Keeping Our Past Close

My video game and media station. Visible devices, including those
barely visible are: an original SNES (top left), an original NES (top
middle), a Nintendo Gamecube (top right), a Nintendo Wii (bottom
right), a SNES Classic Mini (bottom right of centre), an N64
(bottom left of centre), a PlayStation 2 (bottom left), and a DVD
player (centre). Also present but not visible are a Steam Link and a
Nexus Player, and various switches and adapters behind the TV.

I recently finished a personal project. I got all my old-generation consoles and some bits of newer game-playing kit hooked up to our spare TV, on a trolley stand in our spare room/library/study (picture included for those interested). It’s got me thinking.

The oldest bit of kit I hooked up was originally released, in Japan, in 1983, not too long after I was born (although the particular item I have is from the European release, so can’t be any older than 1986, and is most likely from a later production run). I also have one that could date back as far as 1992, the original Japanese release being 1990, and a much more modern piece of kit that provides a selection of games from that platform in a modern, easy-to-use, small device. Successive devices from the same and other manufacturers span my childhood and teenage years, and into early adulthood; the only things newer than 2006 are a simple Android TV device that has some free or cheap games that are fun to play, and the much-maligned Steam Link, to play PC games on my TV over the network.

I Have Never Seen a Peach Tree

I have never seen a peach tree,
At least, not to know I did.
There are many things we don’t see,
Though in plain sight they are hid.

Some things to see are plain to all.
Others seem subtle, their import easy to forgo.
It’s not a case of big or small—
We know what we see when we see what we know.

Of course I know a peach by sight,
The distinctive touch of the furry skin,
Succulent flesh in the mouth a delight,
Sweet juice running down the chin.

Quakers, ADHD, and Me

Visual representation of ADHD by Tara Winstead

I’ve known for some time – as long as I can remember – that my mind doesn’t work like most other people’s. I learned about autism over the years, and while I identified very strongly with the sense that autistic people shared of not understanding how other people’s heads worked, I didn’t identify with any of the specifics. I knew I was different, but I knew I wasn’t different that way.

In the last few years, I learned more about ADHD, partly through exposure online, and partly because I simply needed to for work. Things started to make more sense. People who know me, and know the common understanding of ADHD, might find that confusing – but people who know me and have deeper knowledge of ADHD seemed to think it made a lot of sense. So I started the process of seeking an assessment.

At one time, much as with autism (or for those who prefer to differentiate it in that way, autism spectrum conditions), ADHD was seen as something that would inevitably be spotted in childhood, so services to assess it in adults took some time to catch up. More so than for autism, there was even a sense that people usually ‘grew out’ of ADHD, so if it had been missed in childhood it wouldn’t matter, and adults – even those diagnosed in childhood – didn’t really need services. Still, I looked into what GPs were supposed to do if someone came to them thinking they might have ADHD (I don’t like saying ‘have ADHD’, but unlike with autism there isn’t really an alternative, an adjectival form), and went to my GP to talk about it. They promptly referred me on for full assessment, and warned me it would be a long wait.

Aphorism 12

A Quaker Rumspringa?

In an earlier post, I suggested the idea that a spiritual convincement experience, involving a direct experience of the Divine, might be something we could consider a prerequisite for membership. This was not to advocate it as an actual change we should undertake right now. There are lots of problems with the idea, though it is attractive in principle. One of the problems is the experience of those raised among Friends.

The thing is, when you taste something you have never tasted before, particularly if it is a strong flavour, it is strange, it's unmistakable. It grabs your attention and you really know you've tasted it. If, however, the flavour has been familiar to you since your childhood, you might barely be aware of it. This is a major factor in culinary culture shock, noticeable even in something as simple as an American and a Brit trying tomato ketchup made for the other market. To me, American ketchup tastes unpleasantly sweet, but to an American, British ketchup tastes like it's been spiked with vinegar. When you get into things that are even more different, like spices or seasonings that are characteristic of particular cuisines, it is even more pronounced. Consider for instance kimchi, or the Japanese umeboshi. For the European palate, east Asian food is particularly apt for examples.

The Sanctity of Discernment?

A bench in the Meeting House at Scattergood Friends School,
Iowa. Photo by David Morris, used under CC-BY 2.0 license.

Discernment, the process of making decisions or otherwise being guided by the Spirit (usually through the Quaker Business Method), is extremely important to Quakers. It is probably the most significant practical application of faith among liberal Friends – our faith that we will be guided, our faith that we have faithfully discerned that guidance. In both a practical and emotional sense, it is one of the most fundamental cornerstones of our faith tradition.

It is also, though we may hate to admit it, a source of difficulty. For if a decision or statement, a determination or a course of action, is based on divine guidance, who can gainsay it?

Yet is something, once discerned, settled for all time? Plainly not, or the history of our Religious Society could not be as it is. And indeed, two Meetings might be approaching the same question at the same time, be in very similar traditions, even be part of the same Yearly Meeting – or even some closer association, such as Local Meetings in the same Area Meeting, in the organisational structure of Britain Yearly Meeting, or Monthly Meetings in the same Quarter as some other Yearly Meetings arrange things. They might be close neighbours in close accord on many things, both faithfully follow our business method regarding the same question, and reach different conclusions. How can this not call into question our faith – our trust in this process, in the guidance of the Spirit – indeed, call it into question at its very foundations?

Goodbye, Grandma

Next week, I will be at my grandmother's funeral.

She is the last of my grandparents to die, and the one that I was closest to in my youth. This was not a result of any particular compatibility of personality or interests; rather, she lived nearby and looked after me a lot when I was little and my parents both worked. My other grandparents lived further afield; her ex-husband not too far away, in a neighbouring borough, though he was frail and largely housebound, while the other set of grandparents lived in Spain when I was born, then County Durham a few years later – both a long way from London.

My London grandfather I barely knew, which became a regret once he died. His long illness made it no surprise that he was the first to go, when I was about 14. My other grandparents I spent time with intensively, when I saw them, and I suppose I had most in common with my other grandfather – curiosity, an interest in technology, that sort of thing. I didn't see them that often, though.

Adversity and Simple Joys

As I write, I look forward to a time of great joy – my upcoming marriage. It's not without stress, true, what with the planning and organising, and wringing RSVPs (or even acknowledgements) out of people, but it's a good kind of stress.

But I also look to a time of great difficulty, for reasons I won't go into here. I don't know what the outcome will be, but things are going to get very, very difficult before we reach there.

It's times like this that I am reminded of the need to take advantage of the simple joys. Of fellowship, of companionship, of conversation, of love. Of the satisfaction of a task done well, however insignificant it might seem. Perhaps, holding on to these things, I will get through it. I don't know how else I might.

Written February 2018

Why I, a Non-Theist, Like "Lord of the Dance"

As regular readers of this blog will be aware, I do not consider myself a Christian. Nor, in fact, do I believe in any theistic God, but that is (for once) beside the point of this post. Mostly.

In this post, I will be looking at hymns. Hymns are important to a lot of Christians, and even for some liberal Quakers, though they do not feature as a regular part of our worship. Devotional music is important to many people of all sorts of different faiths, bringing some beauty and profundity to the act that the words alone somehow fails to convey. I think a lot of Christian hymns are musically uninspired, personally, and the lyrics in many seem awkward, even taking Christian belief as a given. Some, however, I can see that beauty in, even if I can't sing them wholeheartedly myself due to the words not having that significance for me.

There are some hymns, however, that speak to me beyond the surface of their words, and in this post, I'll be looking at one of them. Despite it's absolutely Christ-based words, it speaks to me with more than just its music; my failure to identify with the literal meaning of its words doesn't stop it from somehow resonating. I'm going to try and explore why.

Liberal Quakerism as a "Self Religion"?

Shall we align our chakras with healing
crystals? The Quaker Way isn't just another
New Age mishmash.

One thing I have seen said, from time to time about liberal Quakerism is that it has become a “self religion”. Usually, this is said by way of criticism, often (but not always) by fairly traditionalist Friends. In this post, I'll be taking a look at what this term means, and the extent to which liberal Quakerism – as I've experienced it – fits that definition, and some thoughts on the extent to which it should.

The term itself is not used entirely consistently. It is widely used in a derogatory way towards “new age” spirituality, even identified with such things, and is also used by the less vociferous critics of Scientology to describe that faith. However, the underlying and original meaning appears to be religions or spiritual paths that aim for the development of the self, with specific reference to new age and other paths that developed in the 70s and 80s. A characteristic that is often derided in these faiths in extreme individualism, the ability to cherry-pick from a range of traditions in your attempt to perfect yourself – though reports rather suggest this is rather less true of Scientology, which is generally considered a self religion. Thus, I tend to feel that the main defining quality of a self religion is the goal of self-perfection – whether the faith says this leads to apotheosis, results after death, or a better life here and now. However, the implications of pick-and-choose are probably very important in the allegation that liberal Quakerism has become a self religion, so that must also be borne in mind.

So, here's the first question: does Quakerism aim for the perfection of the self? If so, how, and to what end?

My Convincement Experience

The meeting room at Pardshaw, site of some of my early
Quaker experiences. Photo by Andrew Rendle.

There's something that I think can be a really revealing, insight-provoking part of each of our personal experiences to share, and that we don't really share that much – how each of us that considers ourselves a Quaker came to do so. I don't mean simply how we came into contact with Friends, or when and why we started going to Meeting for Worship, or otherwise became involved in Quaker organisations. I don't mean how we got to know some Quakers at a peace camp, or on a political campaign, or at a demonstration, or at Pride.

I'm talking about the experience that made each Quaker realise that this was their spiritual path – the experience of what we have called, from our earliest years, convincement. My spellchecker doesn't like that word, probably because it's not really used much outside of Quaker discourse, and perhaps not that much even among Quakers. Online dictionaries give a perfectly good definition, though – in this sense, it refers to the action or state of being convinced. If you're new to Quaker discussion, it's worth pointing out that this might be similar to what other faiths refer to as conversion. We speak of Friends becoming convinced, rather than being converted, a difference that has a number of reasons feeding into it, and really beyond the scope of this post; perhaps I will return to it in another. If it makes it easier for you to think about, feel free to read “convince” as “convert”, but do be aware that you are missing some shading of meaning when you do so.

First Conscious Contact with the Divine

My first conscious contact with the divine came a few years before I found Quakers.

My life until then, in the religious sense, had been one of seeking, though I would not have known to call it such. I found much that resonated with my condition and my experience in many faiths, and sought out opportunities to learn more of further traditions. At the same time, each generally had things that didn't ring true to me.

As a student, my house was visited by missionaries of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, commonly referred to as Mormons – a convention I shall follow here, for brevity if nothing else. I wasn't actually in at the time, but a housemate and a friend were, and had arranged for a return visit to start hearing what they had to say; they did this not because they had any idea that they might be converted, being settled in their own beliefs, but because they thought it might be interesting. And so I heard about it, and arranged to be there when the missionaries came back.