Today was a cup final moment for us. We brought the Spaghetti Maze life stories that we've been working on for over a year back to their
owners. They are life stories as recollected by people with a dementia
diagnosis and the contents are in the form of poems, art and reminiscences.
These tiny autobiographies are full of life and resonance. They are usually 20
or so pages per person, sometimes a bit more, or less – but many of those pages
are the result of much effort – and often
much hilarity - to recollect and then to re-construct memories.
Ivy and Kath with Life Story Boxes. |
A group of five of our regular participants sat around the
table with us. We'd not been in for awhile and for the first moments we were
all slightly estranged. And then people saw their life story boxes – and the
atmosphere transformed, we became a team. They opened the boxes like presents.
The first image - at the top of each piece – was a photo of the maker, at work.
There then followed poems, artworks of varied sorts (inked, sketched,
abstracts, pattern-making) and conversation snippets, together with some
recorded conversations on CD. It was a pleasure – mixed with a liberal shot of
relief – to see their faces transform as they became absorbed in their work,
their words. I overheard Lois say to Kath - “You suddenly look younger!” And it
was true, Kath's eyes were sparking with laughter.
As people progressed through their work, we travelled with
them and asked how it felt to dip into this album of the self, of their own
selves.
Kath, normally forthright and loud, went into reverie: “My
mum, the old house, boats on the River Irwell, amazing memories. I think we all
have something to look back on...”
Jackie took the ideas sketched in her work and ran with
them, plunging into a thicket of play and wistful hide-and-seek. Then she stood back from the memories themselves and said, “I had a good
time at home, it was a happy home. Nice to talk about it, to go back. But you
always have to leave.”
Doreen commented on just that act of going back: “Seems
funny, thinking of playing – we used to do it automatically, now we don't
easily play but we could. Singing Humpty Dumpty while we were skipping, it's in
this drawing. Now I'm with my grandchildren, I stay with playing – it keeps us
close. You know what they're up to and they understand you too... These
(drawings and writings) I can bring home, go into them. It's reminding me of
before people died. I can remember where I lived, go backwards, put the
feelings of the past to them.”
Ivy hooted with glee at the content of her box. She leafed
through it again and again, chuckling: “Seeing these it's bring them to me. We
was always together my family, helping each other. It learned you. I've had a
good life because of it.”
We also discussed the work with Dr Caroline Swarbrick the dementia
specialist researcher who's been part of our work for the last three years and who came to the celebration. Caroline
fitted in easily with the talk around the table, as she always does. She
commented on the subtlety people have brought to this body of work, both in the
pieces and the making: “It's made from different layers of relationship. The
key is that this is not just 'an activity' called reminiscence that can be
applied to people. It's about what they want to share and how. Reminiscence can be looked on as a process if you're not careful, but if you
really meet someone, you have a conversation and that is made up on the spot,
it is truly personal. If there's trust, safety, the right environment, familiarity, then it all snowballs.”
Finally, I read Gordon's pieces back to him and he smiled at
the depictions of outdoors: “Always there outside, always football.” I asked
him why he loves football so much – and why is it so important to so many? It's a question
that has always foxed me. We leafed through his drawings and poems, slowly. The
poetic pieces bounced around the pages, the words described movement, play,
dance – the joys of being alive in a body. “It's an easy kick,” he said.
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