Volunteering with Yellow Submarine: six months on

As I read my earlier post about volunteering with Yellow Submarine again, the first thing that struck me -- well, the second thing, 'cause I had a huge grin on my face again after reading those holiday highlights -- was how little things have changed in the last six months.

People who know me will be scratching their heads -- in many ways, the last six months have seen more change in my life than in any other, or certainly since childhood -- but what I mean to say is in how I feel about the work I do with Yellow Submarine. In fact, it's inspired me to commit to finding full-time work in social care. And I say that with my feet firmly on the ground.

Certainly the rose-coloured glasses can be seen in that earlier post. I've since spoken to many people in social care, of course, and at least a few have tried to (gently!) point out that all the foibles of the world are represented in those we care for. (Of course!) Still, I maintain that were the proportion of kindness and generosity I've seen amongst those I've supported also true of the wider world, we would hardly recognise it.

And that's where I want to end this post (again): highlighting a few of the amazing people I've had the good fortune to meet through working with Yellow Submarine -- on ten holidays now, and many day activities -- and my local Mencap group:

A gift from Spa Club K.

• K. might've been born at a music festival, he was so at home during WOMAD. I'll never forget our walk to the main site one morning: suddenly K. has left the path, only to return with a wonderfully-costumed young lady in matching hoop skirt and parasol on his arm, looking pleased as punch.
• Just last week, I was lucky enough to meet D. as part of Yellow Submarine's Compass Project. We must've been chatting off 'n' on for close to an hour before he let drop that he was in a documentary; such an amazing person, and so modest! (It's called Ups of Downs, embedded below.)
• And last, but certainly not least, is K., from my local Mencap group (known as the Spa Club). He's a bit of a Renaissance man: he draws, paints, acts, runs half-marathons, keeps bees, will soon be coaching football... Rarely a week goes by that I'm not flabbergasted, learning of his latest project or yet another of his past pursuits. And then, the other week, he presented me with a drawing he'd made, for me.

I actually cannot express what this all means to me. I just feel... honoured to be a part of it.

The Good Life

I just finished Seth's It's A Good Life, If You Don't Weaken, and I'm filled with conflicting emotions: it's a beautiful book, and poignant at times, but I think it's how much I identify with the main character -- or rather, how I imagine I would've as a teenager -- that stirs the strongest feelings. Well, that isn't being entirely honest either, but I truly envy his talent, and if that emotion isn't the strongest in my breast as I type this, it's surely the second-most by the slimmest of margins.

I find myself looking for small similarities in our lives, hoping they'll illuminate larger ones. Peanuts, for example, was a favourite of mine as a child also, although I'd be stretching things to say that it ever inspired any of my infrequent doodling. No, more than anything, unfortunately, it's the melancholy we've shared that's the most striking. Particularly as a young man, I spent many a day as Seth did in this work, contemplating my mood, and its possible sources. Eventually I came to the conclusion that it was a bit of the chicken and the egg, in that such thoughts only spawned dark thoughts, or at the very least, perpetuated a dark humour. By cutting them off before they had a chance to take hold, I found myself a happier man. I believe Seth also came to this conclusion, giving voice to it when his character, Chet, speculates that he spends too much time pondering such things.

What concerns me about all this, and, oddly, what is also reflected in Seth's book, is a perceived lack of creativity in me since I've discovered these happier times. The reference is only in passing, with Kalo's mother quoting him on the benefits of a little misery in an artist's life. For some time, I've worried that, beyond the darkness of my own creation, I have not suffered; in fact, I would suggest that even in my deepest moments of self-pity, I would never suggest that I have been anything less than blessed with luck and good fortune. (I may curse such blessings at times, but only half-heartedly, if I'm honest with myself.)

I also envy Seth his prodigious memory. However he may ponder the benefits of those musings, there's no doubting their detail and vitality. I'm hoping I'll recall more as I apply myself to the documenting of them, but I certainly worry about the depth of that particular well as I write this. The other big question right now is my ability to draw. I have all the limited tools of that craft at my disposal now, so that somewhat-dreaded answer is surely close at hand.

That's heavy-handed; downright dire, in fact. I got a bit carried away. Truth be told, I'm having fun with this, and I expect to enjoy my dabbling in drawing as well. After all, unlike the fictional Kalo, I don't expect to raise a family on it.