Nicole Gilroy
Those of you who know me (and for reasons that may become clearer as you read, that is quite a limited number), will be aware that I am a heavy user of social media. Social media comes in for a lot of criticism, with its risks to mental health, its ability to suck away precious time, and its addictive qualities. And also, I mean, mega-businesses mining the details of our lives, feeding us with ads for barefaced consumerism; it’s not very, well whisper it Quakerly, is it?
As a single mother of two, with no local support, and with a child for whom finding an appropriately skilled carer is such hard work that it defeats the object of having a break, social media represents the overwhelming majority of my social interactions with adults. Sure, I go to work, but my short days due to limited wraparound care mean long lunches, drinks, and socialising with colleagues don’t really feature in my day.
Sadly, the restrictions extend to meeting for worship. The weekday meetings are impossible as they are either too early or take too much of a chunk out of my working day. Weekend meetings are almost impossible as one child is ultra-keen and the other is so dead set against coming that the experience and aftermath is unbearable. The zoom meetings gave me a chance to attend for a while, but there’s no companionship and the constant interruptions to deal with the needs of the small people make settling to worship impossible. And then on 16 January, the anniversary of George Fox’s death, his picture popped up on my newsfeed.
This weekend just past, I made the superhuman effort to drag the children along to a meetup of two wild swimming groups I follow. (I say follow, as regular swims are another thing I can’t fit in, but occasionally the planets align, and I can fit in a dip.)
So maybe 50 or more folks, on a freezing day, stripped off and immersed themselves in a lake. Some swam, some bobbed about chatting, most swore loudly on entry. All emerged beaming, with the glow of ‘ice tan’ on their skin. Afterwards we huddled together around a fire and drank our flasks of tea, sharing around handfuls of cake and toasting marshmallows. For new attenders, badges were handed out, but membership isn’t a formal affair. If you want to belong, you belong. There are no rules but looking out for each other and making sure no one is left behind, or spotting signs of ill effects in someone who has been in too long are unspoken obligations.
Our wonderful Friend Taz posted this meme on Facebook recently:
It spoke to my condition. Clearly, I sit at the radical corner on both axes. I feel like hot chocolate and marshmallows absolutely can be consecrated for communion. I’ve experienced it. Maybe it extends to baptism.
Is stripping naked on a lakeside with a bunch of strangers symbolic of throwing off what’s unnecessary and experiencing the wonders of creation? Maybe. Do we need to have a badge, or show up religiously at a certain place and squeeze our messy and overflowing lives into a setting that doesn’t meet our needs in order to belong? I hope not.
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Forty-Three Newsletter • Number 514 • February 2022
Oxford Friends Meeting
43 St Giles, Oxford OX1 3LW