The pictures of the words (3)

And just like that, another month draws to a close. 

Here is the third and final instalment of my July artistic challenge, illustrating these texts and following on from this one and this one.

The pictures of the words (2)

This is the second series of pictures illustrating the "thirty words a day" which I wrote during the month of June. I have, as I promised myself, picked up my paintbrushes (almost) every day. So here are the next ten images to follow on from these ones. 

The pictures of the words (1)

As I said, I quite enjoyed June's creative project of writing thirty words every day, so when that ended I wanted to come up with something equivalent for July. For my follow-up challenge I decided that each day this month I would produce a painting to represent the corresponding day's words. I'm being realistic, so they're quite small, who knows, like with the words, maybe some of them will spark something bigger at some point, maybe they won't.   

I think part of this setting of challenges is a bit of a quest to cling on to, or salvage, some creative energy from something of a sense of lethargy I can feel in myself and sense in others. Don't get me wrong: I am still keeping pretty busy, and as lockdown is gradually lifted I am revelling in the possibilities of real human contact it offers. But I am also aware that at times I am struggling to find the energy to do things which either I know need to be done, or know will give me pleasure if I make the effort to. I am sure I am not alone in this. 

Some of this is undoubtedly entirely natural. Behavioural sociologists warned from the start we would only be able to cope with lockdown for 12 weeks. Uncertainty is always tiring and whatever the recent relaxations of the rules, this is still not the normality we are used to. I am a natural extrovert, I draw my energy from being with other people and compared to the heavily peopled existence I am used to, this last few months have been very, very different. And then, this is, in the calendar in which my brain still operates, the end of the year. There is nothing new to me, or anyone else who has ever been involved in education, to a sense of exhaustion creeping in by mid-July. 

But normally, it feels like it makes more sense: though part of my brain is telling me it is fine to acknowledge this spring / summer has been just as tiring as any other, part of me still refuses to admit that sitting at home for four months can possibly be particularly draining. And normally, there's a natural process for overcoming it, a summer break, a shift in routines, ... this year, the exit strategy feels much less clear-cut.

I am not one for being inactive; the need to be busy and to have a sense of purpose is core to my very being ... but even I can sense the creeping risk. Recognising, acknowledging and at least to some extent accepting this has not been easy. I have every sympathy for those who speak of struggling to get up in the morning, for those who have drifted away from online communities even though they know the sort-of-human contact would probably ultimately help, for those who haven't been able to face leaving the house today or even this week. I have less sympathy for the elements of it I see in myself.   

Maintain a routine, getting outside each day even when it is raining, continuing to feel I have a role in offering support to others, keeping in contact with friends ... these are the things that are ensuring I don't spend even more time than I already do scrolling through meaningless social media posts! Forcing myself to pick up my paintbrushes each day this month will be another.

Originally this blog post was only really going to say what it says in the first paragraph. But maybe the rest needed to be said too. Anyway, here are the first ten painted pictures, matching these first ten word pictures: 

Isaac the Beloved

When you can't find the hymn that quite says what you want, clearly the solution is to write one, no? 

This is "Isaac the Beloved", to the well-known tune of Be thou my Vision / Lord of Hopefulness; which mostly wrote itself on a walk around Birmingham's canals. 

Isaac the beloved was Abraham’s dear son

How could God ask him to give up this precious one?

Was there sadness and anger before he said yes?

Did he know God was with him, even in his distress?

They walked to the mountain, they walked side by side

Did he know what was happening as his hands were tied?

But still in that moment, in the depths of the pain

Still daring to listen, so God spoke again

God said to Abraham “do him no harm”

Where bloodshed was threatened, a moment of calm

Where sometimes we falter, unsure what we must give

A promise is whispered your God wants you to live!

But what of that message, had he misunderstood

Or had God changed her mind about what was now good

As we journey to discover what we’re called to do

It’s the daring to listen that allows something new

Sometimes we listen, sometimes struggle to hear

As the voice seems to change with the passing of years

But dare we still listen to what God will say

And dare we still follow when she changes the way?

(Written for the church at Carrs Lane service which I wrote about here)

The book of the blog

Several times in this blog's history, as various milestones in its existence have rolled past, I have considered the possibility of getting a printed version of it. Like with photos, while there are many advantages to digital records, there is something inexplicably different about the tangible 'hold it in your hands' version of things.

The latest milestone was in early May when I published my 300th blog post, and I decided that finally investing some time in editing a printable version of my blog might be a good lockdown project to get my teeth into. Whereas in the past it has never got beyond a vague idea, this time, I committed a bit of time to making it happen.

So I researched blog book websites (realising in the process that I have written A LOT of words in the last 9 years, and some sites are certainly better suited to volumes less substantial than mine was going to be!) These sites do a lot of the work, but I wanted to have some editorial control and chose intorealpages, one that offered that possibility.  

Admittedly, there were some minor formatting frustrations: straight text posts transferred across really easily; poetry, not so much!) but with a little bit of assistance from a very helpful person on the other end of an email address, and quite a number of hours, it was done.

On the whole, it was an amazingly enjoyable process: rereading and reliving adventures from the last nine years has been a really fun way to spend a significant number of hours. I smiled over people and events scarcely thought about for a long time, I recalled much which had long been consigned to the cobwebbed recesses of my memory. In places I could see how my thoughts and reflections have developed over time, in others, the strands of "me" that are still very much the same and run throughout. I watched myself grow.

Individually printed hardback books do not come cheap. And even after all the hours of editing time, when it came to the final moment of pressing the button to order it, I did wonder whether it was really justifiable to spend so much on something which I acknowledge to be be simply an extravagance. But I did it anyway. Yes, it's a luxury, but it is also the product of, over the years, a lot of thought, and time, and effort, and creative energy. It stands as a tangible record of nine years of life hopefully well-lived.

 

From then to now there was an interlude, as I tracked its progress through printing, dispatch and failed delivery. And then, yesterday, it arrived. I don't often await packages with quite so heightened a sense of anticipation ... and I am glad to report it completely lived up to my hopes. The quality is excellent (of the product, others should be left to judge that about the writing I suppose!) and there is something deeply satisfying about seeing this very professional looking version of something that is entirely my own work. Perhaps that's mainly about ego, I don't know, but for now at least, I'm not going to analyse too much, I'm just going to enjoy it.

Thirty words (3)

This is the third and final instalment of my June challenge of writing thirty words every day. So here we are, thirty vignettes: inspired by the last month of my life, by conversations and encounters, and by my imagination.

Part 1 

Part 2

And these: 

21st June

The pain of separation. A deep ache of gnawing uncertainty enveloping the heart. Anxious, disorientated, numb. But fingers curl tight around a sliver of hope, determined not to let go.

22nd June

Disordered words scribbled across a tattered page. Disordered thoughts scattered in a distracted mind. How do we find order in this chaos? How much does it matter if we don’t?

23rd June

Sometimes every inch is an effort, sometimes miles fly past. Sometimes each day seems to last a lifetime, sometimes weeks flash past. But the wheels, and the earth keep turning. 

24th June

Sometimes, you just want to curl up under the covers for a while. That’s ok. Provided you remember the shape you make is always a comma, never a full stop.

25th June

The sun smiles down from bright, cloudless skies, and the earth heats up beneath it. But the best kind of warmth comes from inside, and we usually call it love.

26th June

How often we resist the pull and possibility of newness for fear of wasting what went before. But autumn leaves which fall from trees aren’t wasted, they are making way.

27th June

A simple air, hummed absent-mindedly; a catchy chorus sung out totally un-self-consciously, poetic words, infiltrating the soul. This is music, with the power and beauty to sustain and change us.

28th June

Ethereal early morning light bathing the earth. Cool freshness cradling the promise of heat. Foliage still gently caressed by dew drops. The precious quality of a new day just beginning. 

 

29th June

Lives carefully stitched together from those parts of ourselves lived out loud in vibrant colours, and the deeply hidden secrets traced in fragile silver we scarcely dare whisper to ourselves. 

30th June

The shadows shift, and at times it seems the light fades; but then the clouds crack open, pierced by a shaft of light which reminds us, all will be well.

And so, tomorrow, another month begins. 

A willingness to listen

I lead daily prayer a lot, but it's not often I get to lead a Sunday service at the Church at Carrs Lane. When I do, it usually involves paint ... but that doesn't work so well in online worship, so this time, it didn't.

The Old Testament lectionary reading for today was the story of Abraham's non-sacrifice of Isaac (Genesis 22:1-14), a story I think is particularly rich on all sorts of levels. Too rich, and too deep to address everything in one five minute reflection. Anyway, I thought I'd share my reflection from the service here too.  

At the beginning of this story, Abraham knows what God wants of him. He understands there will be a huge cost: a commitment of time and physical energy, but above all a huge emotional cost. He says yes to this call of God and sets of on this journey.

And then, at a certain point, after much of this emotional and physical energy has already been expended, God says, Stop. I require something different of you now.

We don’t know, the text doesn’t tell us, whether Abraham had completely misunderstood the original call: there is a strong part of me likes to think so, I struggle with the idea of God that God would demand child sacrifice; but perhaps actually God did need Abraham to engage with this, albeit destructive, aspect of the community in which he lived, of the culture which surrounded him.

I wonder whether it matters which is true: either way, what we do know is neither God nor Abraham condemn themselves or each other for the journey, the expenditure of energy and emotional angst which has brought them to this point. All of this is held as part of the story with no value judgment cast.

I wonder whether what really matters, what makes Abraham such an important father of faith for three major world religions is his willingness, both here and in other stories about him, to continue to listen, to be open to changing direction, to setting off on new paths.

This is a story from an ancient culture so far removed from our own and yet I wonder whether, in fact, it speaks more deeply into and about our own experiences than is immediately apparent.

I wonder whether many of us have in fact had, or even perhaps are having, parallel experiences. I hope, I really hope, that no-one listening to this feels God has asked them to sacrifice a child. But I hope, too, many of us feel God has called us down paths which have cost us something: towards things which have demanded our time and energy, demanded our emotional investment. I hope, many of us have been willing to respond to those calls, to set off on those journeys towards those mountains.

I wonder how easily Abraham heard God say stop. From this distance it is easy to think, well of course, any hint that he should not sacrifice his child he was going to leap at. I wonder whether it was  really that simple. I wonder how tempted he was, given all it had already cost him, given the emotional investment in this path he was on, I wonder how tempted he was just to carry on along that path, I wonder how tempted he was to close his ears to whatever other messages God might now speak.

I wonder how tempted we are, sometimes, to do the same. To be so invested in something, to know so definitely that the journey was sanctioned by God that we close our ears to the whispered voice that might say stop. I require something different of you now.

When Abraham heard that voice say stop, I wonder if he felt like it wasted all of that energy, all of that effort, all of that time, all of that emotion. I wonder whether we ever struggle to listen to a God who is asking something new, for fear of wasting all that went before.

But Abraham dared to listen. He dared to respond. He dared to change direction. And in doing so it did, ultimately, offer something infinitely better, infinitely more beautiful. I wonder whether, if we are willing to keep listening, to hear God sometimes ask us to stop and change direction, we too will discover something infinitely better, infinitely more beautiful.

You can watch the whole service, which also includes music and singing from friends with far more talent than me, and contributions from some very cute children, here:

Thirty Words (2)

For the month of June I set myself the challenge of writing thirty words a day. Only thirty. Exactly thirty. Part 1 appeared here, this is the second instalment.

11th June

We tell stories because we are made of stories. Snippets of stories, scribbled on crumpled scraps. Shards of stories with jagged edges, but which yet create a kaleidoscope of colour.

12th June

Poppies waver in the wind. There seems such contrast between their fragility and the firm solidity of those November ones. I wonder if, in this remembrance, we have, somehow, forgotten.

13th June

This is hope. Tiny seeds lie buried, hidden and seemingly inert. And yet, almost imperceptibly, in the dark of the dirt, something grows, bursting with the potential of new life.

14th June

Filled with foreboding, a storm approaches. Eerie light suffuses gathering clouds. Thunder rolls overhead. But the raindrops dance into puddles and a bridge of colour is splashed across the sky. 

15th June

Sparkling with life, shimmering with hope: imagination captures the light of new possibilities. Settling only for brief moments, she flickers just beyond our reach, urging us to follow her lead.

16th June

Sometimes, despite trying to listen, we struggle to hear. Sometimes, we can’t understand why the message seems to change. Sometimes we just have to trust there is a way forward.

17th June

However trapped we feel by mundane reality, imagination allows us to soar beyond it. Whether we imagine the impossible or what might somehow become: is this what makes us human?

18th June

Look up. Vivid blue interrupted by wisps of white. Granite-grey, heavy with unspent rain. Soaked in orange, tinged with pink as the sun rises and falls. Midnight-dark, scattered with stars. 

19th June

How can we tell when what we do, give and are is, in fact, enough? Who can we trust, when not ourselves, to tell us we are, in fact, worthy?

20th June

Doors. Ways in and ways out. Some flung wide open, others resolutely closed. Hardest, perhaps, those apparently open, which we approach, only to find ourselves banging heads against one-way glass.

I'm quite enjoying this process, so am already looking ahead to what I could set myself as a creative challenge during July. I'm open to suggestions for a new idea!

Stories of Hope and Home (3)

Once again a significant period of time has elapsed between posts on this subject. Admittedly, in the interim, there was this one I wrote on the project's blog, but while it is still 'me' it has a slightly different feel and nuance to writing here.

But this week is Refugee Week, so it feels like as good a time as any to reflect on where the project is now, not least because, although it officially came into existence last August, and really got underway in October; in many ways, refugee week last year was the beginning of the journey for what was to become Stories of Hope and Home. 

Exactly a year ago, my wonderful class from St Chad's Sanctuary performed a play, courageously sharing their stories with over 400 people. It was exhausting ... and truly, truly amazing. By the end of that day I knew, "more of this!" and Stories of Hope and Home was what came of that conviction. 

I don't think I could have predicted, a year ago, where it would be right now. I mean, to be fair, none of us predicted a global pandemic that would turn all of our lives upside down. None of my early descriptions of what I hoped the project would become included trying to sustain a community entirely online. 

But there are a whole lot of other things that I probably wouldn't have fully predicted either:

A series of successful grant applications which have not only made the project feel sustainable, but have offered external affirmation of the value that is to be found in this project and its aims.

The participation of thirty-five people from twenty-one different nationalities, and the building of a community which, in its diversity of culture, religion, language, age, gender... is a parable for how life can and should be. The building of a community who care deeply about each other but who have remained open and welcoming to newcomers, because they know what it means to be made welcome. 

Having spoken, despite the possibility to do so being cut short in March, to over 450 school students (and their staff) ranging in age from year one to year 13, and in settings including state schools and private ones, mainstream, special education and alternative provision, and to have witnessed some truly transformative conversations taking place.

Pulling off a genuinely wonderful residential trip.

To have produced some utterly beautiful creative writing, digging deep into the depths of the human experience. 

Of course, there are things I probably could have predicted too: I knew we would tell stories and share experiences. I knew that we would share lots of  good food. I knew there would be occasional tears, and lots and lots of laughter. I knew there would be friendship and care for one another. I knew there would be some teaching, but that I would learn more that I taught. I knew I would receive far more than I would give ... I knew the participants would struggle to understand how that is the case.  

Even putting aside global pandemics and other minor disruptions to our plans, the project probably looks quite different to my original disparate ideas of doing 'something' following on from the play. But while it may not look quite how I thought it might, I like what it looks like now.

In other circumstances, we'd almost certainly have been putting on a play this week. That was always a part of the plan. Needless to say, we're not. Does that matter? Does it mean we haven't achieved what we set out to do? No, I don't think it does. Because I really believe we are doing very good things. and, well, now we're here, there's always next year!

thirty words (1)

My creative output has been distinctly limited recently: best laid plans of writing more and painting more during lockdown have not really come to fruition. The creative spirit, it appears, cannot be forced.

But then, prompted by a conversation with a friend, I wondered whether, in fact, perhaps it can. Not be forced as such, but be worked at. That there is discipline, as well as inspiration. 

So having closed my gratitude diary on Pentecost Sunday, I started a new regular commitment: every day, for the thirty days of June I would write something that was exactly thirty words long. There was, I knew, no point aiming for something too ambitious and setting myself up for failure, but that felt like a manageable challenge. Perhaps some of them will spark ideas of something else later. Perhaps not.

You don't have to read them, but for the record, here are the first ten:

1st June

We call them weeds, dismiss them as unwanted, these flowers growing by the wayside. But these bright splashes of colour, these signs of life, brighten up the monotony of grey.

2nd June

Sometimes there are, in fact, no right words to say. And in that moment of painful silence, what does one offer when we cannot reach out and hold each other?

3rd June

Shoulders hunch against the clinging drizzle as clouds hang, grey and heavy, in the air. But beneath the rain there is a new freshness to the countless shades of green.

4th June

A tongue stumbles over unfamiliar sounds. And yet, those words, stuttered hesitantly, somehow create a connection. Here, in this space where communication makes community possible, a new family is formed.

5th June

When dark glowering skies are threatened, these fragile rays of sun, even if they lack the warmth of previous days, feel somehow precious; and each sliver of blue, a blessing.

6th June

Wherever children’s innocent, unfettered laughter sparkles with the colours of dreams; joy and hope join hands to twirl and dance beneath the rainbow, to the irrepressible tune of life’s harmony.

7th June

The sounds of water should be the stuff of poetry, except, which words truly capture the eternal beauty of roaring waves, gently lapping tides, babbling streams, a tumbling waterfall’s song?

8th June

Remaining on the palette are the unwanted splashes of colour that didn’t make the final canvas. But, weighed down under confused, overlapping layers of paint: perhaps this too is art.

9th June

Like others before us who have built bridges across vast chasms of the unknown: what bridges will we dare to build, and towards which future will we direct their course? 

10th June

We build bridges to open the way towards undiscovered connections and adventures. We build bridges to stretch beyond our limited horizons. We build bridges to bring the impossible within reach.

Gratitude (2)

Some time ago, I wrote a post about how, for Lent this year I had been keeping a gratitude journal.

It is now the end of the Easter season and there seems a certain symmetry to ending this daily record. I am not intending to stop being grateful for the many good things, big and small, which are part of my life. I hope the discipline of consciously being thankful is sufficiently embedded, to be able to set the notebook aside, at least for a time, without losing the spirit of thankfulness it has reminded me to cultivate.

It may not be of interest to anyone else, but just in case the notebook gets lost (which it easily might!) I thought I'd transfer the record here. I've removed all the waffly explanations, all the repetition and the names of individuals, but other than that, this is what I have been grateful for during the Lent and Easter Season 2020:

Sunshine through the windows at morning prayer, 

good news about school places, 

sharing poetry, 

random messages from friends, 

the Birch drop-in, 

coffee shops, 

walks in the sunshine, 

good conversations, 

a grant from the national lottery, 

lunch with friends, 

a concert, 

a lie-in, 

discovering new little bits of green in walking / cycling distance, 

childish enthusiasm, 

junior church, 

dinner with friends, 

primary school visits, 

positive feedback, 

doing something creative, 

a tidy room and a jobs list in order, 

long overdue catch-ups, 

celebrating birthdays, 

being invited to read a book on the recommendation of someone else, 

being trusted by a friend, 

messages about new projects starting, 

a nap, 

watching children I care about grow up, 

the amazing, inspiring women I am privileged to know, 

time shared with friends, 

making plans with others, 

the reassurance of knowing views are shared, 

affirmation from friends, 

impromptu dinner invites, 

fresh clean sheets, 

the Stories of Hope and Home group: individually and collectively, 

being thanked, 

homemade cookies, 

reusable sanitary towels, 

story-sharing and singing with little people, 

the bus driver waiting as I ran to the bus-stop, 

loving and being loved, 

hospitality offered and received, 

being able to support, advise and mentor, 

wasting time together with important people in my life, 

live-streaming prayers and knowing others are praying with us, 

pub trips, 

planning for what remains possible in uncertain times, 

zoom, 

getting my bike out for the first time in forever, 

friendship, 

phone calls just because, 

so many education related things, 

blue skies, fresh air, sunshine

being the right kind of tired, 

seeing people again after a long interval,

family in all its many forms, 

random banter and nonsense, 

BVSC payroll services, 

living in a big building, 

impromptu contact, 

modern technology, 

sleeping until the alarm, 

face-to-face encounters, 

canals and towpaths, 

signs of spring, 

mains electricity, 

school stories, 

poetry, 

empty roads, 

the privileges of wealth, 

Godchildren, 

roast dinner, 

bike-rides and growing cycling confidence, 

lovely but predictably bonkers mums and tots online, 

Northern Leg of Student Cross: those who walk, those who welcome, 

painting, 

finding pussy willow, 

a sense of purpose, 

prioritising getting outside, 

group chats and individual chats, 

leaving the city centre, 

time offline, 

safe spaces for tears, 

traidcraft, 

footwashing, 

beautiful songs, 

feeling supported by colleagues, 

a sense of faith and a community with whom to share it, 

being busy, 

ice-cream on the roof, 

buds and spring flowers, 

watching the sunrise, 

the virtual pilgrimage, 

sunlight reflected in water, 

pretty pink blossom, 

online sessions for school kids, 

a tablecloth with 585 names stitched into it, 

good mental and physical health, 

a comfortable home, 

good food, 

the satisfaction of a deep clean, 

not-pub quizzes, 

google maps, 

thoughtful gifts, 

planting things and the possibility of new growth, 

memories of Christmas day, 

a new laptop, 

thousands of daisies, 

chance encounters, 

the market cheese stall, 

lengthening days and light evenings, 

leaf tea, 

sunflowers growing, 

the NHS, 

the completed We Tell Stories performance project, 

chocolate brownies, 

singing and laughter, 

painkillers, 

the centenary square fountains, 

time and space to myself, 

sunshine after rain, 

watching the seasons change, 

goslings and ducklings, 

the sense of satisfaction of ticking a long-overdue job off a jobs list, 

finding ways to feel connected to others, 

Taize, 

featuring in the Imix positive stories blog, 

relaxing and having fun, 

chalk-art on the roof, 

reduced price stickers, 

City Academy Birmingham, 

good books and the time to read them, 

chocolate cornflake cakes, 

seeing progress in English and watching confidence grow, 

jacket potatoes, grated cheese and baked beans, memories of swimming lessons as a child, 

a spectacular moon, 

warm evenings, 

wisdom and guidance and support received, 

seeing the joy that something very small can bring to someone else, 

brightly coloured flowers, 

Lancaster chaplaincy, 

the kindness of strangers, 

standing outside in warm summer rain, 

learning how places interconnect, 

sharing my love of words with friends, 

cream cakes, 

libraries and museums, 

parcels in the post, 

always having enough to eat, 

space for chatting that embraces both the silly and the serious, 

summer trips with families, 

walking without a specific plan, 

takeaway curry night, 

Eurovision, 

meeting people not through a screen, 

 my blog, 

books that say a lot in a few words, 

meeting someone again in a much better place than last time I saw them, 

bamboo socks, 

a zoom Iftar meal and memories of previous shared meals, 

the first cup of tea in the morning, 

parks and public outdoor spaces, 

being in the moment, 

the early days of summer, 

paddling, 

scotch pancakes for breakfast, 

technology and technical skills, 

duolingo, 

interfaith / intercultural friendships, 

gestures of intimacy and friendship, 

curlywurlies and memories of Lonsdale, 

waking up to radio 3, 

picnics, 

glasses, 

a friendly postman, 

a routine of regular prayer, 

the gift of bringing people together and building community, 

freshly picked strawberries, 

planting bulbs and the memories of the various events and times these were originally bought for, 

bamboo towels, 

cycling and walking infrastructure, 

many shades of green, 

optimism.

Removing the repetition and the named individuals has, I realise, somewhat shifted the balance of what is included: rereading the original record shows it has a very definite predominance of people. It was rare for more than a couple of days to go by without a mention of some of the many people, individually, collectively who really matter to me. Though it isn't perhaps reflected here, this, more than anything else shines through as that for which I am most grateful in my life. 

Happy Pentecost!

In a poem I wrote for Pentecost some years ago, which I reread recently, I found these lines:

And the spirit dances

Within our doubt

They are words which still resonate today.

In the chaos, and the confusion and in all that we can't quite get our heads round; even in the midst of the incomprehensible suffering we see: in some mysterious way, God's spirit remains present.

Happy Pentecost!

The isolation at the centre

We live right at the heart of a city centre.

We know that it is a distinctive place to be based ... And much of our life is shaped by our locality. We have, perhaps, come to somewhat take for granted this place at the centre, at the crossroads, at the meeting point. A place where there is always life and busy-ness and people, and joy and challenge and community in many different forms.

And then, a couple of months ago, almost overnight, everything changed. I know, that is not unique to us. This is not a post about some competitive one-up-man-ship about whose life has faced the most upheaval in recent weeks, not at all. But it possibly a reflection on some of the aspects which I think are, in fact, relatively specific to our situation.

We quickly learned after coming here that the model of community we were creating wasn't just going to be about those who lived together in the flat long-term: much of our community was going to be about those who passed through, for longer or shorter periods of times, and those who connected in, in more or less committed ways. Individually and together we hope we have created spaces of meeting, of coming together, for lots of different people. The table cloth, into which we stitch the names of those who share our table, stands as testament to some of that.

Carrs Lane Lived Community is, in that sense, a mirror of the community in which we are based. Birmingham city centre is always (the last few weeks aside) busy. There are always people criss-crossing, pausing for a while, meeting. But the "community" here is a transient one. With all the hubbub and busyness it can be easy to forget that this place at the heart of it all, this place which is so connected, is in fact a bit of an island.

So when the passing through and the meeting all stops; when this crossroads, this hub suddenly falls silent; life beings to look very, very different.

While others have spoken of the highlight of stepping outside on a Thursday to meet their neighbours, of knowing for the first time the names of those who live next door; we have adjusted to the streets around us emptying; the face-to-face real human contact which was so much part of our everyday has all but come to a standstill.

And while I am eternally grateful for the existence of the internet, and social media, and video conferencing apps and all of that ... It is not the same. Existing in this isolation at the centre has been, at times, a challenge.

When we first came here, I wasn't even really sure I wanted to live at the centre of a busy city; it was one of the aspects of coming here which is someways least appealed. But that was a long time ago, and in the intervening years I have thrived on living in this very peopled place.

And I think its ok to admit that I am missing that reality. I miss looking out of windows and seeing the whole of humanity in all its glorious, messy diversity passing by. I miss sharing food with lots and lots of different people. I miss conversations: the deep and theological, the fleeting and incidental; the serious and the frankly rather silly. I miss the sharing of tears and the sharing of laughter, neither of which are quite the same through a screen.

Don't get me wrong. I am ever an optimist and I can see much that is good.

This is in fact, still, in some ways, a place at the centre. We have continued to pray, right here, at the heart of the city, and have gathered new less geographically bound communities to pray alongside us. We have continued to gather friends and community around us on virtual platforms, at times including refreshing and renewing friendships which might otherwise be more distant. We have continued to find ways to reach out, where we can, to some of those we aspire to support.

There are, I admit, certain advantages to the emptiness of the building. I have enjoyed not having to pack away the prayer area each day to make way for other users.

The fact that no-one is having to sleep by our bin-store because, whatever its flaws and failings, there has been at least a solid attempt to get everyone into accommodation is a testament to what is and could be possible in supporting those who are street homeless.

Having long struggled with the signs of excessive consumerism and its detrimental effects on both mental health and the environment; a few months of less shopping in no bad thing.

The roads are quieter, which has given me renewed confidence on my bike, and the pollution levels are undoubtedly at the lowest they have been for some time: as long as I don't catch Covid, my lungs, at least, may be in better shape rather than worse through all of this.

Like many people, I don't actually want a return to business as usual. I don't want the homeless kicked back onto the streets, I don't want a return to queues to endless excessive consumerism, I don't want everyone jumping back in their cars.

But I can't deny that I am longing for a bit more community that doesn't just rely on a laptop or phone.

Admittedly, I'm possibly writing this post at slightly the wrong moment: during the last week or so, there have been a few more people around the city centre, but it is far from being back to the usual hubbub of life and colour; a little one to one face to face contact has become more possible; there are glimmers that, while "normality" may be a long way off, new possibilities may emerge. But I started writing it probably about a month ago, and, for me, if for no-one else, it is a record I think I want to keep.

All the things we do not write

Several years ago, when I first started this blog, I had no real idea what it would become.

I started writing it when I was setting off on an exciting adventure to a completely different culture, and some of my friends and family had expressed interest in following the journey. At first, then, it was intended simply as a space to record and share what life looked like in the Philippines.

It quickly became apparent it could never really just be that. It was never going to be just objective observations, if such a thing even exists: it was always going to be shaped by the lenses through which I was watching the world. Reflecting on that process, on what those lenses were, how they effected and distorted the world I saw through them, quickly became an important part of how I used this space.

I also knew, when I began, that I had never been any good at diary writing. I recalled occasional phases of wanting to write a diary, to keep a record, to be able to look back and go 'oh yeah, that'; but I had never kept it up for long. I wasn't at all convinced I'd manage to motivate myself to keep blogging throughout my time in the Philippines, let alone that I'd still be fairly consistently putting stuff up here nearly nine years later. I am really pleased that I have.

I really value this space, but there have always been challenges to it too. Way back when, in a different context, I wrote another post touching on some of them.

This is my diary, the place I explore the realities of my life, but there have always been things that have never been written here. There always will be. There have always been reflections which have been measured against how appropriate it is to share them more widely, without knowing who might read it. The public nature of this space has been a great motivator: to write, to reflect, to process, to record. But it has its limitations too.

This has always been a space for sharing MY story, and my reflections on it ... but to quote a cliche, no-one is an island, and my story is never just my story. Each of our stories is always an interplay between our own life, and the lives of others. Whatever I might want to share of my story, I also have to be fair to what they might, or might not want me to share of theirs. I am deeply aware that sharing the ways the joys of life intermingle with others is often easier than the stories of pain and struggle, and maybe part of this post is about reflecting on how to ensure that this is in some way a fair record, even if it is,by its nature, an incomplete one.

It is part of the beauty and richness of my life that it is entwined in complex and intricate ways with the lives of so many others. Clearly, then, parts of their stories are inevitably shared here too; but their agency, or lack of agency, in what I write always has to be taken into account too. Because this blog is also not only my story, but it is very much my version of my story. It is and always has been, very deliberately not objective. It is not even attempting to be, and I hope there is no pretence that it is.

There are those stories which are very deeply and definitely 'my stories' but which are intricately intertwined with those of others in ways in which it makes it impossible to tell the one without the other: an other I might or might not feel I have the right or the capacity to tell. There are also those stories which are part of mine only by virtue of them being entrusted to me and, for all the ways they effect me, may or may not therefore be mine to tell at all.

Integrity is deeply important to me, and I have always wanted this to be as authentic as possible a record and reflection of who I am. I hope that it is. I hope the fact that, out of respect for those around me, it only tells a part of the story, never detracts from the desire for it to be a genuine record. I guess this post is my reminder to myself, and to you, that it can aspire to be that, even in the midst of all the things that are left unsaid.

This is blog post number 300. 

If you've followed from the beginning, that's a whole lot of words you've read. 

If you've followed at all, thank you for sharing the journey!

It continues ...

Like daisies...

 We

like daisies

turn our faces

towards the light

so bright

But

perhaps, sometimes

it is right

We too

must curl up tight

against

the dark 

of night

So long as we remember that

Morning comes

And when it does

we must

allow its warmth

to penetrate

And thus

unfurl

and open

turn

to face

our world

There are hundreds of daisies out at the moment: maybe the grass is being mown less often, maybe they are always there and I'm just usually more distracted and less attentive. So that was half the inspiration for this poem. 

I kind of love the thing about daisies turning to face the sun, and also how they all curl up over night but open again when the sun comes out in the morning. 

But I think the other part of the inspiration was something else. 

We're living in very strange times: some of us have more time and are busy telling ourselves we should make the most of it: do more, create more, learn more. And some will. We've all seen the memes about Newton discovering theories and whatnot during the plague. 

But while he was doing that, a whole lot of people, were curled up at home just trying to survive. And while they might not be in the history books, that was ok too. It still is.

Most of us, I imagine, are a mixture of both. With days or moments where we feel inspired and productive; and days or moments when we don't. Certain tasks may motivate and energise us, others may hover on jobs lists we just can't face.

Daisies are still daisies when they curl up at night. And the morning will come.

More playing with colour

Gratitude

Some years I have found a way to do Lent well, other years not so much.

This year, way back in the different existence we inhabited at the time, I set myself a gratitude challenge: each day I would record three things for which I was grateful: the big things or the small. I bought a notebook. I tried to slot it into a routine.

There were rules. Only three and always three: no more than that on the good days, no fewer, either on tougher days or days when I didn't feel I had enough time to think about it. And no 'buts', or 'even better ifs': I was to record only the positives, without qualifying it with the doubts or hesitations or slight negatives on the side.

And I stuck with it. We have now entered the Easter season, and in theory, therefore I should have laid that little notebook to one side. But there are still blank pages, and the need to seek out, or to remember to recognise things for which to be grateful is still here, so, for now at least I am continuing. I have found my 'gratitude diary' has become a mixture of recording my appreciation of the things I still have, and the things I've lost, but have perhaps learned to appreciate more for their absence. In the midst of uncertainty and challenge, it feels valuable to make space to remember how much I have to be grateful for.

Since the beginning of Lent, the things I have to be grateful for in my daily life have in one sense, changed quite considerably. Small things have taken on renewed significance. My days, like everyone else's, look very different.

In another sense, though, the common threads which run through this record have scarcely changed at all: finding beauty; the practicalities and privileges which facilitate my comfortable life; the importance of relationships with others. I hope that this discipline of keeping this record will help me to continue to make space to remember to be grateful for these things, whatever form and shape they take.

Zoom Squares

On Easter Sunday morning, I got up early to watch the sun rise over the city. Despite my later tiredness, I was very glad I did. Birmingham, silent beneath a colourful sky fading from darkness to light, is beautiful.

As I watched, this phrase, "The earth still turns and the sun still rises" came to me: I think I was struck by something of the things that remain certain when the whole world seems to have been turned upside down.

That, I thought, is the beginning of a poem.

It was, but by the time it came together it didn't include those words, despite my best efforts to shoehorn them back in somehow. Perhaps there's another one waiting to be written at some point. Perhaps not.

In the meantime, that became this.

(*Despite not particularly liking the sound of my own voice, I think it works better listened to than read so ...)

It is here, perhaps

In this the space

Where everything changes

That we discover

That these the cords

Which tied us down

Were

In fact

The bonds which bound us

To a reality

We at least kind of understood

The anchor

Now cut adrift 

From all we thought we knew

To be true

We don't quite know

Where we will go

But we will find

We're intertwined

With others who

Apart, together

Still turn me

Towards you

Suddenly

Almost overnight

All these the people

Who once were

Flesh and blood

With outstretched arms

And hugs

To hold us close

Became

Zoom Squares

Just

Moving pictures on a screen

And yet

Though slightly out of focus

From that we thought we knew

They smile at us

And we at them

And so

While we may freeze or falter

We realise

The connections has not

In fact

Been lost

And there is hope

Because

They still turn me

Into us.