The Letterbox: a Coming Out Story

The Letterbox: a Coming Out Story

by Jules Stapleton Barnes
Published in Brig Newspaper 15/02/2017 

I’d written the letter in many different ways and on many different days before. I had never quite got around to sending it.

I lived across the bridge in the 60’s breezeblock accommodation named A.K Davidson Hall.

On the brink of a new millennium I had big aspirations and a colourful imagination, but everything in my cell-like room was a dull brown and off-white.

White thick, brick walls, brown carpet and a brown mattress about as thick and comfy as a piece of toast.

I was not long into my new life away from home for the first time and despite the striking similarities to a prison, my new environment felt liberating and full of possibility.

One morning, prompted by a free schedule and a flurry of brave feelings, I began scribbling the words that I had written a thousand times before:

“Dear Mum and Dad,

I have to come to know and accept, and finally celebrate, that I am gay.”

Stirling University campus was sheltered and protective, cosseting us with picturesque vistas, hills rolling up the sides and a loch that reflected everything.

Dumyat hill was like a friendly old relative, nagging you to get up and get more fresh air.

It loomed over your curtain-drawn bedroom as you slept off the cheap booze and thrills of student life. The path around the loch provided a well-trodden route for all kinds of conversations; dates, break-ups and blips of loneliness.

That morning, I took bold strides across the loch bridge, making a bee-line for the shiny red post-box waiting at the other side.

This iron box, was solid and reliable, packed with news, requests and revelations and words to connect us students to far-away friends and family. What goes in never comes out the same way.

Gripping my letter I wondered how far I would get this time.

It was so comfortable in my hands, my words, my news and I wasn’t quite ready to let it go.

I told myself it didn’t matter if I never let it go, I knew what the words meant, and that surely could be enough.

I could even hold it close to the dark gap in the letterbox, with no intention of letting it go.

Tempting myself with the possibility of pushing my revelation out into the world, never to be returned to the confines of an envelope again.

But a sharp fear of reality would pull me back, time and time again.

I would feel the weight of it in my hands. The honesty leaking through the paper as if just being near it brought everyone closer to the truth.

I couldn’t imagine it being in anybody else’s hands.

As I praised myself for braving it this far; over the bridge and standing just centimetres from the letterbox, a breezy acquaintance sprung up beside me.

In one swift move, a person whose name I cannot remember snatched the letter and posted it straight through the dark gap and down into the cast iron box.

“Post it already!” she chirped. “What was it anyway?”

“Oh my God,” I said.

I remember blinking hard and hearing my lashes crash against my eyelids.

Off it went. There it goes. Out of reach and on its way to changing everything.

The Rise and Fall of Hope

Piece written for Sunday Assembly on 1st April, 2018
[Edinburgh’s secular congregation, meeting regularly to celebrate life, build community and help everyone live life as fully as possible.]

"I’ve been in a quandary over what to share this morning, as I had something else sort-of prepared. I initially wanted to share a blog I’d written on grief, and more specifically the energy of grief, but then life happened, in all it’s challenging glory, and something else is on my mind instead.

I’ve been compelled to think about hope this week, and I wanted to share some thoughts around that, some of things that happened this week, and in particular when it’s harder to feel hopeful.

My wife and I are 4.5 years into a long journey of fertility treatment to help us have a baby. We had some more disappointing news this week, which has made me question the purpose of hope more than ever, even from my very privileged corner of this world.

For me, this journey has been a rather manipulative process, with nurses, drugs and my own body conspiring to generate hope whilst also leading us to these crescendo moments of disappointment. And in the moments, days and weeks that follow, we need to somehow find hope again.

In my working life, I organise events and support for the LGBTQ community, and work lots with trans and non-binary people. Yesterday was Scotland’s first ever Trans Pride, and over 400 people marched, came together in dismal weather conditions, in solidarity. Before the march, I hosted a breakfast social event for about 70 folk, and spoke with a woman I know, who told me that doctors have discovered a minor heart condition, that will delay her previously imminent access to reassignment surgeries indefinitely.

The help she desperately needs, to feel some peace and comfort in this world, seems very far away. She’s already waited a very long time, and through that journey, has built up a lot of hope. She was tired and upset, but she came out in the rain and marched.

So it makes me wonder, how do we learn to trust and have faith again, when hope has come and gone. Is its purpose to set us up for a fall? Or is it nature’s way of helping us get up and keep going?

Hope for me, is a tenacious, crafty little light saber of a feeling, that finds the cracks of the fortress I’ve begun to build and defends my right to keep on keeping on.

The woman from yesterday and I, stood together and simply agreed that finding hope can be hard, even when we’re doing our best. In that simple moment of shared understanding, I felt comfort.  I felt grateful and I was gifted some perspective.

It was a reminder to me, that we’re all vulnerable at times, but we all have this incredible ability to find connection and commonality with each other. By being there yesterday morning, despite feeling like I hadn’t much to give, there were unexpected moments of healing and comfort.

When I was feeling the weight of the disappointment this week, I reached out to my little brother, who lives 500 miles away.  He is my go-to guru when I need a pep talk. Just to finish, I wanted to share with you, some of the words in a voice message that he sent, in case you, like me, could use some encouragement at the moment.

“Sister B, I’m really sorry to hear things didn’t work out this time. I’m not really sure what to say, other than it doesn’t seem fair does it? You’re trying really hard; you’re doing all the right things. But I guess, you’ve got to keep having faith in life.  It has its twists and its turns and the journey isn’t written yet. We only know what’s going on right now, and that’s just happened for you, but you’ve already moved on. Life is a flow. Keep loving doing the things you love, keep loving the people you love and the joy will catch up with you”

He then got self-conscious and made himself laugh and it made me laugh to listen to it."

How’s the Badger?

I have 3 minutes for cancer, he’d wearily say,

3 minutes no more, or you’ll spoil my day.

I hung on those words as they rang in my ear,

And asked instead, how’s the badger?

“Well now,” he’d chirp, “he’s coming along,

I’ve worked out a method to keep his back strong.

I’ve lacquered his coat in a curious oil,

That keeps him protected to weather the toil.

I studied his shape and drew out a plan,

I learned how to steady each leg with one hand.

I’m a novice it’s true so who knows what he’ll be,

But it’s keeping my mind on something other than me.

He’s coming on nicely, he’s really quite sweet,

Though I’m puzzled to how I will handle his feet.

They’ll need to be level and evenly matched,

But my eyes aren’t so good and my glasses are scratched.

I’d like to angle his head to the right,

As if he can hear something just out of sight.

I’ll paint him eventually, so he fits in,

And when he is dry I’ll apply a thick skin.”

He spoke of the badger until weariness returned,

He’d sleep and I’d hold on to all that I’d learned.

And what of the badger whose ears are just right?

He’s listening for somebody just out of sight.


By Jules Stapleton Barnes
09 Jan 2018

White Feathers and the Energy of Grief

When somebody you love dies, it either becomes the focus of your conversations, or the thing that people most want to avoid.  Strangely either way, you’re left knowing that when death happens, we’re all thinking about it. 

There were friends and family who didn’t call for months after my Dad died.  I understand why now, and I'm beginning to feel ok about it.  A note to those who find it hard to call, grief connects us I’m afraid, whether it pushes you away or pulls you closer. 

So in my experience, whether it is the big elephant in the room or the precious bird in our joined shaking hands, grief, when it comes (as it comes to us all) decides to stay. 

My Dad was 62 when his body was overtaken and stopped working.  Along with close family, I stood by his side and watched it change shape as his heart slowed and his frame became unrecognisable.  Good riddance I said, to these changes.  If you won’t leave his body alone, then his body must stop being such an accommodating host, I thought.  Grief had already begun to help me separate my love for my Dad, with the vessel that carried him.  I don’t think I ever equated the weakness in his body with a demise of our relationship, his character or his soul. 

I felt a sense of relief when it happened, to know my dad (who, in spirit at least was familiar) had found a way of breaking free and creating a safe distance. 

I actually don’t imagine cancer cells as monsters, or as an evil force.  Just intrusive, tenacious matter or stuff.  It’s not helpful to me to imagine my Dad fighting cancer. Because he died. My Dad was a fit, intelligent, capable, strong willed soul.  I don’t believe he was beaten, quite the opposite.  He was sensible, thoughtful and a scientific man who didn’t demonise his disease but looked upon it as the facts of the end of his life.  He didn’t like it, he didn’t want it to happen, but he never once told me he would beat it.  I don’t believe he ever thought he was in a competition. 

Instead, I think he felt angry that he didn’t have more time.  That his life became about illness and suffering, and not about good puns, pond maintenance or the art of building a perfect miniature Italian fishing boat.  He spent a lifetime loving the use of his body, its skills, where it carried him and what his hands and feet could do with time and care.  So in his death, in the demise of this fantastic body, I think we were left with all his pent up energy; his panic and the pressure of all the love and emotions he’d otherwise have shared over decades to come. 

Where does all that energy and emotion go when the heart stops? 

I’ve thought a lot about energy since he died.  I remember staring at his empty shoes in the garage the week after, studying the footprints that indented the worn rubber soles that once marched around the garden, all grassy and mowing lawns, cutting hedges and building that beautiful pond.  Those inanimate shoes had received his energy and changed to accommodate it.  I am forever changed because of it too.

Nearly three years on, I think what I feel most strongly now, is that grief is full of energy.  It is full of big emotional waves of love, loss, anger, sadness, laughter, emptiness and fullness all at the same time.  In some moments, it overwhelms me.

Time has helped hugely, but you can’t rush that of course.  In time, I have come to embrace the energy of grief and what it compels me to do and feel.  My relationship with most family members has strengthened, developed and deepened into ties that are more meaningful than ever before.  Coming together with people who share the same love for Dad, is like feeling him gifting us energy and positivity time and again.  The most wonderful thing about that, is that I don’t believe it will ever stop. 

When I think of Dad, the depth of sadness and joy I feel, creates this huge surge of feeling that needs to be shared somehow, passed on and gifted back into to the world.  The transference of energy has played a huge part in my relationship with grief.  And more specifically how I cope when the darkness and finality of grief hovers over me.

I look for my Dad’s energy in the world around me and I connect with him every time I find it.  I find him in the speed and elegance of the birds of prey he loved, I find him in the ever-flowing energy of rivers and surf that cool my feet.  I remember his gentle balanced nature every time I see a white feather and they’re everywhere too, like daily calling cards, gentle reminders and taps on the shoulder.  "Hi Dad" I say quietly.

I chuckle at how cliché that sounds now… but it reminds me that everything that lives and exists in this world, is moving and changed by the world around it.  Branches bow to the wind, feathers fall, opinions and behaviour adjust, hard stones smooth under the waves and we scatter bodies back to the earth to become something new. 

Not being able to see, smell and interact in familiar ways, is heart-breaking.  So I know that this powerful grief is not simple and sometimes just painful.  I still watch how initially, grief lowered the bar for the potential of my Mum’s happiness, making everyday life for her just ever so slightly dimmer.  She was his partner, his lover and equal and her loss is different to mine.  Though she is forever changed, I hope in time his energy will direct her into a new kind of happiness.

I listen, feel and respond to Dad in new ways now, and when I'm busy I can forget to stop for a moment.  Because when I do, I realise I can make use of all that he gave to the world around me and channel it into amazing new thoughts and deeds, that keep his energy flowing and his memory alive.

Goodman's Croft Day 2/3 - Earth, wind & fire

My fall awake was as effortless as my fall asleep.  Waking up in Lumsden, I felt calm and charged with humour.  The first day here had ended in the pub, with room temperature beer and brand new smiling faces.  With anecdotes flowing freely and new perspectives being considered, I feel already that my trip feels too short. 

I'm a person who really loves people, but you can't always find people who feel the same.  Yet the people here at SSW seemed to have struck this delicate balance between giving individuals their space, and revelling in communal living.  Like a weeble toy, I think the core of this 'artist's' community is so grounded, that if knocked by stressful projects, funding crises or the frustrations of rural living, it would roll back upright again.  Like a really steady ship.

The banter over meal times and boiling kettles is infectious and yet strangely I'm inspired to focus on work and enjoy the task in hand.  Saturday I was to meet Ann from the Old Smithy, for tea and an all butter biscuit. I had introduced myself on Friday and asked her to pop over to the workshop to talk to me a little about Lumsden life.  Ann is popular and frequents the SSW regularly; for fun, for company and for the joy of being near people who create. 

The voice recorder I knew may pose a worry for Ann, as everyday words were proving elusive since the onset of her recently diagnosed Dementia.  She expressed (rather succinctly actually) that she thought she might sound stupid if she ruined the recording with her lack of eloquence.  I told her I could understand her just fine and if she or I couldn't find the words, they aren't worth hearing anyway.

The recorder was placed just out of sight and within reach of our conversation and we talked for just over an hour.  Ann spoke of her arrival in Lumsden just 6 years ago, but also of the lifetime that paved her way to the village.  She cared to remind me of the stories that weren't for public consumption and we agreed that what I would keep, would be the tales of what makes her happy, what nourishes her wellbeing and the positives of the Lumsden community.  The listeners could fill in their own gaps.

So for an hour I was engrossed and we laughed and we spoke of family, friendship and the community pulling together in times of need.  When editing the material alone later that day, I discovered it was going to be a challenge to produce a worthy recording of our conversation.  This made me sad an somewhat disappointed. I could follow Ann's train of thought so easily by being with her, seeing her physically act out the words that were just out of reach.  But hearing it again, I found myself wishing I had her there with me.  Like the comfort of a book with pictures when you're learning to read.  I suppose there is something poignant about how easy it is to understand her in her presence, but how distanced it feels to hear only her voice.  I feel happy that her family live only next door.

Consoled by the joy of my live conversation with Ann, I looked forward to the promise of her popping by again soon, but I needed a break away from the lap-top and craved some banter with Craig and the others.  Soon our plans to go to a neighbouring village pub were scrapped in favour of a bonfire at base camp, with marsh mallows, whiskey and an American with a banjo.  The company was SO delightful and cheeky, and I could totally be myself.  Such naff impressions and tenuous puns would be social suicide in the hands of a lesser mortal. 

We poked and stoked a precarious and ladened mass of wood that Brigitte, the resident Aussie, had set alight with a giant blow torch.  I realised (as crude and miscellaneous artifacts were chucked on the flames) that part of what I already love about this place, is being in the presence of not only down to earth people, but earthly matter itself.  Great hunks of wood and welded metals, and stone and glass amidst all the elements.  It's safe and healthy here inside this bubble of rubble.

I knew, the moment I thought I could solve burning problems of prejudice in Uganda, I should bid my fellow pyromaniacs adieu, and take my warm and cosy feeling to bed.  Also the zip on my jeans had gotten so hot in front of the fire, that I was beginning to scorched my lady parts.

Today, Craig and I gleefully finished off our prep for the kids 'recording' workshop tomorrow at the school.  And now I lie here in my humble abode, satisfied from Ross' skillful and sublime roast pork Sunday dinner, and the knowledge that I wake here again tomorrow.

Goodman's Croft Radio Lumsden - Permission to engage?

Today I arrived at the Scottish Sculpture Workshop and was warmly welcomed into this fervent yet relaxed arts hub, buzzing and screeching with tools and tinkering and set boldly at the mouth of Lumsden Village.

I’m here to assist a community engagement project to pre-empt the launch of Goodman’s Croft – Radio Lumsden; a community arts project steered by the inspiring and engaging artist/puppy, Rocca Gutteridge.

My mission - our mission - (that we’ve fully accepted) is to unearth the voices that anchor this village and discover a hunger for creativity in an outwardly fed and watered community.

Craig is the 'tech' wizard who picked me up from the station and he's perfectly lovely. I'm instantly endeared to his northern English easy nature, his scruffy attire and particularly his use of the expression "absolutely beautiful" when describing the people he's been working with; two weeks in to this exciting internship. We're going to get on, because I've barely wondered if we'll get on (other than to write it here) and we both love beer. Again, marvellous.

Whilst SSW folk are busying around the workshops, I set off on foot into the village, armed with dry-cured beef strips for my first wander around. It’s true I found myself masticating alongside the cows and with only slightly less foam at the mouth. Why the beef ‘jerky’ I don’t know, it was a culinary experiment, to accompany my trot into the unknown.

First stop, the Old Smithy, or as a friend with personal connections has informed me, it is the “‘al smiddy’”, owned and blessed by Anne, a local woman with worldly charm. And a tiny dog. But more on Anne tomorrow, as we have our first official chat arranged.

I stopped into the local (and only) hairdressers. My master plan was to book an appointment and slowly, snip by snip hear the owner reveal all the secrets of the village; the gripes, the moans and the stories unfolding as I am trimmed and spruced into a shadow of my former self.

“Nothing this week I’m afraid”, she smugly chirped.

The empty village shop seemed sparse and pricey and the staff have a reputation. But instead, with a very local Express under my arm, I’m greeted with smiles from a mother and daughter team behind the counter, French, and pleasant. I ask where they hail from originally (as I have a foreign accent too) and the chit-chat escalates into a tale of woe, about how difficult it is to join in activities in Lumsden, if you’re from a neighbouring village. They spoke of hostility.

The pub was closed on the way past, as I made my way along Main Street at around 5pm. It's nestled in the bosom of the Lumsden Hotel Inn, which was also closed. The reception, it would seem, is definitely not as warm as the bosoms I’m used to.

Undeterred and parched from the excessive consumption of jerky, I veered off-piste to venture onto a country track, which pleasantly sloped down towards the luscious Lumsden fields. It was on this route that I made my first enlightening discovery. After strolling past a succession of low window sills, adorned with teapots, china cats and Geraniums, I caught the glossy eye of a ceramic figure. Dark and twisty, this was colourful, macabre and altogether unusual - wait a minute, there are locals here who flirt with unusual passions and display them, defiantly, in place of a pair of china cats. Marvellous. On I go...

Final stop the primary school, via the soft and mossy path that's home to the Lumsden Sculpture Trail. The presence of the arts is weathered and permanent here, though the locals I see choose to take the shorter route on the Main Street pavements above.

I was too late for the Head Mistress and the school was winding down for the day, but just the smell of blu-tack on magnolia paint made me enthusiastic about preparing our forthcoming workshops with the P4s to P7s there on Monday.

Looking beyond the school buildings, the 'no speed limit' signs bookend a travellers pass through the village. I turn on my heels back to SSW. Checking if the pub had now opened on the way.