Birdseed

The 9th of June 2025. 

In the early hours of this morning, the Madleen a ship flying under a British flag and bringing humanitarian aid to Gaza, was illegally attacked and seized by the IDF. It's twelve-member crew abducted. I watched this taking place in real-time on my Instagram feed. While propaganda machines are calling this a 'selfie ship' and decrying the amount of aid that it carried as negligible, the fact remains that Madleen was sailing in international waters on a completely legal and peaceful humanitarian mission. Illegally boarding and seizing a ship, stealing the aid, and kidnapping its crew equates to piracy, yet another in the long list genocidal war crimes by the IDF. 

While the Madleen may have been stopped in its tracks, this is not the end. We are at the cusp of human murmuration. Right now, thousands from across the world are gathering to travel by foot from Cairo to Gaza on the 15th of June, for the Global March To Gaza. https://marchtogaza.net 

For more info on Madleen and the Freedom Flotilla read here: https://freedomflotilla.org/2025/06/09/israeli-military-attacks-madleen-in-international-waters-weeks-after-bombing-of-conscience/

There is so much more I want to say, to rant, to rage, yet the words haven’t fully formed on the page.

Instead, I will share words that I wrote in 2024 as part of the Writing the Self module on the Creative Writing MA I’m currently completing. One of the exercises we had to do was keep a diary to be shared within the group and here’s an extract from an entry that I wrote: 

Wednesday 14th February 2024 (content warning- contains graphic musing on genocide) 

Night sweats at 4.30am. 

I woke with a buzzing brain. 

I know I shouldn’t look at my phone. Mostly I don’t. Today in my judgement-impaired-early-morning-haze-of 21st-century-internet addiction— I did. 

The news is never good. 

My stomach churned with deep concern for all the Palestinian civilians who have fled to Rafah… there isn’t enough food… there is nowhere left to go… a ground assault will result in more massacre… On Instagram I saw that a friend Becky had written and posted a poem about social media scrolling and Palestine. 

The opening stanza read: 

“I tried to look away but before I could,

  I saw half a girl hanging by her clothes 

  on perhaps a nail on what was maybe a wall, 

  her legs not there below the knee.” 

On Twitter (I will always refuse to call it X) I saw a post from @ArtsProfessional account stating: 

“Arts Council England has updated its policies, warning that “political statements” made by individuals linked to an organisation can cause “reputational risk” breaching funding agreements…” 

If it hadn’t been 4:30am and if Bill hadn’t been sleeping beside me, I might have thrown my phone, or raged at the screen. 

For fuck’s sake… All art is political! 

Dr Sabrin Hasbun had responded by posting these words by Marwan Makhoul: 

“In order for me to write poetry that isn't political, 

  I must listen to the birds

  and in order to hear the birds

  the warplanes must be silent” 

And how beautifully, how brilliantly, how succinctly, how artistically, how graciously, how humanely, how razor-sharply, how truthfully, Makhoul had put it. 

That was February 2024, and over a year onwards our western governments still remain passive in the face of genocide. 

Around the same time as that diary entry, I began working on a poem called Birdseed, that I later completed in October 2024 as part of my poetry module. 

When I shared the completed version of the poem within the class, one class member wondered why I would write about Gaza. In his mind he felt that there were already so many poems and creative responses to Gaza that it would be overlooked and valued as lesser. He went on to say that as this wasn’t my lived experience, I shouldn’t attempt to write about it. 

Of course he didn’t know my history, that I had worked with young people in Palestine bringing their artwork and stories to the UK as part of the Scratch the Sky project in 2007. He didn’t know how deeply the injustices faced by Palestinians have impacted me, mentally and physically. He had no idea about the visceral response my traumatised body had to the IDF murder of Palestinian children in Gaza during July 2014. 

As the Guardian Newspaper then reported https://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/jul/30/world-disgrace-gaza-un-shelter-school-israel

 "Pierre Krähenbühl, commissioner-general of the UN agency for Palestinian refugees, UNRWA, said the shelling of the school was a "serious violation of international law by Israeli forces". Krähenbühl said: "Last night, children were killed as they slept next to their parents on the floor of a classroom in a UN-designated shelter in Gaza. Children killed in their sleep; this is an affront to all of us, a source of universal shame. Today the world stands disgraced." Khalil al-Halabi, the UN official in charge of the schools in the area, was quickly on the scene. Bodies were littered over the classroom, and the badly injured lay in pools of blood amid the debris and rubble caused by the blast. "I was shaking," he said. "It was very, very hard for me to see the blood and hear the children crying." 

Waking to this news of children murdered in their sleep on a school premises, made me weep. My then two-year-old daughter was peacefully asleep in the room next door. I grieved for those innocent lives lost as I wept, I found that my breasts began spontaneously lactating. Not much, but enough for it to be alarming. 

The usual reasons for this rare occurrence are sited as pregnancy, or a response to opioid drugs, but I was not pregnant. I had not been taking opiates or any other drugs at that time. I had not breastfed my daughter for over a year. 

It was a medical mystery, the only conclusion being that my body, still in the fallout response of PTSD from the events of injuries, immobility and traumatic health complications following the birth of my daughter, had caused a heightened emotional and physical response to this news. My emotional turmoil at these injustices, had also manifested physically in that moment. (For more info see my 10 part blog series Turbulence )

I didn’t mention any of this in my class at that time, but responded to the young man who  questioned whether I should write a poem about Gaza, with something along the lines of, “I am a human, I write about humanity. I am mother watching other mother’s children being starved and I’m writing about it”. 

So here is Birdseed: written back in 2024, responding to the current genocidal starvation of Palestinians in Gaza— that human rights organisations have been calling out for over a year now, but that the world just seems to be waking up to.

Here's to freedom and justice for Palestinian people. Here's to an end of illegal occupation and to an end of genocide in Gaza.

Birdseed 

So, what’s the value of life in Gaza? 

The woman on screen wails, there is no food. 

Her neighbour has been eating donkey feed 

but that’s running out, so now it’s birdseed. 

Little birds fallen. Their wingspan severed. 

Amputated from sky. All hope exiled. 

She grinds granules with pestle and mortar, 

salt tears seasoning, concocting the paste. 

Children, barely surviving on birdseed. 

Once she dreamed her babies would grow like chicks. 

Plump little goslings with downy feathers 

swathed in vast, plentiful rivers. Shielded. 

Soaring through sunlight, their freedom singing. 

So, just who wouldn’t want that for their kids?

Jackie's Coming Around : A tribute to the late Jackie Leven

My new single Jackie's Coming Around is a tribute to the late singer-songwriter Jackie Leven. Today ( June 18th ) is the date that would have would have been Jackie’s 70^th birthday. 

Jackie Leven was a Fife born singer-songwriter, who started out in rock outfit, Doll by Doll in the 70’s after having to flee his hometown because of local gang violence. After a tumultuous time, with the band imploding and a serious mugging that damaged his larynx and nearly cost him his voice, Jackie became addicted to heroin. Eventually, Jackie managed to get himself clean and headed back onto the road as a solo artist.

Here is the dip pen ink portrait that Bill drew of Jackie Leven, featured in the video below.

Bill says  “As a portrait artist I use different media and felt that for Jackie I would use old style dip ink pen. With this technique you literally scratch the lines onto the canvas – this really helped to add the intensity I wanted to draw out for the portrait.”

About The Song

'Jackie's Coming Around' merges elements of my own songwriting journey alongside a brief musical biography of Jackie Leven’s life and weaves multiple references to tracks from Leven’s 2007 Oh What A Blow That Phantom Dealt Me album throughout. 

We've recorded and produced the song at our Hushland Studio and aside from the singing, I've added acoustic guitar, banjo, harmonica, keys and soprano sax, while Bill T-B has added slide and electric guitar, bass and percussion to the mix.

RachelTaylor-Beales · Jackie's Coming Around

The Story Behind The Track 

I first met Jackie when I opened for him in Cardiff Barfly, back in 2008. Travelling the UK with my own music, I’d often heard stories about Jackie from other artists and fans, so I was curious to finally have an opportunity meet and hear the man in person. That night I was completely blown away by his songs and story telling. The dry humour and characters that Jackie evoked were wrapped up in his voice that could soar ethereally one moment and then punch you in the guts with gravitas the next. 

After the gig we chatted about Kevin Coyne, one of my long time musical heroes and the highs and lows of life on the road. Jackie offered some generous comments about my own songwriting and pointed me in the direction of Karen Dalton and Judee Sill as artists he thought I would resonate with— and he was right. I walked away from that gig commenting that it was a crime that Jackie wasn’t more well known, it certainly wasn’t for lack of showmanship, musicality or ability.

On November 14^th 2011, I was working on a collaborative project with composer Gill Stevens. Gill and I were just breaking for lunch when an enormous bang, made us both jump. A blackbird had crashed into her glass conservatory roof and died. At that same moment I had looked down at my social media and read the words that Jackie Leven was gone.

In these difficult and uncertain times, when so many of us are battling with the loss in different ways, I’m reminded of the way that Jackie Leven seemed to revel in defiance— against all the odds, he rebuilt his life and kept on following the muse and making music. Having had to personally rebuild myself after a serious accident in 2012, that left me unable to perform for a season, I’ve found myself drawn to the stories of those who have found a grace within, to begin again. I wrote this song on a day when future plans had fallen through, but hearing Jackie’s songs coming around on my playlist was a lifeline. Like so many artists right now in this age of necessary social distancing, I don’t know yet when I’ll next be back on the road and able to tour, but in the meantime as we work behind the scenes to figure our game plans, I’m grateful for the all gifts and encounters with so many inspiring people, that a life working in music has brought me. I’m buoyed by the stories of folks who have faced difficulties and yet found the courage to ‘keep on keeping on’— and today, on what would have been his 70^th birthday, I’m celebrating the music of Jackie Leven.

Watch the Jackie's Coming Around Video here 

June 18th 7.30pm  (GMT) I've been invited to contribute a live version of the Jackie's Coming Around song - to the celebration of Jackie Leven at 70 event on Facebook hosted by Jinder- alongside 

Ian Rankin

Deborah Greenwood

Henry Priestman

Michael Weston King

Jinder

Tom Burgess

Nick Hall

Phil Burdett

Joe Shaw and Kevin Foster

Doghouse Roses

Michael Cosgrove

Lance Riley 

and more...

See the link here for more info Celebration of Jackie Leven At 70 

And finally a lovely write up from Mike Davies on the singles bar- round up of singles and eps on Folking.com https://folking.com/singles-bar-53-a-round-up-of-recent-ep…/

This is what Mike writes here: 
'June 18 would have been Jackie Leven’s 70th birthday, and to honour his memory RACHEL TAYLOR-BEALES has recorded ‘Jackie’s Coming Around’ (Hushland), a Bandcamp download single that interlaces elements of her own journey as a songwriter with a musical biography that includes references to tracks from Leven’s 2007 album Oh What A Blow That Phantom Dealt Me. With Rachel on guitar, banjo, harmonica, soprano saxophone and keyboard and husband Bill playing slide, electric, bass and percussion, opening with a memory of how a blackbird crashed into their conservatory and died at the same moment she read about Leven’s passing, it’s a suitably atmospheric but musically vibrant number, delivered in her hushed, understated voice as she recalls his advice to "keep following that muse"and reminds that while he’s gone, his music lives and on 'Jackie’s coming round to play".'

Roadkill: ( A blog post about how I began to realise my own privilege)

My friend Beth, nominated me to post some of my top influential albums over in he world of Facebook and today’s choice is Diesel and Dust by Midnight Oil. Posting the cover, I was reminded of this piece of life-writing I did recently. Midnight Oil played a big part in helping my teenage self begin to understand some of the issues surrounding indigenous land rights. The Roadkill story below is taken from real life events, merging incidents and memories and metaphor, in order to explore a little of my own awakenings to the privilege I have - (something I'm always still learning about). 

Roadkill

‘What was that, did I just hit something?’ asked Rose, jamming the breaks. ‘Shit, I think it’s a hedgehog—I’m pulling over.’

            ‘Nah—Echidna—no hedgehogs here,’ stated Ann, peering out through the back window.

            Rose sniffed as she fumbled with the buckle on her seatbelt, ‘Can’t get this bloody thing off. ’ Then pushing the car door open, she jogged over to the creature curled up on the highway— dead.  

My knee joints clicked as I clambered over all the bags crammed around my feet. It felt good to step out of the car into fresh air. Red and green feathered, Rosellas conversed, darting in and out of their gum-tree canopies.  I stretched, touching my toes before swivelling to see what was happening, maintaining my distance. I couldn’t stomach the sight of squashed Echidna just then; I was already queasy from hours of being hunched up in the front seat. We’d been on the Hume Highway, on route to our festival gigs, since 6 a.m. and after five hours non-stop, we were hanging out for the next service station, a pioneer monument— ‘The Dog On The Tucker-Box’, that would signal our halfway marker between Melbourne and Sydney. 

 Bill and Ann hunched beside Rose. Their collective bodies merged into a silhouetted mass against the midmorning sun. Without buildings blocking the horizon, the sky seemed endless and apart from an occasional truck, nothing else stirred on that long straight road. Bill prodded the dead creature with a stick, pushing it onto a grassy verge.

‘I’ll drive now, if you like?’ he said to Rose, before hurling the stick into the wilderness, like a spear. She nodded, handing him the keys.

            ‘Cheer up mate— it’s not like you did it on purpose’ Ann said, as we heaved ourselves back into the car.

‘I just feel so bad—what if it had a family and they’re all waiting for it? Maybe it was on its way back to its little house?’ Rose sighed, half joking, half serious.

            ‘Well what was the bloody thing thinking trying to cross the road there anyway?’ Bill responded, picking up the humour cue. 

‘Visiting distant relatives,’ Rose said, pushing her blonde curls out of her eyes.

‘Her first road-trip’ I added.

Four creative artists stuck in a car, made anthropomorphising road-kill conversations somewhat inevitable. In our unfolding narrative it transpired that poor Ethel-the-Echidna had limped 10,000 miles on a gammy leg (after an incident with a dingo), for a family reunion to fulfil the dying wishes of her Great-Aunt-Eglantine.

Nausea churned my belly again as the car rumbled over potholes. I wound my window half-way, breathing a heady combination of eucalyptus, merged with ‘diesel and dust’, as Peter Garret once growled. Gazing at the dry burnt-ochre scrub lining this endless highway, Midnight Oil’s anthemic tunes began to play in my mind— ‘How do you sleep when your beds are burning?’ When I was twelve, the transition from Kylie Minogue’s popcorn ‘Loco-motion’, into the Oils’ wild rallying for respect of nature and rights of Indigenous Australians, had been a revelation. I’d revelled in singing ‘It belongs to them, let’s give it back’ at the top of my lungs, immersing myself in the hard-hitting political energy of their songs.

 I leaned my head on the car door, feeling the vibrations of our perpetual motion resonating through my bones. My life had been a fragmented journey of repeated migration between England and Australia; ‘Some people leave, always return, this land must change or land must burn’ howled Peter Garret’s voice inside my head. Understanding how much I loved this Australian landscape and all of the privilege I had within it, had been a slow journey of awakening.

At eight years old, sprawled along the back seat of our Holden Camira, an incident occurred that altered my perspective forever. Rush hour traffic and my brothers and I were arguing over who was going to have first choice of TV program when we finally got home from school. My mum’s patience with us all was running out and I could tell from the rising tone of her voice that she was getting very close to declaring no TV at all. We were startled out of our whining complaints when the car in front of us honked loudly.

A young lady and huge Alsatian were wandering in the middle of the road, weaving recklessly between traffic. Cars around us swerved to avoid them and my mum jammed her breaks as the traffic lights ahead turned red. We slowed to a halt, just feet away from the strange lady and dog padding loyally beside her. The lady was tall and skinny, with shoulder length wavy hair, dressed in a navy blue jumper and tight stonewashed jeans that dug into her to her bony bum-cheeks. Her left hand gripped a beer can that she somehow managed to keep the steady, while the rest of her body keeled towards us.

My mum rolled down the car window.

‘Kill me,’ the lady said.

My ears pulsed and my heart hammered against the wall of my chest.

            ‘Go on, run me over,’ the lady slurred with a haunting laugh as she tried to steady herself on my car-door handle.  I glanced at my younger brothers, both alert and silent; we all knew something big was happening.

            Mum was clear and direct, ‘No, I don’t want to kill you,’ she was talking with her kind voice.

The lady looked at the ground and as I stared through my window, I noticed a faint water line trailing down her brown cheeks. Bewildered intrigue and a vague sadness began overtaking my fear. This bizarre, pretty lady with long eyelashes and too tight jeans, wanted to die. ‘But what about her dog?’ I worried internally, watching the creature beside her. 

A car horn blasted nearby and the lady became distracted by men yelling words I didn’t understand, but knew were bad. The lights became green and we drove away.

‘Why did she say that?’ my brother Kim asked.

‘She must be very sad,’ Mum’s voice cracked as she answered. Kim snapped the clasp open and shut on his grey school bag. We’d argued about who got to ride shotgun next to Mum, but he’d won out this time. I could see his confused, six year-old brain trying to make sense of it all.

‘Was she Aborignal?’ he continued.

‘Yes’ Mum said.

Out on the Hume highway, midday sun blazed like a branding iron, sinking its rays deep into my pale, freckled skin. I reached into the glove box and then smeared greasy coconut scented sun-cream across my face.

‘Do you remember that awful zinc-cream we used to wear at primary school?’ Rose asked.

 ‘Yeah, I loved that stuff, we called it warrior paint, but my mum would crack her shit at me for getting it on my uniform,’ Ann countered.

Thinking back to primary school, it struck me that I couldn’t remember Aboriginal land rights ever being taught there, just lots of lessons about pioneers panning for gold; Ned Kelly and his bandit gang; Captain Cook setting sail from Whitby; scurvy for sailors and convicts; world war one ANZACS who’d fought at Gallipoli —

‘Hey Rach, last time we drove this far must have been Nottingham to Germany,’ Bill said, jolting me back out of my thoughts.

            ‘God—yeah— only a year ago,’ I replied.

I couldn’t believe how much had changed from this time last year; Bill and I were now married, we’d moved country, set up a performing arts company and our previous lives in England seemed so very distant—in the dreaming.

             ‘I loved backpacking in Europe’ said Rose.

            ‘DOG-ON-A-TUCKER-BOX,’ Ann pointed at the lay-by sign and we joined her whoops with Mad Max style high pitched hysteria.

The Dog On The Tucker-Box turned out to be an underwhelming bronze statue of a dog poised patiently on a green tin lunchbox, mounted on a plinth outside the road-stop café. After urgent trips to the loo, we re-grouped at a small picnic table. Rose sipped coffee, reading aloud from the tourist information leaflet she’d found inside. Ann lolled next to her, puffing a roll-up ciggie. Her shoulders seemed inches lower than they had been in the car.

            ‘When cattle drovers got stuck on rough terrain, they had to leave their possessions while they went for help, so their dogs stayed behind to guard everything.’ Rose paused, nearly spitting her drink out as she read the next section. ‘Oh this is hilarious, in one really old version of the story, the dog shat on the tucker-box—but a poet in the 1920’s thought that was too crude, so amended it to sat.’

            ‘I guess there’s always another side to any story,’ I said.

**********

Here is my song version of the incident with lady in the road.  

Here is Patti Smith singing Midnight Oil's Bed's are Burning (what a brilliant combination- I will write more on Patti soon)

Here is a link to Warakurna from the Diesel and Dust album by Midnight Oil

Borderlines: Remembering Rob

I began a Creative Writing module with OU last year- that I completed yesterday. I loved it all and am sad that it's finished, but looking forward to returning to an Advanced Creative Writing module after my next module this October, that explores the nature and construction of stories (which I know I'm also going to really enjoy).

The creative writing module covered poetry, fiction and life writing and many of the exercises used to spark the writing, involved delving into memory.

The piece below is an extract from a larger segment of memoir that I wrote during the course.

It focusses on a moment when my friend Rob, was very ill in the final weeks of his life... I was moved by how vividly I recalled the scene. Today is the 14th anniversary of his death and so I felt it would be a good day to share a little of that piece.

Beneath the story I will also post some songs that Bill and I have written over the years, about our time with Rob.

Borderlines

Rob lay stretched out on a sun lounger in the tiny yard outside his house.  Birdsong cut through intermittent traffic noise of the surrounding streets while bees hummed around the little white and yellow flowers that spilled over their terracotta pots and hanging baskets. Spring had truly arrived that day and the April sun was hotter than expected, especially there in that little patio garden.

We didn’t talk. Every now and then I heard snuffles and grunts coming from beneath Rob’s old straw sun hat, as he sipped water through a straw. I sat upright on a wooden garden chair and let my mind wander, meandering over the past seven years and the strange reality of the moment, babysitting this man—my friend—who was in his early forties, juxtaposed with the beauty of spring and all its promise of new life.

In the sun-lit yard, Rob turned to me,

‘Too hot, need to go in now,’ he rasped.

I watched sweat trickle down his cheek. He was so tired those days, he didn’t fill his sentences with anything other than bare essentials of need; a writer whose love of language was seemingly eroding at the same pace as cells beneath his yellow tinged skin. Once so alert and attentive, asking questions and constantly trying to download multiple ideas that came cascading out of him as poetry and prose, commentary and argument, sometimes all at once. His poetry and prose that had taken us across America and the UK, to festivals and theatres and makeshift stages in unlikely places.

I nodded in agreement and helped him stand. He shuffled slowly towards the door, leaning on my arm. We paused at the step. I’d never noticed quite what a distance it was between ground and house. Rob made several attempts to raise his legs but he couldn’t do it. He had no strength. We stayed there for a moment, stuck in the garden, as my brain lurched into problem solving overdrive. I leaned down to try and help lift his legs, but that wasn’t going to work either, he couldn’t comfortably lean on me and I might unknowingly injure him by trying to move his muscles. Panic set in as my mind conjured different scenarios of us being stranded outside of the house for hours. Maybe I could set up a big shaded area, bring out ice and cold flannels to keep him cool? I had an unhelpful a desire to giggle at the surreal image of myself deftly trying to construct a temporary shelter—like the outdoor dens I had once built with Rob’s young son, Lukas. No. He needed to be indoors, back on the sofa. 

‘Rob, I’ll carry you,’ I said.

He bobbed his head just enough to indicate his agreement and I reached down and scooped him into my arms, as gently as I could, one arm around his waist, the other under his knees, shocked at how effortless it was. He was so light.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been with him on the threshold between life and death. In some ways it wasn’t the first time I’d carried him either, though I had not been alone; his wife Sandra and their son Lukas; my husband Bill; we’d all carried Rob in different ways. Five years previously we’d carried him daily, crossing the border between San Diego, America and Tijuana Mexico, as cancer had gnawed deep into his bones. Then two years after Mexico, with unprecedented full remission, Bill and I had carried him through multiple tours and performances across the UK and America. Now here we were again, existing in a moment where the borderline between Rob’s life and death, had grown very thin.

Stepping into the conservatory, I lowered Rob onto the sofa bed as gently as I could and watched as he drifted in and out of sleep, pondering the way our lives form narrative. Life doesn’t always resemble a linear construct, more often than not it seems to pass in waves, ebbs and flow of connection within time, but sometimes these connections lead to a complete lived out story, with a beginning, middle and end.

We’d first met Rob at a festival. My husband Bill and I visiting Britain from Australia, had caught Rob, performing an energetic one-man show. Most impressed, we’d chatted with him afterwards. It was the moment that became a prelude to our story. Two years later, living back in the UK, Bill and I would find ourselves on tour with Rob and his wife Sandra­­—also a performer, as our story with them began in earnest.

The show was called Grey Daze, a futuristic sci-fi allegory of love and redemption. During the show Sandra as ‘Em’ would scoop a dead Rob as ‘Joss’ into her arms and carry him across the stage. In time this would become a two edged allegory, a symbolic enactment of all that was to come in their lives together. I always marveled at the physical strength Sandra had throughout that scene, a strength that would be matched by her own determined emotional courage, carrying her husband and partner throughout all of his illness.

How far we’d all travelled. How far we’d all come.

My contemplations paused when I heard the car pulling up outside, as Sandra, her mother Analisse, five year old Lukas and newborn baby Lena, just one week old, all arrived home from a shopping trip to the Mothercare outlet.  Sandra entered the kitchen space all strength and smiles, but I could see her anxiety in her posture. As a professional dancer, Sandra always held herself with elegance and poise, but right now her tense raised shoulders signaled all that she was carrying; far too much weight of worry and sorrow for one person to hold.

‘Thanks Rachel,’ she said, placing tiny, baby Lena, into her bassinet next to Rob. Here was that juxtaposition again, all hope and beauty and promise of new life, lying curled up and sleeping, next to her dying father.

I helped Sandra to unpack her bags, while my mind sifted through myriad thoughts, arriving jumbled and incomplete, mostly flashes of our life lived on the road. I saw the car that we’d travelled in, when Rob, Sandra, Bill and I toured the breadth of the UK with shows. I saw us at midnight under a pitch black sky, disconnecting the trailer that held all our theatre equipment, trying not to trip as we fumbled in the dark— one of us holding a torch and the rest of us heaving the trailer off the back of the car… I saw crystalline icicles hanging from snow-laden pine forests, in Sandra’s hometown, Ludwigstadt, where we’d visited after Rob’s dramatic recovery... I saw baby Lukas on my knee, in a shuttle-bus in Mexico…  I saw stages— in halls— and theatres— and festivals. I saw audiences; vast crowds of tens of thousands and rooms holding less than fifty… And I saw myself. So many versions of me; laughing, arguing, crying, succeeding, failing, loving, surviving…

Two weeks later on the first of May, Bill and I sang the song By and By. It was a song that Bill had written in the transit lounge at Chicago Airport, on his way to join Rob, Sandra, Lukas and I, in Mexico... We knew as we sang it we were saying goodbye. 

At that same moment Rob was crossing his final border.

Lock Down 2020

Some Lockdown thoughts and staying creative…

During this time, Bill and I are trying our best to stay creative- both of us find it helps us to be distracted and have a focus. Like so many right now who work in the arts the future is completely unknown. The projects and tours that we had planned in our diaries are either indefinitely postponed or cancelled. We’re looking at logistics of moving some projects online and I will be doing my first live stream gig in the next few weeks- once I’ve finished my final creative writing assignment for my current OU module.

In some ways the experience of being housebound for the best part of a year after my accident in 2012, has really helped my psyche with this lockdown. In the first few days and weeks of lock down when we were in complete self isolation (due to mild coughs and temperature symptoms)  I was struck with a strange sense of familiarity or deja vu... Eventually I pinned it down to the fact that I’d already lived through an experience of house-bound isolation as well as having my social life and work life suddenly snatched away indefinitely, by circumstances out of my control.

During that first time round, I learned that after the initial shock from change of momentum, things do eventually settle into a new rhythm. I also learned back then that there are good days and also very tough days when the loss and grief of what has been, hits big time.

Of course there are many differences this time round, reality has changed for everyone and the loss around us is so vast and far-reaching. 

The other thing I've realised is that all the moving I’d done as a child, has given me a sort of resilience to the experience of my world suddenly becoming streamlined to only immediate family. The international moves between Australia and the UK meant being cut off from all of the people, places and life I’d known. This scenario happened an awful lot when I was growing up- moving home, schools, countries meant that fairly regularly I was in a position of having to adapt and rely on my own company for a time as we lived in limbo rebuilding and resettling…  It’s something that has shaped me for better and for worse, but in this particular lockdown phase I recognise that it may well have been a foundation that strengthens my reserves to some degree to help deal with the likes of this situation. ( Most likely this is a perspective written from one of the 'good days' and I would not view it quite like this on one of the tougher days?!) 

Anyway enough introspection… a little always helps, too much and I will end up down the rabbit hole…

In the meantime here are some of the creative things that I’ve been involved in since March.

Bill and I are making various musical and video collaborations as Sir Silence and Lady Hush- which can be seen on The Lady Hush racheltaylor-beales.com/lady-hush page on my website 

I signed up to the Positive Songs Project positivesongsproject.org and last week Bill and I managed to co-write a track called Chemistry that has gone live today... 

And finally... my new painting titled Faraway...

Really glad to have captured this moment on canvas- it was the last time we were out before lockdown, in a cafe on Bill's birthday, my daughter lost in the world of the Magic Faraway Tree... 

For me painting reminds me of the way people describe 'mindfulness'. My focus becomes only the moment of what I am seeing and the particular colour or form I am making. I become absorbed into the tiniest of details and the rest of the world is pushed back during that time.

It has been such a lovely thing to reconnect with painting again in the last two years. Touring life took up so much of my time and energy previously (prior to injury bringing that sudden halt to my life on the road) painting was always left on the back burner and I found that I just wasn't making space or time for it.

I'm loving rediscovering how to draw and paint again. Looking forward to my starting my next portrait, of my friend Helen soon.

So signing off for now and hoping you all stay well and safe... looking forward to seeing so many of you in person again... on the other side! 

Stone's Throw Show, opening on World Mental Health Day 2019

Today October 10th 2019 is World Mental Health Awareness Day and I deliberately chose this date to open my new show Stone's Throw, Lament of The Selkie. 

The show is about many things- it's semi autobiographical- touching on my own experience of trauma and symptoms of PTSD-  it's rooted in folklore, myth and the stories of outsiders, it's peppered with real life verbatim recordings from women in Wales and across the world who contributed their thoughts on identity and experiences of motherhood- its a show that celebrates the power of art to challenge and help to heal, but ultimately it is a show about stories... 

There is something so profoundly stirring and deeply humanising in the connections we make through stories.  As a singer songwriter, I’ve been sharing stories through song for over 20 years, but this is my debut (as a writer and performer) in Gig-Theatre. In 2017, I wrote a 10 part blog series exploring my experiences of injury, birth trauma and post-partum health issues. I was both moved and intrigued when I began to receive messages from women who had resonated with my experiences and wanted to share their own stories with me. It was these responses that spurred me to create this show. Birth trauma and post partum health issues are too often the stories that go untold, still often regarded as taboo. I had already touched on many of these themes in my 2015 Stone’s Throw, Lament of the Selkie, album release, but felt that there was still so much that I could do to, reach further into these ideas. Having anchored the initial narrative in autobiography, the medium of theatre has enabled me to expand my own story, blurring fiction and reality in order to create a space to give voice to diverse yet often untold stories that women experience.

For more info on the show and to book tickets please visit:

 https://www.racheltaylor-beales.com/news-1

The Story Behind The Stone's Throw Show

I’ve been invited by the venues that I'm touring to this October to write a little about the back-story behind my new show, Stone’s Throw, Lament Of the Selkie. Having been a full time singer songwriter and touring artist over the last 20 years, this is my first venture into the world of theatre and I am thrilled to have received support of Arts Council Wales in order to make the piece. This is the full unedited version of the copy that I have sent out to venues. 

The back-story behind, Stone’s Throw, Lament Of The Selkie.

The idea of a collaborative storytelling piece focusing on a retelling of selkie mythology first occurred way back in 2011, when composer Gillian Stevens introduced me to the folklore tales of these shape-shifting seal folk. But this project was to be short lived as a few months later I was immobile and house bound, having sustained injuries to my hip and back after falling from stage while on tour in rural Italy. The fall was traumatic in itself, but what compounded it all was the fact that I was also 24 weeks pregnant when this happened.

My tour colleague Dylan Fowler told me that he’ll never forget the sound body made as it smacked the ground- it was stone-marble flooring…I felt pins and needles up and down my spine. Fortunately my baby was unharmed, I’d twisted so I landed on my hip and back, not my bump… but the accident left me very damaged. The Drs suspected that I had a hairline fracture on my hip- and my muscles locked in spasms leaving me with severely limited mobility for the duration of my pregnancy and beyond. This fall had a domino effect…the first of several waves of trauma that occurred over the following months that led to severe birth complications and postpartum health issues and in the end it me took years to recover. There was a time when my muscles were so atrophied that I could barely hold a note in tune- and my back would begin to spasm after holding a guitar for 30 seconds and I wondered if I’d ever be able to tour and play music again. And here’s where the selkie’s come in... During this time I began to revisit the folklore myths and found myself resonating with many of the themes that lay within these ancient tales. A selkie finding herself trapped on land in human form unable to return to her seal state of being, struck a chord with my own sense of being trapped by the limitations of my broken body… Slowly I began to write my 4^th solo album- a process that took a further 3 years to complete and alongside this I continued to work at my own physical and mental recovery. Lucy Rivers played violin on the album and at this time we began to discuss performing the songs in a more theatrical way.

Then one evening in 2017 I found myself writing- 10,000 words, the full story of all the events of my unravelling. Tentatively I shared the sections as a blog posts and was met with an unprecedented response from women who resonated with my story. I began to receive messages from women from around the world, sharing their own stories with me. I began to perceive that there was a need for these stories to be given a public platform as the subject of birth trauma is rarely explored on stage and is still often seen as a taboo subject. So, last year 2018 teamed I up with Lucy Rivers for a research and development project to explore merging my own experiences with the a contemporary retelling of selkie myths. Alongside this I invited women to send me their own stories relating to birth and identity. The research and development project went well- positive responses from both venue bookers and all who engaged in the project. In response to this I set to work at applying for the next round of funding to make the show. The funding bid, was rejected. I was gutted- the comments from the funders were very positive however ( even though the project was rejected) and so despite disappointments and the massive amount of work and time that would be required to   submit again, I pragmatically decided to have another push at the same funding... and am thrilled that this time I was successful. So now this autumn 2019, we are finally making the full-length show… 

Below are some recent shots and videos of rehearsals with Lucy Rivers. 

Directed by Louise Osborn and featuring myself and actor-musician Lucy Rivers, the performance combines music, songs, spoken-word and storytelling against a backdrop of large-scale visual projections and bespoke verbatim recordings of women’s birth stories and broader thoughts on identity. The show is an intimate, stirring, but ultimately uplifting exploration of the ongoing process of rebuilding after an experience of trauma.

  

Tour Dates

October 10^th 2019, Stwidio Stepni, Ffwrnes, Llanelli

October 11^th 2019, Seligman Theatre- Chapter, Cardiff

October 12^th 2019, Seligman Theatre- Chapter, Cardiff (AD and touch tour available for this performance)

October 16^th Span Arts @- Ysgol Caerelen- Haverford West

February 5^th 2020, The Welfare, Ystradgynlais

(additional dates now being added for 2020)

For more information please visit www.racheltaylor-beales.com