THE COVID MONTHS | A CROW IN A PEAR TREE

Trees and bushes are laden with the fruits of autumn. Apples, quince, figs, tomatoes and pears weigh down branches, tempting us to savour their deep, rich flavours. For many years the only fruit tree I had was a badly pruned throwback to the Victorian era when the garden was first made. It listed badly to the left and clung precariously to a small part of a former rockery. It’s pears were small and as hard as bullets. The first year I dismissed them as not worth bothering with and initiated a prolonged family debate about whether or not we should simply cut it down.

The next year someone brought a few of these hard, green bullets into the kitchen and stuck them in the fruit bowl where they stayed for a couple of weeks. The skins slowly changed from green to a deep golden yellow. One day I idly picked one up and bit into it. It was delicious! Syrupy sweet with a powerful aromatic after taste. After that the whole family dived on the pears. We had pears with Roquefort, pears in Red Wine with dark chocolate sauce, pears in white wine with Star Anise, Upside down Pear Cake, Pickled Pears and just plain pears.

The squirrels had always been fond of the pears, Cyril the Squirrel would scamper down the Scots Pine, fly through the Horse Chestnut and land precariously on one of the branches of the pear tree. He selected his fruit carefully, if it wasn’t ripe enough he would let it fall onto the grass below. Cyraleena, his daughter, was a delicate, pretty eater. She seemed to find it easy to select the best fruit, very little fell to the floor when she ate. Then came the new generation, a generation of uncouth hooligans headed up by Randal The Vandal. A big bruiser of a chap, he saw no need for finesse and would grab at the fruit, bite it, and hurl it to the ground if he didn’t like it. Randall turned the garden into a shooting range of hard green fruit. He took and spoiled most of the crop before we humans could get near it.

Just over a year ago I left my Victorian garden and moved to an arid plot which had once been farmland. It had none of the woodland charms I had been used to, although the previous occupiers had planted a few young fruit trees. I spent a lot of time yearning for my seaside woodland garden. I missed all the small birds – the robins, the bluetits eating the bugs in the window putty, the wrens flying low into the bushes, the gold crests eating the seeds of the wild flowers, the pigeons with their endless nursery of blinking babies sitting docilely on the nest inside the portico of the front door. The pigeon fledglings always had to be protected from the wily and skilful hunting of Maisie my little Scottie. Then there were the jackdaws endlessly outwitting any human plans to evict them from the tall chimney pots, as well as the occasional baby jackdaw that would fall down the chimney and land in my study sending all of us into a frenzy of ‘Jackdaw down the chimney! Quick get a towel.’

This new arable desert had a few magpies, crows and starlings and a couple of red kites, as well as some geese that flew to the nearby lake. Not my kind of birds. Big, noisy, feathered flying machines! The fruit the trees bore was dull, too - apples that were tasteless and lacked any crispness, and overly large woolly pears.

One day when I was walking round the field trying my best to bond with this large expanse of over-farmed eco desert I noticed something rubbery looking on the floor, it looked like the inside of a tennis ball that had split and perished. It had serrated striations all the way along the inside. I picked it up to find it was quite soft and not at all rubbery. It was a pear skin and the fruit had obviously been removed with delicacy and skill. I was intrigued. What diner had gone to such great lengths to remove the soft, fleshy fruit? I discovered the answer the next day. The Crows were raiding the tree and enjoying an autumnal feast. They squabbled a lot amongst themselves about who was able to land and stay on the tree long enough to harvest a pear. Sometimes in an effort to be top of the tree they toppled and had to fly off and come in for another attempted landing. Now, I saw their charm, their skill, their intelligence. They made me laugh. I even excavated the kitchen drawers to find the ancient fruit knife in its little blue leather case that had belonged to my grandfather. It was time to hone new human pear - eating skills.

Squirrels are still my favourites, I prefer their fluffy tails and wide eyes, but I can see that the well trained beak is a superior instrument for refined and civilised pear eating.

Since September I have been working from our lovely Teesside Centre. The garden is a magical, semi-wild confusion of trees and bushes, many self-seeded, full of little birds, butterflies and moths. The wildlife pond designed by David Green (he illustrated David Bellamy’s work) has long since gone but the newts still flourish. The grape house is out of bounds and fenced off because it’s floorboards are rickety. The grape house vine is as old as the house and bears tiny grapes many of which ripen to a delicate sweetness. Gardeners have come and gone over the years demonstrating varying degrees of skill and expertise. Most have had a prosaic, no nonsense style and have tried to cut everything back in the belief that a neat short back and sides passes for a well kept garden. They don’t realise that this kind of pruning strengthens the roots and promotes even more vigorous growth. One even took a machete to the vine itself. It looked like it was lost forever. But a wonderfully knowledgeable member of the centre was a very gifted arborist and horticulturist and he showed us how to tend the wounds and bring the vine back to vigour. There is a beautiful photograph hanging on the wall of the centre of a wood he photographed just before ‘progress’ razed it.

The grape house has been home to many generations of kittens all, as far as I know, going back to Fluffy the beautiful cat who was abandoned by her owner when they left next door and took refuge in the gardens. We all fed Fluffy but she would never come in and so we could never save her from the continuing admiration of the neighbourhood Toms. We always found her kittens by chance. A plaintive mewling from the garden next door (now a concreted patio) led us to find tiny ginger and white Lucy and little  tabby Amy Tocket. Amy Tocket had a bad bite on her neck. She was very poorly. We took her to the vet who dressed her wound and gave her antibiotics. He didn’t put her chances as higher than 50 / 50. For the next five days I carried Amy Tocket everywhere with me inside my shirt, next to my heart.

Within a year Amy Tocket had taught herself the art of opening any carelessly placed student bag smelling of a tasty lunch time bite. Many times over the years the downstairs hallway echoed to the lament of hungry students forced to try and rescue the remnants of their lunch. Amy Tocket was nowhere to be seen.

In these Covid times only 2 people work from Teesside at any one time. That first morning I was the only one in until 4 in the afternoon. I walked into Harewood, opened the veranda doors and drank in the garden. It took my breath away. Then I walked through all the rooms, newly decorated and furnished by Annee, her artistic flair vibrantly on display everywhere. How many years ago was it when she had so daringly painted Roseberry in Francesca Pink, deep blue, gold and yellow, transforming the church pillars from dull neutral white to their exotic Egyptian phase? Or painted the most amazing baby pink ceiling in Mandale to hide the impossible – to – remove artex,  covering it with Peacock Feather Eyes and thereby bringing terror to those inclined to feel watched by so many eyes? The deep work that those ‘eyes’ provoked was more powerful than any Rorschach Test.

Moving from room to room I started to feel sad. So many rooms, so much beauty offering sanctuary from the challenges of the day to day. But all empty! People came tumbling through the time warp at me, docking in my heart, I couldn’t hold back the tears. I relived an eternity of precious moments, the sharing that comes from just sitting together without words, those times of heightened empathy when brain rhythms reach a collective synchronous beat. I am a healer! I FEEL the pulse of the work through my whole body! I want that connection. I am hard wired to communicate through, it energises me, it helps me experience within me the winding path of the other’s journey. I can only know another’s impasse when it sits in me, too, when it is IN PERSON.

Working with Children in Person Again – Sue Holdsworth

 Back in March, the instruction came “stay home!”.  It was both a lifetime ago, and a moment ago.  I spoke to the parents of my clients one by one and we discussed the options.  Could we work online, on the telephone?  Despite our best efforts, in every case the answer was no.  Either privacy, connectivity, technology or outright refusal brought my therapeutic work with children to an abrupt, unsettling end.  At first I imagined that it wouldn’t go on for long, a few weeks perhaps, and we could pick up where we left off.  A few weeks, became months, almost half a year, two changes in the seasons. 

When the offer came to trial working in person with clients in the building, I dived in.  I felt excited and hopeful.  A few hours later I was overwhelmed by procedures and paperwork, struggling to make sense of the information and keep it all in my mind.  Do I wear a mask?  Does my client?  What if I have a virus and no symptoms and make someone ill?  How will I “do” therapy with children when we need to stay apart from each other?  How will we play? 

I looked up from my desk and caught sight of my paperweight.  It has the word “courage” carved into it and I was reminded why I bought it.  It is there to serve as a reminder of the words of a supervisor: “Courage mon ami!” for those moments when I’m on the edge of the pool, ready to dive, and I have last minute doubts.  I remind myself: you can do it, remember your training and all you have done before.  Whatever comes you can handle it. 

Grounded, I make my list.  What do I need to do?  What do I need clients and parents to do?  What do I need others to do?  Slowly, it began to make sense.  Before long, I had a handful of items that I needed to do and to tell others. Talk to my supervisor, insurance, risk assessment, explain the procedures to reduce risk.

I decided on keeping an individual bag of kit for each client.  The amount in each bag is smaller than it might have been before but there is enough.  If I sanitise my hands at the start of the session and leave the bag open and accessible on the floor, I can leave it to my client to choose what they want to use, in the same way they would always do.  I avoid handling items as much as I can, and invite the client to put the things back into the bag when we’re finished.  It is important to me to keep the risk mitigation out of the session as much as possible, so that I can be present in the room with clients in the way they need me to be.

When the time comes when I’m due to meet my client, I have a flutter of nerves and remind myself:  I’ve made my checklist, ticked everything off, I’ve done what I can to keep my client, and me, safe.  Breath, remember my training, my skills, my experience.  When they come through the door, we have a shared moment of awkwardness, neither of us anticipated greeting each other with most of our faces covered.  And then we are in the room, the session begins and “muscle memory” takes over.  It felt natural, normal, and very much needed.

My client was able to find an outlet to share all the difficulties that the last few months had brought.  Isolation from friends, worries about relatives, fears of falling behind at school and what this might mean for their future.  It was a relief to be able to see the whole person while they talked, to be able to see those minute movements that revealed so much of their feelings that could so easily be hidden away had we worked together online.  The part of me that had spent all those months while working online, wondering what that noise was, either in my home, or theirs, could relax and switch off.  I had wondered if I would have to relearn my skill of knowing when we’re nearing our 50 minutes when there is no time displayed just above the client’s face, and I’m happy to find that it comes back with ease.  I bring the session to a close by checking how my client is, and feel a rush of warmth when they tell me they feel lighter than they have in a while, what a relief it has been to have their space to share again.  When we share a smile and I feel attached and bonded to my client again, their expression tells me they feel the same.

In the days that follow, I see more clients in person, adults and young people.  One tells me that they felt unable to “let go” to do therapy in their own home, worried about who might hear them, and although we sit wearing an extra layer while we have the window open for ventilation, they’re just as keen as I am to keep working this way again. 

Risk and the Return to Face to Face Working - Sarah Clarke

Risk assessment is an important part of our everyday lives – Where shall I go on holiday?  Is it safe for my children to walk to school unaccompanied? How many glasses of wine can I drink in a week? As therapists we regularly manage and minimise risks, both to ourselves as professionals and to our clients; working ethically whilst alone with children in therapy rooms, liaising with placements on their individual Safeguarding and Child Protection Policies, carefully considering which toys and resources we will use with each client.

The Covid-19 Pandemic has created a whole new element of risk in our working lives and many of us are now wrestling with the decision about when and how to return to work with our clients. For me, the key phrase is “informed consent” and an in-depth understanding of our own fears and those of our colleagues and clients.

As part of my work on the radio I have been asked a lot, over the summer, how best we can manage the anxieties of children around going back to school and I have found the analogy of car journeys to be a helpful one with children and young people of all ages. I ask them if they are scared of getting in a car, most children will say that they are not. I explain that even those we know cars can be dangerous and thousands of people are killed or injured in road traffic accidents every year (27,820 in 2019) most of us do not worry about the risks when we get a lift to school or go to the supermarket. We know that the government, the local councils and parents have put many, many measures into place to keep us as safe as possible – speed limits, children not being allowed to sit in the front seats, drink driving campaigns, car seats and seat belts are all the ways that other people do their best to keep us safe in cars. I then tell them of all the things these same people are doing to keep us safe from Covid – the guidance on physical distancing, hand washing and face masks is all there to help us to feel safer when we leave our homes.

Just as I know there is nothing reassuring about telling somebody not to be scared of spiders, I know that telling people not to be scared of the virus will not work. But I do know that talking about our fears, informing ourselves of the guidance and the rationale behind it, discussing this with friends and colleagues will help.

The key for me is open and honest debate and informed consent. Each of us has our own unique set of circumstances that influences the decisions we make. The key is not to see Covid as being any different from the personal assessments we make for holidays, childcare and the alcohol or the professional risk assessment we make for placements.

 A Foot Note from Christine

As I finish writing the new restrictions are being announced and shaping the next six months. Where we can we will continue, with limitations, to see some of our clients in person.

Overriding everything, I hold at the front of my mind the vision, principles, values and beliefs on which the Northern Guild was founded almost 40 years ago. These place at the centre of our work the importance of the vitality of human contact and our engagement within a relationship whose meeting takes place in person.