In conversation with sculptor Jo Sweeting
This time I'm here to share with you the first of what will be a frequent feature: an interview with a woman in her middle years. Some (like this) will be organic and conversational in form and a lovely, long read to languish in - and others will be brisker with a Q&A format.
It's been a really interesting process arriving at this point. Something I realised after inviting you here and on Instagram to get in touch with your stories of hope is that for most of us, our stories feel like a blend of all sorts of things - fear, excitement, loss, joy. And that trying to gather our narratives into something that can be neatly tied up with a ribbon called 'hope' isn't something that many of us relate to. So the stories that will be shared here over the coming weeks and months will be real, human and honest - with threads of hope woven through them, sitting amongst all of the other emotions, realities and experiences that our middle years present.
The dialogue being shared by and with the Middle Years Monday community on Instagram is a privilege to witness and if you haven't already joined us there I hope that you might. In the last week or so there have been tender, funny and intimate exchanges about middle years motherhood; John Gottman's six-second kisses and the challenge of maintaining an electrical charge in middle years relationships (especially long ones); and today I shared a beautiful post to honour the fact that love and desire are not only the domain of the young.
I've much to share with you about the private online gathering place that I'm beavering away on behind the scenes and will be launching soon - and I am deeply excited about what Middle Years Monday already is and what it will become. But I'll save that for another time.
My heartfelt intention is that Middle Years Monday will both reflect and welcome all experiences of middle years womanhood. I want us each to to see ourselves here whatever our domestic set-up, relationship status, family situation, sexual orientation, health, ethnicity and creed.
And for today, it is my deep pleasure to introduce you to Jo Sweeting: Sculptor, Lettercarver - and middle years woman.
“My work is based on the concept of ‘Shul’, a marking which remains after the thing that made it has passed. A dry riverbed or hollow an animal made in the grass are ‘shul’. My interest is in how these traces are left on our bodies and memories. I use words, or a figure or plant as a starting point and focus on growth and change.
I celebrate a moment in time. Starting points can be poetry, an overhead conversation or the landscape.
I aim to make the moment visible and monumental. My work contemplates life and although direct carving techniques are used my work is not traditional. I use drawing and printmaking to refine ideas but like to carve directly on to the faces of the stone without certainty. I realise the form fully once the carving begins.
Stone is my preferred medium because unlike many other materials its starting and finished state remains constant. I like to keep the original block form within the sculpture as this keeps its history present.”
One of Jo’s current projects is ’the Foundle’ which, in Jo’s words, is “the name of 'anything found on a sussex hillside' and is a huge chalk erratic boulder. It was found on the top of the Sussex Downs - site not specified but is left of Firle Bostal and needs to be 'found' (see #foundle on Instagram for more). It has been carved with words from the Sussex dialect and which refer to its specific place in the world. This project is unfunded and freely given and is a collaboration with Louisa Thomsen Brits and Tanya Shadrick and which further parts will be added to this winter and into 2020 with Arts Council funding (hopefully!).”
When I arrived at Jo Sweeting’s Brighton home wearing the exact same Toast cardigan as her it seemed likely that we would find at least some common ground during our time together. What I wasn’t expecting was that by the time I left (just the right side of the maximum 4 hours visitor parking allowed in Jo’s street), we would have covered such wide-ranging and intimate ground with the ease and comfort that we did. It turns out that leaving my house and my town and stepping outside of my natural hermit tendency can bring really good things. And I hope that in sharing some of the conversation that passed between Jo and I you too might recognise parts of yourself and feel some of the sense of community that I drove back to Hastings with. Because whether or not we are part of a childless family of two (me) or a mum of three (Jo); whether we have two cats and two dogs (Jo) or none - yet! (me); whether we live in a bustling city (Jo) or a much smaller seaside town (me), the common language and experience of our middle years has potency. I hope you can feel it and that it brings you comfort.
I’m 48 and Jo is 53. I’m still having periods. Jo had just had her first in 6 months. We spoke of the strangeness of not knowing until sometime afterwards when that last milestone bleed is. How you therefore can’t confidently bid that part of yourself farewell with the ritual and attention that you might wish. Whether the end of our menstruating years represents a sense of loss or liberation – or a mix of the two – not being able to mark the passing of a monthly rhythm that many of us have lived with for four decades or more can be disorientating.
Jo: “I’d thought, oh right, that’s it. And unbelievably, when I thought that was my final one, I felt really sad, having hated so much about having periods. I was surprised. It’s complicated. It was really weird, the idea of having had your last period, without knowing that was your last period. And then when I had another one [6 months later] I was like ‘Yes! I’m having a period!’. I’ve got three children. I was adopted so for me having my family was very important. But even having had the three children, for which I feel very lucky – although there are lots of days when I don’t feel so lucky! – the thought that I had actually had my last period and didn’t want any more children, I still thought ‘But, what if I did want more?’ – even though I don’t. It was a strange marker of ‘I’m not the same woman now’.”
Pip: “We had IVF and one miscarriage and I wonder whether for me, when my periods stop although there will be a finality to it, knowing that now I’m really not going to be able to have kids, perhaps there won’t be the same flavour of loss that you might experience because I already feel the absence of that ‘juiciness’. The word juicy for me is connected to fertility…”
Jo: “A ripeness, a fullness?”
Pip: “Yes, exactly. And I already grieve and find it difficult that I don’t have that aspect of what womanhood is.”
Something Jo and I returned to again and again during our time together was the sense that our middle years are bringing with them a ‘porosity’ which I describe as “missing a layer of skin” and for Jo means that she doesn’t feel like her “outline is defined” and that there is a “diffuseness”. For both of us it feels as if there has been a change within us on a molecular, chemical level which means that the way we experience the world, ourselves and others is substantially different than it was before. We spoke of the hormonal storm of puberty and how, on some days, our waves of rage and sudden changes in temperament don’t feel so different to our teenage years. And we’ve both noticed an increased sensitivity to alcohol. The half bottle of wine that we each used to drink with ease every evening brings an almost immediate hangover these days. And major booze blues. What a pain in the butt this change is. Listening to Jo speak about an acute and heightened sensitivity to her environment, about her discomfort with being enclosed but also an awareness of the vulnerability of large open spaces, about the impact of light and sound levels - it got me wondering about the primordial, animalistic quality of this life stage.
And the tiredness, oh the tiredness. For both of us it’s profound. But the joyous flipside of having depleted energy reserves is the clarity that can come from having to make choices about what you do and don’t do and for Jo this has brought a liberation from people-pleasing: “I’ve started for the first time in my life saying ‘No’ – it’s been very sudden and I love it! And I’m not going to stop!” There’s an awareness that being in the second half of life means that time and resources are limited. This, combined with understanding the energy cost that comes from engaging in activities or spending time with people who deplete rather than replenish our reserves, brings with it an acuity and decisiveness about “what the important things are”. It’s time to start saying it like it is. “Nobody ever realises how terrified I am about things; how much it costs me to do the things I do. But I’ve decided that I don’t want to use my energy like that anymore. For example, I love dancing - but I want to dance in my kitchen on my own or with a friend. I’m not doing parties anymore.” We talked about how etiquette dictates that when you decline an invitation you have to present a ‘good’ reason in order to avoid causing offence and insult. And that saying “I can’t come because I don’t want to” doesn’t quite cut it (even though, arguably, it should)! We spoke of a growing acceptance of who we are, and an increased ability to speak honestly and plainly – and without shame - about ourselves and our mental health, which for Jo now enables her to state: “I am quite agoraphobic so I’m sure your party will be lovely – and please don’t be offended – but I just don’t do them.”
This acceptance, in both of our cases, has extended to our relationship with our bodies. Jo remembered hiding her teenage self in baggy dungarees, and that when she looks back now at photos of herself taken at that time, she realises she had nothing to hide. She recalls how her grandad would say that “youth is wasted on the young” and the way this saying now resonates. We’re both grateful for a kind of body neutrality that has developed, meaning it’s not so much that there is a sudden love and admiration for what we look like, it’s more that our physical appearance is less relevant. In Jo’s words: “There’s a chance of happiness in that. A lot of pre-perimenopausal life is spent thinking about where you’re going to go, what you’re going to do, what you’re going to be when this, that and the other happens. And now I don’t think like that. Now I realise for example that this is my home, I may never move from here. And there’s nothing wrong with this home, it’s not just one small step in the journey of my life – this is my life.”
For me, one of the things this has opened up is the ability to enjoy wild swimming in the company of others without having access to the modern-day equivalent of a bathing machine or changing tent! Now, in broad daylight, I’ll get up off my towel in my size 16 swimming costume, walk down to the shore and take my time getting into the sea. Because this is my body, it’s not just a temporary physicality to be endured until I obtain the body. Jo and I agreed that neither of us are about to radically overhaul our lives in order to exercise and diet our way to that elusive, fantasy version of a middle years body - so we may as well get on with enjoying ourselves right here, right now. There’s a pragmatism, an understanding of the enormous benefits of immersing one’s body in cold water – there is nothing that elevates my mood more than this, swimming in the chilly Hastings sea is the most joyous I ever feel – and a new realisation that to deprive myself of this because the squishy, soft wobbles of my body don’t conform to impossible beauty standards would be an act of self-cruelty that I’m just not willing to perform anymore. And there’s something for both of us about having lost people too young that brings a fresh perspective on ageing. Much as I don’t want to get preachy here, one of the legacies of the years I spent working as a funeral celebrant (during which I led over 300 funerals) is that I was left in no doubt whatsoever as to the short, preciousness of life – and that growing old and (perfectly) imperfect is a privilege we don’t all get to experience. Not that I’m spared from the shock of realising when I look in the mirror these days that I’m not looking tired today – rather, this is just what 48 year-old me looks like!
We’ve both noticed a marked change in our cognitive functioning and memory in recent years (my personal low point on one occasion was not being able to remember my address). We talked about the stress of feeling like this is a shameful secret to be kept hidden when actually it would be incredibly liberating when asked what you did at the weekend to be able to simply say: “Do you know what, I’m perimenopausal, there’s a black hole where my memory once was and I have absolutely no idea!”.
High levels of physical discomfort are something that Jo and I are both contending with – and I mentioned here in the last newsletter that the more I understand about the symptoms of perimenopause and menopause the less confidence I have in the diagnoses of Fibromyalgia and M.E. that I received a few years ago. Because it seems the symptoms are so very similar. Jo spoke of a noticeable deterioration in her physical strength – something she relies on as a sculptor, as she’s often working with sizeable pieces of stone. And that “so many things hurt… I get painful feet and when I get out of bed, I can hardly walk on them, it feels like someone’s smashed them… and my neck when I’m parking, it’s stiff and it hurts… and migraines. I certainly wouldn’t want to be in a job where you had to turn up at a certain time and perform every day! You can really see why some women give up big careers where they’ve finally reached a certain level and then they hit the menopause.”
Jo and I spoke of ‘empty nest syndrome’ and that although it’s a common experience it’s important not to assume every mother is going to feel the same sense of loss when her children leave home. I loved the frankness with which Jo spoke of her experience of her children leaving (and returning!). She described feeling “absolutely gutted and like I was mourning” when her eldest left for college. And then “we developed this new relationship by text and phone which was really lovely”. And how when her middle child went travelling, “we ended up having a different dialogue which was special too… Undoubtedly it will be odd when they’ve all left but in a way I’m looking forward to having a bit more space and my time being less cut up – and to having my husband back… There’s a thing called a ‘pin and feathers’ which you split stone with. You drill a hole and you put in these two pins and you drive something between them, and it splits. Teenagers are just like that… all the time they’ll be saying to me ‘but Dad said we could’ and to him ‘but Mum said we can’. Every conversation is interrupted and if you’re having a difficult conversation or crying and one of the kids comes home, you have to pack it all up. There was this one particular day when we stood upstairs and realised that it was the first time in 10 years that we had been on our own together in our own house! Although the idea that they might head off to Australia does make me feel sick. But I won’t be lost for things to do. As long as they’re in touch and we’ve got a good relationship and I know where they are it will be OK. There will be sadness, but I think that perhaps a lot of mothers probably wonder who they’ll be - if they haven’t been working; or they’ve worked part-time but for money, not for love; and a lot of people describe not knowing who their partner is anymore – but I don’t feel like that. In more recent years, a couple of times now we’ve been to stay in a beautiful place in Dorset for a few nights, just the two of us. We took the dog and walked, talked, slept, laid in bed, sat on the sofa. It’s been amazing.”
The last thing Jo and I talked about was marriage. I’m acutely aware that although our childlessness is a great sadness for David and I (a decade ago we had IVF and a miscarriage and have since come to - mostly - accept that we won’t become parents) it also means that there is a whole set of relationship challenges that we have been spared. Our marital bed has not been shared by breastfeeding babies or fidgety tots; our attention has not been diluted and diverted away from each other and towards a small human being; our heated discussions have been able to continue to completion rather than being cut short by concerns about being overheard by small ears.
In spite of our different domestic set-ups, with Jo’s home being filled to bursting with her family of five humans, two cats and two dogs, still she and I found much common ground. This included the way in which for both of us those giddy, playful, early days of courtship with our husbands-to-be were cut short by life becoming suddenly and deeply serious, with an onslaught of deaths and other losses. It can be difficult to recreate a lightness and levity between you if life presents a sustained dark period during that time when you are building the foundations of your relationship.
We touched on the increased importance of intellectual stimulation for eroticism and the ways in which our middle years bodies can throw up challenges to having easy sex (hello soreness, fatigue, dryness, thrush, cystitis). But that this life stage can bring with it a certainty – in Jo’s words: “in a way I feel more complete as a woman and more like I know what I want as a woman than I ever have”.
We talked about the importance of retaining an element of ‘otherness’ in marriage – rather than finding yourselves melding into each other. And how separateness is a vital ingredient in cultivating and maintaining an electrical charge. This is certainly an area in which David and I have lots to learn. We met later in life than many (I was 36 and he was 45) and amongst the thrill and delight at finding each other was an intense sense of gratitude (we had both kissed a lot of frogs prior to meeting) which meant that we clung on tight (and continue to do so), leaving little air between us. I’m interested now in the ways in which the experience that my husband and I have of being married to each other can be enriched and nurtured. It’s so easy, isn’t it, to sleepwalk – rather than consciously creating a relationship that is as mindful, intentional and special as it can be.
One of the unexpected gifts of meeting Jo was that I came away with some new words in my armoury, one of them being ‘haecceity’. The Merriam-Webster dictionary definition of this is “the status of being an individual or a particular nature, specifically: what makes something to be an ultimate reality different from any other”. Other words that can be used in its place are ‘individuality’, ‘specificity’ and (my favourite) ‘thisness’. Jo spoke with such eloquence about this in relation to long term partnerships: “That [haecceity] is very clear when you first meet somebody and you see them as that and you’re not trying to change them; you’re not absorbing parts and rejecting parts; you are acutely aware of their thisness. That is very sexy – and it can be difficult to retain.”
And just like that, somehow almost 4 hours had passed and it was time for me to tear myself away from Jo, the tea served in exquisite Silvia K mugs, the ginger cake and that afternoon of connection with someone who simply 'gets it'. And so we hugged each other tight, promised to meet again soon and I bid my leave.
I dearly valued the openness between Jo and I during the time we spent together. It’s exactly these sorts of conversations which I hope to be able to continue sharing with you. It can be isolating for us each to remain in our silos without sharing our highs, lows, challenges and hard-won wisdom with each other. And I’m keen to break down taboos through discussing these issues. I love the idea of this Middle Years Monday community being a space where there’s the possibility for each of us to happen across a thought or a question or a snippet of wisdom which lands with us just when we need it - and has the potential to make a real difference in our lives. Or simply means that we no longer feel alone.
Middle Years Monday Illuminations
For this edition of Middle Years Monday Illuminations I've found some interesting bits and pieces that speak to some of the topics that Jo and I touched on during our conversation. I hope you enjoy them - and, of course, if you spot anything that you think might be perfect for future instalments of Middle Years Monday Illuminations please do drop me an email with a link (thanks so much to those of you who have already started doing this).
This piece from Forbes and this and this from The New York Times - on saying 'No'.
This piece from Happiful - on 'body neutrality' being a more attainable goal than 'body positivity'.
This gorgeous 3 minute film, Wild Swim - a moving tribute to the mental health benefits of cold water swimming that had me nodding and tearing up. I know I won't be the only one to relate when Amy Walker speaks of it being a path to: “seeing your body as something that facilitates you doing things that bring you joy rather than it being the sum total of your being…”
This piece from the The New York Times, this and this from The Independent and this from The Guardian - three perspectives and some practical advice on 'empty nest syndrome', plus very honest stories from four single mothers on their particular experience of this milestone (this piece from The Independent was written in 1994 but seems just as relevant today as it was then).
This and this - on separateness and togetherness and divorce-proofing your marriage (I did warn you last time that I have a crush on Esther Perel!).
I do hope that this missive has been a welcome companion - and until next time I send you my warmest wishes,
Pip x
[Images Copyright © Alun Callender, Mimi Connolly and Jo Sweeting]
Disclaimer:
Everything here is shared in good faith with an intention to support and inspire. However, neither Pip nor Middle Years Monday claim to understand your personal circumstances, we are not dispensing medical advice and you should not take anything here as a replacement for advice from a qualified health practitioner.