Dawn’s Blogs

By Dawn M. Sanders

It seems unyielding expectations are finding their way into the most feasible areas of our lives, even in adopting a cat, creating unnecessary conflict and complication.

For some time I have wanted a cat, as my landlord has okayed it in the last 6 months and I’ve had several for many years.  Staring down the barrel of possibly more stents of house arrest (or lockdown as the mainstream phrases it) with winter coming on, is almost too much to bare – living alone and working from home. I read countless stories of how people faced increased isolation and depression during the last 7 months and I know from experience, services addressing those issues are already almost impossible to access unless you’re desperate. So I’ve been trying with no success, to adopt a feline friend as an addition to my quiet semi-rural spot on the edge of Exeter, with fields surrounding, tucked away at the top of a hill – well away from a suburban road. With advice from my neighbourhood facebook group, I first tried the most obvious outlet, the RSPCA, after a cat was advertised available on their website. A young, fast-speaking woman took the call and, when I asked to fill in the form over the phone instead of online, due to not being great at forms online etc. she was hesitant and less than willing. After she initially took my details and asked some questions, her slightly edgy veneer gave way when I said I didn’t have a cat flap, but would have an open window for the cat to access going outside. “Oh well I don’t know about that – it’s best if you have a cat flap.” She carried on with how particular the cat was about other cats and asked how many there were in my area – like anyone is supposed to know something like that?  It’s like asking how many seagulls visit a specific rooftop in a day… She took my postcode, obviously with the view to looking at where I live on google maps and then kept me on hold for at least ten minutes at her leisure, instead of just saying she would ring back after talking to her line manager. When she came back she said: “Oh well it all sounds fine and, you can have a cat, but you can’t have boo, because you might forget to open the window.”  So that was that and there was little point in arguing, as the snobbery had been in her voice along with her natural pitch throughout our conversation and trying to convince her otherwise when her mind was made up, would have been futile.

So, back to the neighbourhood group, this time I asked for any independent rescue places.  Several people suggested the next obvious port-of-call, the Cats Protection League.  In looking at their website, I was immediately put off by the lengthy and bureaucratic process of paper work, getting it all approved, being sent back to sign, whether hardcopy or electronically and then something like the next phase of meeting the cat and I thought, ‘jesus, I’m adopting a cat, not a child!’  All the places I was trying were varying in their tightened, closed-to-the-public rules, due to the pandemic. The third place I tried was in earnest an independent rescue centre run by just a few cat lovers.  They had several reserved on their site, so I waited to see one which wasn’t yet taken.

After some weeks of being caught up with other things and drumming time and effort into my journalism, I looked again. There was a cat available on the first independent site and another Maine Coon advertised on their spin-off group. The one with the Maine Coon stressed specific experience with that type of larger cat, so I did a lot of research, as I was intrigued. There wasn’t much else to be experienced at with the Maine Coon, but as my son is wary of animals, I decided against something so big, as not to freak him out when he next visits.

The new arrival at the rescue place in Totnes was gorgeous, having been described to me.  I rang up and again described my setting and was directed to where he, the attractive male tabby, was being fostered. A slightly nervous-sounding older woman described him and his circumstances of where he was rescued from and I reassured her, he would be loved and looked after, as I live alone, with no other cats or kids. She then wanted to come and view my home – not something I was used to in simply taking on a cat as I had always gone to places, they choose me, a connection was made and I brought them home.  I however agreed and set a time and day for her to visit. When she walked into my flat, not surprisingly she said: “I gather you’re partially-sighted, are you going to be okay with a cat?”  I thought, ‘here we go’… “You don’t need to see to have a cat, as I say I’ve had several.” I said trying hard to contain my irritation. “Just wanted to make sure, if the cat was around your legs you would be safe.” She said, continuing to stand in the middle of my living room. When she made a comment that I’m not on the ground floor, I showed her the ledge I had built onto my outside window sill, where a cat could walk out onto and then jump to the suspension bridge that goes from my front door to the pavement – she seemed fine with that. After talking to her and her husband who, was seemingly there as a bystander, just having done the driving, sitting relaxed and laidback on my sofa, there seemed to be a mutual common ground reached as they liked my place and they went away saying they had to visit one more interested someone, really out of courtesy.

So, when I next spoke to her, let’s call her Martha, she said, ‘yes, we’re happy you can take the cat’ and she directed me to the cattery owner to arrange payment. However, just before she hung up the phone, she casually mentioned chipping.  Chipping? I asked. “Oh yes, you must get the cat micro-chipped, because if, if, if…” she said in a heightened and hurried voice. When I said I wasn’t really into doing that she said, ‘oh no’ I’d better hold it right there and talk to the manager. Less than a minute later, the manager of the cattery rang me to say the same, only more: “If the cat goes astray and isn’t found people become heart broken.  It could end up…” and she went on and on about – if it ends up in the back of a lorry, found dead somewhere, if someone takes it. We’re on your side, we like you, she insisted and I could hear it was an exercise in twisting my arm as far back as it would go and pressing all the right buttons.  I agreed to get the thing micro-chipped and finalised on her sending her bank details so I could make payment. The next day I waited in the midst of my busy day, for her to send me her bank details.  When by that evening she hadn’t, I rang her again. “Has Martha spoken to you today?” “Not today” I said and immediately knew something was up and, it was. She began by saying how “nervous” they were that I seemed a little resistant to their suggestions of coming for the home visit and then of the chipping thing.  I said, ‘yeah, but I did agree to it in the end didn’t I’? but then she was steadfast in her obvious change-of-mind.  The change-of-mind which, had obviously come from Martha, who had a steady stream of worries, despite my reassurances. So I had to insist on being listened to, as she was all too ready to just quickly spill out her misgivings and put the phone down. “You people seem to have these rigid expectations, and if a prospective cat owner doesn’t adhere to them down to the letter, you just flippantly hold it over someone, knowing how much someone wants to adopt a cat. Having different beliefs to you, doesn’t mean for a second I’m any less of a good prospective pet owner.” I interjected.  She insisted again on the issue of the chipping and I reminded her I agreed to it, yet was entitled to my beliefs, but it was to no avail.  Again, her mind was made up and the cat was going to the other interested party.

So, yet another slap-on-the-wrist for being a naughty little girl, too honest in having my own opinions and beliefs about how an animal is too denaturalised as it is in the name of human overly-zealous tenterhooks, as the natural world, or what’s left of it, gets on with it. I have a deep respect for animals and am all for animal welfare, in fact, just as much as anyone in the business of rescuing – even though I grew up in an urban setting, we always had pets. When I put the phone down from the manager of the cattery I thought, ‘fascists’!  Cat fascists! They’re obviously decent people, but they lose the plot when it comes to judging others on suitability to be pet owners. And, I was all-too-aware, the worrier at the other end of it all, had stopped short about further making my visual impairment an issue.  It would be completely naïve to think they had not discussed it, along with a thousand other reasons to change their minds.  Had they brought it up, I would have reminded them I’ve been a single mum – raising my son solo since he was a baby, so did they not think I could take on a damn cat? I could care less at this juncture, if it sounds paranoid to deface the façade masking the issue of my visual impairment, whether it is either the big white cat in the room or the rat you can smell from miles away, when you experience a steady diet of prejudiced preconceptions, it is more what they ‘didn’t say’, rather than what they did say in making their case. Given my experience, I have no qualms what-so-ever in mentioning Mitzie’s Kitty Corner as the latest culprit in denying someone to make informed choices, based on intelligent strongly held convictions. I would no more micro-chip a cat than I would my child!  I get why people do it and, that is their choice but, not only do I believe an animal should retain living in as natural environment and as natural a life as possible within our artificially constructed world of additives, microwaves and excessive conveniences; this is after all, the age of mass-surveillance and as an outspoken, opinionated left-wing journalist, yes, I have the sharpened awareness that, a micro-chipped cat would only provide yet another portal for big daddy.

By Dawn M. Sanders

For the last several weeks I’ve been on a downward spiral – mainly getting overwhelmed with everything that’s going on: a corrupt government that slashes and burns everything it touches; a predatorial weasel of a virus being made into the wolf of the world used as the catalyst to scare people into submission at the hands of agents of control; the cliff edge of a no deal Brexit coming into view, because the government’s agenda is more important than the integrity and stability of the UK.

It’s also open season on “the truth” or for those of us who dare to question the mainstream narrative or what we are handed in an increasing atmosphere of tyranny and control.  That’s just the political stuff, but I also have my own micro-bubble crisis ongoing in the form of a long and drawn out court case saga.

So last week I hit rock bottom, got next to nothing done, as my writing and journalistic work has ground to a halt. I haven’t pitched my big article I’m trying to get commissioned for publication to anymore magazines; I haven’t edited or changed an existing article a new regional online publication wants to publish, because they like it, I won’t get paid, but much-needed exposure. I have started a ‘big blog’ or, who knows it might just end up a full blown article, with any degree of miracle perseverance, it will be nearly finished by the time you read this one. Oh, and I have yet another blog lurking, not quite on the back burner, but somewhere on the periphery of all the swirling round-and-circles stuff I’ve got within my immediate circle of things to just get on with.

Sounds mental?  Well it is, it’s disorganised chaos and a recipe for getting nothing at all done if I try to do it all, but I won’t. Thing is, I was doing pretty well as far as focussing, having improved over the last few months, but despite last week’s sunny days and warm temperatures, the black clouds came into my open windows, blew in through the open front door – closing in on me like dementors right out of the Harry Potter books, apologies if you didn’t read the books or see the films, but you get the picture…

My right eye is constantly painful, because it has I think come to the end of it’s long and tired road, as my glaucoma has advanced, leaving me a sliver of light perception left and only the vivid visualisation of colours. Nope, I’m not crying ‘poor pitiful hard done by me’ in fact, I’m not even cryin’, but maybe I should be. I’m not one to where my feelings on my sleeve in a public domain, but this is probably the best way for me to tell myself I just need to stop, take some kind of a breather, get back on my spiritual path and get a grip. All I wanted more than anything, was to go on a short holiday with my son who lives up in Sheffield, but with the noose of restrictions around him which, tends to extend to me and us as a family with his support “regime” as he has full time supported living – it has been literally impossible.  Oh, and lets not forget covid and the new catalyst for all kinds of control under the guise of a ‘new normal’, but it’s not one I or others fully subscribe to. What am I getting at?  Well, the ‘done thing’ is to suffer in silence, don’t talk about your inner feelings or at least let people know life is hurting and overwhelming.

Last Sunday it was World Peace Day and I engaged in an online meditation, led by a woman who is so down-to-earth about it, that people felt able to share things within a weird virtual kind of space. I knew the meditation is what I needed and I felt so tired yet relaxed after word. In the talking that led up to the meditating, she spoke of all the good that was going on in the world, all the light simultaneously growing alongside the gathering dark, all the bile coming out of governments and the mess that has been created.

Okay, so I’m a politics junky, a news hound who, probably needs to step back for, at least a week, do what I love doing best: take walks in the woods, on the beach and convene with some tall trees. Point is, in the climate we have to function within right now, I think it’s only healthy for us to be able to admit it when things are taking their tole and no, everything’s ‘not okay’ – a little honesty with ourselves and others can go a long way.  For me, writing is the first release and comes the most natural – it’s just in my DNA. I’m more of a realist than optimist or pessimist, so my realism radar is telling me to just back off, take a break, stop trying too hard to please myself with productive days that just aren’t materialising. Freelance life is hard work and, I don’t mind at all working hard, but when it starts destroying my resolve, rendering me emotionally overwhelmed – it’s time for time out.

As I’m not British so don’t tend to cage my feelings or tout the stiff upper lip (not that I think all Brits do that) I’m someone who, despite not being an emotional person, lives on my feelings.  That probably makes no sense at all and sounds like contradicting myself, but I hope you get the gist.

Oh, thanks for reading this conversation I’m having with myself – you’ve been a cracking audience…

😊

By Dawn M. Sanders

It’s the last day in May and summer solstice is well on its way – the height of both mine and the Pagan year. In this the last of my little series, I’m still a long way off keeping out the noise of my mind churning away when I’m trying to still, but the fact I have now made it a part of my end-of-week routine, feels like an accomplishment, not least because I’m not good at routine or too much structure.

This Sunday was blazing hot, even for me, originally from California and a sun lover.  That said, after deciding to opt for the quayside instead of the beach yesterday, where I sat and had an ice cream before making my way down the stretch along the river Exe, kind of reflects this week’s theme for the meditation – choices.

Anyway, at just before 7 I got a cushion and small blanket to take out and sit on.  The mowed scratchy, itchy grass with loose grass left behind wasn’t at all inviting to sit on. I went to the same spot as last time, only slightly more under the tree to get a bit more shade from the sun. The other saving grace from the blazing sun, was, the lovely gentle breeze and of course, the evening was cooling. Kicked off my sandals and settled in my space.  This week there was no one else in the communal gardens – at least that I could hear.

Honing in on my breathing, I went again with the body scan technique, because I find it helps to focus and shut out the noise of the constant churning – mostly. So, walking through my body, starting with the soles of my feet, I progressed, but still with my wandering brain.  I thought of an article I read weeks ago in the Guardian. ‘Why now’ I asked myself, I hadn’t thought of that one until now, so what the heck? I travelled up from my legs, clicky knees, stomach, hips. When I got to my face it was easier to focus on that, because the sun was right on it.

So, the theme, choices.  It was mainly the choices one could make when someone upsets us or takes advantage of a misfortune. I have experienced that more than once in the last couple of weeks, so this week was about how we deal with the upsets etc. I had more or less moved on from my upsets, but not without the anger and bitter disappointment of the situation of prejudice I had encountered, as I wrote in last week’s blog.

I’m going to chase my bank about getting the money put back into my account that was stolen when I had my debit card nicked, because it needs rectifying, but I was less upset at that than I was the personal slight by a stranger over a few week’s phone conversation.  I won’t even bother emphasising how prejudice or presumptions are still rife for those of us who are ‘different’ in some way – I’m not in the business of understatements! Awe well, not the kind of friend or potential friend I want anyway.

Back to the end of my meditation this week. I had in fact, made one important choice for the rest of the evening, as I need to get set for a new week, but that will stay my kept secret. As always, there was much to contemplate in sitting down to meditate.  I think I could now take it further and start to meditate in the evening, well starting with 1 or 2 evenings a week.  The idea of course, to focus on the day, help me chill, my mind to relieve itself of the clinging stresses of life, the isolation, dirty deeds done by dirty politicians, the state of the planet, never mind the state of my teeth – the mind really does boggle…

By Dawn M. Sanders

In the second of my 3-part many series on my new meditative journey – well this week I kind of plunged back into a depressive downer, so I needed it more than anything.

Last week I mentioned my debit card getting nicked, but luckily my bank sent a new card within days, so I’m just waiting to hear about getting the stolen money back.

I won’t go into the reason for slipping halfway down a rabbit hole, the very next blog posted here goes all into those details, but at least this week I got the last of my interviews done and dusted for the big article I’ve been working on for far too long (any details withheld until it’s published as, hopefully my first commission) so a fairly productive week.

This weather is so warm and sunny, the last place I wanted to be was inside, so I spent much of the day writing and just reflecting up here in the gardens where I’m writing now.

Yesterday when it was time to get ready for the meditation, I went up to almost the same spot right at the top of our communal gardens, but instead of sitting in between the two bushes, I found a couple of trees to sit near, but with a good pool of sun to sit in on the grass.

So, I closed my eyes and just focused on my breathing – a count of 4 in and 4 out and then tried to reverse the pattern.

My mind churned away and wandered everywhere, even though I was well into my surroundings.  Sitting on the slightly itchy, prickly mowed grass, the odd light niggling of an insect, the constant twitter of the birds (the seagulls seemed to be away) possibly out at the nearest beaches eyeing up bank holiday-makers and their human food supply.

The cling-bang of someone throwing bottles into the recycling in the carpark below, talking, the mad-sounding laughter of a young person, as the evening buzzed on Lansdowne estate.

I kept to my breathing as it seemed to keep me mostly focused.  I remember hearing, at the Buddhist centre in Sheffield, when I first started going to the lunch time sessions, ‘your mind will wander, nothing you can do about it’ so I just let it happen.  There was something really just right in meditating outside, like that is the way it’s supposed to happen, not on mats lined up in a row in an immaculately polished rectangular room, to the tune of the timing of the meditation guide, but I did enjoy that.

I stayed sitting in my spot, just savouring the evening sun.  The late May evenings always reminded me of the upcoming festivals with big fires at night, music floating through the air, people at their best good spirits, in a real coming together in the best little community anyone could hope for – even if it was for 4 days.

There will be none of that this year which, filled me with a deep sadness, not just because all of us who kept a special place for the off-grid festivals in our lives every summer, but it signalled how the strange world we have been thrust into with this pandemic, has changed or wiped away some of the things we both treasure and take for granted.

Despite what environmentalist say and the best intentions, by those who give a damn, the traffic will be back in the name of convenience, the opening of the economy or freedom in line with this new social distancing.

I have read a few times, of people rewilding.  Those who are fortunate enough to even afford a small plot of land, but city dwellers will choke and be blanketed in a radiation fog as 5G is rolled out upon us.

Half an hour meditating before I stood up and went back down into the flat and made a cup of tea, I felt better with my overly active mind slightly cleared.

By Dawn M. Sanders

I started meditation on Sunday evenings at 7 just a few weeks ago and am loving it. It’s something I should have started years ago as a coping mechanism, with the complicated rollercoaster ride that my life often is – ducking and diving the rocks of wrath life hurls my way, often with little support. So, I thought I would share a few with you in a many series of blogs for the next few weeks – taking a breather from the political stuff.

I found the woman who has spearheaded the meditations, on the nextdoor website, as I just joined it and was trawling the groups on there. Luckily, it’s not one of those newly cropped up groups on zoom where, if you can’t get your head around the tricky technology, you are frozen out. You just contact her, register your interest as part of the collective and she sends out a reminder e-mail every Saturday – so I’ve taken to setting my alarm on Sunday evening for about quarter to 7 to get ready and settled.

Just starting with last week, she had written in the reminder message a suggested theme. It is of course anyone’s choice whether not to follow the suggestion or just go with their own thing. Last Sunday was breezy and cool, but I wanted to be outside to have some time with the elements – particularly air, as that is what was most in charge. I climbed the hill to the top of our communal gardens at the flats where I live and sat between 2 lovely full bushes I found – they gave me shelter from the cool wind, so I wasn’t even cold.

I sat on the grass, with my hands on the earth, spread my fingers apart and stretched out my legs, opening up my senses and just focussed on my breathing and appreciated each of the elements, starting with air in the east. As my Pagan roots had taught me, each element is represented within the 4 directions of the universe: air in the east, earth from the north, water in the west and fire in the south. Not forgetting the cosmos or the underworld – representing our ancestors, I just sat with the cool wind, the twitter of birds and the odd rustle from the flats below. I sat for about 20-odd minutes, cleared my little space of energy, got up and walked down the hill and around the corner to my warm flat that serves as my sanctuary.

This Week, 17 May

The facilitator reminded us on Saturday and suggested kindness as this week’s theme, how ironic given the fact I have just discovered today my card has been stolen, maxed out well over 200 quid with the contactless chip-&-pin thing, so had a long conversation with my bank to sort things out.

After an afternoon kip and sodding the cleaning that needs doing, the alarm went off, ten to 7 and time to get comfortable and ready…

It was again cool, but not as breezy as last week, but I resolved to stay in – maybe needing that layer of security after being ripped off to the tune of someone’s cheap thrills. Sitting on my bed propping up with pillows and my soft throw, I closed my eyes and savoured the cool air coming in from my open window – listening to the calming cry of the seagulls as they glided through the air. My thoughts immediately came flooding in.

I thought of all those people running around scared, being treated like dirt or social Guinea pigs by the government who, a wide consensus thinks, is sending people back to work at their own peril. I had started my Sunday morning as I always do, with a cup of tea and the observer, reading this article, I felt angry at how the workers featured in it were being treated like second-class citizens by their employers, especially the nanny, who wasn’t even allowed by her overly privileged bosses, to go to a funeral, filling in for their convenience and lazy snobbery. I thought of the ticket collector I read about last week, who had been spat at by some random passenger moving through London Victoria.  She died of the disease he obviously didn’t know he carried, in a random act of disgusting slobbery. I thought of how people, including myself, who have family far from them, still don’t know when we can reunite.

I thought of the general chaos it all brought to us as a country, the UK being a more conservative play it safe society that, seemingly needed to be told what to do in time of crisis.  Yet for those daring to question the narrative or mixed messages, it all seems like cautious and calculated nervousness. Whereas in my country of origin, the US, people are protesting lockdown and an infringement on civil liberties, but here it seems the opposite.

Okay so I think too much.  I should probably take a break from the news, even for a day, because it wreaks havoc on my brain and doesn’t just wash over me in the way it might for some news reporter.  As a journalist the need-to-know what’s going on, just takes over; I care about people and things too much – my conscientious political convictions are somewhere embedded in my DNA, they must be!

Then of course I thought of the person who snatched my debit card after I had obviously forgotten it in the card machine Friday night after leaving the One Stop. I could almost be forgiving if, the bank report of frenzied spending of my benefits money reflected maybe a desperate single mum buying a week’s groceries for her kids, but instead laid bare someone going around all the local convenience shops spending various amounts, because they were, for a time getting away with it.

Consequently, I felt angry, cheated and taken for a ride.  Luckily, my bank said after the fraud investigations, it should be put back into my account. Of course it happens to anyone, but I’m always, so careful and annoyed that now I’ve got to physically get on a bus to the bank in town to get some cash which, will interrupt my Monday morning motivation and intention of sitting down at my desk and getting on with work or the other pressing matters – the inevitable to-do list or things I’m already behind on.

Kindness?  I’m not a fluffy bird who can forgive someone stealing my money.  In fact, where is Karma? About a week ago my neighbour was talking of having to walk to town to go and see her brother who was in some kind of bad situation.  I told her to let me know if she needed anything and she asked if I could loan her the bus fare which, I thought nothing of and was happy to help – I don’t even want it back. I don’t like to walk around jaded and with a, ‘the world owes me a living attitude’ but by the same token, I’m a realist, wise to the world and not someone who is easily taken for a ride, well so I like to believe…

I ended the meditation, stood up and thought of my empty stomach and what I might eat for dinner. I rang my son first though, because what is important is I have a home and just 1 hero of a lad to be grateful for. I have a fridge full of food, electricity and integrity. Kindness?  I could use a little, but I will always give it unselfishly, but not to the detriment of my own wellbeing or security.

By Dawn M. Sanders

In Saturday’s Guardian, Mark Rice-Oxley talks about a revival of community and in many instance’s resulting from the pandemic, he’s right, so I don’t want to throw cold water on it, but…

Life under lockdown is hard enough for those of us who live on their own or for whatever reason, are already socially marginalised, when coming up against additional barriers, its hard to see how community spirit has supposedly returned due to coronavirus.

At the height of the lockdown, I expressed to the community builder in my area of Exeter, how extreme the isolation was for me and it was causing me to feel more depressed and isolated than usual.  So, he hatched the idea of a phone circle where, someone would ring me and have an initial chat to get to know one another, talk about things in common etc.  I would call the next person and she would call the guy who rang me – yeah, great idea I responded.  For the first few weeks it all worked well, I had been paired up with 2 cracking people who were easy to talk to and we all seemed to be into the same things: walks, music, a bit of light political  banter and so on.

However, the last time I spoke to the guy who rang me first, I don’t remember exactly how it came up in conversation (the three of us had been talking a lot about walks and eventually meeting up).  I think it was when I mentioned how, because I’m visually impaired, I have faced blatant discrimination and exclusion when wanting to join walking groups for walks – some moderately challenging.

I had held off saying anything about being VI because, there wasn’t a scenario that needed drawing attention to it as, I actually often hold off saying anything unless absolutely necessary on first contact, because inevitably, people change their attitudes and start in with the assumptions, the ‘oh dear it must be so hard’ ‘are you managing’ blah blah.

I for one get sick of all of that and, after having to deal with it all my 53 years, it doesn’t get any easier and I have less patience with it.

It’s what I call, ‘the other racism’ the one where people either get squeamish, let it wash over them and carry on a conversation or, pretend it makes no  difference when, it obviously did in his case.

So, after initially telling him of the utterly infuriating experiences I’ve had here in Exeter, where there is a thriving community of both visually and hearing-impaired people, predictably, his attitude and things he said to me, changed.

“Have you tried laser surgery?” “When the lockdown lifts a little, you can come for a walk with my wife and I and we’ll ‘get you out’.”  The gesture would have been fully appreciated if he didn’t end it by implying that, just because he now knew I’m visually impaired, I’m automatically assumed to be house bound.  He also kept saying, ‘you have to be careful; you have to be careful’ upon finding out of my impaired sight.

I hung up regretting I had even bothered saying anything and I haven’t heard from him sense.

Last week I had been in what I thought was a good conversation with the woman I ring in the phone circle, I had mentioned casually at one stage about my visual impairment and she didn’t seem to flinch – great, I thought at the time.

However, at the end of our conversation, we talked about this week’s phoning arrangements and she said: “I’ll ring you” so I made a mental note of it, because it usually means someone isn’t ringing back and doesn’t really want you to ring them, but I tried to avoid the assumption.

This week she didn’t ring, did I say something wrong?  Well I’ll probably never know, because if I did say something off, people, in my experience, are not that forthright in letting you know, so the circle has been dissolved at least, as far as I am aware.  I kept thinking of what we were talking about and it was all trivial – health problems, tiredness,  the usual perils of modern life in middle age, so I’m not sure where I could have said anything offensive.

When I say to certain people, I’ve been in Exeter nearly 3 years and haven’t made any connections – the response I reliably get is, have I contacted the Royal National Institute for the Blind (RNIB).

Firstly, why is it assumed I will automatically relate to other people who happen to be VI, just because I am?

I’m not into the whole guide dog culture, I don’t need a charity to facilitate making friends, a lot of people who are VI (and I don’t like to pigeonhole here) are fairly conservative in nature and, I don’t necessarily mean their political leanings.

I for one happen to like going out to gigs, festivals, gravitate toward a more adventurous and bohemian/alternative persuasion, but in my experience, a lot of people with a visual impairment tend to adopt a more play-it-safe, conventional approach to life.

I often read blogs written by people with VI who, seemingly need to thrust their visual impairment forward like a big neon white stick – I don’t need to do that.  I’m not saying I’m unique or above anyone, I just don’t relate to thrusting any label before my identity first or attaching it to every aspect of my daily life, as some people will convey; being blind it’s like this or, because of my visual impairment, it needs to be like that.  Of course, it affects daily life on a lot of practical fronts, but why milk it?

I identify by my name first and foremost, as woman, mother, journalist, Socialist, Egalitarian, feminist – oh, and I happen to have a visual impairment which, is a part of me, but will ‘NEVER’ come first among equals!

When I first came to Exeter I wrote this article on the unwelcoming reception I seemingly got at the time.

In all the places I’ve lived, and I’ve moved around a lot, I have never come across the kind of social discrimination I have until coming here.

In terms of a return to community, well from where I’m sitting, that seems to only apply if one adopts the mould of vulnerability.  When the lockdown first hit, I had a mate contact me via Facebook, asking if I was okay which, was nice, but I think she was referring to whether or not I was getting my shopping and essentials.

Well, I never stopped going to get my shopping in the way I always do it.  Without living in complete fear or paranoia, there are ways one can social distance and still get any level of help they need as a visually impaired person.  I’m not vulnerable to the virus, due to my visual impairment, because it doesn’t have anything to do with my immune system and I don’t have underlying health issues.

The thing people don’t ‘get’ is there is more to making sure someone’s needs are being met, than just functional.

We are all humans and humans need company, just as birds or other animals.  It doesn’t help that I split up with my partner just before lockdown.  After the break-up, I went to an International Women’s Day event and it took my mind off things, but with every groundhog day melting into weeks of identical drudgery, no matter how creative one tries to cut it, at the end of the day, if your too strong and independent – people just leave you alone in an all-or-nothing mindset of the unspoken, if you’re not vulnerable or needy, you’ll manage and be okay.

Yet, many articles have been written on the effects of loneliness and isolation and, it isn’t just elderly people who suffer from it.

We are all social creatures and as a woman with a visual impairment, I don’t need to be wrapped in cotton wool or go on a flat easy-going walk – I haven’t got bad legs.

I don’t need to be medically fixed, because someone thinks it’s tragic that I have very little vision – I actually like to think I have a hell of a lot of insight.

I definitely don’t need to ‘stick with my own kind’ as is often implied, best intentions or not, if people of colour can in the main, mix without the assumption they need to segregate, then why shouldn’t anyone with additional challenges be treated the same?

For those who insist on being identified as ‘dis-abled, down trodden or hard done by, because they aren’t getting more benefits or categorised as vulnerable in this pandemic well, they aren’t doing me or those of us of a more empowered stance, any favours – there is never, ever a one-size-fits-all…

Yet, people’s attitudes towards those with additional needs will never change, unless people themselves, take on a more ‘can do’ trajectory or more positive language in defining their identity.

In the mean time, the solitude bites.

WHAT DEFINES VULNERABLE?

By Dawn M. Sanders

In the societal definition of ‘vulnerable’ groups like people who are elderly, children, those with mental, sensory or physical health needs mainly come to mind.

However, having a medical condition which makes anyone more vulnerable to the coronavirus is distinctly different from a sensory, physical or cognitive impairment.

I’m visually impaired, but that has nothing to do with my immune system, whether I’ve had underlying health issues such as asthma, cancer or even a common cold is another story particular with the outbreak of a world pandemic.

So, when someone asked me last week, ‘how am I doing my shopping’ it didn’t acur to me until later to reply – exactly how I usually do it, either get on a bus to town or Tesco or walk to my local 1 stop.

As far as I’m concerned, I live alone and where I happen to live is isolated.

I live on a private estate well away from the road at the top of a steep hill in a complex of 50 flats.

A lot of people don’t know this estate is here, it’s extremely quiet and not the friendliest place as people keep themselves to themselves or often flat ignore you if you say hello.

Unless I come into contact with others through an arranged meeting, such as a workshop, Labour party meeting, an interview, hanging out in a pub or visiting someone by arrangement – I’m always on my own.

I have had a few people contact me to ask if I’m okay or need anything which, is nice, but actually, if one is fairly socially isolated anyway, it’s nothing new, but further exacerbates your status if asked to socially distance when I’m already distanced by default as my grown up son lives in the north.

I’m not above asking for help, but as a general rule, when it comes to people with any additional needs, others are good at helping with functional things: a hand to the shop door if I’ve passed it, a hand over a tricky street crossing or unfamiliar place.  Yet, people never ask, ‘do you have anyone keeping you company or to talk to?

Loneliness is a really personal thing and, in my experience, not something people generally want to admit to.

In last week’s blog I wrote about the decline in community and increased individualism.  Yet with the outbreak of this deadly virus and the need to socially distance, virtual communities are springing up via zoom calls. I read today how a locally known elderly lady was thought of by others in her area and a phone number was slipped through her letter box – just to let her know help was there if she needed it.

However, loneliness doesn’t just affect the elderly.

The above article and others I have come across all point to the same thing – which is an increasing number of adults of all ages becoming isolated or feeling lonely.

If a child is considered ‘different’ and no one wants to play with her/him, the child will experience loneliness at an early age, just when it is vital to have friends.

In getting back to being vulnerable to the spread of coronavirus, the assistant I see once a week, who reads the post, helps with inaccessible aspects of the internet, such as uploading job applications etc. is seen to supposedly be the one who would go out and get my shopping as we’re told to socially distance.

Yet, she is more likely to infect someone she meets, as she lives with her family and travels on public transport to get to my house.

The point is, why should I have someone else doing my shopping when I can do it as I normally would?  The only difference between my assistant and I, in going to a familiar shop, is that I’m visually impaired and she isn’t.

Even if I go on my own and the shop assistant helping me has to guide me by giving me an arm – well there is a way around it by one of us in front of the trolley and the other pulling as I did as a natural course of action the last time I went grocery shopping  – so there are practical ways of maintaining some level of normality in these weird and uncertain times.

The main thing I feel, that makes me more vulnerable, is the increased isolation to what I already endure.

What I wouldn’t do for just a conversation – talking politics over a glass of wine up on our communal gardens – out in the fresh air, minimalizing the spread of the virus, but maximising my overall wellbeing.

By Dawn M. Sanders

It is absolutely everywhere and spreading like fear itself.  If one doesn’t actually have the virus or symptoms, we are affected by it anyway, so we all, in effect have it.

Going out with a friend for dinner tonight for my birthday got cancelled as my friend is on quarantine from just a cough and cold, so out of action for 2 weeks.  My short story writing course was suspended until later dates, as was the course I was excepted on for Empowering Women via the Labour party.

I’m of course not worried about any inconveniences, if anything as I’m behind on my story it will give me more time to thrash out the storyline, develop the characters and coggle together a middle and ending.

I live alone, so social isolation is nothing new.  However, I’m desperate to visit my son in Sheffield and am toying with the idea of just getting on a nice empty train, spending the little I have and just going up before there’s an actual travel ban – I’ve never known a more weird and wild state of affairs in my life!

A Case for Socialism

This article has come out and mirrored exactly what I’ve been thinking the last few days – it’s times like these that capitalism shows its true cracks and how the whole system isn’t fit-for-purpose.

I’m no expert on the world economy or how it’s wired up, but a world pandemic, a war or big natural disaster affecting movement and Wall Street and the western countries panic over the thought of a looming recession.

Socialism is a system that places services and production in the hands of the community to better the whole of society, yet every time a leader emerges to attempt to put Socialism into practice for a more equal society, they are halted in their tracks or stifled before reaching power altogether as lately with the likes of Jeremy Corbyn or possibly Bernie Sanders in the US as the primary season is underway for this year’s election and bid for the top prise of the presidency.

Countless Socialist leaders have been toppled and replaced with ruthless dictators in non-western countries such as Salvador Allende of Chile in 1973 in a coup backed by the US.

Capitalism has run much of the show since the preindustrial 17^th century.

The beginning of the 80s brought the greed mentality and heightened individualism and with crime, social decline and moral decay spreading fear among people everywhere, communities or community spirit has become a thing of the past, even in smaller towns.

Only during natural hardship, such as a bad storm, heavy snow or earthquake in some poor third world country, does humanity take a turn for the better or worse.

Now with this global pandemic, communities are coming together and help is out there for especially elderly people who are at risk and are told to self-isolate.

The Environment and Wildlife

I watched a news segment on channel 4 the other night which showed how there were tropical fish swimming near the surface of the Grand Canal, due to the  lack of steady flow in boat traffic which is popular with tourists in Venice, Italy.

Just think of the reduction of airplane fuel which permeates the skys above the earth on a constant basis, due to flights being grounded to prevent the spread of the virus.  It will be a small but temporary relief for the stratosphere.  Yet, will people and governments go straight back to the environmentally destructive habits when the virus finally subsides – one can only hope.

As the above article points out, it shouldn’t take a global crisis for humanity to take stock of its destruction of itself and the planet, but often that is just the human mentality being brought to its knees.

A child might change her selfish behaviour if all her toys and privileges are taken away and she is exposed to the less fortunate.  But if all her things are given straight back to her and she goes back to be a self-centred brat, what lesson would be learnt?

The same applies to the human race on a mass scale.

Of course, emissions are only a part of environmental degradation.  With even heavier use of the internet as people work from home or engage in virtual conferences, the mass of energy used and the threat of heightened frequencies such as 5G are equally detrimental to human health and environmental wellbeing.

It is worth questioning – when draconian measures are eventually lifted, cafes, schools and businesses reopen and the world recovers, can it ever be back to business as usual?  After governments such as ours implement the proposed minimal working wage or back-up measures for working people, especially those in the gig economy, due strictly to the coronavirus crisis, it will be interesting to watch how society reacts when all the niceties and socialist strategies put in place are then stripped away with a return to job insecurity, people going back to work and getting back into their cars in  blitz-like stiff-upper-lip resolve.

I don’t think the coronavirus will be the serendipity to save our pre-apocalyptic dystopia – I think it’s just the beginning.

This week has been a kind of liberating D-week (Democracy).

As a UK Labour party member, I voted online for our new leader and deputy leader after a colossal defeat in last December’s general election.

As an American citizen, I had the opportunity to vote from abroad, in woohoo ‘super Tuesday’!

For those who don’t get the whole complicated US system of voting, at least for the Democratic party which (I only joined for the run up to the 2016 primaries to back Bernie Sanders).  Voting state-by-state begins with Iowa caucuses in the American mid-west.

Super Tuesday saw 14 states vote in the run up to the democratic nomination at the Democratic National Convention (DNC) in July.

Once the nomination has been cast, the race is on between in this case, the democratic nominee and Donald Trump.

So as he’s running again on a Democratic ticket, yet an independent within the US Senate, I voted for Bernie Sanders again.

The Gift of Democracy

It was the ancient Greeks who gifted the world with democracy.  The 3 main governing bodies which now manifest in the modern-day legislature, the executive and judiciary, have withstood centuries of change and limitations of those ancient times, such as the lottery system explained in the above article.

Not all of the world has of course embraced democracy, but for those of us who have, well let’s just look at where we’ve come to and how democracy is being underhandedly sabotaged.

On one hand democracy can feel like something to celebrate, especially in the so-called free world, but with widespread voter-rigging or interference – either from within a given country or from external players with vested interests, it can often feel like – what’s the point?

Just lately in the UK alone, we’ve  had Russian interference in Brexit, the Russia report itself which, seemingly has been buried until an exposing opposition comes along to demand its resurrection. the 2016 US election was the result of Russian interference, never mind the countless manoeuvres by successive US governments into ruthless so-called third world leaderships.

In the last decade alone, we have witness nations fighting tooth and nail for democracy, such as in the Arab spring or the determined demands in Hong Kong.

It’s safe to say now, the fight has come to the west for democracy as, we have been fairly apathetic or complacent for some time.

Now more than ever, as they fight tooth and nail or even via elongated wars for democracy in different parts of the world, the trend at least in some parts of the west is towards more dictating strangle holds.

With Johnson’s Tories and Trump’s GOP (Grand Old Party, Republicans) entering what looks to be dangerous secret trade talks, we too will have to fight tooth and nail for that priceless gift from the Greeks all those centuries ago.

So, stand up and be heard, cast your ballot – even if it’s for local elections because, one day sooner than we think, we just might not be awarded the right to choose.

HEREFORD

By Dawn M. Sanders

Just thought I would write this diddy for a humble and uncelebrated little place.

As I wind down my time here at the RNC, the main thing I wanted to do before I left the West Midlands is see the town of Hereford – actually correction, it’s a city, but only because of a cathedral.

Like most British places, it’s of course steeped in rich heritage.

When I came here to try an sharpen up some of my IT skills and gain some media production knowledge – I really knew nothing of the little city – particularly that it used to be part of Wales.

So yesterday, myself and a chirpy bright young American volunteer, walked the short distance into town via a busy road and over a railway bridge.

Saturday is market day in Hereford, so I knew it would be busy.

When we got into the main part of the town she explained the shops as we passed them.

I loved the old style market, abuzz with people, smells of food, herbs and traders shouting out, ‘strawberries and blue buries a pound, one left to go for free’…

It was a scene you see less and less of with big supermarkets taking over the way people buy food and other wears on offer, so I relished the vibe as people were content to stroll along the pedestrianised streets, chatting in a bouncing slightly sing-song western accent.

We walked further on down to the river, as I’m a keen walker, with the afternoon sun beaming bright in its autumnal glory.

The volunteer and I remarked on how strange it was to hear seagulls when Hereford is so landlocked.

We walked around the river which would lead us back into the narrow street where I had bought some natural products, as Church Street reminded me of a scaled down version of any given meandering lane in Brighton.

We walked back through the market – retracing our steps and stopped to enjoy a snack from the Thai stall where the food was prepared fresh in front of us.

How lovely it is that there really are still non-touristy, simple places where people are happy to just be…