I Sling My Hammock

Much of my inspiration comes from Sweden these days, and last summer this included a lightweight green hammock slung between trees. I came across it during a walk in the Uddavalla district - specifically the nature reserve at Kärlingesund.

I took the invitation at face value, lay for a while in what turned out to be Lien’s hammock and looked at the sky. “Look up!” is one of the 12 recommendations for life Anne Lamott has shared from life and writing - I’ve taken this and 10 other of her recommendations to heart. I looked up and I wondered how I could bring this hammocking experience home. 

For those whose only available tree is a fruitful but slender young apple, I recommend a hammock stand. I bought mine last autumn, along with a replica of Lien’s hammock, in preparation for what turned out to be this summer.

Today, waking to the excitement of no plans, I packed my rucksack, cycled to my allotment via coffee and cake at C’s, unlocked my shed, assembled my hammock stand and slung my hammock.

A few weeks ago, when my sweetcorn crop was at its peak, inbetween hammock-reading and dozing, I used my camping stove to flash-boil cobs, then anointed them with butter, before eating them like an unholy rodent.

Today, in tune with the ripening season, I dug some desirée potatoes then, satisfied with my haul for now, lay in my hammock to read ‘Waterlog’ by Roger Deakin, and drink elderflower cordial. Of course, I dozed. I read more. 

Deakin’s accounts of swimming fit well with the sway and lull of hammocking, with the being held in the same view as when backstroking. 

I surfaced to write this - and now, I think I’ll dive back in. 

I Am Conferred As Reader

My mother taught me to read using a set of word cards. I can see her holding them up in front of me in the corner of the vicarage dining room in the winter-dark. I see myself as very small. Four, perhaps. Many significant things happened when I was four. The dog arriving, for example. 

The letters on the cards were large and some were red, some were black. That early evening, I knew I couldn't read, and it felt like a deficiency in me. 

As I pieced words together letter by letter, I sensed frustration in my mother. With four children under the age of ten, and the whole parish to consider, she was probably feeling the utter endlessness of her tasks. But back then I linked her anxiety to my reading.

In this memory, towards the end of the flashcard time, something fell into its place - maybe CAT or ANT or BOY or (to make things story-neat-and-tidy) DOG.  I read this word in one shot, understood something about its shape and relationship to sound. I noticed my mother being relieved about something. She put the cards away, and I don't remember ever seeing them again. 

The word I learned to spell deliberately and collaboratively, as a sort of family chorus, was the dog's tricksy name. "CHUMLEEEE," we'd chant. "C-H-O-L-M-E-L-E-Y!" It wasn't long after learning that words on the page and in the mouth can differ that I took off into reading big time. I lay on my bed, its granny-knitted white bedspread turned grey at the foot where the dog slept each night, spending wonderful afternoons with whole books. 

What's brought on this musing is my promotion in August to Reader at Wrexham University. The title has been conferred on me through a process of application, reference, and consideration of the evidence of my academic standing. I was able to choose my own title as part of the process - Reader in Creative Coproduction. It reflects the way I work with others to find new and collaborative ways of learning in social work education.

I like the word Reader. I like the word Confer. I like the way words have enabled me, reading, reading, speaking, and writing, to grow into the teacher-as-learner part of myself.

If I were making an acceptance speech I'd thank many people, especially (you know who you are) Outside In. I'd thank my colleagues and referees: Tim, Jill, and Neil. I'd thank my family, I'd thank Tove Jansson, C.S. Lewis, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and A.A. Milne. I'd thank my dog. 

And, at this point, I'd thank, most of all, my long-dead-but-never-left mother, for the precious time she spent with me: her gift of hard-won priorities, her wanting so much for me to be a reader.

Photo taken by the lovely Kate Lefroy