A Year in Review - in between and around the edges

I recently wrote blogposts celebrating both my jobs (at Stories and at Birch) by sharing their respective annual reports. To say 'both my jobs' is of course a bit of an oversimplification. It would be fair to say that my work is so much more than a job: it is a vocation, and a way of life. It fills a large proportion of both my time and my headspace. It is where I expend much of my energy and is the source of much of my joy. It gives me much of my sense of community and belonging, and is the source of many of my most precious friendships. There are significant blurred boundaries between what might be called work and what might not. Despite the challenges that presents, I would not want it any other way.

But for all that, it is still not all of what I do and who I am. This year I have made a concerted effort to restore a bit of balance. There is obviously no annual report to reflect 'all the other stuff', but I figured there could still be a blogpost on the subject, and while early November isn't, perhaps, the most standard 'year end' at which to look back, it'll do.

It is no secret that, for all its flaws and failings, I love Birmingham, the place I call home. I love its rich diversity and constant busy-ness. That doesn't change the fact that I have also learned to value opportunities to get away: even for a few hours, but ideally for a few days. This year's trips have taken me to opposite ends of the country with a trip to Dorchester and Weymouth in March with my mum, and then to Staithes, North Yorkshire in September with my mum and sister. Between the two, I had a week on the North Coast of Wales in June with some of my closest friends including three high-energy children, and a few somewhat more sedate days with my aunt and uncle in York in August. Greenbelt has already had it's own separate post, and Pilgrim Cross, which I walked again in Holy Week, probably should have done too. There have been weekend breaks and days out in the mix too. Each of these trips has been different, each in their own way has provided space to step away from my everyday, and each has had great value. And at the end of them I have come back: to a house and a city that feels like a home, a privilege I also know not to take for granted.

I have done plenty of walking, and while the purpose is often, but not always, to get from A to B, it is also something I consciously enjoy. I have walked on city streets and in hidden corners of beauty, as well as out in the countryside; I have walked beneath bright sunshine, pouring rain, and dark night skies; I have walked both with others and alone. Having walking as one of my main modes of transport remains an important safety valve in not overfilling my days and regularly getting both some fresh air and some exercise. I have been out on my bike, at least a few times, though not perhaps as often as I should. I even went running, just the once, taking part in the Birmingham Unity 5k, which I enjoyed more than I had perhaps anticipated. I think its unlikely I'll take it up regularly, but you never know!

Friends and family continue to play a hugely significant role in bringing me joy and keeping me sane. More than any other area of life, this is the point of overlap between "work" and "other" as so many of those who make up my communities, friendships and chosen family overlap with those I support through my work. I wrote a post earlier in the year about the balancing act of maintaining the many relationships that really matter to me and while I will never, probably, always get it right, I am incredibly grateful to the very many different people who in all sorts of ways immeasurably enrich my life. I am grateful for the fact that I get to be part of genuinely multi-cultural and multi-generational communities: that I share life with people of all ages, from all over the world. I am grateful for those I see frequently and those I don't get the chance to catch up with often; those I have known almost for ever and those who have walked into my life more recently; those I have eaten delicious food with, had good conversations with, shared adventures with, drunk cups of tea with, sat around in my pyjamas with; those who have shared my highs and lows, who I know I can cry and can laugh with, those I know will be there with and for me.

My pottery journey has been well documented on my blog over the past year, and while it probably therefore doesn't need more words here, it has certainly been a really positive addition to my quest for self-care. There have been other bits of arts and crafts too, though not perhaps as much as I sometimes wish. I have already, two months out from the end of the year, written more blog posts than in 2025, and there have been a few other bits and pieces of writing as well. I know that I value creativity as a way to process, reflect and relax and I am continuing to work on ways of building it into my life, with varying degrees of success.

I am continuing to wrestle with the place of church and prayer and faith in my life, and am not satisfied I have currently got it quite right. I would describe my church attendance as sporadic at best: and while I am glad to have made a loose connection with my local church, I am unconvinced that increasing its regularity would give me what I am looking for. For many years, at Carrs Lane and before, I was committed to a routine of daily prayer, and while I have made sporadic attempts since moving on, I don't feel I have really found a sustainable way to put it back into the rhythm of my days. Our regular zoom bible study which I had participated in weekly (and towards the end monthly) for several years has now come to an end and while it felt right to draw that chapter to a close, I haven't found anything to replace it. It is many years since I have experienced 'retreat' in quite the way trips to Taize used to offer it in earlier times. There are, certainly, plenty of snippets of reflection in my life, but I am conscious of an ongoing search too.

Something I have learned about building in balance is that while it is sometimes about the big decisions, it is more often about the tiny things. My doodle a day and haiku a day challenges earlier in the year recognised that and were part of trying to build positive creative habits. With that in mind, I recently put together a list of "everyday tasks": things I would aspire to do each day; things I know, ideally, I want as part of my routine. 

• Connect with a friend (or family)
• Eat something healthy
• Go outside, even when it rains
• Do something creative, however small
• Complete one task, and tick it off a list
• Tidy or clean one thing, even when it feels like a drop in the ocean
• Have (intentional) time away from screens

There's a copy of the list in the front of my notebook, and another on the wall by my desk. I haven't done them all every day; but it was never intended to be about adding more pressure or feeling guilty for the days I don't: and it has acted as a helpful prompt to do many of them, most days. 

There is probably plenty more to say, but this post is also probably plenty long enough already, so that'll do. 

A Year in Review - Birch Network

Another blogpost, another annual report. I can take far less credit (ie precisely none) for producing this one, but it does share and celebrate some of what I do with my time and is well worth sharing here. It includes people and stories which mean a lot to me. It is a reminder that while there are loud voices who wants us to think otherwise, there is so much goodness and compassion and humanity in our communities.

Birch Network Annual Report

Again, the report relates to a time period which is now well in the past: and this year, at Birch, the time it refers to feels even more distant, because the months since have been a time of turbulence and transition.

In some ways, my Birch role has always been one which has changed and developed throughout the time I have been doing it. I joined the staff team at Birch in January 2020 ... which turned out, little did we know it at the time, to be a rather interesting time to start a new job. The fact that my role soon looked very different to the one I'd been appointed for set the tone for all that was to follow. One of the things I most love and value about Birch is its ability and willingness to adapt and respond to shifting circumstances. I am proud that as an organisation, as a team of staff, volunteers and trustees, time and time again we have found the will and the capacity to pivot to meet changing needs, to fill the gaps, sometimes at a moments notice. 

This year, though, for me at least, and my own place within the Birch team, that has felt more true than ever. In the spring, the closure of the hotel where I had offered support to women and families was announced. I had started visiting within weeks of its opening back in autumn 2022, prior to which there had been other families, in other hotels. And while in many ways everything: the context, and the support, and the people, had changed: I knew where to be.   

With the closure of this hotel, there is currently no large scale initial / contingency accommodation for asylum-seeking women or families in Birmingham. For the record ... the hotel (and the ones which preceded it) were never suitable accommodation, never an easy or the right place for any of those I met there to have to live, often for months and sometimes even years on end. I am absolutely in favour of the closure of asylum hotels which benefit nobody, except the share holders profiting from them and the far right making political capital.

Nonetheless I have to acknowledge there was, to an extent, a grieving process when it closed. There was the rupturing of relationships of trust which had taken time and energy to build. There was the letting go of a role which I had made my own and which, despite the times I came away feeling I'd done nothing useful, deep down I knew mattered. There was a saying goodbye to people, and to a part of my purpose.

At the same time it was an opportunity to revisit and rebalance. I was at a point where, one way or another 'more of the same' wasn't really a viable option. It was undoubtedly a blessing that I was forced to reflect, take stock and make some decisions in a way I might have struggled to do without a significant external prompt. Recognising it as a blessing doesn't mean it has been easy. 

The intervening months have included some time to rest and recover and reflect and regroup. They have also involved a fair amount of doubt and uncertainty, asking difficult questions and facing hard choices. 

I, we, have wrestled at length with the "what next?" and while there has been plenty of angst and a fair few tears, I have remained incredibly appreciative throughout for all the support and encouragement I have received, and the ways in which I have felt held by the wider Birch team over the past months. I know that is not something to take for granted. 

And now we are here. I have changed my hours of work across my jobs to, hopefully, build in a bit more wiggle room and a bit more healthy balance. A brand new Birch project is in the offing in the very near future. Watch this space!

A Year in Review - Stories of Hope and Home

This post is really just an excuse to share the Stories of Hope and Home Annual report, which contains enough words to mean that I probably don't need to write many more here. 

A couple of sessions with the Stories participants earlier in the year provided much of the structure for what they felt it was to include and many of the words are drawn from the evaluations completed by both them and the schools we have visited. It attempts, imperfectly, to sum up some of what we do and who we are, and as such offers at least some insights into what I do with my time and energy.

Obviously, like all annual reports, by the time it hit publication, it was already significantly out of date: so while the title of 'a year in review' is accurate that year did end in March, and needless to say, much has also happened in the half a year since, but those are stories for another day. 

Stories of Hope and Home Annual Report

Special shout out has to go to my friend and colleague Rebecca ... check out pages 8 and 9 for her wonderful contribution. Not only is it beautiful in its own right, but what makes it more impressive is that I had an idea for 'something a bit like that' late at night on the Friday before my deadline for sending to print was Monday ... its inclusion, then, is testament not only to her talent but also to her willingness to respond to my whims at a moments notice. I am immensely grateful for all she brings to Stories of Hope and Home, and to me.

Finding hope in a field

Over August bank holiday weekend, for the first time since before the pandemic, I headed to Greenbelt Festival. It is a place I have been often over the years, though not for a while. The world, and my own life, have changed significantly in the interim.

Over numerous return visits, it has given me many different things. It has been a place where I have heard amazing speakers who have opened my eyes, expanded my knowledge, added depth to my understanding, and left me asking important questions (in a good way). It has been a place where I have caught up with many friends, where I have had good conversations, and where I have sensed that I am surrounded by other people who care passionately and deeply about important issues. It was the place I learned that hot water bottles can transform the experience of camping; and that there is something sublime about Christmas carols, belted out with abandon, under bright blue summer skies. It has been a place of not shying away from the big topics: of facing up to the harsh realities of the darkness in the world but still holding on to belief in the light. It has been a place where I have found hope. 

When the opportunity came up to return this year, all of that suggests I'd have immediately jumped at the chance, but in reality the decision was a little more complex, and in the last couple of days before I set off, when I felt both more tired than I wanted to and somewhat overwhelmed by all the things still on my jobs list which I had convinced myself I'd have ticked off before September rolled around, I did find myself questioning whether it was really what I needed. The forecast of more-or-less solid rain for the duration possibly didn't help my motivation! Despite my hesitations, I knew I'd regret it more if I didn't go than if I did, and that I'd undoubtedly enjoy it once I got there. 

When we arrived amid incessant rain, I was immensely grateful (and yes, possibly slightly smug) that my nephew had already set our tents up. My sense of gratitude to those I shared the weekend extended far beyond just that: I appreciated having a motorhome to sit in when the rain came back, I appreciated that other people did a lot of the thinking, planning and organising of the practicalities; above all, I appreciated the quality time spent together, the conversations, the laughter and the care, the maintaining and building of relationships.

There were plenty of other things to be grateful for too: the weather turned out to be much better than the forecast had threatened, and while there were some significant downpours, there were also long swathes of time bathed in warm sunshine. I suspect there were people for whom the lack of WiFi couple with the terrible mobile signal and limited charging possibilities felt like a negative, but to be honest, I embraced it as a gift. (Needless to say, in the fortnight since, I have failed to stick to my resolution of cutting down on screen and scrolling time.)

Before setting off, I made a conscious decision to give myself permission to do what I termed, in my own mind 'Greenbelt light'. 

Often I have prioritised the intellectual input that Greenbelt has to offer, embracing the privilege of hearing speakers I would have few other opportunities to encounter, filling every possible moment with all the content and conversation available. Sometimes that has been exactly what I have needed, and I have soaked in the inspiration like a sponge, coming away reinvigorated and ready.  

This year I knew I needed something different. I went to a handful of talks, some carefully selected, some more because that's just where I happened to be; but there was also lots of undoubtedly excellent and important input that I opted not to engage with. Instead I allowed music and poetry to wash over me; I sang songs, and played with words; I spent time chatting, and playing card games, and eating together, and sharing laughter; and one afternoon when I was already damp and the rain showed no sign of abating, I spent a couple of hours in my tent doing really very little, and that was ok too.

My ways of engaging may have been a little different, but my overall experience was the same. By the time we left, in more ways than one, there'd been enough rain for the parched grass to be beginning to turn back to green. I was reminded, again, that hope is renewed not by denying that our world is deeply flawed, and that people and our planet face immense, seemingly insurmountable challenges; but by engaging with all of that messy reality and finding that there is still potential and possibility. I was reminded, again, that we can only do that together. 

Thank you, Greenbelt, you did it again! 

It's not a competition

This blogpost was prompted by an interaction I was on the edge of recently. I came away wishing I'd found the right words to challenge the speaker at the time: I didn't, but I have been reflecting since on what made me feel so uncomfortable and what I wish I'd been able to communicate. And while I probably won't share it with the person concerned, who is not someone I really know, for what it's worth, I'm sharing it here.

In the conversation a member of Christian clergy was inviting someone, who they were meeting for the first time, to attend church. Fine, I don't have a problem with that, especially as the person they were talking to was expressing interest in a conversation about faith. The invitation included sharing what they valued about their own church. Also fine. 

But they continued by actively denigrating another denomination. Absolutely not fine. For all they knew, the person they were speaking to, or any of the other people within earshot might have been deeply committed members of the denomination they chose to insult and might have been deeply hurt by the comments; but even if not, there was no justifiable reason or need to use criticism of another group as a way to celebrate their own.

As someone who has spent much of my adult life trying to engage in ecumenical and interfaith settings in ways which have been at times painful, but which have been about seeking common ground and celebrating difference in healthy ways, I found the throwaway dismissal of an entire swathe of people who share the same faith but express it differently to be deeply problematic.

On further reflection, though, this overheard conversation was symptomatic of something that is so much bigger than just the church, and the Christian failure to live out the commandment to "be one." 

It reminded me of one of the core ways I think we have gone wrong as a society: that we have somehow learned that celebrating ourselves, individually and collectively, relies on criticising or condemning others. 

Too often, as we seek to celebrate what we value about our own communities, we do so by some sort of compare and contrast with another. We resort to we are ‘this’ because we are not ‘that’, and we celebrate the ‘this’ because it is superior to the ‘that’. 

And if religion / faith is one space in which this attitude is so often apparent, it is far from the only example. My work life in the migration sector is, obviously, littered with examples. But they aren't the only ones either. Othering has become (or perhaps has always been) so deeply ingrained in the way society works that we often barely even notice it. It seems to pervade the ways almost every community interacts with others. This conversation was a case in point: I don’t think this person was deliberately setting out to insult another group, they just hadn’t paused to reflect on how their words were so reliant on criticising someone else. This competitive us versus them rhetoric is so embedded as to be entirely natural to a point where we don’t even identify it as problematic. 

Despite being expressed as derision or dismissal, it is often, in my opinion, more likely to be the result of ignorance and fear than of intentional, thought-out malice. I also suspect that despite surface level appearances to the contrary, it does not, in reality come from any deep-seated sense of self worth either. In my experience, those who are most confident and secure in their own identities, as individuals and communities, are in fact those least likely to need to vaunt their superiority over others. And I worry that this combination of fear and fragility risks being extremely toxic in the ways we relate to each other, individually and collectively.

It is to my mind, the antithesis of what the gospel calls us to: the building of diverse, inclusive communities where all are recognised and celebrated as beloved children of God, each with their individual stories and unique identities.

Don’t get me wrong, I think celebrating what we love and value about ourselves is entirely valid, perhaps even essential. I don’t really believe pride, in that sense, is necessarily inherently a deadly sin. I also think there are of course times and spaces when questioning or challenging others around their beliefs or practices is entirely justified. I just don’t believe that our celebration of self has to rely on contrasting or criticising the other. 

I also know that I am far from perfect on this score. I know I have also fallen into the temptation of believing and expressing that my / our version is good because it is not theirs. 

But I’m trying. I’m trying to live in ways which celebrate what I love about myself and what I love about the various different communities I belong to, and to do so because of their inherent worth or value in and of themselves, not in some imagined competition with another. I hope that, little by little, we can all find more ways to learn and to communicate, individual and collectively, that celebrating ourselves and valuing others are not mutually exclusive.

Back at the potter’s wheel, again

My second pottery course came to an end just before Easter and, compared to when I started out I can see a marked progression … I have made things which would have felt like a distant dream when I started out. I am genuinely very proud of what I’ve made, especially my little elephant teapot which was a labour of love over several weeks. It may be far too small for the quantity of tea I like to drink but it is testament to my developing skills, control and confidence in what I am able to create. 

I am proud of something else about this pottery journey too: that I have continued to commit to it, to invest this time and money, just for me. The last few weeks, or maybe months, have not always been easy. For those who know me well, it goes without saying that there has of course been much joy and that overall my life feels rich and fulfilled. But the world has been a lot, and many of the people who make up my communities have been subject to a relentless barrage of uncertainty, hostility or both. My workload, but more significantly the emotional load I carry with those I journey alongside, has taken its toll. The fact that there has been plenty of laughter does not negate the fact that there have also been tears. I have felt closer to burnout than has been healthy, and while I think I have stepped back from the brink, again, I am aware of an increased fragility that has become part of my reality. Hard though I find it to admit, I know that I need to take self-care more seriously.  

And so, despite telling myself that I probably wouldn’t continue through the summer, I am back in the pottery studio. Partly it is because I am genuinely really enjoying it and am keen to continue building on my developing skills. But another reason is that I know myself well-enough to know that whatever I tell myself in theory, I won’t find it easy to set aside this very important ‘me time’, unless it is very firmly in the diary. 

There may be a full-sized teapot to report on soon!

The beauty and challenge of an ever-widening circle

One of the things that most enriches my life is the breadth and diversity of the communities of which I am privileged to be a part and the friendships I am privileged to enjoy. I love the fact that my life is such that I am constantly meeting new people, making new friends. I love the fact, too, that I still have friends in my life who have known me for many years. There are so many people who make my life infinitely better by their presence in it, whether they realise it or not: hopefully there are plenty who would say the same about my presence in theirs. It is, in large part, what has made Birmingham feel like home, although friends and family dispersed across the country remain important to me too. I have made no secret of this, and it is something that many a post here has celebrated. It remains true, and there is little I would change. 

But. There's always a but. So taking as read all the beautiful ways in which the many relationships I hold and am held by enrich my life, this post takes on that "but", which I have found myself wrestling with recently. 

With so many amazing different people in my life, so many relationships I deeply cherish, I feel like I am constantly juggling competing responsibilities, and at least recently, feeling like in many cases I am not quite getting it right. There are too many messages I have neglected to reply to for too long, too many conversations that have been squeezed and not given the time and energy they need or deserve, too many people I have failed to catch up or check in with as often as I would like, ... 

I know, of course, that not every relationship needs or expects the same level of commitment, and some are easier to maintain than others for a whole host of different reasons. I know that relationships shift and change over time, and that there are seasons in which different relationships, for different reasons, come to the fore. I know that when spending more time and energy with some people, it means doing less so with others is inevitable. I know that when you have as many people in your life as I do, a level of challenge as you hold them in balance is a price well worth paying. Knowing all that doesn't change my nagging sense that right now, things are not entirely as I would like them to be, and that there are too many people I feel like I have failed over recent months. 

No part of me wants to imply that these many relationships are costly in a negative way, or that I do not receive anything in return. They are not, and I very definitely do. But to make them work, and make them meaningful, relationships do demand something, do have a cost, from both / all sides. Acknowledging that relationships require effort isn't about implying they are a burden, on the contrary, it is an indication of their importance and value: most things that are worthwhile ask something of us. 

Relationships of all kinds need and deserve communication, time and energy: of all of which I, like everybody else, have finite, and variable, reserves. I am an extrovert. No-one who knows me could doubt how much I love, value and draw energy from time shared with others: but maintaining relationships is not, nor should it be, entirely effortless. 

Most of this sense that I am not quite getting things right is coming from within myself. And although it has been exacerbated by a few comments, some genuinely heartfelt, at least in the moment, others spoken in jest, I know these would not have effected me in the same way if they did not play into my existing internal narrative that somehow, currently, I am to a degree failing some of the people who really matter to me. 

The juggling analogy feels in many ways like an appropriate one. There is, or can be, a rhythm which allows you to maintain multiple balls in the air: when you are in the flow, it all just works (I've never personally actually got beyond three, but I gather it is possible to make it look effortless with many more). But the more balls you have, clearly, the greater the challenge of keeping them going. Even the most proficient jugglers need to put some, or all, of the balls down sometimes, just for a while, and to acknowledge that it is ok to do so. Even the most proficient jugglers drop balls sometimes, and probably shouldn't judge themselves too harshly for it.

Once you start to drop the odd ball here and there, you might be tempted to think that with fewer balls, everything will all seem a bit easier. On the contrary, I find, it sends you off balance and you can end up feeling at risk of dropping them all, especially when you bend down to try and scoop up the ones you've let go. And then there are the balls you don't drop, but only manage to catch by the tips of your fingers, reaching outwards or downwards to save them from crashing to the floor: the more often you have to do that, to break the regular flow to reach out and prevent a tumble, the more energy maintaining the whole thing costs. 

Right now I think some of my balls are very definitely scattered around me on the floor: hopefully they are sturdy enough that they haven't cracked too much on landing. Others I think I am keeping off the ground, but perhaps only just. I would quite like to get all my juggling balls back up and flying in a nice smooth rhythm where they can be caught effortlessly. I suspect, in reality, that never has been and never will be really possible. I suspect I will always be trying to balance competing demands on my time and my energy, trying to balance competing commitments to people and to tasks and to my own wellbeing. I continue to wholeheartedly believe it is well worth the effort!

I am very aware that how I am currently feeling is symptomatic of a wider sense of overwhelm. The fact that we haven't seen much sunshine for a while probably isn't helping either. I still think it is nonetheless a challenge worth reflecting on to ensure I am, in fact, giving the best of myself to all of those who matter to me, that I am doing what I can to ensure that I am sustaining relationships in ways that allow them to be the best they can be for myself and for others: because these many people do really, really matter to me and they are worth it.

Maybe I am writing this partly for anyone who might be reading this who feels I have neglected them, but not really. Primarily I am doing so simply to acknowledge and articulate how I am feeling; and to help me reflect on how I get back closer to where I aspire to be, or if that isn't realistic right now, to reflect on how I sit more comfortably with things as they are.

It's all a grey area

The RomCom "Saved!", set in an American evangelical Christian high school deals with a bunch of teenagers struggling with questions of faith and doubt, of sexuality and relationships, of image and self-worth, of (dis)ability. It is as light and fluffy as most RomComs are, but it deals with, or perhaps more accurately, touches on, some big subjects. 

In one interaction the headteacher says "this is not a grey area" to which his teenage son responds "Dad, it's all a grey area." That phrase "It's all a grey area" comes back to me so often in all sorts of very different contexts. To my mind, that teenager has grasped the essence of human existence and of Christian faith in a way his father has very much failed to, or chosen not to, understand. 

Time and time again, in my own experience, children and young people show a huge a capacity for empathy with those whose experiences differ from their own and an ability to grasp things which adults so often fail or refuse to understand. They are prepared to allow different ideas and perspectives to shift and shape their world view. They are willing to believe that the status quo doesn't have to be immutable. Don't get me wrong, I know young people are just as capable as those of other ages of being intransigent and difficult ... but I am reminded, frequently, by the children and teenagers I meet through my work, that the world would probably be a much better place if we had all managed to preserve a little youthful curiosity, humility and openness. 

In many ways, black and white of course feels much easier. I think it is probably human nature to be drawn towards clear cut lines, towards right and wrong answers, towards the creation of borders and boundaries and definitions. 

Easier but ultimately a lie.

Because the real world just doesn't fit neatly into straight-edged boxes. The real world isn't black and white, it is every shade of grey in between, and every shade of every colour on the spectrum. That is, ultimately, what makes it so beautiful. 

We are, I believe, collectively, at least marginally better than we have been at some points in our history at understanding the concept of spectrum, and paying lip service to it, whether or not we are able to fully embrace it. But we, each, all, individually, collectively, still have a very long way to go.

I started writing this post many months (maybe even a year?) ago, when the high court was asked to rule on the legal definition of gender and did so along purely biological lines. Often, I suppose, we want or need the law to deal in black and white ... but so much, even of issues covered by legality, doesn't sit neatly on that binary. The trans rights issue, which is what that court case was ultimately about, even if some other people who don't fit neatly into boxes were inadvertently effected too, is one such case ... but it is far from the only one. There are plenty of migration stories where the black and white lines of immigration law deny the complexities of individual human experiences, and while that is the area of which I have the closest experience, I am sure others could find similar stories from other domains. So even though the specific moment that prompted me starting this has passed (though the issue has of course not gone away, especially for those living with the daily pain of feeling their reality is not being recognised and valued), it still feels relevant to wrestle this post into shape.   

Whatever the law says or does, I believe our human experience doesn't or shouldn't be dictated by a black and white binary, by an expectation of experiences, situations, relationships or people fitting into neatly defined boxes. And, to my mind, our faith shouldn't either. Almost daily, I am reminded that so many aspects of my life, and I am sure I am not unique in this, don't really fall along binary lines: from what counts as work, to how I define the relationships with the many people who make up my communities, to simply answering the question "How are you?" ... 

It is often those things, experiences and people who don't fit neatly into black and white that give nuance, complexity and beauty to our experiences. But it is often these things, experiences and people that suffer most when we deny the in between spaces and try to put everything and everyone into confined columns. And so it is often those things, experiences and people we need to be attentive to trying to protect: not by squeezing them into an ill-fitting box, not even, I would argue, by creating new boxes, but by allowing and enabling them to exist outside the box altogether. In doing so we give not only "them", but all of "us" permission to exist outside of the boxes, and life will undoubtedly be the richer for it. None of us, I suspect, fit comfortably into boxes all of the time: our identities, our activities, our relationships are all, ultimately, way more complicated. Some more so than others, and some of us are undoubtedly better at (or more willing to put up with the discomfort of) the contortions required to squeeze ourselves into those we don't naturally fit. 

I do appreciate that there are times where boundaries can be useful, and where definitions can help us make sense of the world. But I think we need to hold them lightly, and be willing to acknowledge all the times when they can't hold the fullness of our experiences. 

And where does God, and faith, then, fit with all of this? For some, faith in God is about defining truth and in some cases much of this 'truth' is expressed in very definite black and white. For me, faith only really finds a place in the midst of doubts and grey areas: not as the answer that fills the gaps where human logic fails, but in the trusting that allows us to sit with the mystery. I don't actually believe these have to be mutually exclusive. I don't believe the pursuit of truth has to rule out the possibility of doubt. I don't believe the potential existence of absolute truth means there is not space for different routes towards it with all the seeming contradictions we find along the way. I don't believe that having a deeply held sense that I am right, means someone with a different view is automatically wrong. I don't believe that something being genuinely, fully and completely right for me, suggests there's a one-sized fits all that means that same thing is automatically fully right for anyone else.

There are of course, things which I believe, fundamentally, to the core of my being to be true, and to be of God. There are things, too, which I believe to be false or wrong. Some of these things have changed over time, and certainly the expression or articulation of them has, but there are fundamental aspects of my beliefs and behaviours systems which are pretty deeply engrained. Maybe that's also part of the spectrum: for a scale of grey to exist, perhaps there does have to also be black and white. It is a question for me, as much as one I pose for others, as to how we sit comfortably (or uncomfortably) with these hard edges and blurred boundaries. What happens when my blurred boundaries are someone else's hard edges, and vice versa? 

Partly, I believe, it comes down to the opportunity (and willingness) to engage with people and perspectives that are different from and that challenge our own, and to embrace them with empathy, humility and a spirit of openness. I absolutely don't agree that we should "never talk about religion or politics" (although there are certainly contexts where I would avoid doing so). On the contrary, I think we should learn to approach such conversations ready to share our own deeply held convictions but also to listen to those of others; not in order to convince each other, but recognising the possibility that we might all learn and grow: that fullness of truth is beyond any of us. 

Perhaps this then, is the "childlike faith" towards which we are called. Too often, childlike faith has been equated to blind obedience to texts or institutions, but anyone who has had much to do with children will know this doesn't entirely ring true. On the contrary, I wonder if childlike faith is about asking more questions, being curious, testing our own views against those we encounter, being open to the possibility of change and transformation, accepting that we don't have, or need to have, all the answers, being willing to admit that there are in fact a whole lot of grey areas, celebrating that they can, in fact, make life beautiful. 

Back at the potter's wheel

In early 2024, I had my first go on a pottery wheel. I said at the time I would definitely do it again, and this summer returned for another taster session, following which, (after a fair amount of hesitation and prevaricating) I signed up for a longer course. 

To be honest, it felt like an extravagance in terms of both time and money but it also felt like a good decision. It was the end of the summer when, as recent posts have suggested, I was feeling a little overwhelmed by the state of the world and very conscious that heading into the autumn, I needed to take self-care seriously. A commitment to two-and-a-half hours a week in a pottery studio, doing something entirely different, just for me, just for the pleasure of it, was one of the ways I have been doing so, and the benefits have been numerous.  

We were a small class so, over a number of weeks, I spent time with a completely new group of people. Over the course we spent together we exchanged gentle conversation and learned snippets about each others lives (and, mostly, talked quite a lot about clay!) They were people whose lives were generally, different to most of those who make up the other communities in which I exist, people whose paths would, probably, otherwise, never have crossed my own (or possibly each others). And yet together here we were, building a friendly, supportive community, albeit a temporary one. 

I have turned my hand to quite a few different arts and crafts over the years and if I had to put my finger on why this one has (at least for now) really captured my imagination, I think it would be something about the very physical, tactile nature of it. There is something indefinably pleasing about just handling the clay: even before you have begun to create anything. I guess it is not dissimilar to the pleasure of putting your hands in soil when planting things: it is after all, really just earth. 

One of the things I had to learn very quickly is that it has to be fine to fail. Several of my attempts were, frankly, disastrous and ended up squished back into a ball of clay to be reused later (some others possibly should have done too!). There was something freeing in the knowing that it really didn't matter, in the letting go and moving on.

I realise there doesn't need to be a hierarchy of benefits, but possibly the most significant was that there are, it turns out, really quite a lot of things to think about when throwing on a pottery wheel. Both hands, and quite a lot of the rest of your body, and your brain, all have to be fully engaged and focused on the task in hand ... which leaves no space for thinking about, or doing, anything else. For a couple of hours a week I was thinking about clay, and very little else. Living, as I do, a life where my work and home lives bleed into one another, and where I am frequently dealing with emotionally intense issues from which it isn't always easy to switch off, it proved an incredibly valuable space in which to be.

I am very, very far from being able to describe myself as a potter, but I do feel like I have made a bit of progress and the last things I made are at least marginally better than the first. There is a satisfaction in that, undoubtedly, but there was also a deep satisfaction inherent in the process, much more so than in the product (although I was, I confess, also very excited to collect my pieces when they emerged from their final firing).

And so I reached the end. It still felt like it was a very good decision. And so, admittedly still with a fair amount of hesitation and prevaricating, I signed up again for January. The journey continues. 

Reading List 2025

This is the fourth year of me publishing my reading list for the year ...

An Equal Music - Vikram Seth

The Voyage Home - Pat Barker

The Cyclist who went out in the Cold - Tim Moore

The Dutch House - Ann Patchett 

Daddy-Long-Legs - Jean Webster

Gold - Chris Cleave

Belonging - John O Donohue

A gentle creature and other stories - Fyodor Dostoevsky

Hope for the innocent - Caroline Dunford

Birnam Wood - Eleanor Catton

The Book of Chameleons - Jose Edouardo Agualusa

Cloud Cuckoo Land - Anthony Doerr

The God Desire - David Baddiel

The Bookbinder of Jericho - Pip Williams 

Empireland: How imperialism has shaped modern Britain - Sathnam Sanghera

Small Bomb at Dimperley - Lissa Evans

Human Traces - Sebastian Faulks

There are Rivers in the Sky - Elif Shafak

James - Perivale Everett

Tidelands - Philippa Gregory

Sing but keep on walking (reflections for advent) - Jan Sutch Pickard

And then there was August (and September) part 2

As I said in this post, while there has been plenty that has left me feeling desolate in the last couple of months there has also been plenty that has filled my cup of consolation so following on from my previous post, in the name of balance, comes this one.

This post has in many ways proved as tricky to write as the previous one, but for entirely different reasons. As a result the title has progressively changed from 'some of' September, to 'most of', to all of it! The negative stuff felt hard to wrestle into words because it is so vast and complex. The positive stuff feels hard to communicate because it is exactly the opposite: much of it is to be found in the smallest, often seemingly insignificant moments. It is in fleeting conversations and shared cups of tea, in kind gestures from friends and strangers, in colouring pages and jigsaw puzzles, in blowing bubbles and in laughing together, in summer flowers and autumn leaves. There are, genuinely, so many things that have brought me joy in the past couple of months, things which are no less valuable for the fact that they are not firmly etched in my memory, things which are no less important for the fact they just wouldn't make sense to anyone if I tried to write them here. 

Over the summer I had two minibreaks, one to stay with my aunt and uncle in York, the second, a couple of weeks ago, with my mum and sister on the West Coast of Wales. Each was only a few days, each was a reminder that getting away, even briefly, is really valuable. I had life-affirming conversations with people I love and who love me, I read books and did jigsaw puzzles, I spent time outdoors in the sunshine, I ate good food. I have made no secret of my love of Birmingham and of the life I lead here, but that doesn't mean I don't recognise the importance of a change of scenery, a gentler pace of life, fresher air, a top up of vitamin D and a bit more green. And the sea, I may have chosen to live about as far away from it as is possible on a small island but I do very much love the sea. 

Crossing end of August into September, at the invitation of a friend, I joined an online art 'course', which I put in inverted commas because it doesn't feel like quite the right word for what it was: I think course invokes lessons and techniques whereas this was much more about approach and attitude. It encouraged me to get back in the habit of putting paint on paper, if not everyday as I did during it, at least a little more frequently than I had been for some time. Prompted by how much I enjoyed my (second) pottery taster session back at the beginning of the summer, I have also now signed up for a pottery course, starting this week, which I am very much looking forward to, having determined that committing to an evening a week of something creative and entirely different to my usual activities is a very good idea.  

Despite my garden having been somewhat neglected, and the distinct lack of rain, after a decent crop of strawberries earlier in the summer, my raspberries also bore fruit, literally. Outside my window, I watched and waited as the sunflowers I had planted grew and then bloomed: they are still going strong and bring a smile to my face every time I look at them. The sun has shone and I have had plentiful opportunities to be outside: to walk along canal tow paths, to visit parks, to sit in gardens... More recently, I have watched leaves start to change into the vibrant colours of autumn and have gathered smooth shiny conkers from the ground. 

I have made deliberate decisions, at least occasionally, to take time away from my computer. I have made conscious choices to reduce my news and social media consumption. I have watched films, read books, completed jigsaw puzzles and done colouring in. I have reinstated times of prayer and silence, albeit not entirely consistently. I have got to know some of my neighbours better and decorated the pavements with chalk drawings with the kids from my street. 

Having said all that, it is not, by any means, only my time off which has given me moments of joy, celebration and gratitude. I know I am incredibly privileged to love my work and, despite the best efforts of the home office and wider political shenanigans: that remains true. There have been plenty of positive moments in my work life too.

Over the summer, and beyond, I accompanied multiple groups of people on day trips where we spent time enjoying being together and enjoying being in different spaces. We manoeuvred buggies onto buses and made it all work somehow. We ate biscuits and blew bubbles. We played some very silly games. We explored significant attractions and hidden corners. We sat in the shade of the trees. We danced in a rainstorm and looked out for rainbows. 

There were parties, obviously. And birthday cakes. 

There was dancing and laughter to make my heart sing. 

I have celebrated people getting good news: being granted right to remain, starting school or college or entering employment, earning well deserved qualifications. One of the young people I helped to get into school in June of year 10 left school this summer with a full set of passes at GCSE, including English, a language she hardly spoke just over a year ago. I have watched people make big, life-changing steps forward, and tiny, almost imperceptible ones too. People whose smile seems a little brighter, whose ability to communicate feels a little more confident, who have found there way around a little more easily. I have had so many important conversations and been reminded time and time again that, in the midst of it all, being present and willing to listen really matters. 

I have heard and read positive feedback which, while it isn't my motivation, nonetheless helps me feel affirmed and encouraged. 

Early in September, together with a few of the Stories group, I went to the New Organising Conference, where my mind was stretched, in positive ways. Just when I needed it most, I stepped into a warm bubble of people who care about the world and want to do something about it. In the past couple of weeks, our programme of school visits has started up again and as ever is proving to be a source of great hope. 

And yes, sometimes, too, joy also means jobs ticket off and getting at least a bit more on top of paperwork and emails and databases and the like. 

Above all, at both work and play, I know I am incredibly privileged to be surrounded by an amazing community of colleagues, friends and family. It is hard to express, without straying into soppiness or cliches, the importance of the love and support that I have experienced in a myriad of ways: in brief messages and extended conversations, in quiet companionship and in crazy chaos, in shoulders to cry on and in laughing together, in hugs and in shared humanity. In drinking cups of tea, did I mention all the tea?  

My two previous posts make no secret of the fact that the last couple of months haven't been the easiest but I know to the core of my being that I am not going it alone and more than anything, that really matters. So thank you to everyone who is part of my story. 

An examen of the moment

As a student at university I was introduced to St Ignatius of Loyola's 'examen' prayer. It is an exercise which invites you to reflect on things that have brought you 'consolation' and 'desolation' and use both to try and understand what God might be trying to say to you. It is an exercise we shared sometimes at chaplaincy morning prayer, and I often used to struggle to have anything at all to put in the 'desolation' column. I was young and naively idealistic, but it was true: even in things that weren't perfect, I could see enough light, life, learning to hesitate to describe them as 'desolation'.

I would still describe myself as an incorrigible optimist, but I have long since ceased struggling with this. As for this summer, there have been times when the balance has felt very different. Don't get me wrong, I still consistently have plenty to put in the consolation column. But there have been days when the desolation side has weighed far heavier.

I find this hard to admit, to myself or out loud, and I think there are a number of distinct but interrelated reasons why...

By almost every set of criteria, I am incredibly privileged. I am, I like to think, deeply conscious of my privilege, and I aspire for that to drive me to use it well, but that doesn't change the fact of it. I am white, British, well-educated, neurotypical, cis-gendered, middle-class. I have never experienced any significant trauma. I have had amazing opportunities to travel and to learn and to have many beautiful different experiences. I have a comfortable home, am financially stable and get paid to do what I love. I have good physical and mental health. I have a supportive family and an incredible community of friends around me.

The same cannot be said for many, perhaps even the majority, of those I share my life with, many have whom have experienced, and continue to experience, multiple forms of disadvantage. 

Over the summer I have been deeply affected by the hostility towards people seeking asylum and other people who have migration as part of their story. But I have also carried a nagging sense of guilt that I *shouldn't* be finding it so hard. I am not the target of any of this hostility in the way that many of my friends are. I am not being targeted by the flag-waving or the hate-filled rants which mis-represent entire communities, nor will I be personally impacted by the endless stream of hostile policies being spewed out of Westminster. When all of this leaves me feeling, to stick to the theme, 'desolate', a voice in my head nags me that, from my position of privilege, I have no right to feel less motivated, to have less energy, to want to just curl up in a corner. That instead I have more responsibility than ever to be a source of light and hope and support for others. And while the guilt may be unhelpful, it also carries truth within it: in many of the situations and relationships in which I exist, I do have a greater capacity and therefore greater responsibility to be the carrier rather than the carried. If I lack the energy, or motivation to do the thing, whatever the thing may be, that almost invariably impacts on someone in a far more difficult situation than I am. 

I guess this links to my other main about this, which is my realisation of just how much my role and my very identity feels tied up in my boundless positivity. As I said further up, I describe myself as an incorrigible optimist and I think that is how most other people think of me too: as someone who is full of joy and recklessly hopeful. I picked up the nickname Tigger at university and the image of irrepressible energy, if not the nickname, have followed me ever since. A fellow English teacher at St Chad's Sanctuary once used me as an illustration / definition to explain the word 'enthusiastic' to language learners. This is who I am, and it is who I want to be. I am, for the most part, honoured that it is what others see in me ... but there is a certain pressure here too. If this is who I am, then what is my role or my identity or even my worth in the moments when those things desert me? Of course I do know, rationally, that my inherent value is not tied up in this, but what we know rationally and what we experience don't always correlate!   

Plus let's face it there's probably just some plain old pride and ego mixed in there too. Maybe none of us like to admit to the things we perceive as weakness or failure.

But while I may not like the fact, and may not like admitting the fact, the reality is my desolation column is overflowing at the moment. I have had days when it has been much harder than usual to identify signs of hope. I have had days when I have felt sapped of energy. I have had days when I have cried. Being as I'm in my forties, I could probably blame it all on hormones and the perimenopause, but frankly, objectively, I think it is all an entirely rational response to the state of the world. I don't think this is the place to go into why (I have another partially written post dealing with that which may or may not see the light of day some point soon if I can wrestle it into some sort of coherent text from the swirl of random snippets of words it is currently!). This is simply about acknowledging the struggle and accepting the vulnerability implicit in doing so. 

I could end there. 

But the wisdom of the examen is that there are always two columns. In a way that I perhaps didn't in the naivety of my youth, I do now understand the value in identifying and naming the desolation. But that certainly hasn't replaced seeking out the consolation. It might take a bit more effort right now, but it is still there, so much of it is still there (a more upbeat post outlining some of this will come soon too, I promise!). 

The general principle of the examen is to aim to do less of the stuff that brings desolation, and more of that which brings consolation, because God wants us to find our joy and to have fullness of life. That isn't always possible. We, I, can't always avoid the stuff which is causing desolation; nor is doing more of anything, even that which brings consolation, always quite the right answer either. But there is definitely a place for making space to intentionally recognise and appreciate more the signs of love and light and life and for cultivating hope and gratitude wherever I can. 

I have recently started using the Carrs Lane Community morning prayer book again. For many years it was the anchor of my days and I am grateful to still be able to return to it periodically. The opening prayer each day is borrowed / stolen from Br Roger of Taize. A couple of mornings ago it started with words which felt very apt:   

God of consolation, even when we feel nothing of your presence, still you are here. Your presence is invisible but your Holy Spirit is always within us. Amen

There is always consolation. I will keep seeking it out. May you be able to do the same.

School's out for summer!

I have written a couple of posts recently, but prior to that, once again, more than a month, in fact almost two, had slipped by without any blogposts making their way on to the page / screen. In fact in general, my blogpost output this year has been significantly reduced: it looks very likely that 2025 will be the year with the fewest published post since I began this whole endeavour all those years ago. There have been a number of different contributory factors, but over the past couple of months, sheer busy-ness has probably been the main one.

With Refugee Week falling in the middle of it, June has long been one of my busiest months of the year. July, which includes our now annual REP performance and Kintbury residential, is often not far behind. This year was no exception. 

Knowing what was coming, and aware that the early part of the year had taken quite a heavy emotional toll, when May seemed to be shaping up to be a little calmer than some months I managed to be quite intentional about keeping it that way meaning that, perhaps more so than in some years, I faced my busiest season feeling very much ready to go. 

I hit the beginning of June looking at a couple of months in which my diary was certainly very full: with both regular commitments and all the extra things to fit in around them. Already full with things planned well in advance, I also knew there still needed to be space for things which inevitably needed to be squeezed in last minute. 

Refugee Week was filled with activities and celebrations: there was poetry and paint, there was dialogue and dancing, there was laughter and love. This year's theme: Community is a Superpower was a fitting reminder that we are enriched by one another when we create a culture of togetherness rather than isolation. Summer generally makes other trips, activities and outings more possible and more appealing and I had a number of fun days out with different groups of people enjoying fresh air and sunshine and a break from the stresses and strains of their everyday. The REP performance, Home is Where We Belong, already has its own blogpost. The Festival of Encounter would also probably need one to do it justice too.

The number of invitations for school visits always ramps up in the summer term, but this year even more so. We ended the academic year having done a rather satisfying total of 52 visits. For comparison, the previous year's total was 34, so suffice it to say this part of my work has become an increasingly significant time commitment. These visits can, of course, be emotionally heavy but they are also a source of great hope. In a society where the hostile rhetoric around migration sometimes seems to be winning, they feel more important than ever.

In between times, my regular commitments continued: running regular sessions for both Birch and Stories and offering support around the edges to lots of different individuals. The days when my hotel sessions felt like light relief of 'just doing some fun stuff with kids' are long gone: over time they have become increasingly complex and involved, and while often characterised more by what I can't do than what I can, I continue to believe that friendly presence and a listening ear are a valuable contribution to a sense of welcome and wellbeing. As for the Stories group, as well as building towards the REP performance, we've been working on a writing project the outcomes of which I think are going to be incredibly powerful and which I am looking forward to sharing in due course.

I should possibly add that it wasn't all about work: there were plenty of other non-work things, including chances to host visitors and catch up with friends, that also contributed to my over-flowing diary ... not that there is always a clear boundary between work and play in the way I live my life, nor do I want there to be. 

And so here we are in August and despite the fact that June and July were, by any objective standards, a bit bonkers, I reached the slight lull of summer admittedly rather behind on admin, and conscious of big questions to reflect on about capacity going forward from here, but generally feeling like I am in a good place. That's partly because despite the weight of the stories and the state of the world, much of what I have spent my time doing over the past couple of months is, without wanting to underestimate the cost, stuff that gives me life and energy and hope. 

The school summer holidays always mark, for me, a shift in rhythm and routine as well as the ending and beginning of a new year. There is plenty to look back at (and catch up on!), as well as plenty to look forward to. A new diary is waiting to be filled. I am ready. 

What's in a name

As of a couple of weeks ago, I am formally divorced. This is a story only snippets of which have been told here, for a number of reasons, not least that it is only partly my story to tell. But it is certainly true to say that, just as my marriage shaped my life over many years, my recent history has been impacted and shaped by its ending. The final order, confirming we are divorced was, in many ways, a mere final formality, but it nonetheless marks a line in the sand. An ending, and as with all endings, a beginning.

But that's not really what this post is about. 

Since we separated, I have been asked by various people whether I will be keeping my surname: so for those who are interested, the answer is yes, I am. I can, of course, understand that for many people, a different decision feels right and appropriate, but for me, for now, this is the right choice. For my own benefit, as much as anyone else's, I decided to try to explain my reasoning.

On a purely practical level, I don't think I can face the administrative hassle of changing everything! But while the sinking sense of dread at the idea of all that paperwork might be a factor, that's not really the reason because of course I could do so if it felt right to. My decision to stick to the surname I have used for the past twenty years actually feels like a much more positive and intentional one than that. 

Having married straight out of university, I have had my current surname for the whole of my adult life. The vast majority of people who know me, whether personally or professionally, have never known me by any other name. And even for those who have, it was a very long time ago. While it may have started out as me adopting "his" name, twenty years on this name is definitely also "mine" in my own right. For me, and for everyone around me, it is my current name which is instantly recognisable, which trips off the tongue. I don't think our names define us, but I do think they are part of our identity. For myself, and for almost everyone I interact with regularly, this, with the name I have, is who I am. 

I tend to think it is significant that our names are, primarily, gifted to us: an acknowledgement that our communities contribute to our identity. (I say this not, of course, to cast judgement on anyone who, for different reasons and in different circumstances, chooses their own name) In a sense, of course, it was a choice to change my name when I got married although it was, to be honest, one to which I gave very little thought. Even twenty years ago, I think there was much more of an assumption (from me as much as anyone else) that I would change my name. I suspect, if I was marrying now (spoiler alert, no, its not something I'm considering!) it would be something I would give more consideration to: But on balance, I don't look back and wish I'd done so at the time. 

In a statement that comes as a surprise to absolutely nobody, I have quite a community orientated view of life. In getting married, I joined not just a husband, but his family: and I was welcomed into a new family with open arms and open hearts. My surname is also a connection to them. There are a myriad of both jokes and horror stories about in-laws but I have said from day 1 (though maybe not out loud often enough) that I am incredibly lucky with mine. The changes and turbulence of recent years have proved it even more so. I know that connection is not created by, and would not be broken by, a name. There are plenty of people I consider part of my family with whom I never have and never will share a name, but I think it is appropriate to acknowledge that my continued sense of belonging is a factor in why my name still feels like a good fit. I know I will always have a place in my biological family, I am lucky enough that I am confident I will always have a place in this family too. I guess, strictly speaking, that final order bit of paper means in "law" is no longer strictly true, but those who know me, will know I am not one to think that either biology or the law gets to have the final word in who we are allowed to call family.

The people who gifted me my childhood names helped shape who I have become. Those who gifted me my married one, no less so. I am not in a place where I want to in anyway deny how significant my married life has been in shaping the person I am today. I realise it is a privilege that I can still say this. While there are of course unbroken threads running through, I know I am not the same person as the 23-year-old me who first signed a new name. A multitude of different experiences have contributed to that, not all of them directly related to being married, but all of them lived out with the name I have now. Reverting to my maiden name just doesn't doesn't seem the right fit for who I have become as a result of all that I have lived in between. Simply put, that name just doesn't really feel mine, any more, in the way my current one does. 

All of this might make it seem like I gave a huge amount of thought to deciding whether to keep my current name: which is not strictly speaking true. As with changing my name at the beginning of my marriage, keeping my name at the end of it came down to the fact that it instinctively just felt right. This is just me subsequently musing and working out why. 

An island of strangers, and of friends

In announcing the latest "let's see which party can do the best job of blaming migrants for all the issues of late-stage consumer capitalism" measures, Keir Starmer made a speech in which he stated that we risk "becoming an island of strangers." 

On one level, he's not wrong. 

We do risk becoming an island of strangers.

But it isn't because of migration.

We risk becoming an island of strangers because, with our heads down and noses buried in devices we don't see the people around us. We risk becoming an island of strangers because we are allowing algorithms to choose what we hear and who we interact with. We risk becoming an island of strangers because we are surrounded by messages telling us to focus solely on ourselves and trying to convince us that it is consumption rather than community which will make us happy. We risk becoming an island of strangers because we are constantly being told to be afraid of anyone who is in anyway different to ourselves or to a perceived norm. 

I am not denying there is a problem here. The impacts of rampant individualism and of so many individuals drowning in isolation are significant for individual health and wellbeing, for the fabric of society and for the very future of our planet. 

But it isn't because of migration. 

On the contrary, if we let it, I'd argue that migration has the potential to be far more a cure than a cause of this isolation. My own experience tells me so.

We do not become strangers because our neighbours are from different countries or cultures: we become strangers because we lock our doors and do not ask their names. And when we dare to unlock our doors and speak to each other? ... We find ourselves living instead on an island of friends.

Of all the places I have ever lived, (and there have been quite a few!) Birmingham is the place I feel most at home. Initially, that took me by surprise: excited as I was by the opportunity that brought us here, one of my hesitations was that I wasn't at all sure how much I'd enjoy living in Birmingham. Those doubts have long since been dispelled. I have now lived here for longer than I've lived anywhere else and find it hard to imagine ever moving away. I describe myself, confidently, as an adopted Brummie.

The map on my living room wall shows the countries of origin of everyone who has visited my home 

If my itchy feet have more-or-less stopped itching, and I have reached a point of being content to put down at least some kind of roots, it wasn't because I lost interest in learning about other cultures and meeting new people: it wasn't because I was ready to retreat to an "island". It was because I came to rest in a place where staying put continued to allow me to feel connected to the world, for my story to be interwoven with and enriched by the stories of so many others whose lives look different to mine. 

Birmingham's diversity, and the communities I am privileged to be a part of which are made up of friends and chosen family from across the globe are definitely a core part of why this place is home. I am deeply grateful for the colour and culture and conversation these friendships have brought into my life. Oh and food, did I mention all the good food?! Far from making me feel like a stranger, migration has played a huge role in me finding a place where my life feels vibrant and fulfilled, a place where I feel I belong. 

I know I am, against all the odds, an incorrigible optimist ... but I am not naïve. 

I know there are people from every wave of migration who have, for a wide variety of reasons found integration incredibly challenging and have turned inwards into segregated groups, and that this does need to be addressed. I know resources are stretched thin and public services have been stripped bare by the systematic concentration of wealth into fewer and fewer hands, which places pressures on communities for which we need to find genuine solutions. I know there are issues around community cohesion that need to be faced head on. 

But I also know that more and more restrictive migration policies, and a rhetoric around migration that presents it as problem rather than gift is not the solution.  

I know this both intellectually and emotionally. I know it to the very core of my being. 

I know it, because I live on an island of friends. 

Reflections on Hope

Sometimes I have found a way to do Lent well; other years, not so much. I was short on inspiration this year, so as it approached I asked various people for suggestions about how I might mark the season. One of the responses was "write a poem every day". After quite a difficult start to the year, I was by that point, in a better place but I knew that I certainly still wasn't in a space where I was going to have the energy or creative spark to write a poem each day. It did, though, prompt what I actually decided to do which was to write, about hope, for three minutes, everyday. 

The three minute timer made it feel manageable: and I kept it up, almost every single day. The odd days I missed I caught up on the day after; at least until I went away for Holy Week when it fell by the wayside entirely.   

Sometimes ideas teemed and I could have filled three minutes several times over, other days I felt like I was forcing words onto blank white pages. Some days, I guess you might have called what I wrote poetry, of a sort. Other days, not so much. Some of the thoughts or words or phrases might turn in to something else at a later date. Others almost certainly won't. 

Here are a few snippets: 

• "In the painting over my dining room table, hope is depicted with a candle and a signpost. A light, albeit a flickering one, and a sense of direction. In the background is the image of an anchor. The holding firm, the holding still. Can hope be both the things that hodls us still and steady as well as the thing that points us forward, urges us on, shows they way?"
• "Hope is the voice that still sings, even as the tears fall unexpectedly, it is the voice that reaches for the tune even when it struggles to catch its breath, hope finds its way, even when it can't find the words"
• "Birthpangs. Miracles. Struggle. And Hope."
• "I was given flowers today: a bunch of tightly closed daffodils, bursting with potential and possibility, but at the moment looking like, well, not a lot really.... but we look at them and know. There is colour to come. This is hope."
• "There is no doubt in my mind that if hope was a person, it would be a small child ... a child who reminds us that when the pressures of life and societal expectation are stripped away, people are, at bottom, good. We are born capable of great compassion, empathy, love." 
• "Sometimes I find my hope in dreaming big dreams, making plans, creating a vision. But not always. Sometimes hope is found in an organised jobs list, in making manageable chunks, in jobs ticked off. In the little things."
• "Hope can seem soft and fluffy, as substance-less as the clouds ... that slips through fingers, turns to nothing when you try to grab hold of it. But I'm not so sure. I think there is something hard and strong at its centre"
• "There is something about waiting for the fun to start. A sense of anticiation. The quiet cup of tea. the calm before the chaos. Tinged with hope"
• Hope is in many ways the heart of my work, of my faith, of my life."
• "Sometimes hope comes in the form of a phone call"
• "Hope is green, like the fresh shoots of spring. Hope is glittering and golden like stars in the night sky. Hope is bright white, a pinprick of light at the end of a tunnel" 
• "Sometimes hope is found among friends. And sometimes, hope is a friend in its own right. A friend that shares in our joys, that looks towards the future, that cheers us on. A friend who sits by our side in the darkness, holds our hand and whispers, don't give up."
• "Sometimes hope is in the fresh-faced new beginnings. The fierce belief you can make a difference. Perhaps this hope is naive at times. Perhaps its exuberance feels misplaced. Maybe it talks too much, treads on the toes of the careworn. But all of us would do well to hold on to this, even overlaid with doubt and cynacism. And just as importantly, how can we nurture it, or at least not crush it, in one another."
• "Sometimes the right choice is to take off your shoes and socks and paddle in the sea at sunset"
• "I am pleased I planted so many spring bulbs because spring flowers bring me so much joy. There are signs of new life and new growth everywhere. And yes, some of those are nettles and tangled weeds. And yes, there is probably work to be done ... But such is life."
• "I wonder how much even a tentative and uncertain hope in the 'after' impacts how we live in the 'before'?"
• "On days like this, when the sun shines, when the birds sing, when there is community and friendship and love and laughter, and spontaneous trips into green spaces, and trees to climb, and conversations ... on days like this hope feels closer, easier to grasp, more tangibly present. It can be sought at other times too, of course, but I am grateful for days like these

It was a helpful discipline and I am glad I did it.

Aunty Mary

In a previous post, I mentioned that I had started the year with two bereavements. It was a privilege to be invited to give the eulogy / tribute at my Aunty Mary's funeral last month. Whether or not it is of interest to anyone else, my blog is also the place I keep a record of many of my thoughts and reflections so it feels appropriate to share it here: 

Mary Carmel, or Aunty Mary as I knew her, was born in 1942. Of course, I didn’t know her at all for the first half of her life and have only fairly hazy memories for a good few years after that. I have also never lived close at hand. Others among you probably, in many ways, knew her better. But I’m not going to try and speak about all the bits I don’t know, I’m simply going to share something of the aunty Mary I knew and loved. We hope that, in the course of the day, you will have the chance to share your own memories and stories of the Mary you knew too. Fundamentally, though, I suspect the Mary we all knew was very much one and the same.

Perhaps the thing I most associate with Aunty Mary is her consistent generosity. When we were kids, and came down to Dorset on holiday, she would decamp to Grandma and Grandad’s, leaving her flat for us to stay in. As a small child, I entirely took this for granted as just what happened. Now, as an adult with a home of my own, I can appreciate the incredible generosity of something she did seemingly without a second thought. On one of my very last visits here, I came with very dear friends of mine: people that Mary didn’t know and had never met. Her generosity, instantly, unquestioningly, extended to and included them too. It was clear that it had never occurred to her that it wouldn’t. I could, but you’ll be pleased to hear won’t, give many, many other examples.

She was fervently committed to her faith and to the church, which played a huge role in what she did, who she knew, who she was. My living out of my Christian faith looks very different to how Mary lived hers, but throughout my life she has been a witness to what it means to have an unwavering commitment to God, and to living out your faith with and for others.

Mary was an extrovert in the true sense of the word: she loved to be around people and, ideally, at the very centre of things. Not in a “look at me” kind of way, but in an “I don’t want to miss out on anything” kind of way. I suspect, know even, that in later years she was sometimes frustrated by things her health and mobility forced her to forego. And more than once, in my recent experience, she overdid it probably more than was good for her. I guess she figured exhaustion was better than the FOMO and if there was any way she could be there, in the midst of it all, she was going to make sure that she was.

She loved people, and put effort into building and maintaining friendships and relationships across time and distance. She was appreciative of any time or contact we gave in return. Even when I hadn’t seen her or been in touch for a while, there was never a hint of complaint or disappointment: I always felt she was genuinely pleased to see me or hear from me. She loved us, her nephews and nieces. She loved me, I never doubted it.

Over the years, she was genuinely interested in and reliably supportive of my many different adventures and projects.

Growing up, she was one of the few people I knew who had been to all sorts of interesting and exotic places: perhaps, subconsciously, that fed into my own love of discovering the world. When I was on my gap year at 18, she came to visit me in Belgium. I suspect that had she been younger and fitter she might later have flown out during my year in the Philippines too.

More recently she has been consistently supportive of the projects, causes, and charities I have worked with and believed in. She cared about the things I cared about, partly, I’m sure, because she genuinely did, but also, and perhaps more so, because she cared about me.

Obviously, I will remember Mary for smaller, more incidental things too: her love of word puzzles and of cheap cola. Her collection of pigs. Quite a lot of poorly-framed photos with people’s heads cut off. Helping her to fix some bit of technology … again. Eating fish and chips. It is wholly appropriate that one of the last photos I have with aunty Mary is of us eating fish and chips on the harbour wall in Weymouth. It is one of many such pictures taken over the years.

There’s a line that says something like “everyone has an aunty Mary”. I am very lucky that I had mine.