The thing with feathers

Rootling through old memories and finding hope in unexpected places

I’ve been subconsciously gathering feathers for years. They sit on shelves, are pinned to noticeboards, get tucked into pots full of pens and paintbrushes. I often pick them up when I’m on walks, although the arrival of avian flu has made me more cautious when it comes to adding to my collection. It’s a wonder that I don’t have one tattooed on me, yet. But I have bought several feather related artworks over the years.

They’re not all physical. One of the first feathers to take a spot in the permanent collection section of my memory was this line from Elizabeth Jenning’s One Flesh.

“And time itself's a feather”

I was 17 when I first heard this poem, recited by my friend, Kelly during the early days of our Theatre Arts course at Dundee College. This was a liminal time, a bridge between high school and university, where we were exploring who we were and where we might go next, usually shoeless (because: comfier).

With its meandering, lyrical path and poignant final lines, One Flesh lodged into my memory along with Lighthouse Family lyrics and the entire Greek chorus section of Euripedes’ The Women of Troy. The latter, I had to cram in during an hour long bus journey home after a classmate was struck down by a grumbling appendix. It still makes me marvel, because there’s no way I’d manage to do it today. We’d been told that the memory was like a muscle. And as I sat on the tartan-covered bus seat, amazingly, the words sank straight in.

The play was adapted by our course leader, Robert Paterson, who was himself in a transitional place after his marriage had ended. I’d seen Robert, a renowned comic actor with a series of elastic facial expressions, perform at Dundee Rep before, but I’d never met anyone quite like him. Simultaneously down-to-earth and delightfully eccentric, he wore colourful bomber jackets way before Ryan Gosling made them look good in Drive. I felt instantly at ease in Robert’s presence, perhaps because I read a lot of Roald Dahl stories as a child and he could easily have passed as a character in one.

It had come as a surprise when our previous programme leader announced that she would be taking maternity leave for the remainder of the year. By then the course had dwindled from around 20 students to about half of that – something that had never happened before, we were informed. As a cohort, we hailed mainly from working class backgrounds in small town Scotland. And we brought our insecurities, and often less than secure ways of life, with us. One of the most talented members of our group, a builder named Steve – whose bulky exterior masked a gentle nature – would have been a dream to cast, had the juggle of family life and full-time studies not proved too much. I sometimes wonder where he is now. And I hope that one day I will see him on the stage or onscreen, his time having come late rather than never.

A new dynamic was forged when Robert took the reins and treated us as peers rather than students. He won our hearts when he spoke honestly of his current time of life. And, again, when he told us the behind-the-scenes story of his role as the priest in Braveheart. But the time he cracked them right open was when he shared his grief over the death of his favourite singer, Frank Sinatra, and asked if he might pay tribute with a song. We sat on the gym floor enthralled and ready to receive this unexpected experience, having completed our morning routine which included an odd yet effective mix of exercises apparently favoured by the Canadian airforce, plus yoga and vocal warmups.

Robert said he had chosen this particular song, You make me feel so young to share with us that day, because working with us had brought him hope. I’m pretty sure I had to clamp my jaw shut at that point. And I won’t have been the only one. This was Scotland in the Nineties and it was highly unusual to see a man express any form of emotion in the sorrow-slash-grief department. Also, it transpired that Robert was a wonderful singer. To witness this act of love had a profound effect on us, something we discussed later as we washed away the taste of Lammy Bammys with overly-sugared, vending machine coffee served in impractically thin plastic cups.

I can’t remember what prompted it, but years later my thoughts turned to the teachers, lecturers and group leaders who have stood out over the years. Some inspired me, or made me think differently, while others went above and beyond to offer extra support. Like my high school maths teacher, who gave up his lunchbreak twice a week so that those of us who were struggling to keep up could have extra time to ask questions and complete the rapidly paced work. And the French teacher, who gave me bitesize one-to-one tuition for an entire year, after a timetable clash meant I couldn’t study at school and had to take night classes at college instead. I was sometimes so tired that I’d fall asleep in those evening sessions to the sound of French verbs conjugating. Without her help, I’d have floundered.

Perhaps I’d been reading about gratitude practice when Robert came to mind. Or maybe it was because I was pregnant at the time and my perspective was shifting, along with my body. All I know is that, 15 years on, I felt a powerful urge to get in touch with him. To reconnect and to let him know just how much his belief in me, at a time when I was struggling to believe in myself, had meant. As well as casting me as Athena, a badass character to embody as a teenage girl, he also gave me the added responsibility of a directing role. Something that stretched my comfort zone yet more and opened my still-so-very-small world to new possibilities. His quiet words of encouragement when I wobbled lit a wee, yet strong, flame that I carry with me today.

So you can imagine then the shock, when I Googled Robert’s name and an obituary popped up. I read it in disbelief, reeling from the news that he had died a few months earlier. Then I read another. I reached out to an old college pal, who has stayed in the industry and is today what’s called a well-kent face here in Scotland. It was only when he confirmed what had happened that it finally felt real. By now the funeral had been and gone. There was nowhere for the grief to go. Instead I’ve been carrying it with me, along with that early first flicker of creative self-belief. And this morning, it landed here on my laptop. Tugged at by the image of a feather. By time.

In 2012, the words in that obituary sent me staggering. Today they bring both sadness and warmth, filling in some gaps and adding colour along the way. Reading it again is a reminder that, despite all the professional highlights and achievements we may accrue in life, and in Robert’s case there were many, the things we leave behind run so much deeper. It is who we are and how our humanity shows up day to day that will be remembered long after we are gone.

“For all this, it was his warmth, generosity and soft heart that captivated friends and colleagues. As one said: "It feels like the biggest heart in the building has gone.""

Robert Paterson by Neil Cooper, The Herald

Lately, another line from a poem, this time one of Emily Dickinson’s, has been playing on repeat in my head.

““Hope” is the thing with feathers”

We’re living through a particularly dark time in history, and hope has been increasingly hard to find these past few weeks, even from the safety of my privileged perch. At a moment when my faith in humanity was faltering, I came across this article in the Guardian about a Palestinian crew of breakdancers who are bringing moments of joy and inspiration to children in Gaza.

I discovered today that one of the, many, collective nouns for swans is a lamentation. It’s a curious choice. In contrast, as I watched a low flying group go over our garden this morning, I felt a visceral wave of awe. Hope is indeed the thing with feathers.

And also, hope is a circle of children, watching on in wonder before stepping forward for their turn to soar.

If you would like to support their dance-based work with traumatised children, you can donate to the Camp Breakerz Crew GoFundMe here.