shows us that we are also full of paradoxes, we are both simple and sophisticated, we are both full of wisdom and full of ignorance, we are up and we are down - and no matter how we try and control events, or go with the flow, life simply happens to us often and we struggle to explain how and why.</p><p>When things are going well, we think we have the answers. This is how the world works, we say, this is the truth of things. But when things go what we would call badly we are shaken, our certainties are challenged and we try and find answers to make sense of it. We want reasons for why things happen, and often because we no longer feel in control we look outwards for where to put the blame. <br /></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;"> Me</span></b></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx89kfotpYT417KyvFbgdSVlgky66mVLDqf4AgYlEdgWqy8FsYa8cI3RZeJN-BNzKSd_zvqQt2v0UxGjoyZ34lFCIee6eOweSkhyphenhyphen-K5QLOzvn396GB7G2SNTYo7UAuMKZGtH97XMPCYVM/s2048/2021-09-08+08.04.28.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx89kfotpYT417KyvFbgdSVlgky66mVLDqf4AgYlEdgWqy8FsYa8cI3RZeJN-BNzKSd_zvqQt2v0UxGjoyZ34lFCIee6eOweSkhyphenhyphen-K5QLOzvn396GB7G2SNTYo7UAuMKZGtH97XMPCYVM/w150-h200/2021-09-08+08.04.28.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mustn't grumble.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table>I live in a lovely home, with a garden that I call my favourite room in the house. Now that my children are grown and live away from here, I wander with joy and surprise (at the silence and order, mainly) through the empty rooms and feel both utterly delighted to be able to do what I want, and a little guilty at the lack of sentimentality I have about being alone at last. To put that into context, I raised my three children alone and without a leader (as Horace Rumpole says, the wonderful grumpy old barrister from John Mortimer's Rumpole of the Bailey books. His first triumphant win as a young barrister defending the undefended was despite the lead barrister in court not being there. Rumple won it alone and without a leader). I had very little money, space, time or peace in those early days. Now that I am older, and time has moved on, I can live in glorious solitude (mostly) in this lovely house in a way I could only have dreamt of at one time. I love my life here.<br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>My friends</b></span></p><p>My three close friends here live with cancer, the results of cancer surgery, and the uncertainty of living itself. I have seen the effects of illness on their bodies and have watched the struggle to keep their minds from giving up. I have also seen their determination to live and live well, to find ways to get through, to laugh and look for the silver lining, while telling it like it is. </p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">The healing room</span></b></p><p>Before she began her chemo, my friend Marie was visiting. The sitting room here has doors that open onto the garden with its flowers and colours, and a big oak table covered in beads, threads, earring making wire and old necklaces to be dismantled and re used. The sun pours through the garden doors in the afternoons, the big old bright pink sofa is covered in African print cushions, and the sound of the seagulls calling outside reminds us that the sea is just at the end of the road. It was Marie's idea to come and sit at the table when her chemo started, when the treatment for her cancer became difficult, and to make beautiful things with colourful beads in the sunshine. We asked our friend Claire to join us. Claire is finding her way back to strength and a place in the world after life changing surgery. Her cancer treatment from ten years ago has left her vulnerable and physically changed, leading to her recent operation to have half her jaw removed. So she joined us, and the healing room began. Though she is well now and working again, our friend Gill drops by, just for the love of it, bringing her warmth and wisdom and laughter. Gill's cancer has also left her physically changed with disabilities for the last twenty years that may floor most of us, but that Gill works with, understands, and will not allow to define her. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTY1kolYQAboXORdZVHg2c4tX9BfFY12rF6QxZJmVHNpuHLXKsTqOZ10O_lpgapU6WCbkPIz_fzhR8BlCRjgvuzYqnwjzx5flqmp5owAyYiByb13ZYuHq-5-NfQlykQ390StrqozQtYuI/s1167/Screenshot_20210908_130639_com.instagram.android_edit_18873833611702.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1167" data-original-width="1066" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTY1kolYQAboXORdZVHg2c4tX9BfFY12rF6QxZJmVHNpuHLXKsTqOZ10O_lpgapU6WCbkPIz_fzhR8BlCRjgvuzYqnwjzx5flqmp5owAyYiByb13ZYuHq-5-NfQlykQ390StrqozQtYuI/w584-h640/Screenshot_20210908_130639_com.instagram.android_edit_18873833611702.jpg" width="584" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Marie and the box of hair<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>The healing room is not really called the healing room, but that is what it has become. Once a week Marie, Claire and sometimes Gill, come to sit and eat, drink tea, play with beads, and create in the late summer sunshine. It is a space to laugh, forget the difficulties of getting by, and also to talk of things both good and bad. Each week, something is different. Last week, Claire arrived with her hair dyed blue. This week, Marie arrived in a turban with her hair in a wooden box. She and her boyfriend had shaved it off now that the chemo was kicking in, and it was falling out by the handful. Instead of making jewellery this week, Marie is going to make something with her hair. What she ended up making was a false beard and eyebrows and made us all laugh. But she is serious, and is aiming to make little figures with it. Marie is a very extraordinary artist. She will do it. And Gill? Gill brings flowers, and cakes that she makes, and sits with us understanding all that Claire and Marie are saying. It has been her story too. </p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj0JGBUmca_eKSDXO7PuEdb8meMQ9PR9k2GbtG6GJywgphknHlk6DjFDQg0lv2CZGkgczgofX82DSEG8MxzGgH1Q6shT1FIrEglC3vTyEtXyFBJgYeF1oOJIgLaULjbNLWOtbB92X6gSk/s1682/2021-09-08+13.06.57.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1682" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj0JGBUmca_eKSDXO7PuEdb8meMQ9PR9k2GbtG6GJywgphknHlk6DjFDQg0lv2CZGkgczgofX82DSEG8MxzGgH1Q6shT1FIrEglC3vTyEtXyFBJgYeF1oOJIgLaULjbNLWOtbB92X6gSk/w410-h640/2021-09-08+13.06.57.jpg" width="410" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>While Gill helps polish the silver (I know) Marie tries out her new hair-beard.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>Later, when they have left, I think of their courage. I think, how would I feel if I were dealing with a possibly life limiting illness? Marie is beginning her treatment, and has a long path ahead. She has only just recovered from heart surgery too. How would I cope if my hair fell out? How would I cope with open heart surgery followed by chemo followed by another operation? I am not sure. I hope I do not have to. Marie's energy is inspiring, and her beauty is wonderful. <br /></p><p>I think of Claire who has more will to live, and to live well, than most people I know. A tiny person, who has a feeding tube into her stomach, half her jaw missing, and a need to eat enough calories not go under seven stone and yet is as elegant, creative and beautiful as a model. Claire has sass. There have been many tough days for her but she will not give in. So it is no surprise that she turned up last week with blue hair. Claire uses real silver for her earrings, and brings her own. She can swallow but not well. We give her tea in a teeny cup made for one of my grandchildren. She manages half of it.<br /></p><p>Gill loves the sea, the sky, the wind, the rain and the breeze in the air. She belongs in nature and swims in the sea all year round. She is tall, slim, brown and free. Life has been challenging for Gill and I know that she has made the choice to be better than much of what life has thrown at her. Gill can't eat much either, she has no lower bowel after her cancer and an operation that left her in difficulties, but she does all that she can to live well and that living well includes loving all of us, and supporting us when we need it. She dropped by the other day to have tea with Marie, Claire and me, before going off to swim in the sea again, and because she is Gill, she brought us home made cakes and flowers from her garden.</p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">And so -</span></b><br /></p><p>This is how our healing room looks then at the moment. It seems to have created itself, and we are all a part of it. What seems to work for all of us is the fun, the creativity, and the forgetting of the world out there, unless we want to remember it, in which case we do. </p><p>There's a big world out there. It is full of people who find pockets of light in difficult times. For as long as it lasts - our healing room seems to have created itself when the need was there - there is a pocket of light for my friends and me, here with the beads, the garden, the light and the cups of tea and Gill's cake, with the unspoken gathering of people who do not give up and do not give in, and who want to let go for a while in good company together.</p><p> </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpn590CkbD9wstct-RhO5c-d3mbz4QJoR2rOLS5SpPjJkApGCcqYPIrFHTrYjdt6qfZgUtvq8V64ZHqHcgqsQgdx6sLkZ3aWT2X61dy7wxMlZB0mfw5ZZIILbt98l1l7idGa2UxR-rvag/s2048/blog+14+sep+2021+me+claire+marie.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpn590CkbD9wstct-RhO5c-d3mbz4QJoR2rOLS5SpPjJkApGCcqYPIrFHTrYjdt6qfZgUtvq8V64ZHqHcgqsQgdx6sLkZ3aWT2X61dy7wxMlZB0mfw5ZZIILbt98l1l7idGa2UxR-rvag/w480-h640/blog+14+sep+2021+me+claire+marie.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Claire me and Marie. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Subscribe to my twice monthly newsletter, updates from the studio and life, <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b></p><p>Have a look at my YouTube channel <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPwvjunRhjo_wtfk8z2xKMA">here</a></b></p><p>Follow me and my daily stories on Instagram <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">here</a></b></p><p>Follow me and my daily stories on Facebook <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">here</a></b><br /></p><p>My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b><br /></p><p> </p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-1470304840051033342021-08-29T13:02:00.000-07:002021-08-29T13:02:11.289-07:00My consciousness is both a divine free floating hippy, and an annoyingly open minded mum. <p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiHQpO5hGlT73xH6174lkUCRZte6S1gl4yHoFXMj0IU7BOj8JZErBJZO6DC8Vz-MU6uOkNSAoYJ6Rq7tzmFBK3z-77_3TxlUt8yy1SJHqfemJx8LEE8RoCd1dpQ6SLywCD__1NWjSbDsA/s1080/2021-08-29+20.30.01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="715" data-original-width="1080" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiHQpO5hGlT73xH6174lkUCRZte6S1gl4yHoFXMj0IU7BOj8JZErBJZO6DC8Vz-MU6uOkNSAoYJ6Rq7tzmFBK3z-77_3TxlUt8yy1SJHqfemJx8LEE8RoCd1dpQ6SLywCD__1NWjSbDsA/w640-h424/2021-08-29+20.30.01.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> Bognor Regis. Where all the deep stuff happens.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table></b></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> </b></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>My mind is a wilful person in my head with no manners</b></span><br /></p><p>I walked home from doing something or other last week through Bognor, my mind flitting here and there, thinking and chattering away to itself, as it does. The day was beautifully sunny, the gardens bright with flowers all along the road back to my house. I was wearing my favourite pink sundress of all time, since the last favourite one of all time, which had disintegrated and had to be thrown away. This current favourite sundress of all time is showing signs of old age now too, it is only a matter of time before I will have to find yet another one. Despite the warmth of the sun and the smell of the salty sea in the still air, I noticed that my mind kept taking me back to memories I would rather forget. I should be enjoying every step of this walk home, I thought, how can I be thinking of these difficult things and not enjoying this peaceful summer loveliness? And, I thought, I am wearing my pink summer dress. Does that not count for something?</p><p>It made me think. What is my mind doing, that it hones in on discomfort like this? Have I any choice? It is true that I was thinking without thinking, so to speak. I was not taking part in the physical walk, I was deep in the stuff going on in my head. It was not all bad, much of my focus was on things I had to do that day which were very nice, but my mind would veer off at a tangent and become embroiled in things from my past, conversations I wish I had not had, bad judgements that led to bad outcomes, and without noticing the shift, I would be back in those things I don't want to think about. But once aware I was able, also without thinking about it, to come back to my planning once more. But I felt as if it had the upper hand, that I had to follow its lead, not the other way around.<br /></p><p>I wondered about how single minded my mind is. It does its own thing regardless of what is going on outside my head. I mean, I can set up a lovely space in which to sit, for example, with smelly candles and red cushions, and think Yes, that will make me happy. But if my mind doesn't want to engage, and be calm and happy, it won't. Ungrateful wretch, I may say of my mind, but it is on a roll and doesn't care. I have read of many strategies to tame the mind, to create awareness, to be mindful and come back to the moment, but I find them difficult to put in place when in the middle of a wilful and determined thinking experience. There is therapy, at a deeper level, and professional help, but I wasn't quite that bad on my walk home in the sun in my pink dress. It was very curious, I thought, that despite not wanting it, despite having a nice day, and despite having real things to think about, my mind was walking off into the middle distance and fixating itself on problems.</p><p>My mind, I thought, is like a wilful person in my head that has no manners. And then I thought, what is my mind? This is where we can get lost in thousands of years of speculation and research, many books have been written, many wise people have tried to work this out, so rest easy. I have no answers and we won't get heavy. But what I did come up with, is that perhaps my mind does not own me, I own it. Do I <i>have</i> to go down these rabbit holes? Sometimes, yes, sometimes I have to mull over uncomfortable things and it doesn't do to evade them. But who is in charge? Wouldn't it be nice if it was me? For myself, I mean. I am not in charge of your mind. You would hate that, I would paint things red and make you drink tea. The point is, I wondered, on this walk home, that perhaps once I know my mind has gone off on a tangent, can I exert some control over it? Can I say to myself, No. I am not going there, I see your game and I am busy thinking nice thoughts over here. And there are other things to think about, like the brain and consciousness. <br /></p><p>There is the question too of whether the mind is the brain, or is <i>in </i>the brain, or is something completely separate. And what is consciousness? If I can step aside and see my mind as a wayward thing in its own right, how am I separating myself from my mind? If all these thoughts are coming from my brain but now I am conscious of them, does that mean that I am operating independently of mind, body, brain and consciousness, and there is a me that is observing the whole process? <br /></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>What does it all mean, Batman?</b></span></p><p>Well, let's say that the thoughts that I have in my mind come from my brain. And if I am aware of it, am conscious of it, then perhaps there are three things at play here, all of which are mine, so I will take ownership. If I were to create characters for these three things, my mind, my brain and my consciousness, it could look like this. My mind is sometimes an unruly, undisciplined trouble maker. It can be really smart and on the ball, but it likes to do its own thing and thinks it owns the world. My brain is a task orientated professor that has been running things for me since before I was born, has been in the job a while now and has no time for slacking. My consciousness is both a divine free floating hippy, and an annoyingly open minded mum. Never bats an eyelid at the weirdness of life, but wants me to keep it real because it knows me so well. Often waits for me to catch up with it, and is never surprised at anything.</p><p>And then of course there is the Me that is observing the whole process. <br /></p><p>With this trio now playing in my head, and as the observer that is outside the whole darn thing, (possibly,) I decided to get to know the one that started all this questioning, my mind. I decided to have a date with my mind and get to know it. </p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>The date with my mind.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0ydD1ZOBMKARu_pjzm-3CSw92iaa1iS_sxssZ5QPMxFgkDDguOJiAeCfenvExnvTWj5jYTvwWZfrxylJ-Q5PiTmLS8Bz5THn7VUpLf7wQ_uk8xxTjVlQX9zdf1zZiFZWa8jqHwF6tm8/s2048/2021-08-29+20.40.31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1709" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0ydD1ZOBMKARu_pjzm-3CSw92iaa1iS_sxssZ5QPMxFgkDDguOJiAeCfenvExnvTWj5jYTvwWZfrxylJ-Q5PiTmLS8Bz5THn7VUpLf7wQ_uk8xxTjVlQX9zdf1zZiFZWa8jqHwF6tm8/w534-h640/2021-08-29+20.40.31.jpg" width="534" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Got my tray of tea, getting ready to go inside for a date with the unruly rebel within.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><b> </b></span>I made myself comfortable, sat down with a good half hour to spare and scrunched up my eyes in an effort to go within. I was having a date with my mind but did not know where or what my mind actually was, except that it had to be inside me somewhere. This will be fun, I thought. What it boiled down to was me watching what I was thinking, and observing where it all went. That means the free floating divine hippy mum followed the undisciplined trouble maker with a view to understanding what it was doing, so it could be reined in a bit. The professor would then put a plan in place to cement the understanding. </p><p>I do realise that this is a very simplistic approach. There are more things going on in my head than just my mind, brain and consciousness. There is my life experience, my personality, my will and for some, but not for me, there are illnesses and conditions that affects the mind too. But for the purposes of this little exercise, I was curious to know why my mind was so intent on doing its own thing and what on earth was its agenda. <br /></p><p>I came up with a few observations. </p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>I quite enjoyed seeing my mind as a character, and felt as if it were a bit of a wild animal, in that I did not really know how to approach it or what it would do. <br /></li><li>My mind, that unruly and undisciplined troublemaker, can insist on following its own mind, so to speak. If I am not paying attention, it can cover a lot of ground and make me feel very uncomfortable. It can get stuck on tracks I do not want to deal with and is very wilful.</li><li>If I am outside it all, then I am the observer. And in control. Once I follow my thoughts, I can choose to stop thinking them.</li><li>Ha ha ha. Rubbish. </li><li>While I am feeling thoughtful and unstressed, this all makes sense. </li><li>When I am feeling anxious and burdened, the divine hippy, the silent professor and and the unruly troublemaker (consciousness, brain and mind) are having a drunken party somewhere and can't even stand up straight. I have to be very tough and bossy in order to make myself feel better, and it can be hard work if they are all out for the count. <br /></li></ul><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>The conclusion.</b></span></p><div><p>I started this blog wanting to know why my thoughts do their own thing and lead me into uncomfortable places. Why, even if everything is nice outside do I get stuck in loops of tricky thinking? Being creative, I decided to give my mind, brain and consciousness personalities to explain to myself why this happens. I love the quirky, I love thinking outside the box, and this little idea of having a date with my mind really appealed to me. It also made me laugh. <br /></p><p>It is just another way of getting to know myself. Every time we think we know who we are everything changes and we start again. I spend much time trying to live a good life, to understand how to be a better person so that I can offer more to the people I meet. But everything we do, investigate and long for comes back to the question Who Am I. </p><p>The conclusion is that the mind, brain, body, spirit, consciousness that I am writing about here, is me. It is all me. I am all of it. Especially the me that is observing the whole process, and that is where, I think, the real power lies. Who am I? Does my mind rule me, or do I rule it? Now that I am a bit more aware and have had a date with it, perhaps I can decide to rule my mind and see how that goes. And if my thoughts rule me in a way I wish they would not, I love the idea of thinking of them personified as a wild, unruly house guest that needs to be pulled up short. </p><p>If you had to think of your mind, your brain and your consciousness as personalities, what would they be? And who is the person observing it all in your case? Interesting way to spend a bit of down time. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2uVJk_di6IL2OmNQDWJ6aXHWPk2yLzyoLFdZH7NUlMV28-Jc07ulZiOh5F18YP9gGcSQRCJIb-JvIOjZxUIt43roiiSxcCaTky0EdwOP-QiUchWBuxiVdJMJAuKMMk65S1LRf0fK2r2c/s2048/2021-08-29+20.37.45.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1211" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2uVJk_di6IL2OmNQDWJ6aXHWPk2yLzyoLFdZH7NUlMV28-Jc07ulZiOh5F18YP9gGcSQRCJIb-JvIOjZxUIt43roiiSxcCaTky0EdwOP-QiUchWBuxiVdJMJAuKMMk65S1LRf0fK2r2c/s320/2021-08-29+20.37.45.jpg" width="189" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Still trying to work it out.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Subscribe to my twice monthly newsletter, updates and thoughts from the studio and life <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b></p><p>Subscribe to my YouTube channel <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPwvjunRhjo_wtfk8z2xKMA">here</a></b></p><p>My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Follow me on Instagram and watch my daily stories <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">here</a></b></p><p>Same with Facebook <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">here</a></b><br /></p><p>And buy my book As Mother Lay Dying, memories and insights from the bedside, <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/As-Mother-Lay-Dying-tapestry/dp/1838298606/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1612179096&sr=8-1">here</a></b><br /></p></div>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-32339709342219972372021-08-15T10:08:00.006-07:002021-08-17T12:02:10.834-07:00Who are these blinking drug addicts<p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF558m6lCEkkD0tZIQJ3W4iI_M8knOOONPX8ABgCnScXl4ThEOINC-7Zr6Guv9cvRTJsFviNZ-eeXdBmnYtB8aBcJngyrQ8APU37P5Ya6c12v7wHA9CYlTEdOMpwOp4aJNl5-J22rRIMM/s455/charcole+hand+detail+2019.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="455" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF558m6lCEkkD0tZIQJ3W4iI_M8knOOONPX8ABgCnScXl4ThEOINC-7Zr6Guv9cvRTJsFviNZ-eeXdBmnYtB8aBcJngyrQ8APU37P5Ya6c12v7wHA9CYlTEdOMpwOp4aJNl5-J22rRIMM/w640-h486/charcole+hand+detail+2019.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hand of an addict. Charcole on paper.</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />One of the most difficult parts of being alongside addiction for me, is remembering that these crazy addicts are also people. Dealing with someone who is intoxicated can be very challenging. If you don't need to engage, that is fine. If you do, then anything can happen and it is frustrating, chaotic and sometimes frightening. If someone kicks off in your presence while having taken something (or many things) and you are faced with an irrational, disinhibited, paranoid and angry melt down, it is unlikely that you will say, "Oh, that is just the drugs. The person themselves is actually very nice." If you are sensible, you get the hell out of the way or if you are feeling threatened, call the police. <p></p><p>Many of us have tried to reason with someone who has drunk too much at one time or another. Many of us have experienced how quickly they can become angry, unreasonable and aggressive. When they are sober, they have no recollection of how badly they behaved. How about someone acting out on crystal meth? Or cocaine? Or someone causing enormous chaos while coming down from something or at a critical point because of needing another fix? These are not people we can chat to or reason with or discuss how their behaviour is making us feel. <i> </i>How, we ask ourselves, can they possibly allow themselves to get so bad? Where is their sense of shame, where is their self control? We cannot understand why they do not get help.</p><p></p><p>Yes to all that. And also, addiction is not rational. An addict may defend their addiction to the death, literally, and blame you, me, everyone else, especially loved ones, all the way down. Addiction, to an addict, is reality. The need (and it really is a need, an absolute catastrophic need the like of which we who are not addicted can have no idea) to keep using makes them manipulative, amoral, paranoid, psychotic, clever, dangerous and without conscience, boundaries or responsibility. And yet. It is not always like that. There is always someone in there. There are times when the person lost inside is visible, often it is very poignant. Sometimes it is astonishing - how can that person who ranted and raved at the bus stop all last night be so interested in and interesting about music? Or politics? Or whatever? I have seen someone very addicted to alcohol and opiods sit with a frightened young addict who was hearing terrible voices, talking gently to calm him down and help him feel safe.<br /></p><p>The thing is, at some point that person was not an addict. When they first took something to make the pain go away, or perhaps because it was just what their family or peers did, it seemed a magical answer. It really worked. It allowed them to self medicate and forget how bad life was, it allowed them to feel in control, it gave them confidence and helped them fit in when they felt isolated and alone, when dealing with abuse and violence at home and around them, when frightened by an undiagnosed mental health condition, when living itself was intolerable. Checking out of pain and abandonment through substances is a powerful relief. The person entering addiction feels as if they are in control. Even when it is patently obvious further down the line that they are not in control, they can insist that they are. This is denial, and addicts can be great at denial. </p><p>I spoke to an addict recently who dismisses the idea that he is addicted. Let's call him Bob. I have a dependency, Bob said, I am not an addict. Everything about Bob's life and choices points to a deep and long lasting addiction. No! He said, I am able to stop at any time and I have a dependency. It seems obvious that Bob cannot stop, regulate nor manage his substances. How can he not see it? I thought. One of the reasons for dependency not addiction, I learned, was that once his medical records had Addict on them he was, according to Bob, discriminated against by the medical profession. He would not receive proper treatment and would always be seen as a problem. I do not know if this is true, but I have seen how badly addiction is treated by many (not all) medical professionals. I must add here that I do not blame them, they are acting in accordance with what they have been told. I think that addiction is vastly misunderstood, judged, untreated and dismissed. It is at present, almost impossible to find reasonably effective treatment that is not private. Addicts are the modern day lepers with knobs on.<br /></p><p>As we talked, Bob explained how wonderful the drugs are that he takes. How good they make him feel, how so much of his time is spent looking forward to preparing and taking them. Bob could describe how all the different drugs he takes affects him, how to inject certain ones to increase the effect, and how to experiment with mixing them all up. "I love my life," Bob says. He drinks heavily too, but mostly will not admit to it. "I used to drink," he says, "but not recently." I see empty spirits bottles all over the flat, under the bed, in the bins, and some by the bed still half full. That is not true, and I think, denial. More denial. </p><p>I have seen Bob in powerful rages in public places because he could not get what he needed. I have seen Bob in pain in between using, longing to feel a part of the world and to get better, I have heard him talk about loneliness and self hatred. I have seen how he rejects help, sabotages kindness, chooses chaos and danger time and time again, and I think - are you in denial about all this too? When you say you love your life? But I see that whatever substances he is taking are succeeding in obliterating the terrible pain of real life. It is a vicious circle and it feels like an insurmountable problem.</p><p>It is a problem. I will never forget an addiction counsellor once telling an angry, distressed wife at the end of her tether, that she did not have to rescue her husband but that she could still be kind. When her drunken husband fell out of bed onto the cold stone floor, she wanted to leave him there all night and make him suffer. The counsellor understood her anger, understood her feelings of powerlessness and the fact that she had tried everything to help him. "You cannot help him," the counsellor said, "but you can be kind. You can put a blanket on him and leave him there." </p><p>When dealing with addiction we try not to rescue, we try not to enter into the madness and we know we have to establish very firm boundaries to keep ourselves safe. But, we can be very judgemental and unkind to both our addicts and ourselves. We can want to punish our addicts for their awfulness and madness, and we cannot rid ourselves of that fear that perhaps the addict is right, it <i>is </i>our fault. Kindness does not mean weakness, compassion does not mean we condone addiction. We know we have to keep ourselves safe with firm boundaries which can feel counter intuitive at the beginning but are not. We practice detachment with love and, at least for me, keep hoping for that miracle. And most important of all, if we cannot change our addict or deal with the fall out, we can try, really try, to be absolutely loving and forgiving of ourselves. A wise man once said that when all else does not work, all we can be is a good example.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtUPTfnegSnlbzKe47IxL9tD9Sb7jjqL2lA9rVdFi32hOYA-Y54GqIHcT9memD1CGACFS-vt5JxQX01tgRFizCLI0g2MUuZmrHXnaWJFZqTf8Y7MJQ-pTvxAeuwwIvg-t7W_Incw8FqY/s640/2021-03-27+08.42.56.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="422" data-original-width="640" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtUPTfnegSnlbzKe47IxL9tD9Sb7jjqL2lA9rVdFi32hOYA-Y54GqIHcT9memD1CGACFS-vt5JxQX01tgRFizCLI0g2MUuZmrHXnaWJFZqTf8Y7MJQ-pTvxAeuwwIvg-t7W_Incw8FqY/w640-h422/2021-03-27+08.42.56.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I have had to call for help many times. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Who are these blinking drug addicts then? Without being sentimental or foolish because addiction is an absolute bugger, they are our children, our parents, our partners, our friends, our family. They are Everyman and Everywoman. And, they could be us too. </p><p>I have just been a guest on the Zestful Aging podcast hosted by Nicole Christina in New York. We talk about addiction in my family, and how as a mother and of the hope, despair, troubleshooting and lessons I have to keep learning. We touch on the Addicts and Those Who Love Them exhibition too. Nicole is a wonderful interviewer. She is a practicing psychotherapist as well as a successful podcaster. You can listen to it <b><a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast/antonia-rolls-when-your-family-member-is-addicted/id1344320689?i=1000531995866">here</a>. </b> </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEzfFMukPvpeWHriN23nhrRqgGoTDmH9ne0KpF2uFKjnYXJjLBlgBACoSU4xW_U5uETz_bLRUkvn6GCcNHo2I8NYVCxvKCeayvtBrGegEgoRi8KogUDwJ6qTh1bzGST9p0qcEOND6BWbI/s410/blue+hoodie+detail+2019.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="348" data-original-width="410" height="544" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEzfFMukPvpeWHriN23nhrRqgGoTDmH9ne0KpF2uFKjnYXJjLBlgBACoSU4xW_U5uETz_bLRUkvn6GCcNHo2I8NYVCxvKCeayvtBrGegEgoRi8KogUDwJ6qTh1bzGST9p0qcEOND6BWbI/w640-h544/blue+hoodie+detail+2019.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Young addict, detail, oil on wood.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><i></i><br /><p></p><p> Subscribe to my twice monthly newsletter, with insights, plans and ideas from the studio and life, <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b><br /></p><p>My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b></p><p>Follow me on Instagram <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">here</a></b></p><p>Follow me on Facebook <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Have a look at my YouTube channel <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPwvjunRhjo_wtfk8z2xKMA">here</a></b><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-22522870682015096512021-07-31T12:17:00.000-07:002021-07-31T12:17:02.486-07:00Renaissance grandma<p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghOeBSyS1bGTBGXP8_93GEkwjJcXnAcsQm51J4qCblxy426ib7TPU9Koes6Rec-wb1w3N7KNLJdKnR4ZLPInw2fSD4bOzuBoottsvA4i6yi6hgnBKdxgrvVP7ddSvCSHduQnpDLqfPpic/s2048/dad+looking+for+him+behind+his+eyes+in+his+alzheimers+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1205" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghOeBSyS1bGTBGXP8_93GEkwjJcXnAcsQm51J4qCblxy426ib7TPU9Koes6Rec-wb1w3N7KNLJdKnR4ZLPInw2fSD4bOzuBoottsvA4i6yi6hgnBKdxgrvVP7ddSvCSHduQnpDLqfPpic/w376-h640/dad+looking+for+him+behind+his+eyes+in+his+alzheimers+1.jpg" width="376" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Portrait of my Dad, looking for him behind his Alzheimer's. I added a little landscape behind my father, with a little figure in a boat on the right hand side of the painting, echoing the tiny patchwork landscapes of my favourite Italian Renaissance art.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">In the beginning</span></b><br /></p><p>It is a well known fact that I am an artist. I paint, gaze into the middle distance, and once upon a time I had bright pink hair which looked lovely. If there is an archetype of an artist, I am it. Being an archetype does not mean I am a wonder, a genius, a trail blazer though I am quite good at painting and writing etc, it means I am a typical arty type and visible as such from miles away. "Are you an artist?" people ask me, and long ago in my youth, I would not be surprised. I embodied the bohemian, crazy, eccentric look. The only other question they could have asked was, "Are you quite sane?" which would have been provocative. As time has gone by and I have settled into a nice grey haired lady with colourful skirts and earrings, and always the red lipstick, I am a bit surprised when I am asked if I am an artist. I think I blend in brilliantly with other middle class older ladies who have gone a bit boho. "But how do you know?" I want to say, but don't because it sounds defensive. "Yes," I say instead, "how clever of you." </p><p>My journey to art-hood was not through art school. I always knew I could draw and it felt fragile. Perhaps<i> I</i> felt fragile with it, because as a child and young person I was terribly easily swayed by strongly opinionated people and could find myself in a lot of trouble. Believing I was a fairy too from an early age did not help with my being grounded in reality. But one thing I did know instinctively was that I could do art and if I went to art school I would lose whatever I had. If I had to follow art rules, if I could not follow my own inspiration and protect this teeny little flame of absolute certainty that I was already an artist, I would become dissipated and fragmented and stop wanting to create. So I chose university instead. I would be safe there, I thought. Based on what? I hear you say. Precisely. I have no idea. But when we are young like this, sometimes we just know things, with no grown up tendencies yet to analyse and dismiss what we instinctively feel. I ended up studying History of Art at Aberdeen University and left in 1983 with a Masters in Art History. And during those four years I discovered all I needed to know about the kind of artist I wanted to be. We had an art library where I would sit for hours pulling out books and reading the lives of artists, looking at their work, and feeling as if I had absolutely come home. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGx40BIJ1x6TiWPpTy4tFvOGjhSpwoPUXo7LRqhJLQ6W_AYTffdaQddJXcudw7ifWow6wPLEKCHf2t_3-SNUNHlAywr1n0TSEv88I_fQIM5YPgDU4KPnQFAB7h7c0JnSrmKtiAU2J_3JA/s1030/Bellini+dead+christ+supported+by+mary+and+JB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="829" data-original-width="1030" height="516" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGx40BIJ1x6TiWPpTy4tFvOGjhSpwoPUXo7LRqhJLQ6W_AYTffdaQddJXcudw7ifWow6wPLEKCHf2t_3-SNUNHlAywr1n0TSEv88I_fQIM5YPgDU4KPnQFAB7h7c0JnSrmKtiAU2J_3JA/w640-h516/Bellini+dead+christ+supported+by+mary+and+JB.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pieta by Giovanni Bellini c1455. Look at the intensity of the expressions, the light on the hair, the halos and the landscape in the corners. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>To back track a little, by the time I arrived in Aberdeen I had already found my passion. It began with my father showing me a Bellini Pieta when I was eight years old. It blew my mind. I had never seen anything so powerful, so beautiful, so extraordinary. Later, while studying art history during my school sixth form, I was introduced to art from the Italian Renaissance, and was hooked. It touched that nerve that had reacted to the Bellini Pieta when I was eight, and I developed a love paintings (and some sculptures) from about 1390 to about 1500, taking this with me later to Aberdeen, where I was able to study them in more detail. This then was my passion. Italian Renaissance frescoes, religious paintings, the lives and loves of the artists themselves and the amazing societies in which they lived. </p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>In the middle </b></span><br /></p><p>I don't remember making a decision to base my artistic life on the Italian Renaissance. It just seemed to happen. Painters and artists in fifteenth century Italy (and Europe) worked for a major family, or the church or a civic body. These patrons paid for the works they commissioned and the artist and their studio could do very well both professionally and financially. In my own century, a patron would be a client so I looked for clients and sought commissions. I found I could do portraits, and as a Renaissance artist in the twentieth century as it was then, I took ideas from the works that I loved and began to add attributes to my portraits - clues to who was in the painting, for example a person with a love of music would hold a musical instrument. A sports player would have something from their sport with them like a tennis racquet or a rugby ball. I put halos on everyone. A halo is a circle of light that is painted around the head of a holy figure to tell us that they are divine. Fine, I thought, I will do that. Many of my portraits and paintings from the beginning until right now have halos. I love halos. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBiyB2XXHZaFdOeCBVFa85sSZzacWjcuXTUeIpHM4yhT2QZiwJLXEnHr6utWffxm7rCjnTNW-FCscK8HT1mxrNoVVIi-UqOH3Hp0_GHe7j0rwZ9k7KcaLqIad0hsWqyGZE0PpluXgDPJc/s1852/jott+original+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1852" data-original-width="1695" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBiyB2XXHZaFdOeCBVFa85sSZzacWjcuXTUeIpHM4yhT2QZiwJLXEnHr6utWffxm7rCjnTNW-FCscK8HT1mxrNoVVIi-UqOH3Hp0_GHe7j0rwZ9k7KcaLqIad0hsWqyGZE0PpluXgDPJc/w586-h640/jott+original+%25282%2529.jpg" width="586" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> Jesus on the Tube. A modern icon.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>During my time in Aberdeen I found Greek and Russian icons too with the same wonderful lines, patterns and stylised images of the Christian Trinity (God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost), of Saints and Angels that I saw in some of the early paintings in Italy. Oh my, I loved them all. For a long while when trying to find my way in the real world after university, I painted modern icons where I updated the subject matter and not only made it modern, but gave it a sense of humour. For example, I painted an icon in the old style, of Mary, the mother of Jesus, having just given birth to the baby in the stable and having an argument with the Angel Gabriel, who had announced nine months before that she was to have this baby. Gabriel, a top angel, an Arch Angel, had told Mary the baby would be called Jesus and be the son of God. In my painting Mary was sulking because she wanted to call the baby Duncan. On a table beside her was a congratulations card welcoming Duncan. From these icons came the Jesus on the Tube painting which showed Jesus sitting on a tube train looking straight out at the viewer, and being ignored by everyone in the carriage, all of whom are looking away. This Jesus on the Tube painting is my most well known image, having been used all around the world in schools, churches, books, Cathedrals, seminaries and convents. </p><p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">And now</span></b></p><p>Fast forward to where I am now where I can look back with all the benefits of hindsight, where I can make sense of things. I no longer take commissions, my painting now concentrates on making sense of projects that are close to my heart and these projects are all about me, really. The A Graceful Death exhibition explored death and dying after the death of my partner Steve and to do that, I needed total freedom to follow where the exhibition and subject would lead me. These days my painting work is focused on addiction, on telling stories of those in and around it, and for this project I continue to need total freedom and autonomy to follow the subject. </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMPshnr44u1XLGEY6RNzEr13SLXW2MLmWNb1rFLAmCT8qTB0uxXgNGj1pkFEJqir8DcNzRWr67fKtYlodwxYB-pcVg4kCGLd-MmEMGBC3BBKZRMsTs2L3tjhCUR2oD6a0DYbrhtS-BaNg/s2048/lou+addicts+and+love+feb+2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1961" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMPshnr44u1XLGEY6RNzEr13SLXW2MLmWNb1rFLAmCT8qTB0uxXgNGj1pkFEJqir8DcNzRWr67fKtYlodwxYB-pcVg4kCGLd-MmEMGBC3BBKZRMsTs2L3tjhCUR2oD6a0DYbrhtS-BaNg/w613-h640/lou+addicts+and+love+feb+2020.jpg" width="613" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Lou, from the Addicts And Those Who Love Them exhibition. Note the halo, the decorative motifs on her clothes and the fact that it is painted on a block of prepared wood. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> But! I carry my Renaissance aspirations with me still. I add halos to, and tiny decorative motifs on the clothes, of people in my paintings. Once or twice I have added little far away landscapes behind a portrait, and I am still moved and delighted by those early frescoes on the walls of the churches I used to visit in Tuscany, Northern Italy. In the old artists' workshops the students would learn their art from their master. There would be apprentices attached to each workshop and some would go on to become masters themselves, some would not. Some would be more famous than their masters. These apprentices all had jobs to do on whatever the studio was working on, perhaps painting the foliage on the bottom right of a painting, perhaps helping to create the long flowing material that the figures wore. Perhaps to paint a whole work themselves if it was a minor commission, so that the master would be free to work on and oversee the bigger projects. I loved the idea of the bustle and industry, I loved how the skill of painting would be honed over time with actual painting, with just doing it. This is how I learned my painting, by just doing it. My teachers were in the books at university, on the walls of the churches and galleries in Italy and in my own imagination. I was never taught any methods, never explored different media and had no instructions in painting itself which is why, probably, I only paint, draw and write. </p><p></p><p>In my own life, that atmosphere of the bigger working environment of the old masters' studios came with meetings with, talking to and interviewing all the people who are part of the exhibitions, and creating with them the images to go into my two projects, on end of life and on addiction. The meetings take place in my studio here, ideas are discussed and we go over how someone will be represented with their story. And often, my inspiration comes from fifteenth century Italy. </p><p>Today, I don't have to struggle to know who I am. I have a clearer idea, and of course we never really know ourselves fully. It is a life long process. One thing I can say, is that I am still an artist and that if I were very bold (which I can be) I would say I am Renaissance Grandma. </p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqI9Ct_8kmE2I10ICXMPGiWOTOU1ZElG-Q0hOb0MM3chxHVGgzU6uVykG2D7AfaIeOIVYt4Zie4WXvFHJghyECE_He-dNyEgnJCL2oJFrPl9rojpVCDTo5jwVhdodT2pmTlagEW9n6SPs/s1080/2021-07-27+13.35.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="1080" height="451" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqI9Ct_8kmE2I10ICXMPGiWOTOU1ZElG-Q0hOb0MM3chxHVGgzU6uVykG2D7AfaIeOIVYt4Zie4WXvFHJghyECE_He-dNyEgnJCL2oJFrPl9rojpVCDTo5jwVhdodT2pmTlagEW9n6SPs/w640-h451/2021-07-27+13.35.17.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Duke and Duchess of Urbino painted between 1465 and 1472 by Piero della Francesca was the inspiration for the painting below of Stuart and Sue Pryde.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p> </p><p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYy5y0ca3GJiesvzOTCn_ybhruTyt_1MeohVbLVqk5ijjHq_KfQ8UiyUatHBQKNliRlB6knk3sIB0zd8JroKUeINpRuSAqmI-SruVI7SNR2H318AwpSH7Akw1TE4TJA9tL9tQNJUyQ60s/s1772/2021-07-27+13.47.54.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1182" data-original-width="1772" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYy5y0ca3GJiesvzOTCn_ybhruTyt_1MeohVbLVqk5ijjHq_KfQ8UiyUatHBQKNliRlB6knk3sIB0zd8JroKUeINpRuSAqmI-SruVI7SNR2H318AwpSH7Akw1TE4TJA9tL9tQNJUyQ60s/w640-h426/2021-07-27+13.47.54.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Painted for the A Graceful Death exhibition, we have the bright blue sky of Tanzania where Sue grew up, and the cottage garden flowers that both Stuart and Sue loved so much. Sue ended her own life, and this is a diptych in her memory, as much as the above diptych by Piero della Francesca was a betrothal portrait. </i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p> </p><p>Subscribe to my newsletter <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b></p><p>Subscribe to my You Tube channel <b><a href=" https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPwvjunRhjo_wtfk8z2xKMA"> here</a></b><br /></p><p>Follow me on Instagram <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Follow me on Facebook <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">here</a></b><br /></p><p>My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-90718680419237657692021-07-19T08:42:00.003-07:002021-07-19T13:19:51.831-07:00Settling into myself.<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEive9xpfaplMAxr4PHDa4GEnkfDkMT37LTqUcykgZILC4xQFf-2qvXMy9MD92GQPLU17d-RXH6Z7OaylWsryQ9lyC8LkknndVaKhsbvgcekol2sDj_StVILLKjd_KvMlITvRUiOzkxtAzc/s2000/2021-07-19+16.17.53.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1568" data-original-width="2000" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEive9xpfaplMAxr4PHDa4GEnkfDkMT37LTqUcykgZILC4xQFf-2qvXMy9MD92GQPLU17d-RXH6Z7OaylWsryQ9lyC8LkknndVaKhsbvgcekol2sDj_StVILLKjd_KvMlITvRUiOzkxtAzc/w640-h502/2021-07-19+16.17.53.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Me as a young mother with Lexi, my oldest, aged 7<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Pondering at nearly 61</b></span><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I am going to be 61 in a week or two. I remember being 10 and spending all my pocket money on some lipstick for my mother's birthday and a Bic biro for my father's and feeling very grown up. I have a handle on life, I thought, I know what these grown ups need. Theoretically I am grown up myself now, and I am very glad. There is much to be grateful for, not least that I do not have to go through the learning any more that has led me to who I am now. The learning is not over, it never is, but the hard lessons during my travels to where I am today, are over. They still reverberate and I deal with the fall out from time to time, we all do this, and the fall out can be good too. Then I am relieved and feel that we never really know how things will turn out. With the best will in the world, struggling through the business of being young, trying to work out how the world works and who we are in it, sometimes our worst decisions can end up being beneficial in the end, after many years, despite the fall out at the time. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Being a young mum</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The most difficult times of my life were as a young mum. I was not as young as some, my first child was born when I was 30, my last when I was 36. I did not have a clue how the world worked and did not have a clue who I was. My first pregnancy was a complete shock, I had only just met the father. None of my clothes fit me any more and I felt sick and exhausted. "You're pregnant", said the doctor when I went to see her, and I was outraged. "How very dare you!" I said, and changed doctors. At the new surgery, the doctor said, "You are probably pregnant," and as I made to leave in a huff, she gave me a pregnancy test and told me to come back and see her with the result. It was positive. OMG. I was so clueless. But in this strange and confusing world, where I was now to have a baby despite feeling totally disconnected to life, my own mother was a lifeline. She was calm, loving and practical. She was the grown up, she was the real mother. I was stunned. A baby. Blimey. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I found motherhood both beautiful and glorious, and terrifying and challenging. I made it up as I went along, I meant well but had absolutely no grasp on reality. Sometimes I thought I was only three months more emotionally mature than my children. I had no idea how to do it, what the rules were or who I was. And after my divorce and two children later I was, for most of the time, a single mother. To say I was anxious and frightened was an understatement. We were poor, chaotic and for much of the time I was ashamed of how bad a mother I thought I was. Not only that, I thought I was a bad person. I just wasn't like everyone else, and I felt too different. Of course I was never a bad person. I <i>was</i> different, I wasn't like everyone else, but I lacked the experience and insight to understand that that was my USP. My unique selling point. That was my strength. That is what artists <i>are</i>.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>But</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">With all those years behind me, with the benefits of hindsight and time passing, I completely see I wasn't so bad. This is the good bit of settling into myself. I wasn't so different from other mothers, though I thought I was at the time. Somehow the kids and I got through and everyone is still alive today, which in some places, is a huge success. All those years of ups and downs, good and bad decisions (lots of very bad decisions) made me work out who I am and what I want. There is nothing like being on the front line of experience to make you decide to sink or swim. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My own daughter has four little children and a lovely husband. She has everything right in ways that I had not. But her struggles with being a mum are, actually, the same as mine were and, I see, the same as all of us. Despite making excellent choices, and despite being a very sound family, the actual job of parenthood for her looks as difficult as mine was. I am reassured that perhaps the bottom line for many of us who have children, is that we really do love and we do the best we can. The rest is just a muddle. Life happens around us at the rate of knots and we do a great job of running as fast as we can to stay as still. I know who I am now because for so long I did not know. All those years of struggle have led to a degree of calm now, and the calm is not just from outside because all my children are grown and living away. That does help, boy does it help. But the calm is also from inside - we have all staggered through the good times and the bad to right now, and though my children are all beginning their crazy journeys through life, I am beginning the long last road of mine. I am not old and am not intending to die just yet but I am looking at about 20 years with luck, and I know now a lot more about what <i>not</i> to do, and how <i>not</i> to fall into traps which leaves me with what I <i>do</i> want to do, and, of course, what I can do. And, I am deeply sympathetic to my own mother too as I get older. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Work</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My work, my family and my social life are all linked together in a big crazy knot. While a young mum, I became a self employed artist almost by accident, I announced it one day out of the blue and then had to learn about business, about clients and new things called the internet and mobile phones. It seemed such a huge deal at the time to admit that I was an artist, even though in my heart I never was anything else. A friend held business support sessions and encouraged me to think big. This is where Artist Extraordinaire came from, but for the first ten years or so I used to whisper it in case anyone thought I was uppity. Yet I didn't reject it. Funny, really. Like <i>I</i> knew I was an artist extraordinaire but no one else would. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_Nj5jG9qm76LpPFfI_eU6L0jgPwu8ShlKFkFI5wgB6sD2LS2I4BSLwmLEzUsN3N11gXoKNB40nfoDRgdrr3weZZyELo0_NX54YIHu_zW4LQ85aHidq4LRkwveJbs7ntMO2T8bxxavB4/s2048/me+about+1983+aberdeen+standing.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1537" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_Nj5jG9qm76LpPFfI_eU6L0jgPwu8ShlKFkFI5wgB6sD2LS2I4BSLwmLEzUsN3N11gXoKNB40nfoDRgdrr3weZZyELo0_NX54YIHu_zW4LQ85aHidq4LRkwveJbs7ntMO2T8bxxavB4/s320/me+about+1983+aberdeen+standing.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>About to set the world on fire at uni<br /></i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I have not set the world on fire. At university, my aim was to soar to the greatest heights and change the world. To what, never crossed my mind. It was all about me. The hard task of life got in the way of all that, and for many years it seemed I was never going to amount to much. It was all such hard work. Trying to be a mum, doing my own growing up (painful), following a dream and navigating the real world as an artist meant that all I ever seem to do was get it all wrong and tread water. That is how it seemed. I still stuck at it because that is what I do, I stick at things. And because in my heart and soul I had never ever wanted to do anything else than be an artist. So when I look back at all the crazy, I see someone who was just a bit different, who did not conform to anything much but had so little self confidence that she thought she was just wrong. But what I also see disguised in there as stubbornness, is self belief. Wow. That's good. Self belief helped me to choose and <i>stick to</i> my destiny as an artist even though everything around me was mental, and everyone else thought WTF. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">And so -</span><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Here I am today. Feeling chilled about life in the way I used to marvel at in my grandparents. In my opinion, they had finished living because they were happy to do gardening and reading, and have early nights. I see the almost spiritual benefits of that now. I can't wait to do some gardening and take a book to bed for a night of reading. Damn, I would have considered that a punishment at one time. Time is different to me these days, and I suppose will continue to change and morph. I don't have to rush about now, and I am learning that whole chunks of time spent not being an amazing human being are not only preferable, they are a relief. And they are possible! The world does not end. By now, being an amazing human being is less about changing the world with a fanfare and lots of praise from the outside world, and more about getting a balance between me and my soul. I don't have to do anything to be amazing, I just have to be. Then, I notice that everyone else is an amazing human being, and we are all in this together. Life changes over time, and it becomes less about the outside and more about the inside. The great Franciscan priest, author and spiritual teacher Richard Rohr says that we spend the first half of our lives building our container, and the second half examining its contents. Well, I am examining the contents of my container, and finding much of what is in there can be gently removed and the space that it leaves filled with only peace. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I will just end by saying that to the outside world I am still constantly on the go. Yes, I am. But I can, and do, stop and spend the time chillaxing alone that once I would have spent with children, life and ambition. I am full of projects, thoughts, events and stuff. I am a whirligig. But I am not driven now, there is no point, I can't change the world. I still want to get things done and make a difference, but where I once wanted to change the world, I now understand that my journey is not to do that. I can still make a difference, as can we all, and it is lovely to make a difference every now and again and feel good about it. I am settling into myself very well these days, and finding that it is nice, being nearly 61. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizHTbN3N142QRIIrZe-sNxEzEbKRG2hw0Wn5voLz3cbr2gsBYjAwJ52RiIZmInndG2TOctCHG0euluYKrOxlUgNCf3jjZ1awULxssettakKji2YTMUfksryM0-I6akuMO7A-KlmxUNdhw/s1600/me+and+lilz+aug+2+2020+chichester.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1242" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizHTbN3N142QRIIrZe-sNxEzEbKRG2hw0Wn5voLz3cbr2gsBYjAwJ52RiIZmInndG2TOctCHG0euluYKrOxlUgNCf3jjZ1awULxssettakKji2YTMUfksryM0-I6akuMO7A-KlmxUNdhw/w496-h640/me+and+lilz+aug+2+2020+chichester.jpg" width="496" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Nearly 61 with my little granddaughter Lilz. All the world ahead for us both.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Subscribe to my newsletter <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Subscribe to my YouTube channel <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPwvjunRhjo_wtfk8z2xKMA">here</a></b><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Instagram <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">here</a></b><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Facebook <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">here</a></b><br /> </span><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-51297971262901994102021-07-08T11:26:00.000-07:002021-07-08T11:26:12.207-07:00Look at you, you great big booby.<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh94fiV9ayP3FL6wb69ocUhIRg_SExRvI4FefbzZPiqWAouwHwo271HsBSbIloqBkC08STMlefM-I-hpRTSyeIIaakSYk4i64EsxtNH77aOTT26qGsLW0qHsslwoLXUyhnLupEFqqghX_M/s1072/2021-07-08+19.21.06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="593" data-original-width="1072" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh94fiV9ayP3FL6wb69ocUhIRg_SExRvI4FefbzZPiqWAouwHwo271HsBSbIloqBkC08STMlefM-I-hpRTSyeIIaakSYk4i64EsxtNH77aOTT26qGsLW0qHsslwoLXUyhnLupEFqqghX_M/w640-h354/2021-07-08+19.21.06.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Little boobies<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>Everything about those that support the Covid narrative and those that don't, has mostly been said. There are those who follow it, there are those that sort of follow it, and those who don't follow any of it. I try to keep myself in check, remembering both to love my neighbour blah blah blah, and that, according to my Qi Gong teacher, energy follows thought. That means something along the lines of I have a thought, it creates energy, energy creates matter and boom, I have created my reality. If I engage in negative thoughts about people wearing masks, washing their hands every time they pass someone in the street and keeping as far away from me as they can on a small path as if they are both doing me a favour and furious that I am not climbing the fence to keep out of their way too, then I create my experience of lower vibration hostility and judgement.</p><p>But. It is hard work. I took my car in for an MOT last week, and found myself wanting to stop being so reasonable. I am reasonable, because we get nowhere challenging very convinced people. After all, I am a very convinced person too, and I am utterly unmoved by the Covid pantomime. </p><p>At the door of the reception in this garage is a notice telling me not to cross the threshold. There is a bowl on a small table for my keys, and some hand gel in case I have suddenly got Covid on my hands. The staff sit about fifteen feet away, safely behind clear perspex screens with little holes to receive money and paperwork. Most of the staff are big, lumbering blokes.<br /></p><p>When I went to collect my car, I walked into the reception thinking that as they would like my money, this was allowed. "Where is your mask?" asked the big burly fellow sharply, sitting by the little hole in the perspex where I would be paying. "I'm exempt," I said. "But I'm not," he said with suppressed bad temper. I dug out and put on my exemption lanyard, and he said with a curtness that told me what he thought of me, "Oh. I see." Despite the disapproval in the air and the feeling that I had personally offended him by my death wish behaviour, we had a civil transaction, and I left. I hadn't noticed him moving his chair further away from me as I approached though, nor was he wearing a mask himself. Perhaps he had not thought about the rules very logically, and wearing an official lanyard was safe as a mask because the virus has had the memo from the Government and knows to leave them <i>and</i> masks wearers alone. Though not as safe as if I had stood at the doorway fully masked wearing my laminated "I have been double jabbed" badge, and thrown him my money to him across the no mans land where the virus waits to bring him down. I wondered if he knew the virus might go through the hole in the perspex and get him that way but he didn't seem to have thought of that either.<br /></p><p>You big booby! I thought as I left. Look at you, a big healthy fellow like you pandering to this nonsense! Here you are, young and fit, probably double vaccinated, hiding behind a plastic screen and feeling hard done by because I, an actual old lady who you have been told should be clinging on to life with my fingernails inside my motorised perma-sealed bubble mobile, am walking free, ignoring the rules and do not have a mask. You big soft lump. What on earth has made you into such a weakling? Oh for goodness sake. And I thought, how have these previously proud and fit youngsters been cowed into such foolish subservience? That bearded, tattooed bloke in the garage, treating himself as if he has special needs, who must have created all his muscles in the gym and lifting cars to work on them in order to look like a tough guy, has become a self righteous school prefect. Pompous buffoon, I said to myself. </p><p>There are so many who are not like this, but I do see these self important boobies everywhere, masked up to the nines, swerving to avoid each other delighted to be following the new protocol in politeness and social acceptability, checking their phones to see if they have been pinged by their app telling them to self isolate. "Look at me look at me!" They seem to imply. "Even though I am young and healthy with my life ahead of me and a stupendous immune system evolved over millenia, even though I smoke and drink like a fish, I want to be prematurely old and terrified into delicious paranoia and join your gang, the one where nothing in our lives will get us no matter what risks we take <i>except</i> for this one virus. And," they may continue, "we agree that plastic will save us, and wearing masks will save us, and being alone for the rest of our lives will save us, thank you very much for this amazing life saving wisdom." They remind me of the little green aliens in the Pixar film Toy Story. <br /></p><p>I think, what happened to you all? Young people need to rebel and question the older lot who decide the rules. Young people are quite literally the future. What have you done with your brains? What are you <i>doing</i>, you ninnies? What happened to you that you feel safer behind a bit of perspex when the air around you is swimming with bugs and germs and long legged beasties that never bothered you before, and what makes you think that the perspex is going to fool all the swirling bacteria and viruses in the air now? Can't these beasties see the holes in the perspex for money transactions? Can't they pop over the top and around the sides? Can't they pop into you through the gaps in your masks round the ears and nose and don't they rush at you when you take your mask off to take a bite out of your sandwich? And what in heavens name is going to happen to you if one virus with a 99% chance of survival gets you? You will probably survive. And then what? My mask free youngest son is 6'7" and makes a point of peering over the top of the safety screens in shops because they only come up to his chin, and no one has been carted off to the crematorium yet. No one has asked him not to because he is far too close to the cashier and breathing down on top of her head. They think it is funny and everyone laughs at how tall he is. No one has noticed that he is a killer in action. <br /></p><p>So I will go back to my loving my neighbour as myself thing, and remember my Qi Gong energy follows thought thing, and try not to swerve into people as they swerve to avoid me. And I hope that these big boobies get bored with all this fuss, and start to swerve into me too. Then I know we are getting back to some kind of normal.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5brMfN3yPM02CRAti8Bf-1rNLHNjaqz64rVRTXTGRi0_TNvPjRkeJb15SHvL_iO3H_zWJiALbTnyf_azt9VJa-Bvj_AStsGOMufFMSzBUQNQh3KfhpfRVsp1IfkUKfcP2o1v2bMzteqM/s1080/2021-07-08+19.19.36.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="1080" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5brMfN3yPM02CRAti8Bf-1rNLHNjaqz64rVRTXTGRi0_TNvPjRkeJb15SHvL_iO3H_zWJiALbTnyf_azt9VJa-Bvj_AStsGOMufFMSzBUQNQh3KfhpfRVsp1IfkUKfcP2o1v2bMzteqM/w640-h246/2021-07-08+19.19.36.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yeah, well.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p> Subscribe to my newsletter <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b></p><p>My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b><b> </b><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-8788313001677395972021-07-04T12:19:00.000-07:002021-07-04T12:19:00.434-07:00"We have to learn what kind of love works for us." Love in addiction.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwV8CAhfkerjYDx9K3FkbLIq9sDHBdp1cXFXVYsy6aTlHhDvIDNW6mOOGCmRiAA62OhZwzgiCQDl7iCOUwD4BoKBm3vpvC4r3w-OapmmeMKn9lnGPqwmGBN6oP8xs9OYxksym5cStSokI/s2048/Photo+26-03-2020%252C+12+35+18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwV8CAhfkerjYDx9K3FkbLIq9sDHBdp1cXFXVYsy6aTlHhDvIDNW6mOOGCmRiAA62OhZwzgiCQDl7iCOUwD4BoKBm3vpvC4r3w-OapmmeMKn9lnGPqwmGBN6oP8xs9OYxksym5cStSokI/w480-h640/Photo+26-03-2020%252C+12+35+18.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p></p><p>No matter how wise I think I am about other people, I can feel clueless about myself. Someone called me once, at her wit's end, because her daughter was doing the crazy, angry, help-me-it's-your-fault-give-me-money-or-I-die thing. I had been supporting this lady over an entirely different health matter but what she needed on this call was immediate and intense help with how to cope with her daughter's out of control drug habit. She wasn't supposed to have my number but we had realised very early on that in the background we both had addiction problems in our family. I gave her my number for this reason, and because other people had been so kind to me when I was overwhelmed at the beginning of my own journey. I knew how helpful it was for her to have a no holds barred conversation about a loved one's addiction, because I have been where that lady was. It was crisis time for her to recognise the depth of the problem, how she was going to protect herself, how she was going to detach with love. I repeated one of the Al Anon pieces of advice given to me when I needed it - <i>do not cause a crisis, but do not get in the way of one if one is naturally occurring. </i>I knew how bad she felt about not being able to help or protect her daughter. I knew that awful helplessness in the face of drug and alcohol fuelled self pity, drama and manipulation. This lady had called me was because she knew I knew about the handicap, as it can be, of loving an addict. Her story is my story. It may be your story too. Our phone call gave her permission to love <i>and</i> be ruthless and be safe. It is not easy. It doesn't feel like love at all, because love is kind and gentle and saves the world. It feels like rejection, cruelty, selfishness bordering on sociopathy, and it feels like everything a Mum should never do. But it worked for her that day, and she was able to put herself in a place of safety, detach with love, and make herself a priority for once.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIacN0cparhS8BIMSm8ad5yMRNanB7FD9VhOrYDGBXT9Kme9LV1ylr5AicStr6vQQc5KmtRzgFsOWJ4ktHAsVJm33SfSpsizyo-HoTZryJGfvvG8ZrRdBMEZBZp82nQ1cQ6uLFTEpkvRg/s640/Photo+27-03-2021%252C+08+42+43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="640" height="522" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIacN0cparhS8BIMSm8ad5yMRNanB7FD9VhOrYDGBXT9Kme9LV1ylr5AicStr6vQQc5KmtRzgFsOWJ4ktHAsVJm33SfSpsizyo-HoTZryJGfvvG8ZrRdBMEZBZp82nQ1cQ6uLFTEpkvRg/w640-h522/Photo+27-03-2021%252C+08+42+43.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>Here I am today then, in a muddle myself, wanting someone to come in, be a grown up and take it all away. There has been so much disruption and madness with drink and drugs this past week, and when it is in my family, when I am the mother who has to rethink her idea of love in a split second or go under, I can't remember any of the things I have learned about how to survive it. I have had to call on other people to help me remember what is real and what is not, and to breathe, and to not be afraid. I had to do what that lady did when she called me. Thank goodness we all have each other.<br /></p><p>I want to talk about love. It is this in all its different layers and manifestations, in its abundance <i>and</i> in its absence, that makes everything so complicated. If I had no love for anyone, it would be so easy. I could dismiss everything that got in my way and have no feelings about it at all except possible satisfaction. If I had no love for myself, I would fall prey to everyone and anyone who said something nice to me, and blame myself when it went belly up. So having no love is not a good thing. Over-loving is as messy as under-loving. If I love too much, I misunderstand the idea of love and think that I should give it all to everyone without limit. Without boundaries. When it goes belly up I blame myself again, and carry on with my warped idea of love (which always goes out, and never comes in) until I am a pale shadow of a person with no will of my own left to save me. </p><p>We have to learn what kind of love works for us. How to do it, what version is going to work best for the person giving and the person receiving. It is easy to love the lovable, and very hard to love the unloveable. When challenged, in an emergency or when the chips are down, our idea of love can become tangled with other emotions like guilt, sentiment, anger, control and punishment to name a few. Love is meant to be uplifting and purifying, but so often isn't. It is painful and confusing and we need help to work it all out. Do I love, or don't I? Is this how love behaves? Am I loving enough? Am I loving correctly? Is it my fault that my love is not working? Am I to blame? Is my love not good enough?</p><p>Over the last few days I have expressed tough love. I have done this a few times now and it is never easy. The first times I put it in place I did so as a last resort to protect myself from addiction behaviour that threatened to stop me functioning at all. It was then, and is now, so hard. It feels like abject failure to turn my back on all the crazy that is trying to pull me in, because the crazy is so powerfully painful and I need to make it better. The addict is in meltdown acting out all their pain, fear, illness, trauma and rage; I am watching someone out of control with mental, physical and spiritual agony but whatever it is that they are begging, shouting, crying and demanding I do, I ignore. I walk away. I turn off my phone, I do not take calls, I ignore all the calls from the emergency services and I will not engage. No, I say, this is not for me and I must put myself in a safe space and keep myself there. And then I ask myself , "How is that love?"</p><p>I cannot love you until I love me. My own love, for me, has to survive all the sabotage and cruelty that I put in its way. It is an ongoing struggle to love myself, especially when tested by the extreme distress and drama of someone who I am supposed to keep safe and love forever, kicking off. If I have worked on my own self love I will know what I can do and what I can't do for someone else. My self love has weathered its own storms of self doubt and self loathing. Of course it has. We all have messages on a loop in our heads that insist that we are unworthy, ugly and failed. Self love tries to address that narrative and limit the damage by consciously choosing another one. I am worthy, I am beautiful, I have done well. I have also learned that giving into sentimental self love is OK sometimes but mostly leads to self indulgence and superficial relief. If my go-to self love tactic every time I am distressed is to eat cream buns, watch Bugs Bunny on a loop and lie on the sofa, and this is my <i>only</i> response, I may feel instant comfort and distraction but I will end up fat, spotty and a bit emotionally stunted. It is when I am challenged by myself, in loving myself, that I learn to persevere and keep on trying to believe that I am worth it. I end up learning to love me even when I feel lost, frightened and unloveable. It is good training for dealing with someone else's crazy when they are demanding the impossible. When they demand to be saved from situations in which they put themselves time and time again, with no self awareness and no intention of not doing it again, I discern that the love I need to access is not the love they think they want. </p><p>How is this <i>not</i> love? <br /></p><p>Here is tough love. I do not play the game any more. I will not dance this dance. I step out of the madness leaving the addict to cope without me. If mere words worked, then we could have talked about it. Words have not worked yet and it has been years. If diving into the crisis helped, I would only have had to do it a couple of times, but the crises continue. My love becomes weak and confused and I no longer know what to do if I enter the fray. I get ill, the addict gets worse, I feel responsible and the addict continues to take without a conscience and maintains the story that I am in fact, responsible. Nothing changes for the addict except that when I am truly under and far too crushed to continue, they need to find a new source of attention and money. That is not love. That is abuse. </p><p>I have to remember to step away and focus on myself, keep trying to learn compassion, love and respect for me. I put myself in a place of safety and I learn from all the stuff I have done and failed to do up until now. I learn to be kind to myself and I learn how others have coped and I share my experiences. All this is done so that I can see clearly that my addict is doing the addict thing and I need to toughen up so that when, if, I can help and support, I am strong and experienced enough to do it. Love can be soft and kind, it can be gentle and insightful and save the world. It can also be powerful, robust, challenging and tough. It can be boundaried and it can say No. True love does not shut down, it strengthens, challenges and demands truth from the person working with it. It keeps an eye open for a chink in the armour of addiction and prepares to go in to do what it can however many times may be needed without getting lost because it can retreat as well as advance. And if nothing else works, I heard a wise man say once, and nothing we say is being heard, the last thing we can be to those around us, is a good example. </p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxO5hC8Fj974buYgQWYfMkAaC59OINMtQuQoFvwMu8xwv5Kl9zme6XrYvBivT8MUqROy7eGMwbANAez_7DAfUX3YFGTyzzBsUgmZarJzSCh_jPZNLHO_Ueh8WJJWtaZ7i5wfywjEGUiik/s400/aa+cute.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxO5hC8Fj974buYgQWYfMkAaC59OINMtQuQoFvwMu8xwv5Kl9zme6XrYvBivT8MUqROy7eGMwbANAez_7DAfUX3YFGTyzzBsUgmZarJzSCh_jPZNLHO_Ueh8WJJWtaZ7i5wfywjEGUiik/w640-h640/aa+cute.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><br /><p></p><p> Subscribe to my newsletter <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b><br /></p><p>See my YouTube channel <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPwvjunRhjo_wtfk8z2xKMA">here</a></b><br /></p><p>My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Buy my book As Mother Lay Dying <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/As-Mother-Lay-Dying-tapestry/dp/1838298606/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1612179096&sr=8-1">here</a></b></p><p>Follow me on Instagram <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">here</a></b><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-53394003115811834512021-06-20T13:20:00.004-07:002021-06-20T13:22:23.670-07:00"Even in the most crazy, terrifying moments, we are not alone." The exhibition is done, what a week. <p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> </b></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB1aLFBoQDT6hraRdCA7fewyIVZAqZ8luC1jyYhoYI0k68qYF5FDFwh6vPzdyFQtPH0H0_Yp1BvkZmC8TYiZTqH-VLftqhhax5IvT_zRuiJvGfGensyH9At0eiPhZ23mCemXbUGKWAuKE/s824/2021-06-13+17.17.47.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="824" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB1aLFBoQDT6hraRdCA7fewyIVZAqZ8luC1jyYhoYI0k68qYF5FDFwh6vPzdyFQtPH0H0_Yp1BvkZmC8TYiZTqH-VLftqhhax5IvT_zRuiJvGfGensyH9At0eiPhZ23mCemXbUGKWAuKE/w640-h400/2021-06-13+17.17.47.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Addicts And Those Who Love Them exhibition in Brighton last week<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Busy week.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am sitting alone in absolute silence on my pink sofa in the empty house, feeling exhausted. Today is the first day in a long time that I am, theoretically, doing nothing. Except today is the only day I have in which to do my blog and newsletter and so I am not quite doing nothing. And, I am dressed in my walking clothes because this afternoon I aim to go back on the Downs for a walk. Have I been invaded by aliens? Probably. I was looking forward to today so much, imagining myself lying on my bed in glorious well earned abandon, pots of tea on my bedside table, a plate of shortbread within reach and a smile of absolute success on my happy, sleepy face. Interestingly, I have my lipstick on in this mental image. I think I was imagining it on the front cover of a magazine. The idea of a day of joyful snoozing has been the carrot that has kept me going. But, I am not doing that. I did a bit of it and then decided to get up and get stuff done. And, I am really looking forward to a walk this afternoon. I have even made the salty soup that I took on my walks while training for the Macmillan Mighty Hike, the 26 mile sponsored walk that I completed two weeks ago yesterday. I think I am a changed person, taken over by aliens, or whatever, because where once my greatest love was to sit on my sofa where possible and live my life from there, now I am wanting to put on my walking boots and go for a hike on the Downs. Crazy.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A week ago today was the last day of the exhibition <i><b><a href="https://antoniarolls.co.uk/events/#addicts">Addicts And Those Who Love Them</a></b></i>. This was the culmination of two years of work putting together paintings and words by me, drawings by Marie Paul and photographs by Michael McAlister on the subject of addiction. The exhibition tag line was "behind every addict is someone traumatised by loving them", because though I am not an addict, there is addiction in my family. The ongoing, messy, destructive, chaotic and ghastly business of living with and alongside addiction is something many of us experience. Working through art to tell stories, paint portraits and share experiences of addiction helps us understand how other people manage. It is also the only thing I can think of to do. I cannot change the addiction in my family, I can't make it go away and I can't escape from the fall out. I have to find a way to manage the damage and to keep myself strong and boundaried while hoping for a miracle and keeping my idea of love strong and bullet proof. I will need it for myself and it had better be robust. If I keep working on that love for me, I can hold it for my addict. It is a hard lesson to remember, that if we believe love is all, we must love the unloveable. The love is there but it is tough, and real, and detached and keeps us going when we are in despair. This love is about letting go, walking away, and maintaining a distance from the madness (which is not ours) while keeping our hearts ready to respond if that response is going to work. It is about hope. But a realistic hope. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The week of showing the exhibition in Brighton, as part of the Brighton Fringe and supported bymy <span style="font-family: inherit;">friend Ian's relapse prevention support group Arun Exact, and the excellent charity supporting families in addiction <i><b><a href="https://adfam.org.uk/">Adfam</a></b></i>, has been intense, beautiful, enlightening and amazing. It has been hard work. It seems that the people who came all needed to be there for whatever reason. There were tears, powerful stories, insightful comments and interesting interpretations. There were some crazy people, there always are, but they have stories too. I met with and talked to many brave people who were living with, inside, and alongside addiction. There were two fellows who left their cans of beer outside and came in for a cocaine filled experience of Addicts And Those Who Love Them. After a while I asked the less buzzing of the two to take his friend out now, as he was not going to stop whizzing about and talking unless he was removed by his friend. They both had a hug, gathered their beers, and left. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Y0RLhaJkFxHNqpRHUp8oftk_7FfB5BiIO4kpPLivHE2sI1EELmf41Va9Ucssg3eueLXR-r_FXi2ruyNwksovt7ofqOyiwRmRCIyrRG48lqzmgL2F79-gZifnV0pXPA6K8sYildmLy2w/s2048/2021-06-07+10.33.30.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Y0RLhaJkFxHNqpRHUp8oftk_7FfB5BiIO4kpPLivHE2sI1EELmf41Va9Ucssg3eueLXR-r_FXi2ruyNwksovt7ofqOyiwRmRCIyrRG48lqzmgL2F79-gZifnV0pXPA6K8sYildmLy2w/w480-h640/2021-06-07+10.33.30.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cousin Maddy helping to set up</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"> W</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">e had an eighteen year old couple with addicted parents visiting every day, and telling their stories. They had been together since they were thirteen, and seemed to be both way older than eighteen and also lost in a stunted childhood that could not progress. I am hoping to work with these two youngsters to tell their stories and create their portraits. They would touch a great many people who have the same lives but who are no so articulate. I met people with brain damage who were living free of active addiction. I met a lady who I hope to work with, who is sober now in her seventies but with parents, children and grand children drinking as she had. Her husband died of drink. Her story and portrait will be very important. One evening, we had a whole AA fellowship group come to see us after their meeting. That was lovely. All those people had found God, each other and hope. It does not follow that they were all sober though. After listening to the stories from the week I am aware that giving up alcohol and drugs often takes more than will power and a good fellowship. It helps, they say, but rehab is where many were able to stop. And even that, I am told, is not necessarily effective only once. It may take many rehabs. There is a rule of three, my friend Ian tells me. Ian is ten years sober and clean after forty years of addiction. He says that one person will relapse, one person will die and one person will recover. The rule of three. So speaking to the visitors in recovery last week, and having a whole fellowship meeting come to see us, was a powerful expression of hope. And I suppose, it keeps me going where my own addict is concerned. If these people who were so deep into addiction found ways through, maybe my addict won't die an addled death alone somewhere, maybe we can visit each other and have tea one day and talk about life, and sit together on the sofa in companionable silence. Maybe. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>The next stage</b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> I will gather all my notes, new contacts and thoughts into some order from last week now. Then I will start to paint and speak with new people from the exhibition just gone to create a new body of work for the next showing of Addicts And Those Who Love Them. I don't know where I will hold the next exhibition yet, I will find a gallery or an exhibition space and take it from there. Michael McAlister, a dear friend and colleague, will show his photographic series of powerful and challenging photos called Small Signs. These are the small signs that describe his thirty years of addiction. Sober and clean for many years now, Michael's work is deeply inspiring. Marie Paul, another dear friend and colleague, is hoping to add to her dark, beautiful and mysterious drawings in charcoal, pastels and black crayon. Marie's work is skillful, detailed, and personal to her own journey with drugs and addictions. It is the insight and creativity that Marie and Michael bring to the exhibition that inspires me too. They are part of the story of the exhibition through past addictions and are now exhibiting their own artwork from a position of recovery. I am looking forward to working with new people for the next showing, though I am a bit nervous because there is so much work to be done to get to the next stage. However, "nothing comes of nothing" as Shakespeare says. Or "get a move on" as my late husband Alan would say. </span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlbPo8QjmcBlKCHU2jF1fcBxT_4Sgx7mOkJ7NSIrd7Aumn4l86mvhOBe44YuwM4MjINqQ2pDg77o6SN7fFq9t9Zv2-0tNyUzJKtQxMrfF6M2tP6JVQHRXQp3dHuXtJbrbtvC3fCanVTJA/s2048/2021-06-13+15.58.27.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1745" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlbPo8QjmcBlKCHU2jF1fcBxT_4Sgx7mOkJ7NSIrd7Aumn4l86mvhOBe44YuwM4MjINqQ2pDg77o6SN7fFq9t9Zv2-0tNyUzJKtQxMrfF6M2tP6JVQHRXQp3dHuXtJbrbtvC3fCanVTJA/w546-h640/2021-06-13+15.58.27.jpg" width="546" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Addict's Room. Oil on wood.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Thank you</b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The exhibition ran smoothly because of the help and support I received. The generosity of all those heroes who helped to fund it through my Go Fund Me crowd funding is deeply wonderful. Thank you all. My two cousins Maddy and Kirsten stayed with me for the week and provided food and care at home here, and practical exhibition management support with me daily in Brighton. My cheerful and efficient assistant Lora from <i><b><a href="https://www.pink-spaghetti.co.uk/contact-us/virtual-assistant-chichester/">Pink Spaghetti</a></b></i> has helped from the very beginning, and everyone who came to this first showing of Addicts And Those Who Love Them made the week so worthwhile. Thank you.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And it was sunny. Most of the week was downright Mediterranean. Cousin Kirsten turned a healthy shade of mahogany during the week and fair skinned freckled Maddy turned a gentle salmon pink despite being in the shade for most of the time. The Fishing Quarter gallery where we were exhibiting overlooked the beach on the Brighton sea front, which meant that we had to have lots of chips. We <i>had</i> to.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>And now</b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is time to rest and recover. Whatever I do on addiction is only a single grain of sand on a seashore. I want to gather together all the stories of the people I met last week and plan my next exhibition phase. In my own life, I have always decisions to make about the addiction in my family. It does not go away, at least not for long. It is unsolvable, constant and destructive. It is distressing, frightening and confusing. I suppose one of the most important messages from this work I am doing is that we are not alone. Even in the most crazy, terrifying and out of control moments, we are not alone. And we all need each other. Keeping quiet about what is happening to us when it is traumatic and distressing (whatever it is) is unsustainable, and it is a shock to meet other people and hear that your story is their story too. We can get lost in the shame and stigma of having this thing, addiction, in our lives, and try to keep quiet about it. We make excuses, explain things away, take the rap, try and cover up the damage. And when we don't any more, and the world does not end, because we have found the support of a community who know how we feel because they are feeling it too, we can move forward. I remember walking into a drugs and alcohol support meeting many years ago for the first time, and collapsing in tears when it was my turn to speak. I heard myself saying that I hated my addict, and I wanted them dead. I was taken aback by what I had just said, feeling a little out of control and was expecting the group to ask me to leave. Instead, they listened, gave me tissues, hugged me and said they understood. Many of them had come to this group with the same feeling, and look at them now, they said. Of course I would feel this way they said, it is intolerable dealing with so much on my own. It isn't that I want my addict dead they helped me see, it is that I wanted the situation to go away. And I hated the addiction, they said. If I hated the addict, I would not be there with them in floods of tears with my heart breaking. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And so this project continues. But first, in a minute, I will go for a walk. I has been an insanely busy time. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisS5ooZwExbzGgPCUYVUd3O2KMiR8RTxaIy3UGQaK0CBvcJioNYoPLk2jXcHb0LMFx8W3KO9__soXd4wdeoQxp0thaonEELwmCfDFHCAochIqw6NwwaFUNYOTK0vP8PrufmB57bYKjOno/s1274/last+day+13+june+2021+cropped.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1274" data-original-width="1055" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisS5ooZwExbzGgPCUYVUd3O2KMiR8RTxaIy3UGQaK0CBvcJioNYoPLk2jXcHb0LMFx8W3KO9__soXd4wdeoQxp0thaonEELwmCfDFHCAochIqw6NwwaFUNYOTK0vP8PrufmB57bYKjOno/w530-h640/last+day+13+june+2021+cropped.jpg" width="530" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Marie, Me and Maddy. What a wonderful week. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>I am looking for stories and experiences of addiction, either your own or someone who you love, for possible use in the Addicts exhibition. Stories can be anonymous too. Email me <b><a href="mailto:antonia.rolls1@btinternet.com">here</a> </b>in confidence.<br /></i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Subscribe to my newsletter<i> </i><b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls/newsletter">here</a></b><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My YouTube channel <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPwvjunRhjo_wtfk8z2xKMA">here</a></b><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My website <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Buy my book As Mother Lay Dying <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/As-Mother-Lay-Dying-tapestry/dp/1838298606/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1612179096&sr=8-1">here</a></b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Follow me on Facebook <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">here</a></b><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Follow me on Instagram <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">here</a></b></span><br /></span></span></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-24124154555222779562021-06-06T01:09:00.004-07:002021-06-06T01:14:36.978-07:00It's all over by the time you read this. In a good way.<p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">The Walk</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt5qNN2Hu_WHmce00lWD7VrJu8rm9hiX77ejPJN3SejXsTEiNZZnHGHy03ildewC6QosgmHOloW-hRMW9JZ0MQ-PnvyBxvTFTCJ6a3qqBe5vWjyu0fjwV11gKGILzQH17XcMhbTmQptvE/s2048/2021-06-02+11.08.20.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1443" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt5qNN2Hu_WHmce00lWD7VrJu8rm9hiX77ejPJN3SejXsTEiNZZnHGHy03ildewC6QosgmHOloW-hRMW9JZ0MQ-PnvyBxvTFTCJ6a3qqBe5vWjyu0fjwV11gKGILzQH17XcMhbTmQptvE/w450-h640/2021-06-02+11.08.20.jpg" width="450" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A photo of walking equipment in my nice quiet sunny kitchen today. </i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table>By the time you read this I will have completed my Mighty Hike walk for Macmillan. I am heartened by thinking that this walk will soon be in the past, meaning I will have done it and won't have to think about it ever again. Yesterday, as you went about your day without a care in the world, I walked 26 miles from Brighton to Eastbourne with 499 other people and let me tell you, it was tough. I don't actually know that yet, but I expect it will be. Near the end of the walk, at about the twenty mile mark, there are the Seven Sisters which from what I gather from our walking Facebook pages, are seven huge hills that will kill all of us. Apparently they are very difficult even without having already done twenty miles. "They are tough, there is no denying it, and many may never walk again," say the experienced walkers on the social media pages, who have done Mighty Hikes with the Seven Sisters before, "but just enjoy the day and look at the view." Oh that will help. I will just admire the view as my legs fall off.<br /><p></p><p>There is always a chance that I didn't make it, and that I am still there on the route, lost and confused and a long way from home. If you don't read this blog, then that is why. It never got posted because I am still walking twenty four hours later and may have gone mad. No one can find me and Macmillan will have to send out a search party. They will have to lure me off the Seven Sisters with flasks of tea and eggy sandwiches. <br /></p><p>The training for this Mighty Hike has been a lesson in perseverance and strange rewards. In the beginning I would walk for an hour or two, and think that there was plenty of time. As time went by I planned longer routes and eventually, with a new tiny turquoise ruck sack, a flask of salty soup, water and my excellent (new) walking boots, I would take a whole day and do up to nineteen miles. On some walks the weather changed suddenly and became very unpleasant. Twice, I was utterly caught out, unprepared and under dressed in just a pink dress, a jumper and no coat or hat. I squelched back to the car in a crazy downpour with gusts of freezing winds thinking, this is what it must be like on a mountain when the storms come and no one is prepared. Those eight miles back to the car were absolutely awful and when I got to the car, I couldn't open it. When I did get into the car, I found that the peanut butter sandwiches that I had wrapped in water proof bags were holding water like a sponge. The treat that had spurred me on through the storm had been snatched from me by the elements and I was left to drive home cold, hungry, miserable and drowned. The strange reward from this walk was that it would probably never be that bad on the day of the real walk, and that I had survived. This was SAS level training, I said to myself, you're tougher than you think. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiav9yVik7Fk2JPkyIVAnTutPnTA5UzA_zcsyFJWXYMhXyasnAwRJFDKELk9HFdn4tELVEZkK9JJa_Wmhq1nV6SFuQV2G9W99J9YK8pxlyinkFJJ-evXwHa1H0baQgm_eDXQiHhgnWy0rg/s2048/blog+18+feb+2020+me+bedraggled+smiling.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1539" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiav9yVik7Fk2JPkyIVAnTutPnTA5UzA_zcsyFJWXYMhXyasnAwRJFDKELk9HFdn4tELVEZkK9JJa_Wmhq1nV6SFuQV2G9W99J9YK8pxlyinkFJJ-evXwHa1H0baQgm_eDXQiHhgnWy0rg/w480-h640/blog+18+feb+2020+me+bedraggled+smiling.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Training for the Navy Seals.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table> <p></p><p>As I write this, I see that on Saturday the weather will be hot and sunny. I have all the things I need; a new sun hat, factor 50 plus suncream and lots of books downloaded on Audible to listen to. I am revisiting all the Inspector Rebus books by Ian Rankin. It will be interesting to walk through brilliant hot June sunshine on the beautiful South Downs by the sea while being a part of a dour Edinburgh police team searching in a freezing winter for unspeakable baddies and led by an alcoholic misfit genius. I will be in Edinburgh for much of the Mighty Hike. I also have a plan, which may or may not have worked as you read this. At the foot of the first Seven Sister cliff which looks terrifyingly like climbing to the moon in the photos I have seen, I will have a flask of sweet tea. I did this at the bottom of another hill when training and it was so delightful that I think of it still. I sat on an old mossy log underneath beautiful trees and luscious green leaves at the bottom of a very steep mile long woodland ascent from Washington village back up to the Downs one sunny afternoon. I was trying out my new idea, a flask of hot sweet tea on a long walk. I always take hot salty soup with me, as it seems to hit the spot. This time I trialed sweet tea and boy, was it good. On the actual walk day I will take both, a flask of salty soup for half way and sweet tea for the last climb over the Seven Sisters. It may be the last time anyone will see me. </p><p>You can still sponsor me through <b><a href="https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/antonia-rolls">Just Giving</a> </b>and all the sponsorship money goes direct to Macmillan.</p><p><i>Post script - I did make it and here is a photo of me going directly to the Macmillan fry up at the end. My sister in law Jacky was there to greet me and bought me a bag of crisps and chocolates. She put an apple in the bag too but I didn't want that, fed up of healthy stuff, I wanted the crisps.</i></p><p><i> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_u4KZpBHn774JSNsYg3hz8qYdMQ63qB58c98ziMQCX5k886o96jaUnu7ZCBtqt98qXRJS_fQBJtPwJYPxeJ9ckmFknPsHLlTcqGdccVD927_Sm2P1vkyV0v7H4UIvLiFBzsk4EqbYjM/s1440/me+after+the+mighty+hike+june+5+2021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1078" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_u4KZpBHn774JSNsYg3hz8qYdMQ63qB58c98ziMQCX5k886o96jaUnu7ZCBtqt98qXRJS_fQBJtPwJYPxeJ9ckmFknPsHLlTcqGdccVD927_Sm2P1vkyV0v7H4UIvLiFBzsk4EqbYjM/w300-h400/me+after+the+mighty+hike+june+5+2021.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not wanting to be fobbed off with healthy stuff. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></i></p><p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">The Exhibition</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwmfEmvjPmKtKZkXea3ECoNBSh5qgohnHBQ7XuvkKmZUA5LhnHvRj-i9yH7kV2meNHtWDKkOEcCX2omH2q_-f3yXvRpywRn9OEYKvFoyscae3RwMw5xPHI8mNzCDxrCrLUeLKDUfKQBi8/s1273/2021-06-02+10.28.27-1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1273" data-original-width="1068" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwmfEmvjPmKtKZkXea3ECoNBSh5qgohnHBQ7XuvkKmZUA5LhnHvRj-i9yH7kV2meNHtWDKkOEcCX2omH2q_-f3yXvRpywRn9OEYKvFoyscae3RwMw5xPHI8mNzCDxrCrLUeLKDUfKQBi8/w536-h640/2021-06-02+10.28.27-1.jpg" width="536" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A six foot banner in case anyone can't remember what they are looking for.</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b>If I don't come back from the South Downs on Saturday then this next bit is an apology. Sorry, the exhibition is off. I am writing this before both the walk on Saturday and the <b><a href="https://www.brightonfringe.org/whats-on/addicts-and-those-who-love-them-146554/">Addicts And Those Who Love Them</a></b> exhibition opening on the Tuesday. <p></p><p>Assuming all is well, the exhibition will be opening to the public at midday on Tuesday 8 June and I am spending this week before everything happens writing lists. The paintings are all finished, the writing is nearly done, wrapping up all the paintings is not a problem so can wait a bit. But there is all the other stuff to remember like a giant kettle for tea for the week at the gallery. A coffee maker, a cold bag for milk and lunches. Hanging equipment - hammer, nails, picture hooks, measuring tape, sellotape, blutac, string. I must remember the easles and the A-boards, and of course the new six foot banner I had made to go over the door outside. That reminds me, we need a ladder. Then there is the planning for the private view, which includes all the (low key) catering, and always the constant remembering to tell people about the exhibition in the first place.</p><p> Addicts And Those Who Love Them is a serious exhibition. The idea behind it has always been to tell the stories of people dealing with addiction, and that is not just the addict, but the people behind them. <br /></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">I first began creating a body of work in 2018 on the subject of
addiction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was in response to my
son’s struggle with opiates, and it was called The <i>Brighter The Light (the
darker the shadow).</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I showed it here
in Bognor, and it resonated with others who were experiencing the same
thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From that exhibition came the
idea for this next one, Addicts And Those Who Love Them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed that we who witness and journey
alongside addiction in our close circles feel vulnerable and alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we eventually do talk to someone who
understands, and when we tell it like it really is, which is very horrible
because we expect not to believed, the relief is enormous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this first exhibition, I remember a mother
coming in and walking around the paintings in shock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she managed to come and ask about the
stories behind them, and I told her exactly what had happened and was still
happening, she broke down in tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
and her daughter were living in a silent nightmare of the daughter’s
addiction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mother, feeling (as we do) that it was her fault (and addicts are expert at blaming others)
finally understood that she was not alone, the addiction in her life was not
her fault and that there were places she could find help and support <i>without
judgement.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Though this lady does not feature in Addicts And Those Who
Love Them, the whole idea behind it was inspired by her.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I have a great team with me for this exhibition. My two cousins Maddy and Kirsten are coming to stay with me for the week to make sure there are always two of us in the gallery, and that someone (Kirsten) will be doing food. There is so much organising, and I have a wonderful VA (virtual assistant) called Lora, who does so much of it, with her lovely cheerful smile. I am grateful to have the support of Arun Exact, a peer led relapse prevention group in Littlehampton near here, and of Adfam, a wonderful charity supporting and educating families and friends of addicts as they deal with the addiction journey. Perhaps I could call it the addiction lifestyle. I have also, with huge gratitude, had wonderful support from all the people who have donated to my crowd funding pages to help pay for the costs of this project. All the work I do is free, and the exhibition is free. That is why the crowd funding has been so important and special. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I have two Go Fund Me pages for this exhibition. The first was set up a year ago in 2020 when Addicts was meant to show at the Brighton Fringe. Of course, everything was suddenly cancelled last year and when I was offered a slot this year I couldn't find my old page and so began a new one. Then I found my old page. Both had donations on them and I simply had to pretend I always wanted two pages and that was how I rolled. If you would like to donate you have a choice. The first page is <b><a href="https://www.gofundme.com/f/addicts-and-those-who-love-them">here</a> </b>and the second is <b><a href="https://www.gofundme.com/f/addicts-and-those-who-love-them-exhibition">here</a>. </b>You could donate to both, in order to maintain balance. I will not stop you. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_GrG5kETPFAMP4vui5yLisAGdANdz3Vzf3k7nxfkU4xfpTjmQzKLRxCMFBzg2znPAklQmUlZQPajK2jBqOJETnfFCltiGRpwOZOaBeiZfrQrxTQw79kOw-TC5oqFcn6YpXKXbNb0ht14/s1408/2021-05-18+11.17.23.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1408" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_GrG5kETPFAMP4vui5yLisAGdANdz3Vzf3k7nxfkU4xfpTjmQzKLRxCMFBzg2znPAklQmUlZQPajK2jBqOJETnfFCltiGRpwOZOaBeiZfrQrxTQw79kOw-TC5oqFcn6YpXKXbNb0ht14/w490-h640/2021-05-18+11.17.23.jpg" width="490" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>In the studio holding a portrait and words of Ian from Arun Exact. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>And so</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">I write this blog before my busy week begins. If you are reading this, I did make it on Saturday and I am taking the Sunday to rest before hanging and preparing the exhibition on the Monday. I have toyed with opening the Addicts And Those Who Love Them from a wheelchair but I have bought myself some orthopedic flip flops instead. I will be supported by them and look nice too. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Just as a little extra, my darling brother John is getting married in London on the Friday before the walk and exhibition. So I will be partying on the Friday at the wedding. My train home arrives at Bognor at 11.30pm, and I am up for 5am the next day ready to make my mark on those Seven Sisters and earn the right to wear the orthopedic flip flops for the next week in Brighton. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR3eBrXJc0UoOHDoVVh5VBn19rcbSVkZ1h05ifU6s-HJbnYCYzsE3jN8-vSDLZ8qGUsjEVI0WQ5CRSt8Ht3sFIscAD6oAv3Qqxhb40LXvkasBVF4s1ci79ayKJy_U50UdyPrC2lEd2NbY/s2381/lamppost-web-size.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2381" data-original-width="879" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR3eBrXJc0UoOHDoVVh5VBn19rcbSVkZ1h05ifU6s-HJbnYCYzsE3jN8-vSDLZ8qGUsjEVI0WQ5CRSt8Ht3sFIscAD6oAv3Qqxhb40LXvkasBVF4s1ci79ayKJy_U50UdyPrC2lEd2NbY/w236-h640/lamppost-web-size.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><p></p><p>Subscribe to my fortnightly newsletter <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls.co.uk/signup-for-news-of-events-and-sessions">here</a></b></p><p>Subscribe to my YouTube channel <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPwvjunRhjo_wtfk8z2xKMA">here</a></b><br /></p><p>my website <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Buy my book As Mother Lay Dying <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/As-Mother-Lay-Dying-tapestry/dp/1838298606/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1612179096&sr=8-1">here</a></b><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-75723193369719039272021-05-22T08:56:00.003-07:002021-05-22T08:56:59.283-07:00Dual diagnosis. Mental health and addiction. <p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicUsoztZRwY1pOI1LXdHbG5MIlwwlVCUrKGjTy6JA-j3iSr8bKAbdQLCzKVYUM-e9JFLIn5lIle4kCx3qDldYM7zjLdyb3b8AoO1ZFKEjg-LzDOOjFYohxH96sJEzrG7ChY-F-jMsIV2o/s410/ba6a7acf-2db2-4dd7-9448-1e9fa022b4c2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="348" data-original-width="410" height="544" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicUsoztZRwY1pOI1LXdHbG5MIlwwlVCUrKGjTy6JA-j3iSr8bKAbdQLCzKVYUM-e9JFLIn5lIle4kCx3qDldYM7zjLdyb3b8AoO1ZFKEjg-LzDOOjFYohxH96sJEzrG7ChY-F-jMsIV2o/w640-h544/ba6a7acf-2db2-4dd7-9448-1e9fa022b4c2.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Mental health and addiction</b></span> <br /></p><p>Dual diagnosis is the name given to describe both a mental health condition and addiction occurring together. I have no other qualifications to talk about this but lived experience, and that counts for a lot these days. Observational lived experience as I do not suffer from dual diagnosis myself, but someone I know does and it has been a very powerful learning curve . </p><p>When I was growing up, I had thought all addicts were the same. It was their choice to take drugs. They were feckless and if they became a lost cause, well, it was all their own fault. Addicts were shadowy people on the outskirts of normal life, and always very different to me. I on the other hand, was a better kind of person because I was not a drug taker and I was not an alcoholic though in the early days, an addict in my opinion was simply a drug user. Alcoholics were always old people and always lying on the streets, whereas drug users were younger but lived in a different world to me. I did not come across many drugs even at university. They were probably there, but I did not notice them. A person who took drugs was, in my mind, dangerous and violent. And, you could tell who they were because they looked like tramps. I hoped I did not have to meet one. It was that simple.<br /></p><p>When I look back to how black and white my thinking was then, I understand that I had no idea about this terrible other world of drugs that nice girls like me did not have to know about. I had no experience of life being intolerable, no idea of mental illnesses, no conception of taking something to help make the world go away, or the pain less awful, or life easier to live. I think too, that when I was younger the choice of drug was much more limited than today. There was weed, and speed, and magic mushrooms, and LSD. Oh, and heroin, there was always heroin. And alcohol but it took me a while to equate it with addiction, there were drug addicts and alcoholics and I don't suppose I ever considered that alcoholics could take drugs and drug addicts could drink alcohol. <br /></p><p>Only in the last few years have I come across the term dual diagnosis. There has been addiction in my world over the last decade or so and what a rude awakening it has been to that shadowy side of life that I had only imagined when young. What a hard and shattering journey for everyone involved. Of course now, with hindsight, it makes sense, that mental illness and addiction go together. It is very serious and very troubling. In my limited experience with addiction, mental health and dual diagnosis, I get how hard it is to keep going with depression, mental illness, psychoses and disorders that make the sufferer feel apart from the rest of humanity. When life is really hard inside your head, it is made worse by feelings of isolation. So many of these illnesses and disorders come with cognitive and behavioural problems. It is hard for parents and teachers, for co-workers and colleagues, for family members and all of us in the big wide world out there to cope with any kind of challenging differences in others. Without knowing that there is a reason, or a diagnosis of some disorder or other, it is easy to put it down to willful, anti social and often aggressive lack of self control. Even with a diagnosis of mental, behavioural or personality disorders, it can be hard to know how to respond. It is really hard to know what to do.</p><p>But if this is you, and life is distressingly confusing and frightening, there are countless situations in which substances offer longed for relief from life. A vulnerable person does not always present as meek and helpless. Vulnerability may be expressed in explosive rage, in seeking danger and taking insane risks, in self harm or harming others. That vulnerability comes from an inability to know who to trust, to be easily manipulated, to be unable to judge danger or consequence, to be impulsive or compulsive and to make life difficult for themselves and everyone around them. If this person found something to make all their difficulties go away and make some of the pain stop, then of course, they would take it. And if it made people like them, and gave them the courage to be sociable in a way that got them lots of attention, why not? Why, if the the struggle is so hard and the stuff they take brings such a buzz and freedom from pain, would they not take it? The thing is, self medicating works. It makes the world go away. It becomes disastrous when addiction takes hold, but at least in the beginning, it works. And there are no shortage of people who make a very good living out of making sure the most vulnerable get a go of drugs. <br /></p><p>Maybe all addicts suffer from dual diagnosis and have crazy mental health disorders. Perhaps if they did not start out with one, by the time they are addicted they certainly do. They have many. </p><p>No one with an addiction holds it together very well. At some point, life unravels. We all know the image of someone who once held down a good job, looked well and happy against the image of them later, having lost everything, looking unkempt, bleary eyed and thin. It is people like this I saw in the methadone clinics when I spent time accompanying someone in addiction. Everyone came into the centre trying to look as if they were ok, when it was obvious they were not. They were withdrawing and needed their next script. Withdrawal is awful, and not a pretty sight. Some came in scruffy suits as if holding on to an image of normality, which did not work and I could not work out whether it was poignant, embarrassing, distressing or funny. Some came in quietly, some not. Some came in clothes they must have been wearing for weeks, some came in clean and new outfits. But none were able to sit still, all exhibited signs of increasing agitation and some became aggressive and uncontrollable if they had to wait even a short time. It was here I saw how mentally unstable an addict is, whether with a dual diagnosis or not. It seemed that there was no such thing as just mental health problems or just addiction, only dual or triple or multiple diagnoses with addiction. It was all a big, horrible, mess. And later, meeting other people in addiction, I was no more than a prospective means for them to get what they wanted. Whatever I thought from my perspective as a non user and not in this game at all, to the addicts I met I was a means to get for themselves what they wanted because that is what addiction is. An addict is a master manipulator and even the nicest of addicts knows how to play you. <br /></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>A personal post script.</b></span></p><p>The person I knew in addiction started out with difficulties. This person was deeply intelligent with a very high IQ (we found out later) but always felt different, was always difficult to manage and understand and eventually managed to get a mental health diagnosis of something or another. I say it like that because this person was a product too of their family, and though there was a mental health problem with this person, in that it was most evident in them, the whole family could have done with guidance and a few diagnoses too. Naming this person's problem was never going to work in isolation, nothing much changed for them. The whole family needed help.<br /></p><p>It was not inevitable that this person would become a drug user but like many youngsters who are angry and feel too different, misjudged, abused and ignored, it happened. It happened in the clubs and streets that seemed a better option to them than home. Fast forward many years and the madness and chaos that seemed to follow so quickly in this person's life has created deep physical and mental illnesses that may never be sorted entirely. That early diagnosis does not seem relevant any more, it almost feels like an excuse of a diagnosis in their early life to make them go away. Now, this person is older and the consequences of so much medication and booze is not pretty. In a way, when this person was younger - a teenager perhaps - it was attractive and powerful amongst their peers, but now, older, there is a sadness and a coarseness to all the years of struggle against so much poison. The mental health conditions are now many and complex, and the physical health is fragile and has been life threatening.</p><p>But here is something else I have learned. An addict is not just their addiction. They are also the person they have always been inside though of course, it may be very hard to see it. There are times when this person has profound insights into not only themselves, but the world around them. There is a strange wisdom in this person now, mixed with a total dependency on all and any medication that makes the world go away. I keep away, mostly, now. I do not belong in that world, and they do not belong in mine. Though of course, I always hope. </p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq0mjWw-7A_6evIYLw0qF_UTZQvAeCzL46nAa9uOTgJcJUcy7qbo6XD7oRJSOHdnsf4ARK0ZQq2rr5zwoTtYFTBusgrwTtDonMVMoiLoeTzRE0t1sWs1OexoMtIzV78YTf8mz_7GZuViY/s640/Photo+27-03-2021%252C+08+42+43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="640" height="522" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq0mjWw-7A_6evIYLw0qF_UTZQvAeCzL46nAa9uOTgJcJUcy7qbo6XD7oRJSOHdnsf4ARK0ZQq2rr5zwoTtYFTBusgrwTtDonMVMoiLoeTzRE0t1sWs1OexoMtIzV78YTf8mz_7GZuViY/w640-h522/Photo+27-03-2021%252C+08+42+43.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><br /><p></p><p> ******************************* <br /></p><p>I have written this to go alongside my exhibition about addiction, details below.<br /></p><p><b>"Addicts And Those Who Love Them" -</b> Behind every addict is someone traumatised by loving them.</p><p>An exhibition of portraits and words by me, and photographs by Michael McAlister. </p><p>Showing as part of the Brighton Fringe Festival, the exhibition is supported by <i>Arun Exact</i>, a peer led relapse prevention scheme from Littlehampton, and <i>Adfam,</i> a charity offering support, advice and education for families with addiction.</p><p>On from Tuesday 8 June to Sunday 13 June, midday to 8pm daily. Entrance free. </p><p>The Fishing Quarter Gallery, 201 Kings Road Arches, Brighton BN1 1NB</p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I wrote this <u><b><a href="https://adfam.org.uk/about-us/blog/30">guest blog</a></b> </u>which puts the exhibition in context for the drugs support charity Adfam</span></span></i><br /></p><p>All welcome at the exhibition. <b> </b><br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBu-9CTjOA75kJ_yE5SSRsGYfTTknHp6TFtdZDOOA6nZUsNRhDPp0yLsw-yZZimkUVpmEA19OVP7WOvbcqyI7Eg4dGOeN17PC_Zy4vNujVeGMZxmtBuij4dmwHyTb0Vl8pTDIkRjHP94/s2048/a4+poster+with+sponsors+jpeg-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBu-9CTjOA75kJ_yE5SSRsGYfTTknHp6TFtdZDOOA6nZUsNRhDPp0yLsw-yZZimkUVpmEA19OVP7WOvbcqyI7Eg4dGOeN17PC_Zy4vNujVeGMZxmtBuij4dmwHyTb0Vl8pTDIkRjHP94/w453-h640/a4+poster+with+sponsors+jpeg-1.jpg" width="453" /></a></div><p></p><p>Subscribe to my newsletter <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls.co.uk/signup-for-news-of-events-and-sessions">here</a></b></p><p>Subscribe to my You Tube channel <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPwvjunRhjo_wtfk8z2xKMA">here</a></b><br /></p><p>My website <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Buy my book "As Mother Lay Dying" <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/As-Mother-Lay-Dying-tapestry/dp/1838298606/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1612179096&sr=8-1">here</a></b><br /></p><p><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-33000781118452879652021-05-08T12:46:00.000-07:002021-05-08T12:46:42.724-07:00Do you do any jolly art?<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHQk9b1weRYWBD6sMwItq0PGfeyP2b8rfcQrXtlFgWoIBa-tvjH7Q03jfANAIL1iuDGNNJ6OWIMJhFPGqPvR8D6qweGezYmFzPLBEG__a5Jbero-x7wSWNaQNWl9l0rw2mxNU4MGtSdoI/s800/baby-kitten-clipart-18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHQk9b1weRYWBD6sMwItq0PGfeyP2b8rfcQrXtlFgWoIBa-tvjH7Q03jfANAIL1iuDGNNJ6OWIMJhFPGqPvR8D6qweGezYmFzPLBEG__a5Jbero-x7wSWNaQNWl9l0rw2mxNU4MGtSdoI/w640-h640/baby-kitten-clipart-18.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I did not do this.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p> My friend Deb asked me this last night, after dinner. If you had to create an exhibition about something jolly, she asked, what would it be? </p><p>In the warmth of the fading evening sunlight, sitting at my kitchen table next to all the flowers in colourful jugs and containers next to the spotty salt and pepper pots, with all my bright and motley collections of mugs, plates, saucers and bowls stacked up on shelves around the kitchen, I was stumped for an answer. Deb looked at me, and I raised my eyes to the ceiling in order to think.</p><p>"HIV?" I said. </p><p>"That's not very jolly," said Deb and a thoughtful silence filled the room. <br /></p><p>"Your house is jolly," Deb said next, "and you're jolly. Think again. You can do it. If you had to do a jolly exhibition, what would you do it on?"</p><p>But I could not think of a whole exhibition of jolly art. I can do one off happy, light hearted paintings, I love a bit of colour and fun, I have done fairies and angels but as Deb tried to get me to a point where I could say Yes! I can paint funny kittens! it became obvious that I did not have it in me. </p><p>I have tackled death and dying (<u><b><a href="https://antoniarolls.co.uk/projects/#graceful">The A Graceful Death exhibition</a> </b></u>) and am currently working on an exhibition on addiction<u> (<b><a href="https://antoniarolls.co.uk/events/#addicts">Addicts And Those Who Love Them</a></b>) </u>and so I see why Deb was thinking about something lighter. She herself was talking about birth for a project she'd like to work on, and though it is true that I am jolly, upbeat, optimistic and extrovert, all I could see were still births, unwanted babies, sick babies and post natal depression. It was then that Deb asked the jolly art question. "Could you do it?" she asked, and I found myself saying, "No." I did not feel too comfortable admitting it, and of course it made us both laugh, because what have I become that my idea of light and uplifting art is a project on HIV? </p><p>I will unpick this now. I cannot leave you all thinking I take HIV lightly, or that Deb and I laugh at it. </p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzmDExw_Xb_ZbyfKlsYZ-hGyPf0h9O7fpmrrWpudrfn2ckj6RW5Kq5DUMac9t8X39jVRzSSPyJSTfAvVknGGz0rNOfNNC68Ua66D3Kidb4DzfdygA0g42N3UeI63T79brceBkPAm8HVbk/s2048/9_A+graceful+dying+161+Blurb+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1255" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzmDExw_Xb_ZbyfKlsYZ-hGyPf0h9O7fpmrrWpudrfn2ckj6RW5Kq5DUMac9t8X39jVRzSSPyJSTfAvVknGGz0rNOfNNC68Ua66D3Kidb4DzfdygA0g42N3UeI63T79brceBkPAm8HVbk/s320/9_A+graceful+dying+161+Blurb+copy.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>From A Graceful Death</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table>I am drawn to difficult things. Not all difficult things, it seems I have to have had some experience within the subject to want to take it further through art. Though I have had no experience of HIV, I am moved by accounts from friends who went through it when it was new, and very dark. There is something about the way fear and the not-knowing created untold cruelty and suffering back in the 1980s when AIDS first appeared, that makes me want to know more about the people who died in isolation and in total pain. Dame Cicely Saunders, founder of the hospice movement, came up with this description of pain for her patients facing the end of life. Total pain includes a whole experience of pain - physical, emotional, social and spiritual. It describes the power of pain itself, and for all those people who died alone and rejected, total pain seems to me to sum up their experience. If I were to create a project on HIV and AIDS, perhaps I hope for something to be redeemed by remembering people I have never met, through paint and words, though they are, possibly, in a much better place of light now, if that is what one believes. Which I do. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF6kwKtsbxOyBVj2aYmC56eR6ArqoggnQF2d1Uv7nkPaMXtkxIMWchzG6bJjV1K-R3WE7wk_ojgGrusxictRFpntfan_w8rVnF2DryxhqTglBOJpa4htyE7v9eeGkR8kV-55W0HZxBvpg/s1097/tryptich+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1097" data-original-width="875" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF6kwKtsbxOyBVj2aYmC56eR6ArqoggnQF2d1Uv7nkPaMXtkxIMWchzG6bJjV1K-R3WE7wk_ojgGrusxictRFpntfan_w8rVnF2DryxhqTglBOJpa4htyE7v9eeGkR8kV-55W0HZxBvpg/w254-h320/tryptich+3.jpg" width="254" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>From the Addiction exhibition</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>Perhaps I explore these subjects because I want to find a space in them for healing. Art can find a way into our minds, start us thinking, and sometimes there is a divine whispering, a new insight coming up that may include compassion, or understanding, or connection. All the work I do is intended to unlock some self knowledge, at whatever level it happens. Because I have no answers, I am very drawn to ask the people I work with on these projects, to explain themselves to me. I remember saying to the people I painted and interviewed for the A Graceful Death exhibition, "Who are you? What do you want to say?" From those questions all manner of stories, accounts and wonderful things emerged. I use those questions in all the projects I do now.<br /></p><p>Of course, I really explore these subjects for myself. I want to understand something of the humanity of the people involved. How can we understand another person's humanity? I don't really know, but we have to have a go. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, as an ancient Chinese proverb says. I am drawn to this work, these subjects, this exploration, this journey. Everyone on the journey teaches me something. It all comes down to me, then. What do I learn? What can I do? How can I use this knowledge? Much of the knowledge is perhaps "total knowledge", as in Dame Cicely Saunders using the phrase "total pain". It is physical, mental, social and spiritual. That kind of knowledge rubs off on people that are around it, and gathering the stories of people who have experienced, and are still experiencing, difficult stuff, can be very powerful. I have found that we all benefit. In the telling of the story, the listening to the story and the showing of the story. <b> <br /></b></p><p>And so, now, back to painting jolly things. Why am I not interested in doing any? Perhaps because my life is quite jolly, and I need a bit of an internal push to paint. My life outside the studio is like this. </p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li>No one lives with me. Done the Mum thing. <br /></li><li>My house is full of all my favourite stuff. My daughter says it is like my creative brain has exploded onto the walls.<br /></li><li>Living alone, I can eat what I want, when I want, and experiment with all manner of nice treats. Like seeing what peanut butter and jam sandwiches are like in the bath at 3am. </li><li>My garden is filling itself with new buds, flowers, lush new growths of young strong green foliage and it makes me feel delighted with life. (I may have love fits about the garden but it is actually my friend Chris who works hard in it, he makes it thrive. I just coo about it and commune with nature as if I had done it all)<br /></li><li>I have my fourth grand child, born last week, to adore. Still doing the Grandma thing.</li><li>I have lots of ideas for lots of projects, so there is never a dull moment. A wonderful gift in getting older is that I don't actually have to do them. It is enough to sit on my soft red sofa and simply think about them. I can then chose the easiest.</li></ol><p> I wonder if I am taking all the jolly things for granted, and simply enjoying them. But perhaps, thinking about it even more, I respond to the tightrope balance between harmony in my private life and a wish to explore the darkness beyond it. I have only arrived at a modicum of harmony in my own life by knowing and experiencing huge disharmony. My life has not been easy, but it has been amazing. There is something very real, very true, about people when the chips are down. That is where the truth is. That is where the insights are. That is where the hard work is. That is where I want to discover more about life itself. I have been there so often myself, and may still return - life is unpredictable. But at the moment, there is enough jolly in my home and life that I do not want to explore it through art. I simply want to have it, and gain courage from it and carry on exploring.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWpUY84YN5JFv_uFQpKt_PimWlIQPd8RiedqHvtDox820hpyCd1x1088OG6BPqw0AMHa3wMlbSWu0LsndAa3pVcupjyUEhlou7OMvfQaJi9J69j_OEH88HJriC3REV-dbfLb7CNAwdN0/s1852/jott+original+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1852" data-original-width="1695" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWpUY84YN5JFv_uFQpKt_PimWlIQPd8RiedqHvtDox820hpyCd1x1088OG6BPqw0AMHa3wMlbSWu0LsndAa3pVcupjyUEhlou7OMvfQaJi9J69j_OEH88HJriC3REV-dbfLb7CNAwdN0/w586-h640/jott+original+%25282%2529.jpg" width="586" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A jolly painting, "Jesus on the Tube" has been a firm favourite for many years. See, I can do it.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> Subscribe to my newsletter <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls.co.uk/signup-for-news-of-events-and-sessions">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Subscribe to my YouTube channel <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPwvjunRhjo_wtfk8z2xKMA">here</a></b><br /></p><p>My website is <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Buy my book "As Mother Lay Dying" <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/As-Mother-Lay-Dying-tapestry/dp/1838298606/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1612179096&sr=8-1">here</a></b><br /></p><p><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3202248383946842522.post-51118107666202664962021-04-25T12:26:00.000-07:002021-04-25T12:26:24.069-07:00A Group of Conspiracy Theorists Descend on London. <p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWPhmgcCngUrZOIWAaIYveebLph5Je3ateC96mYzXSpo02vwpASNjBwB47eEk1h5B7YVC7PFx_DiA5io_hSMUmp95a1IryjxJL8GC8F9lvx4xi57RxvSsKfpBuPyULPKquD-NfGXaGE8/s1408/me+vanessa+london+freedom+march+24.4.2021++3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="1408" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWPhmgcCngUrZOIWAaIYveebLph5Je3ateC96mYzXSpo02vwpASNjBwB47eEk1h5B7YVC7PFx_DiA5io_hSMUmp95a1IryjxJL8GC8F9lvx4xi57RxvSsKfpBuPyULPKquD-NfGXaGE8/w640-h480/me+vanessa+london+freedom+march+24.4.2021++3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Vanessa and I arrive in London like the crazy crackpots that we are.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table>I was joined by nearly a million people yesterday for a stroll around London town. The instructions were to meet in our bubbles near Hyde Park, Green Park and Victoria, so as not to draw attention to ourselves. The start point of the walk (which was over seven miles in the end) would be made known minutes before it began, and we were instructed to link arms to form a tight unit of bodies so that law enforcement couldn't get at us and make us stop.</p><p>What actually happened was that everyone tried to gather as instructed, heads down and obediently separated, for about thirty seconds. Firstly, most of us had arrived by public transport and were ridiculously conspicuous by having a whole face. Secondly, there were so many of us that we simply fell into each others bubbles and gave up. Thirdly, the sun was shining, something exciting was afoot, and everyone was loving being close to like minded others and so began to party. Nicely. </p><p>There was no need to link arms. We were such a huge number of people we would have got in each other's way, under each other's feet and fallen over each other in a million strong rugby scrum and so without further ado, once the starting flares went up, we all started to walk. "Hooray," we all shouted, and those with horns blew them, those with drums banged them, some with saucepans and spoons bashed them and off we went like the jolly conspiracy theorists that we are. And actually, for conspiracy theorists, the people around me during the five hours of marching that I did, were very moderate. They just did not want to see their freedoms spirited away from them with weasel words by the Government. They did not trust all the figures, did not like children wearing masks (did not like anyone wearing masks). They were furious about the old people left to fade away and die in despair and loneliness, for their own good. They did not want to be forced to have vaccines and no one, absolutely no one wanted vaccine passports. "Wake up!" we all wanted to say, "much of this Government and media stuff is madness!"</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDs5jSHq8slFrjB_jqeHnQIxfOfM3tAtwNAqAChheeg-IzDvlmsgukXHQBLMuEUtBRDvAFf1Orc7iNeoXaUmBEy-_DyEvy1VHqx0QK27VaLeLwff5APUiJgi6YWAgLV8vLnPIi-s-vPXo/s807/2021-04-25+20.10.59.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="807" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDs5jSHq8slFrjB_jqeHnQIxfOfM3tAtwNAqAChheeg-IzDvlmsgukXHQBLMuEUtBRDvAFf1Orc7iNeoXaUmBEy-_DyEvy1VHqx0QK27VaLeLwff5APUiJgi6YWAgLV8vLnPIi-s-vPXo/w508-h640/2021-04-25+20.10.59.jpg" width="508" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I did go to the anti Iraq war march on 15 February 2003. I am not a great march goer, but I did feel very strongly about the Iraq war. There were coordinated anti war protests across the world, the London one was called the million march. I was very glad to have joined it though it did no good at all. War was declared and everyone went about their business as planned, we marchers had had our say and it was nice of them to allow it. Yesterday, as I met up with, walked alongside, chatted to and laughed with the ever changing sea of people around me, I thought that perhaps we won't change our government's minds but we will show each other we are not alone. We are jolly well not alone. For all of us who feared we would be the only person in the supermarket without a mask for ever, we saw we are one of an enormous crowd of like minded others. </p><p>There were all manner of ages, sizes, colours and types with us yesterday. There was not a typical freedom protester. You could not look at the miles and miles of marchers and say Ha! Knew they were all freedom protesters! You can tell! The banners were a give away, that is true, but the people carrying them ranged from a young woman with beads in her hair and flip flops to an older woman who looked like everyone's favourite granny. That really was the point of the march. It was not just a crackpot minority who believed that this virus came from outer space helped on it's way by winged dragons. It wasn't simply a fringe group who wanted to change the world into a place where everything is free and who dance in the streets to tin whistles. We were, are, a collection of people for whom the facts do not add up. For whom, once the cracks in the story appear, cannot disappear. What we see and experience do not match the things we are told are happening all around us, and now that the cracks in the story cannot be unseen we notice how <i>mad </i>everyone has become and how that is <i>applauded.</i> "Stop it!" we want to say, and yesterday, we did say it.</p><p> </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipJZkai_EMWF5iEGeVPcV4WgkCwh7fizsRKTNYIq-Kz-5hzoazszbIie_j1iJoYTKdaQafa8H4yxo8UR6IVL2cc2DdU4ZnW4srsQ3nF3NdLIowmKg5YY4rfnGjxiSs0SFoWyTCKrnyjF0/s1136/Photo+24-04-2021%252C+13+04+47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipJZkai_EMWF5iEGeVPcV4WgkCwh7fizsRKTNYIq-Kz-5hzoazszbIie_j1iJoYTKdaQafa8H4yxo8UR6IVL2cc2DdU4ZnW4srsQ3nF3NdLIowmKg5YY4rfnGjxiSs0SFoWyTCKrnyjF0/w360-h640/Photo+24-04-2021%252C+13+04+47.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ha ha ha</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>Many people yesterday said how difficult it was to think differently to their friends, families and neighbours. Our voices and opinions, they say, are removed from the public space and we are made to look like the baddies that are causing all the trouble but because we are banned from being heard, we cannot always argue back. And so the misrepresenting, the tarring and feathering, the wholesale silencing continues not only unchecked but officially sanctioned. This is hard enough for we, the common plebs, but we see people we trust and want to listen to, officially removed from the airwaves, from social media platforms and from the print media. Not only are they officially shut down, they are put onto a metaphorical ducking stool and ducked into the water to shouts of raucous abuse. We, the hoi poloi, fear that if it can be that hard for the scientists, virologists, doctors, epidemiologists and other such professionals to speak up, then we do not stand a chance if we disagree with the official line. We feel we are being lied to and sold a pup. It is hard to deal with this alone, knowing that everyone else thinks all the nonsense is fine while we make little forays into the darkness of non compliance, and we don't wear our masks. Or we don't get a vaccine. Or we veer into people on purpose who are trying to avoid us on a windy walk on top of a hill in the middle of nowhere. </p><p>So back to the walk yesterday. My friend Vanessa and I walked happily for five hours. We left before there was a bit of police action at the end, but looking for any mention of the march at all on any kind of news outlet later, we only heard about the police bit at the end. We also read that a group of covid deniers were marching down Oxford Street trying to make people remove their masks. Not sure that actually happened because Oxford Street was completely shut down and very few shops were open. But it was telling that about a million ordinary citizens marching against bizarre, restrictive and frighteningly damaging and illogical rules <i>in their own country</i>, was passed over.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFqzX-VJCgv3NJtPjALekd-b3WnIajGFe2Shy1AEO5FvBb2Vlr_bIinPwYB9MBWooKWcsJt_QwhzedJT1eWp_OquJFYS0VIZYYRIrUhFxIqrsI4AAfZacFw1DnjIUI_vT7jAWgjpt9sNQ/s705/2021-04-25+19.10.34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="705" data-original-width="449" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFqzX-VJCgv3NJtPjALekd-b3WnIajGFe2Shy1AEO5FvBb2Vlr_bIinPwYB9MBWooKWcsJt_QwhzedJT1eWp_OquJFYS0VIZYYRIrUhFxIqrsI4AAfZacFw1DnjIUI_vT7jAWgjpt9sNQ/w408-h640/2021-04-25+19.10.34.jpg" width="408" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This went on for miles and miles. <br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>What we did not hear was how wonderful it was to meet so many people who were not afraid of being together. To laugh at how things like having a hug was not only bad for you, but possibly both illegal and lethal, and how many of us were simply not complying, quietly ignoring all the rules, and not only remaining alive but all around us remaining alive too. Fancy that, we all said and carried on walking side by side.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhthe2Ls3hY-SRK6xPshCYH3fA9AOjtK9BjdTfJ2Jo-Ql5CVga9HHxu51EYLTIFxR5QuqNryPD6Abp8PNX3a-pjzU2OOfWKgqEcrjV4OfAKovyEUGzSGnviXOuV2aByL-_RxyYF9ynJ7Ok/s763/Photo+24-04-2021%252C+22+59+44+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="763" height="572" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhthe2Ls3hY-SRK6xPshCYH3fA9AOjtK9BjdTfJ2Jo-Ql5CVga9HHxu51EYLTIFxR5QuqNryPD6Abp8PNX3a-pjzU2OOfWKgqEcrjV4OfAKovyEUGzSGnviXOuV2aByL-_RxyYF9ynJ7Ok/w640-h572/Photo+24-04-2021%252C+22+59+44+%25281%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My friend Amy and I giving out copies of the spoof tabloid newspaper The Covid Chronicles<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p> </p><p>See the Covid Chronicles spoof tabloid newspaper on my website <b><a href="https://antoniarolls.co.uk/the-covid-chronicles/ ">here</a></b>. Paper copies are £3 each. A work of art, words and drawings by yours truly. Contact details on the website. <br /></p><p>Subscribe to my newsletter <b><a href="https://mailchi.mp/antoniarolls.co.uk/signup-for-news-of-events-and-sessions">here</a></b><br /></p><p>Subscribe to my YouTube channel <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPwvjunRhjo_wtfk8z2xKMA">here</a><i>A</i></b><br /></p><p>My website <b><a href="http://www.antoniarolls.co.uk">here</a></b></p><p>Facebook <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/antonia.rolls/">here</a></b></p><p>Instagram <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/antoniarolls/">here</a></b><br /></p><p><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p>Antonia Rolls Artist and Soul Midwifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07221649857725587917noreply@blogger.com8