This morning we are (re-)commissioning each other for another year of service.

One of the choir peices is this, which I adore... and which takes me to significant places in my own story, notably eight years ago when we had it at an infant blessing, my last 'public' appearance before I had my long hair cut short in preparation to start cancer treatment in September 2010. It still has the power to make me 'well up' with sorrow, joy, hope and faith...

'Yes, LORD, I do love you... I will go wherever you lead me, and do or be whatever you call me to...'

OK, so this letter took ten days to make it out of the dictaphone and onto paper, and another eight to reach me, but it was worth the wait.

The NHS is over-stretched and some parts of it excessively so.  Waiting over a year for the results of an MRI scan is ridiculous.  Having a spoken, and then a written, apology is pretty impressive, and counts for a lot in my mind.

I am glad I don't have 'frank tears' even if I had to look that up, and hope being 'left to the physotherapists' turns out to be a good thing when I eventually meet them!

Thank you Dr Y, little things mean a lot.

Over the years, this blog has been a place where I have spoken openly about stuff, and in so-doing seem to have enabled some other people to find their experiences normalised, affirmed or at least recognised.  As someone who is by nature an introvert and is actually pretty shy, doing this is not always easy, even if, at least sometimes, it is practical (and of course by writing I don't actually have to speak the words aloud if I prefer not to).

So, there has been the cancer journey back in 2010-11; the gynae stuff, mostly in 2015-16; the sertraline stuff in 2017.  Now in 2018 there will be some stuff about mental health.

It's fair to say that spring and summer this year have been a bit death-heavy.  My Mum's death back in May was sudden, but at least it was peaceful and she had lived to average age.  A couple of months later came the tragic news that one of my cousins had taken their own life after a long struggle with depression.  Last week, two more deaths, the woman who had been my Girls' Brigade captain back in the 1970s/80s, and a former breast care nurse who I got to know online and who, once, appeared unexpectedly at my church.  It's been quite a lot of death, and it's taken its toll one way or another.

Among other things, it has brought to the surface old hurts, insecurities and memories that have been getting turned over and over in my over-reflective mind.  So much was this troubling me, that I made the decision to seek some help from a counsellor.

What the counsellor made of someone who just matter-of-factly reeled off their life history I have no idea (well, I'm paying, I may as well get value for my money!).  What I do know is that she and I seem to have reached an understanding about what the nub of this is, and how she can help me deal with it.

So we are doing some CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy) stuff in an attempt to rewire my thought processes.  I have a number of techniques to employ, based on examples I gave her of experiences I wanted to work with.  Some visualisation, some distancing, some engaging in addressing stuff in real life. Suffice to say, it's quite demanding and can feel quite risky.  Also, suffice to say, with my rubbish memory, I have to note down details about the times I try it out as otherwise I wouldn't remember when next we meet.  My problem isn't lack of self-awareness, it's learning to employ that helpfully!

For some reason, the 'Cognitive' bit reminded of stuff I did eons ago on human factors assessments, and how people learn or acquire skills.  There's a model that assumes three phases:

• cognitive
• associative
• autonomous

In the cognitive phase, the person very consciously carries out 'instructions' to fulfil a task.  The example used when I was in industry was learning to drive, so the total novice who wishes to change gear will go through the sequence that I still recall my own driving instructor using...

• hand on the gear lever, ready
• clutch down
• off the gas
• into [gear number]
• on the gas
• clutch up steadily

The associative stage is where the skill has been mastered, but the learner still carries it consciously... I am going too quickly for this gear, I need to change up and so...

Finally comes the autonomous stage, where the driver simply changes gear as needed without even being aware of what they are doing.  Anyone who drives regularly has, I suspect, had the sense of being 'on autopilot' at some point.

I guess the hope is that, by consciously and cognitively changing the way I process things, it won't automatically (autonomously) follow the unhelpful route it has done for, in some cases, the greater part of fifty years, and that I can learn instead to follow healthier, happier routes.  The goal, I suppose, is that we can move from the clunky CBT (cognitive) via self-awareness (associative) to instinctive (autonomous) ways of reflecting that are better for me and hence, by default, better for other people.

A few quick thoughts before I hit 'save'...

• No-one who knows me in the here-and-now has done or said anything that has caused me to reach this place.  I think that some stuff around my Mum's death has been significant in reawakening unhelpful feelings that need to be dealt with.
• I do not intend this 'splurging' to be anything other than an ongoing commitment to being honest and open... what our pastoral theology teacher called 'appropriate vulnerability'.  If it goes beyond that that's unfortunate and unintended (and I am frantically telling myself not to apologise!)
• I share it not for sympathy, or so that people treat me other than they already do, but just because of the above desire to be open.  If it resonates with someone, then I hope that they, too, might find a safe enough space and trustworthy companion to process their own needs and do any rewiring that may, for them by healthy.
• Lastly, mental health in all its many and varied guises is something that causes fear and unease and dis-ease for so many people.  Perhaps these words play just the tiniest part in breaking down that taboo.

Undoubtedly ,as my NAM mentor told me the greater part of 15 years ago, it is a lifetime's work for me to learn not to over-reflect, self-flagellate or self-deprecate... but if I can rewire my brain just a bit, and learn not to internalise stuff that has no place to be there, it can only be a 'Good Thing'. 

You would think that a woman wearing a bright pink jacket, and equally bright pink tabbard and holding a bright pink bucket would be impossible to miss... yet standing on a busy street corner in Glasgow between 8 a.m. and 9 a.m. this morning I was, it seems, largely invisible.

Invisible, in so far as some people studiously looked the other way, lest making eye contact might compel them to dig in their pocket for some loose change.  Invisible in that some people were so busy looking at their phones they didn't even see me standing there and had to swerve at the last minute to avoid me when I steadfastly didn't move.

Four of us collected for an hour, and between us raised nearly £160.  Other volunteers will cover another four hours of collecting, so hopefully the final figure will be around the £1000 mark. Which is not bad, I guess, for a day's 'work'.

The last time I remember doing a bucket collection was a dark December evening in the early 1990s, standing at the exit door of ToysRUs in Warringon, dressed as 'Santa's elf' and raising as much, if not more, more on my own than the four of us did this morning.  That gave me pause for thought - what was different about the two occasions, and what, more generally, has changed in those years?

Back then, no mobile phones, a lot of people still used cash for large purchases and in the run up to Christmas collecting for a children's charity is a sure fire success.  Young woman in red leggings and tunic top wearing a santa hat wouldn't do any harm either.

Nowadays a lot of people don't carry cash, and most are busy with phones as they hurtle out of stations and down the street.  Middle aged woman in luminous pink attire is not so noticeable after all!  And it's Thurdsay, in August... just another bucket collection for another charity. (And, if I am honest, I pass several such every week going about my daily life).

Still, there were people who stopped to give, a few who spoke or who had that tell-tale tear in the eye that spoke for them.  Mostly it was middle-aged men, perhaps their mothers, partners or even daughters had  direct experience of the disease... for that matter, maybe they did themselves.  One man told me his mother had died of breast cancer.  A younger man apologised that 'it was only a few wee coins'.  One woman muttered something which signalled all - she was part of this club no-one wants to be in.

It would have been a lot less effort to send a donation to the charity.  To have done so would have been to have missed out on the hints and glimpses of a world where charity collectors are so commonplace as to be invisible.  A world where people avoid eye-contact or are simply so engrossed in technology that they risk walking into lampposts (or charity collectors).  A world where, in the midst of all the hustle and bustle, are moments of generosity and humanity.  A world where a grieving man can honour the memory of his mother.  A world where a young man can make a difference with his few small coins (remember the widow's mite?). A world where middle-aged women in ridiculously bright clothes can still play their small part in supporting a cause close to their heart by giving up an hour of their time.

Overall, I'm glad to have taken part in this.  I learned a lot.  I smiled at strangers a lot (maybe that was unnerving?!).  I enjoyed the crisp autumn morning - and appreciated the chance to warm up afterwards!  A good morning.

There's only one podcast I listen to regularly.  I've occasionally tried others but not really found anything that 'does it' for me.   Maybe I need to listen to more talk radio or audiobooks to get me into the right 'groove'.  Who knows.

Anyway.

The August SmallVOICE podcast is available now - click HERE for the link.  It is a 'mini' version focusing on one item, a review of Vicky Beeching's autobiography 'Undivided'.  The review is handled with the trademark honesty, integrity, generosity and nuance of the SmallVOICE Team and is well worth a listen.  Some weeks back I shared some of my own thoughts on the book and its reception here and here

I know that as a minister, and as a person, I sometimes disappoint and let down those I know who are LGTBQI+. I admit that both fear and concern for my own long-term security (I like having a job, a pension scheme and the hope of retirement housing) are effective means of keeping me quiet, perhaps beyond my commitment to accept the disicpline of the Baptist Unions that accredit me (and are gate-keepers for the above).

At the moment I am in a very self-reflective phase of life.  My over-devleoped sense of responsibilty,  and my ability to self-flagelate really don't help much.  That said, I have always been of the view that if you get it wrong you admit it and say sorry.  To anyone reading this who believes I have failed you or let you down because of your sexuality, I am sorry.  I can't promise that I'll ever be all you would hope for, but I hope that my commitment to learn and grow is worth something.