A no-longer-blank canvas

Having not painted much at all for a while, why wouldn't I, for my next artistic project, take on "the big canvas"?

Back in early March 2020 as the prospect of an inevitable lockdown crept closer; some people stockpiled toilet rolls and pasta. I, meanwhile, was more concerned with how I was going to keep occupied and went to The Works to stock up on arts and crafts resources. One extra large canvas which I thought would be a new and novel challenge was one of my purchases.

As things turned out, due to both remaining busier than I anticipated or feared throughout the lockdowns, and to having less creative energy than I thought I might, it has sat unpainted, taking up space, ever since.

Until now.

I am still not entirely sure whether it is finished, but I'm done for the time being.

Stories of Hope and Home ... 2021

It is no secret that a lot of my time, energy and passion over the last two and a half years has been dedicated to bringing to life Stories of Hope and Home.

Setting out in autumn 2019, I probably wouldn't have chosen to throw a global pandemic into the mix in the first year, but even with that added complication, I genuinely think that this little project is doing some very good and important things for those who are involved with and encounter it. 

It is incredibly hard to capture and quantify what it so special about this group of people and why it is such an absolute privilege to work with them; but I recently wrote a blogpost on the Stories of Hope and Home website which at least tried to sum up some of our activities and achievements over the last year. I don't think there's much traffic to our website (even less than to this one), so I thought I'd share a link to it here too and invite you to take a look:   

https://storiesofhopeandhome.blogspot.com/2022/02/the-year-that-was-2021.html

#pray24brum

I wrote the following for Churches Together in England, so although it was written with a slightly different audience in mind which accounts for some of the content and style of it, I thought I'd share it here too:

Pray24Brum, 24 hours of prayer in and for our city during the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity, is now an established feature of the church year in Birmingham. The event began back in 2015 making this our eight edition.

Coming at the beginning of the calendar year it is a beautiful way to begin the year, reminded that we are a gloriously diverse collection of individuals and communities but that we are united in our common commitment to prayer. This year, as Birmingham prepares to welcome the world as host city of the commonwealth games, it felt if anything more important than ever to come together across our many traditions and expressions of faith to turn together towards the God who loves us.

The structure of the event has changed little year on year. Each year is hosted by a different city centre church, and this year we gathered at The Church at Carrs Lane. Churches, charities, schools and Christian groups from across the city, and at times beyond, are invited to lead an hour of prayer according to their own tradition. Every year we welcome back groups for whom this is an important part of their year, but there are also always churches or communities participating for the first time.

This creates huge variety in style and subject of prayer, and yet, without it being planned as such, strands and recurring themes often emerge throughout the 24 hours. For example, this year one group focused on praying for children and young people, little knowing that the hour after them would be led by a group of school children. It was totally unplanned, but seamless (apart from the technical hitches) and beautiful!

Last year pandemic restrictions meant Pray24Brum was an online-only event. Having thought we might have to cancel completely, it still felt precious and meaningful to be connected through cyberspace but for those of us who met again in person this year, there was something particularly beautiful and poignant. Previously I'm sure we took for granted this possibility of gathering together to pray and it has certainly taught us all gratitude for these simple things. Some hours attracted more people than others but often it was only small numbers who gathered in person to pray. We live by the promise of the gospels “Wherever two or three are gathered, I am there with them” and those of us who were present recognised something powerful about the simple constancy of being together in prayer.

It was also our first foray into a hybrid model, with everything being streamed online as well as open in person. We were fortunate that the technological aspects all went remarkably, and perhaps surprisingly, well! It was heartening to see how many people engaged online but Facebook statistics not withstanding we have no idea, really what the reach of the event is. We never really know who the event touches and in what ways. But then again, it is not our job to know either. 

We trust that it plants seeds. We trust that God will make them grow and flower.

https://cte.org.uk/pray24brum-2022/ 

I am not shocked

Recently I was at a hotel being used to accommodate people seeking asylum. As people arrived and left they said a number which was duly noted down on a list. I presume the justification was some kind of fire register.

It made me deeply uncomfortable. 

Perhaps it was because it was shortly after Holocaust Memorial Day where images of individuals with numbers tattooed on their bodies were much in evidence, or perhaps simply because I know these people as individuals with names and stories; I found it extremely troubling ... 

And yet I wasn't shocked.

I think I have lost the ability to be shocked by anything at all in relation to the hostile environment.

I don't think that means I have become hardened by my exposure to these realities, or desensitised to the suffering ... on the contrary I continue to experience deep emotions in relation to what I see my friends experience on a daily basis.

I am often frustrated, angry, outraged. At times I feel a deep sense of guilt and shame that these things are perpetrated in my name. I have been reduced to tears, or held them back out of respect for those living with these realities.

But shock implies something unexpected and sadly, though I wish it were not so, it seems there is nothing that surprises me about the way we as a country (and the west more widely) respond to the desperate people who turn to us seeking sanctuary.

While I was reflecting on this I saw a tweet by UNHCR expressing that they were shocked and saddened about the deaths of a group of asylum seekers in Europe's borders. Perhaps they were. Perhaps it was just a turn of phrase. 

I wish I had been shocked. Just as I wish I had been shocked when the bodies of 21 people were fished out of the English channel. 

And it's not just about the stories that make the headlines, I also wish I was shocked by all the little individual stories of suffering which are never going to make the news but which impact on the lives of those I care about every single day. 

I wish I was shocked about the person in a wheelchair who has no step-free access to their accommodation. I wish I was shocked that there are people who have been stuck in inadequate "contingency accommodation", unable to so much as cook a meal for themselves, for more than a year. I wish I had been shocked when a mum and new born arrived in their accommodation to find the heating was broken. I wish I was shocked when people are counting in years rather than months how long they are waiting to be interviewed by the Home Office, let alone receive a decision on their claim. I wish I was shocked when people are ripped away from their communities to be taken to accommodation many miles away in other parts of the country with no thought to the impact on their wellbeing. The list goes on.

I wish I was shocked by those individual human beings who are finding themselves identified by a number. 

But there is something else which used to take me by surprise and no longer does, but which I am determined always to celebrate and never to take for granted ...

I am also no longer shocked by the hope and resilience, by the generosity and open-heartedness, and by the capacity for laughter and joy I see in the midst of all this too. 

A tale of two Christmases

Despite being surrounded by commercial Christmas in the shops and city centre streets, it took me a long time to get into the Christmas spirit. I suspect it was partly because of all the ongoing covid uncertainty, and doubts about whether and how we might be able to celebrate this year: perhaps subconsciously, maybe even consciously, I didn't want to get my hopes up only to have them dashed by a positive test... I know for many that was, indeed, their reality.  

Because for me Christmas is not about stuff, it is very much about people. And it is people, not stuff, we have so often found ourselves deprived of these last couple of years. 

In the end, although there were some changes to some of the things I had planned over the festive period, and some of those I would have shared them with; I was lucky enough to be able to enjoy not one, but two beautiful Christmases. 

On 25th December, we had something that I had perhaps previously come to take for granted and that this year we had hardly dared to hope for ... a beautiful celebration of Christmas with lots of people gathered together in the flat at Carrs Lane. 

There was laughter and noise and a fair amount of mess and chaos ... but also a very unchaotic, perfectly orchestrated delicious Christmas dinner for 13. There was lots of food, endless washing up, the sharing of thoughtful gifts, the excitement of children.

There was conversation and warmth and friendship and family.

Then, on 7th January (because of something to do with the Julian and Gregorian calendars and the extraction of a number of days at a certain point in history), many of the Orthodox traditions celebrate Christmas.  And one of the group decided that Stories of Hope and Home, this group of people, this family, was exactly who she wanted to be celebrating Christmas with. 

So once again there was laughter and noise and a fair amount of mess and chaos but also delicious food and traditional Eritrean coffee with fresh-roasted beans (without setting the fire alarm off!). There was a gathering of friends as well as those we had never met before made to feel welcome. 

There was conversation and warmth and friendship and family. 

All of these, and others, are those I call family. And this, for me, is what Christmas spirit looks like. The building of communities which stretch wide in welcome, the creating of spaces where light and laughter shine. 

So although everyone else had apparently already moved on by then: I found Easter Eggs in the shops almost a week before Christmas, and the German market and all its paraphernalia was already being tidied away two days before the 25th; and although I wasn't sure I would, I did, in fact, in the end find my Christmas spirit. 

But now, it is the 2nd February, Candlemas, today I will finally be taking the decorations down and I declare Christmas closed!

A little bit of crafting

Generally, in recent years, as anyone who reads this knows, my preferred forms of creative expression have mostly been poetry and painting. Both rely on having imaginative ideas and a certain amount of creative energy. Recently, I haven't produced very much of either.

But even when the ideas aren't flowing, I still know how much I value having some form of creativity in my life. So I have turned to various crafting kits and projects instead. 

I'm sure there are some purists out there who would question how much "creativity" is really involved. But you know what, there is something very satisfying about creating something. Even when you have followed a pattern and / or a set of instructions to do so. Even if they're probably really aimed at children. 

Doing something creative is also, for me at least, a good way of relaxing and switching off from other responsibilities. My life is rich and varied and at times, intensely busy and emotionally tiring ... taking time to rest and recharge matters: for me and for those around me. Intentionally pursuing ways to take a break isn't something I have always been good at, but it is something I know to be vitally important.  

So my pens and paint brushes remain poised for when the ideas come. But in between times, I'll keep doing things like this too.

At the turning of the year

A year ago I wrote a post setting out not my new year's resolutions but my "every day goals" for the year: the things I wanted to consciously choose to prioritise, things that I knew had value in making my life richer and more fulfilled.

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2021/01/everyday-goals.html  

I guess now it's January again, it's time to look back and see how I did. 

The context has, of course, shifted during the year: through various phases on restrictions to approaching alleged "normality" and everything in between; with varying other activities and responsibilities vying for my attention too as life reinvented itself multiple times. These goals were always deliberately intended to be things which weren't dependent on external circumstances, but the rest of life inevitably impinges too. 

Some I have stuck at better than others. I think I probably have gone outdoors if not every single day this year, then pretty close to it (with which I am very aware of the privilege of never having had to self-isolate and be locked away for days on end). I am pleased with my commitment to seeking out things which bring me joy and of remembering to be grateful for the small and the big things that enrich my life. 

With many of them, I have gone through phases. The more creative ones, have certainly had dry patches. I haven't always done as good a job as I'd have hoped of putting down my phone or not scrolling meaninglessly through social media but I have been conscious of trying to at times. I have stayed connected with various friends and family but also remain aware of the unanswered messages and emails, the unfulfilled good intentions. 

Overall, I think I'd give myself above satisfactory, but probably not outstanding. But then again, that wasn't really the point. I let myself off the hook by saying from the start that these were things I wanted to aim for, to prioritise, to keep in my consciousness: and that, at least, I think I have done relatively well. 

So what about for the year ahead? Well, to be honest, last year's list is still a pretty good starting point as they are still things I consider important, but in the interest of refreshing it a little, and because this is something that keeps coming back to me, this year I am going to focus on the things I want to "seek out", either within me or around me, or in some cases both. 

This is undoubtedly not an exhaustive list, and I confess that once I'd found myself starting to make alliterative that did set a limit on what I was going to include. Then again, I also want it to be short enough to be something I can realistically keep in mind; so here is this year's "Things to Seek Out" list: 

Community and Connection

Silence and Stillness

Beauty and Balance

Purpose and Play

Happiness and Hope

Gratitude and Grace

Stations of the Nativity

The tradition of following the Stations of the Cross, reflecting on the events of Jesus' passion and death is an ancient one. later, Stations of Light, reflecting on the resurrection appearances, were added. As far as I know, in the wider church, there are no other series of stations for other seasons / aspects of Jesus' life and identity, but I like the rhythm of prayer created by these stations, so that hasn't stopped me writing some of my own.

I wrote these "Stations of the Nativity" a few years ago but have never shared them here so as the Christmas season draws to a close, thought it was perhaps apt to do so.

The First Station: Jesus as Child and Saviour of his Nation (The genealogy)

Matthew 1: 1 - 17

Embedded

In the history of his people

Of a journey towards salvation

Named and known

Child of a chosen nation

Creating a connection

To this his Holy Ground

The Second Station: The Annunciation

Luke 1: 26 - 38

Promised

As fear gives way to love

An encounter with the divine

Invitation and acceptance

The will of God

Made known

On this humble, Holy Ground

The Third Station: Joseph's Dream

Matthew 1: 18 - 25

Invited

By a messenger from God

To dare to love

Dreams and visions

The ordinary becomes extraordinary

Taking risks

To share in this Holy Ground

The Fourth Station: The Visit to Elizabeth

Luke 1: 39 - 56

Shared

With one who also knows

An unexpected hope

The pain and the promise

Daring to believe

Singing praise

On this now Holy Ground

The Fifth Station: The Birth of John the Baptist

Luke 1: 63 - 79

Filled

With a spirit of hope

At the birth of a baby

Prophecy and prayer

Setting out

Speaking truth

Preparing Holy Ground

The Sixth Station: Journeying to Bethlehem

Luke 2: 1 - 5

Summoned

By an empire's power

To the home of the shepherd king

Apprehension and exhaustion

Weighed down with worry

And unborn child

Walk on across Holy Ground

The Seventh Station: Finding No Room at the Inn

Luke 2: 7

Abandoned

To the darkness of night

By the hostility of closed doors

Outside and excluded

In a place fit only for beasts

No space for Him

On this yet Holy Ground

The Eighth Station: The Birth of Jesus

Luke 2: 6 - 7

Fulfilled

In the birth of a baby

As love takes human form

Humility and hope

Immanuel: God is with us

Making this

Most Holy Ground

The Ninth Station: Shepherds and Angels

Luke 2: 8 - 18

Huddled

Against the dark night sky

Until glory breaks through

Wonder and amazement

Greeting the angels' song

A promise of peace

Shines down on Holy Ground

The Tenth Station: Magi Journey from the East

Matthew 2: 1 - 9

Guided

From distant lands

To seek a new born king

Wisdom and starlight

Turning away from centres of power

Ever onwards

Towards this Holy Ground

The Eleventh Station: The Giving of Gifts

Matthew 2: 10 - 11

Offered

Homage on bended knee

To a baby in a manger

Symbolism and sacrifice

Foretelling a life to come

Gold, frankincense, myrrh

Poured out on Holy Ground

The Twelfth Station: The Flight into Egypt

Matthew 2: 13 - 15

Hurried

Out into darkest night

An escape form violent persecution

Fleeing and frightened

To a land peopled by the ghosts of Passover

And do the exiled ask

Where now is Holy Ground?

The Thirteenth Station: Bethlehem Weeps for the Children

Matthew 2: 16 - 18

Burdened

With the grief of a nation

As innocence dies

Tears and lamentations

In a land now soaked in blood

Crying out

Is this still Holy Ground?

The Fourteenth Station: Jesus as the Incarnate Word

John 1: 1 - 18

Revealed

From before the beginning

Incarnate among us

Word and Flesh

This is our God

Embracing an encounter

On this most Holy Ground

*       *       *

In the silence

We stand on Holy Ground

Be still and watch

But not for long

It is time

To step out and walk on.

The light shines ... Christmas Poem 2021

I have a long tradition of writing a Christmas poem each year. The earliest ones pre-date this blog by some years. I thought this year might be the one to break the tradition as I was feeling very uninspired.

But then, earlier this week, I watched the sunrise. And, (unlike today, when there is just a gradually fading from murky black to murky grey with the promise of not really getting light all day) it was stunningly beautiful.

In some ways this still breaks with tradition because for some reason, unlike most of my other poetry, the Christmas ones usually rhyme and this one doesn't, but there is, none-the-less, somewhat unexpectedly, a Christmas poem for 2021.

“Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you. See, darkness covers the earth and thick darkness is over the peoples, but the Lord rises upon you and his glory appears over you.” 

Isaiah 60:2

Thick darkness covers the earth

Midnight black

Emptied 

Even of stars

With a sense of anticipation

We wait

Until from somewhere unseen

Beyond the horizon

Deep purple stains the sky

Bringing peace

Until with a subtle shift

Darkness begins to fade

As pink spills in wispy streaks

Heralding love

Until as the sun inches higher

Red bleeds through the clouds

And oranges blaze bright

Promising joy

Until thus the sun, fully risen,

Scatters its light

And dyes the sky a vivid blue

Offering hope

And a new day dawns.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” 

John 1: 5

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Mary, meek and mild?

Every Tuesday we meet together with a small group to reflect on and unpack the following Sunday's gospel. I find it a valuable space to think more deeply about these texts we often reel off so glibly and to be challenged and inspired about how we are called to respond to them. I am grateful to those who contribute and who expand my thoughts and ideas. 

Each week one of us shares something to get the conversation started. I'm sharing mine for this week, in case it's of interest to anyone.

Today we reflect on Luke 1: 39 - 45 (46 - 56), the visitation of Mary to Elizabeth and proclamation of the Magnificat. I think I got to do “Mary week” last advent too when we read about the Annunciation. Not that I am complaining … I love Mary.

I love Mary ... but not the Mary that seems to be so frequently portrayed in the churches where, whether she is a bit part in the nativity play, or centre stage as a porcelain statue; a lot of the imagery seems to be around submission and passivity. Mary, pure and innocent, meek and mild. Dressed in blue, veiled, eyes turned down to contemplate her toes, silent.

But I just don’t see that any of that really fits with the Mary we see in the gospels. Although her biblical appearances are limited, they just don’t chime with the medieval-art-Mary that the churches, in different ways, seem to have embraced.

The biblical Mary doesn’t strike me as mild and submissive, as a passive bystander on whom a pivotal role in God’s plan is imposed. She strikes me as an active player in her own life in a way that is potentially challenging even now, even more so in the culture of her day.

In the gospels we see a Mary who buys in and says yes, and who stays the path to the end in a way that not many do.

We see a Mary who is feisty and independent.
Who is not afraid to tell Jesus, to tell God, what to do.

We see a Mary who makes miracles happen.
Who offers radical hospitality.
Who campaigns for justice.

We see a Mary who accepts suffering as part of the cost.
We see a Mary to whom God entrusts a mission.

And much of that is already visible in this passage, which for all its familiarity I wonder if we often skim over without giving it much thought.

For instance, it wasn’t until I was considering what to say today that I really gave much thought to the whole idea of Mary going on a journey to visit Elizabeth. In my head I have, possibly not very accurate, images of the annunciation, and of the greeting between Mary and Elizabeth, but nothing between the two. But this was not a visit to her next door neighbour. Journeying to the hill country means travelling notoriously dangerous roads. She travels, as far as we know, alone, and as far as we know, of her own volition.

Which set me thinking (with a bit of a prompt from someone else, thanks google) about the fact that journeying is a recurring theme for Mary.

I am probably not alone in mostly picturing Mary at home. Maybe it is because of that standard annunciation image of Mary doing the housework interrupted by an angel. But the gospels make no references to Mary as a homely character: there are no passages where she is cooking or doing the housework. 

There are however, several examples of her going on journeys. This is the first: to be followed by (if you mishmash the gospels together) the trip to Bethlehem, the flight into Egypt, the trip to Jerusalem with a pre-teen and probably fairly obstreperous Jesus in tow, to Cana at the beginning of Jesus ministry and so on until Jerusalem for the passion…

This should perhaps not be surprising. Journeying is, after all, a key theme for many of the prophets and the saints. Many of those who announce Jesus' coming are often to be found on the road.

What’s more, this journey takes her from her non-descript backwater home to somewhere that could, comparatively, be seen as a centre of power. Elizabeth is married to a temple priest. Yes this might be about Mary seeking out support and comfort from a fellow mother-to-be in unusual circumstances, yes perhaps she is scared and overwhelmed … but perhaps there is in fact something else going on. Perhaps she is taking the gospel to a place of religious power. A pre-cursor to her son who will do the same.

So I wonder why Mary is more often depicted at home instead of on the road? I wonder if it has less to do with truth and more to do with societal norms and a desire to reinforce them? I wonder if the feisty Mary didn’t chime easily within the church so she was domesticated to make her more palatable? I think it was Dorothy Day who said, “don’t call me a saint, I don’t want to dismissed that easily” There are numerous examples of saints whose message has been watered down and controlled, but I wonder whether Mary for all her apparent position of prestige in church tradition has fallen victim to this more than most.

And that’s before we even get started on the Magnificat, this political manifesto which Mary, or perhaps Elizabeth, then proclaims, but perhaps I’ll leave it there for now.

Memories

Many, many years ago I was a student.

Eventually, about a year ago, I finally decided that, as they were no longer really wearable, they had done their time and I finally had to retire my hoodies from both CathSoc and Free Church Society (my ecumenical credentials, which are such an important part of my faith identity, date, really, to my experiences at Lancaster Chaplaincy). 

I associate them with precious memories and valued friendships from my Lancaster days, and, having worn them in season and out, from many other happy times since.

I was loathe to throw them away.

This week, I turned them into cushion covers and gave them a new life. 

I haven't been very creative recently, and I am definitely not a sewing expert, but I am quite pleased with the outcome of this latest mini project.

I believe we all look up to the same sky

I believe 

The sky is always beautiful

And that

It doesn’t matter if its colours

Are a mere illusion

If it is not really

Cerulean blue

Or midnight black

And the sunset doesn’t

Bleed orange and purple through the clouds

I believe 

The sky is a mystery we pretend we understand

Vast beyond our imaginings

And yet 

Right here

Slipping unheeded through our fingers

Breathed in with

Every

Single

Breath

I believe 

The sky does not discriminate

Between

The human-shaped specks here below

That the ever-present,

Oft-hidden

Rainbow

Stretches wide enough to hold

All of us

Each of us  

Who look up in wonder

At the same sky

Kaleidoscope - Welcoming Little Amal

Yesterday Little Amal arrived in Birmingham and I, among several hundred others, was there to welcome her. 

For those who don't know, Little Amal is a not-so-little puppet of a child refugee. The brainchild of Good Chance Theatre company, she has journeyed from the Syria-Turkey border, through Europe, heading towards her final destination in Manchester early next week. In Arabic, Amal means Hope.

*          *          *

The Birmingham welcome event was in Erdington, a fairly non-descript, ordinary suburb of north Birmingham, in a somewhat rundown shopping centre.

But that rundown shopping centre where the stage was set for this act of welcome had been lovingly transformed into a vibrant community space where the whole world was made welcome. A place of music and movement; of conversation and connection; of laughter and life.

There were brummies born and bred; possibly / probably even those who had lived their whole lives in that particular little corner of the city. There were those who had arrived within recent weeks: I know this, because via Birch we intentionally invited some of the newly-arrived families who are living in initial accommodation here. There was everybody in between.

There were those with lived experience of seeking asylum and those who have long been committed to trying to make them feel welcome. There were those who knew nothing of the whats and whys and wherefore who were just there, because there was where they were. There was everybody in between.

And there was Amal.

*          *          *

I had a couple of different responsibilities, including the huge privilege to be invited, as part of the welcome, together with two delightful Syrian teenagers, to perform a poem from the Stories of Hope and Home poetry book. I was trying to keep track of quite a few different people and catch up with various friends. I had moments of being busy and distracted and preoccupied.

But I was also glad to take the time to pause, and to look up.

And there was Amal.

Meeting her was a powerful and strangely moving experience. I use "her" intentionally: a carved wooden puppet she may be, but it somehow feels impossible not to acknowledge her humanity. I know I am not alone in sensing something of this, something intangible and hard to express. I heard several people comment on how it felt when she "looked" at them, looked with wooden, unseeing eyes, and yet, and yet. 

*          *          *

Thank you Erdington.

This kaleidoscope of colour. This tapestry of stories. This unexpected beauty.

This is the Birmingham I love. This is the Birmingham that welcomed little Amal. This is the Birmingham that welcomed me. This is the Birmingham I trust to welcome others too.

https://www.walkwithamal.org/

http://www.erdingtonlocal.com/news-hundreds-welcome-little-amal-to-erdington-as-a-community-of-sanctuary/

Thank you Wales

I have recently returned from three days in Llandudno, my fourth, and I expect last (but who knows?), trip to Wales of the year. 

Each has been entirely different. Each has been wonderful in its own way.

I am grateful for all of them. 

I am grateful for the beauty of grass-covered hilltops and sandy expanses of beach, of the sea stretching to the horizon, of the sun rising and setting, of skies scattered with stars. 

I am grateful for the opportunities to spend time with people who are very precious to me, for the many people I call "family", for the infectious excitement of children, for deep, personal conversations and for superficial, silly ones, for lots and lots of laughter. 

I am grateful, too, for moments of peace and solitude, for the space to process and reflect, for time completely alone.

I am grateful for the sharing of memories and the shaping of dreams.

I am grateful for the fresh air I have breathed.

Thank you Wales!

At summer's end

Ten days ago it was the autumn equinox, and last week we passed Michaelmas, another date traditionally associated with the arrival of autumn. We have been blessed with amazing weather for most of September, but the evenings are noticeably cooler and darker. This week moments of bright sunshine have been interspersed with the first thoroughly grey, wet days for a long while. October has begun and, much to my irritation, Christmas is in the shops.

One way or another it seems, summer has drawn to a close, and autumn has arrived. It is a season which brings with it, for me at least, an interesting mix of contrasting feelings and associations.

There are those days where the damp seems to seep through however many layers you wear and the sky is a monotony of grey meaning it never gets quite bright enough to switch off the lights.

But there are also those days where we experience the beauty of the trees ablaze with colour, shiny brown conkers, and long shadows cast by the afternoon light as the sun hangs low in the sky.

It's been a while since I have had the six-week summer break as a clear dividing line, so the shift from one year to the next has become a little more blurred than it once was, but autumn inevitably marks the end of various fun summer activities: holidays, days out, celebrations.

But at the same time, this is the time of year when I open a new diary and begin to fill its blank pages: making new plans, and looking ahead to what the year holds much of which is, as ever exciting and fulfilling.

This is autumn: 

Gloom and glory. Endings and beginnings. Death and new life.

A week in the life

I have never wanted this blog to just be a record of "first I did this, then I did that" but for my own interest, if not for anyone else's, I thought there could be something to be said for capturing, at a certain moment in time, a little of what life looks like. I don't think that I could entirely say I have any such thing as a typical week so I guess this one is as good as any other (incidentally this is attempt number 3 at this recently having got distracted mid week on the two previous occasions!)

Sunday: Even by my standards the previous week to this was exceptionally busy so by today I had hit the point of borderline overwhelmed and really quite tired! But I didn't have to be up particularly early ... just with enough time to plan and prep what to do with junior church, before leading it. Decided it was high time to get the paints out having not done so for a few weeks. I was a little bit caught between a long jobs list and needing a rest but actually ended up doing neither very well as I was relatively unproductive so probably should have just switched off. I did manage to pop out and enjoy at least a little bit of sunshine, and buy a couple of gifts I wanted to get for people. It was also my turn to cook ... turns out I can confirm eggs are fine a long way past their sell-by date! Plus I finished first in the diamond league (it's a Duolingo thing) ... I still can't speak Arabic, obviously, but maybe there's glimmers of a tiny bit of progress.

Monday: We restarted public, livestreamed morning prayer today after the long summer break. I have done morning prayer on my own relatively often but not entirely consistently through the summer, but I am grateful for the return of this structure to my days and the feeling of being connected with others as we pray together. Quite a lot of variety in the rest of my day including a long chat with a colleague, meeting up, separately, with two members of the stories group to offer support and encouragement in two very different situations, one online meeting and a very brief visit to my old haunt St Chad's Sanctuary. Then this evening I started the breadcrumbs challenge, an online art programme which I first did at a similar time last year. It's an exploration of ideas and making connections between life and art rather than a technical skills course and it's interesting to reflect on the ways in which I am in a different place to last time round. 

Tuesday: In one of my roles I support newly arrived asylum-seeking families with children: consistently one of their very first questions and concerns is how to get their children into school. Today I spend most of the morning helping a small number of little people register for school places, find school uniform and sort everything so that tomorrow they can begin. I came home with my heart warmed by the gestures of welcome I saw offered and the great joy it gave. In more mundane news, between other odds and end, in a rare moment of advanced organisation I remembered to go the market today ahead of being on the cooking rota for tomorrow (top tip: Birmingham outdoor market has far fewer stalls on Wednesdays than other days of the week) In the background, even though I think it was the right decision for me not to be there this time, I was aware of and thankful for the many people of faith, including a number of friends, who were praying and protesting outside the DSEi Arms Fair in London. 

Wednesday: I got on my bike straight after morning prayer today: I was off to a supervision meeting, but it was also nice to not just be sitting straight down in front of a screen first thing. As well as my existing role running the family activities, I have recently taken over as hosting coordinator at Birch so there was lots to talk about and plans to make. Although I'm aware of the many things I still have to learn, I'm excited about the possibilities to build and grow. From there I was straight into an online meeting before cycling home, having beans on toast for lunch and then settling down for what turned out to be a very productive afternoon: various jobs ticked off, a number of overdue emails sent (and some timely ones), another poetry book put into the post, and a risk assessment finally written. 

Thursday: Today's morning zoom meeting was to launch the planning for pray24brum 2022, and it was good to be together, albeit virtually, with this little group of people once more. Like every year, I find myself wondering if I have the time energy and capacity to help make it happen, and, like every year, I know on the day itself I will recall why I did prioritise it just enough to say yes to continuing to be involved. Some other odds and ends and a couple of calls meant I was slightly later than planned setting off for the afternoon. When I first started working for Birch in early 2020, it was to restart the family activities for parents and children living in hostels: I think we managed three sessions before lockdown rudely interrupted. This summer we have been meeting again, but today was a significant moment as we finally returned to running the sessions in the hall we walked away from 18 months ago little knowing it would be so long before we were back. The numbers were small but the needs are significant: the heartbreak of hearing the struggles of their experiences and the joy of seeing them enjoying the space and appreciating the support go hand in hand: we overran the allotted time, and even after that there was some chatting in the hostel car park before I finally headed home. After dropping my bike back I went out almost immediately to head over to very good friends for dinner, from where I (just) made the last train home.

Friday: When I branched out on my own to set up Stories of Hope and Home, one of the needs I recognised was having someone to meet with, to talk to, to assist with processing and prioritising, to be a listening ear, a voice of wisdom, a repository for the stories I carry. Luckily, the person I asked was willing, and this morning's first activity was a cycle out to meet her. From there I went directly to try and help a young person enrol in college and watched first the hope, then the heart-break, as this highly articulate, incredibly motivated youngster was told she hadn't been in the country long enough to access the education she was so single-minded about pursuing. She wept, I managed not to. It was a day of bouncing (well biking) directly from one thing to the next, because from there it was straight into our Friday afternoon Stories group session. I did have a vague plan, but in the end we sat, we chatted, we laughed, we drank tea, we ate the most amazing cheesecake, and just like that it was 5pm. I picked up the post on my way upstairs and was touched and delighted to find myself in possession of a beautiful handwritten card from a friend.

Saturday: Popped out first thing to get some ingredients for dinner (even if the city centre isn't quite back to pre-pandemic busy-ness levels, before 10am is the only sensible time to shop on a Saturday). Even without that reasoning, I needed to be back in time to go swimming with very dear friends of mine: cue three very, very excited children and a whole lot of fun! It was then a quick turn around to be back out, on my bike, to go and meet potential new Birch hosts. Between swimming and cycling, I definitely reached this evening feeling the right kind of tired, but still enjoyed catching up on zoom with another friend and hearing all about the excitement of a first week at university. 

And just like that, we reach the end of another week. Of course in between there's all the little bits and bobs which seem scarcely worthy of a mention but which actually matter quite a lot, but hopefully these edited highlights capture for posterity something of life right now.

10 years

Ten years ago today I wrote my first ever blog post. 

I have written a whole lot of words since then. 

Here's to the next decade!

Painting again

For whatever combination of reasons, I haven't been very creative recently. I've had a long interlude during which I've written very little, drawn / painted very little. I have sat in front of a blank canvas or empty notebook a few times feeling uninspired; but mostly not. Mostly I have just been getting on with life.   

Last Sunday, 1st August, I picked up paint and paint brushes. I created something. It isn't brilliant. But it is, one way or another, something you might call art. 

The second one, produced over the last couple of days, I like more.

But I'm not really sharing these because of what they look like. I'm sharing them because they are the evidence I have rediscovered some creative energy. As a primary school teacher I'm very familiar with the concept that it is about the process not the product. These are part of a process. Today, I am happy to feel like I want to be playing with colour again.

waking up to prayer

Yesterday was the first day of our summer break from the routine of public community prayer. Generally, our pattern of daily prayer has more or less followed the pattern of school holidays, with regular breaks in the rhythm. Last year, though, I opted out of the summer break (apart from a couple of days during the Stories of Hope and Home camping trip), and we have continued to pray, here in this space (and occasionally elsewhere because "have facebook will travel") throughout the year.

On 16th March 2020 we began livestreaming morning prayer. A small community gathered. Since then I reckon that's a total of 353 times of prayer of which I have missed only a handful due to commitments elsewhere.

So yesterday was the first weekday since last February when I could have had a lie-in (needless to say, didn't!); the first weekday, more or less, when I have not woken up to pray with others.

I love the rich variety in my life and the fact that no two days are exactly the same. I know that I would not be suited to a 9 - 5 lifestyle. But I do also appreciate the importance of routine; the points which hold everything else together, the frame on which the rest of life can hang. Maybe all, or at least many, of us need both of these things: structure and variety.

I have long valued our rhythm of prayer, for reasons I often find it difficult to articulate. This past year and a half, perhaps more than ever, I have been grateful for the constancy of it. When everything else had to be reinvented, multiple times, often at short notice, there was, always, prayer.

In the midst of the storm, this has been my anchoring point. 

I am very grateful for its existence and very grateful for those who have shared in it.

A conversation of two halves

A significant chunk of the early part of the Stories of Hope and Home session yesterday was spent discussing football. It is not a subject in which I am an expert ... unlike, it turns out, several members of the group. So I mostly listened: I listened to their knowledge, their interest and their passion. 

All of them will, it seems, be supporting England on Sunday night (though they vary in how confident they are about our chances!)

One, no less, described himself as "England's number one fan"

He did so despite the fact that the UK has yet to tell him whether he will be allowed to stay; has yet to make a decision on his asylum claim five years after he arrived; has yet to allow him to settle, to rebuild; has yet to tell him when, if, he will be able to be reunited with his family.

That was the first half.

And then, perhaps inevitably, seemingly disconnected from the conversation thus far, someone brought up the Nationality and Borders Bill which had its first reading in parliament this week. It felt almost like we had all, perhaps subconsciously, been waiting for someone to be the first to mention it, to ask the question, to acknowledge the anxiety. 

Up until that point I had been very much a bit part player in the conversation. Quite rightly, no-one was really turning to me for my opinion or expertise on the England football team or the other football related tangents. But now eyes and ears turned to me as the one who might be able to describe and explain. It felt like an uncomfortable place to be. 

I didn't really want to explain to this amazing group of people just what the government was proposing. I didn't really want to describe a law which is being introduced in my name, in the name of my country, the name of the country they will all be supporting on Sunday evening. I didn't really want to be the bearer of the news that, however you try to dress it up, the new bill is downright nasty, further eroding refugee rights and further emboldening the destructive rhetoric designed to divide and exclude. 

Every sentence I uttered in that conversation felt like it needed prefacing with an apology. 

But this conversation mattered and so did the space in which to have it.  

One group of people. Two entirely separate conversations.

But something in the juxtaposition of their willingness to warmly embrace their host country; and the said country's failure to reciprocate seemed particularly stark.  

I am glad they will be supporting England. I long for the day when England will be supporting them too. It feels like there is much work to be done to get there.

Embracing where we are

I am about to turn 40.

And you know what? I am totally ok about it.

I think there is some level of expectation that I should be facing it with trepidation or mild depression or a sense of impending doom. Conversations about entering the next decade, whichever one, always seem to be prefaced with some sense of "it is all downhill from here". 

But, you see, that hasn't really been my experience of any other decade (ok, to be fair, being under ten was way more fun than being a teenager, but that aside) so I'm assuming it won't be for this one either. 

There seems to be a societal obsession with "younger is better". Fuelled, undoubtedly, partly by celebrity culture, and by a multi-billion pound (probably, I haven't exactly checked) industry which tries to sell us youth in consumer products. 

Fuelled, ultimately I guess, by the fact that being happy with who and where you are in life is not good for business. Our economic model of consumer capitalism relies on dissatisfaction. And as getting older applies to us all, if you are relying on creating a culture of dissatisfaction with your reality it is probably a pretty good target. Like all the best marketing strategies it is subtle and insidious and pervasive. And, it seems, it works. 

It saddens me that we are trained to think, and so many of us seem to succumb to thinking that it is always some part of our past that is "the best days of my life". That there are all those things labelled as "good to do while you are young" which are for some reason going to be out of bounds past a certain age. That being and staying young is some sort of (unachievable) state we should somehow all aspire too. Even though it is not how I really feel, at times I find myself slipping into that rhetoric too. And then we are encouraged to spend our energy and our cash trying to fill the gaps in a life which isn't as good as it once was, isn't as good as it could have been, could still be if we dared to embrace possibilities we have written off as not things to do at "this age". 

And yes, maybe I'll feel differently about this whole age thing when my mind or body start failing me. But that is not where I am right now.

Right now life remains rich and full. Right now there is so much more to come.

I do personally think anyone who says school is the best days of your life is frankly bonkers or in extreme denial! I did, though, love my formative university years, source of so many happy memories. But my twenties too were full of variety and adventure and experience and growth and were genuinely wonderful. My thirties have been different to that which had come before, but in many ways life has continued to get fuller and richer (apart from maybe the last year or so which isn't entirely what I'd have chosen!)

And so I guess I trust the same will be true of my forties. The journey continues. It won't be the same as that which preceded it. There is no reason to think it isn't full of the potential to be even better. 

This started out with intention of being a pretty simple statement of the fact that you know what, being forty is probably going to be ok. It seems it turned into a bit more of a rambling treatise. I suspect no-one reading it is in the least bit surprised! 

Soaring with Clipped Wings

I haven't written very much poetry recently. I have, however, had the privilege of working with a very wonderful group of people to help them write what are, I think, some very beautiful poems. 

Most of them do not speak English as a first language, and most of them would not naturally describe themselves as poets. Despite these things their words are able to express the depths and heights of their human experience.

Earlier in the year, one of them exclaimed "we should publish this!" That exclamation stands as testament to their growing confidence, their sense of self-worth, and to their deepening understanding that they have a voice, one that others should hear.  

And so from that exclamation, came this book. This week, Refugee Week, the poetry book "Soaring with Clipped Wings", containing much of what we have written together over the past 18 months arrived. It is the fruit of lots of conversations, plenty of laughter, a few tears. Altogether 36 people from 22 different countries were in some way involved in writing it. 

I am delighted with it. More importantly, so are they. 

This video is one of the poems from the book: inspired by a poem of the same name by Maya Angelou,  written collaboratively and performed by some of the members of the group. 

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaI0mwQKAFY)

It would be remiss of me not to mention that the book is available for sale for £5 (plus p&p). 

First and foremost because we believe their words are beautiful and powerful and deserve an audience, but also as a fundraiser for the Stories of Hope and Home project. 

There is no easy online sales option, sorry, but you can order copies by sending an email to info@storiesofhome.org.uk

Under the tree of Mamre

In Genesis 18, Abraham and Sarah receive three visitors. They are welcomed: with water to wash their feet, freshly-baked bread and the killing of a fatted calf. In return Abraham and Sarah receive a promise: that despite their old age, they will still bear a son. It is a promise that seems impossible: Abraham wonders, Sarah laughs; but it is a promise which, we are told a couple of chapters later, come true.

It is a story which is filled with rich imagery and theological depth.

It is also a simple story of welcome and hospitality.

The imaginative contemplation shared here is a variation on one I have used a number of times, to invite others to reflect on the gift of encounter, including most recently with some very lovely year 5s (yes, I've been allowed out on real-life school visits, not on zoom, that was fun!)

Imagine. Abraham was sitting under a tree in Mamre, but imagining ourselves back a few thousand years to a very different culture and context isn't always easy, so don’t try to imagine yourself there. Find your own equivalent. Find what this story really means to us, here and now. This is home. Imagine yourself into a place where you feel safe, comfortable, happy. When the day's work is mostly done and it is time to relax.

Picture that scene. What can you see, hear, smell? Above all, how do you feel?

And then. Imagine. Three strangers appear at the edge of your field of vision: over the garden fence, perhaps, or glimpsed through the window. You have never seen them before and it is unusual to see people in that place or at that time. This is not a normal time of day to be travelling. These people are not supposed to be here. 

What are your first thoughts? Your first reaction?

Do you look up ... or look away? Do you hope that they see you ... or hope that they don't? Do you smile and wave ... or quickly duck behind the curtains? 

Would you run to greet them? Or run and hide?

In Abraham’s story, what happens next is a moment of encounter. Imagine. Make that be true in your story too. Imagine meeting those three strangers. How does it go? Do you speak the same language? Do you manage to communicate? How is your offer of hospitality received? What do you choose to offer or to share ... and what do you choose to withhold? 

Imagine. Share food together. For you it might not be freshly-baked bread and a choice tender calf. What is your own equivalent? Your special meal, your generous welcome. Imagine the sounds, the smells, the tastes as you sit at table together.

Above all, how do you feel?

And then there is an offer, a promise, a gift. 

Imagine. What do these travellers bring to you? And how do you react to what is offered when you realise it is something good? Are you surprised, troubled and confused? Do you laugh, and deny that it is possible? Do you fold your arms across your chest, thinking you don’t need or want anything from them? 

Or do you open your hands, your mind, your heart? Do you receive what is offered?

Do you recognise it just might be of God?

"Continue to love one another as brothers and sisters; and remember always to welcome strangers; for by doing this, some people have entertained angels without knowing it"

Hebrews 13: 1 - 2 

Adjusting to a new reality (again)

"Adjusting to a new reality" was the title of the blog post I wrote in early April last year, the first I had written since the Covid-19 pandemic had turned all our lives upside down. It is quite possibly, a title I could have used a fair few times in the interim as we have followed the twists of turns of life in a pandemic. It is, certainly, one it seems apt to use now. 

Because here we are again, adapting, adjusting, to another new reality which we don't fully understand: even if this one is at least superficially more similar to the normal we once knew. 

And a bit like in spring last year, when I initially struggled to put the experience into words but knew that I wanted to; now too it feels important to try and capture this experience in all its raw reality. I have returned to this post several times in the last couple of weeks without making much progress.

There is so much that is so good about having reached step 3 on the roadmap, with step 4 hovering on the horizon almost in view. For over a year this is that towards which our souls have yearned.

• We have had visitors to the flat again. We have even had visitors who were there when we went to bed and still there when we woke up in the morning!
• I have experienced the generous hospitality of others, in their homes. I have been able to plan to meet or visit people without having a proviso of "but not it it rains." 
• The Stories of Hope and Home group have not only been able to start meeting again, but have even, at last, been able to drink tea together.
• I have blown a million bubbles and seen the irrepressible smiles of the families finally welcomed back to the Birch drop-in. 
• I have welcomed back the junior church children and been reminded how much it is valued by both the children and their parents.
• I have travelled outside Birmingham, have breathed in the fresh air of the countryside, and watched the sunset over the sea.
• I have a diary filling up with things which are not just yet more zoom meeting, I am seeing glimmers of variety where there was only mundanity, and I am recapturing a new sense of busy-ness and purpose.
• I have started to dare to make plans more than just a few days ahead and to believe that they will be able to happen.
• I have hugged friends.
• I have, I hope, remembered to be immensely thankful and not to take any of this for granted.

I am genuinely very happy about all of this. This is much closer to the life I love and want to live.

And yet, somehow, it would be dishonest to paint this as a picture of perfection with no downsides because that wouldn't entirely reflect reality. Despite, or perhaps because of the waiting, not everything about following this roadmap has always been easy and without issue. Sometimes it feels like we are supposed to be in full celebratory mood seeing only the positives as we step out along this road, but I suspect I am not alone in thinking there also still needs to be space to admit to the parts which are still something of a struggle. 

• Things are not yet "back to normal" and the ways in which they are also shine a light revealing the ways in which they are not. I, we all, are still existing in a heightened state of vigilance, a constant weighing up of what is ok, what is safe, a constant balancing and rebalancing of risks and benefits and I think we would do well not to underestimate the impact that living with that constant tension, of never, really being able to fully relax, is having on us. 
• Seeing again, really seeing, with the possibility of deeper conversations and more personal encounters, some of those I care most deeply about has of course been wonderful, but it has also revealed more clearly the toll the last year has taken, both on on group dynamics which need to be rebuilt, and on many of those individuals.
• The city centre is busy again: and I love the bustle and colour and variety and life of it ... but after a year surrounded by closed shops, the reopening has also brought into stark relief the hideous excesses of consumerism. I like seeing people, but seeing people choosing to spend sunny days queuing in order to shop for things they probably don't need is frankly somewhat depressing.
• Those who know me will know I am not very good at map reading ... and perhaps roadmap reading is no different! I have spent so many hours reading and rereading government guidance, writing and rewriting risk assessments. 
• I am having to relearn to build a routine in which time works differently: that whereas before a zoom meeting, it takes mere minutes to switch from one activity to the next, that when the meeting is elsewhere getting ready time and travelling time need to be factored in. There are good things about this: the liminal space between things which I have somewhat lost over the last year is helpful and healthy, but there's a definite readjustment required. 
• I am definitely an extrovert and enjoy and draw life from the company of others, and yet even for me, I am finding I am having to relearn how to exist in all these different social contexts and for all the joy and life it brings, and don't get me wrong, it really does, I am also finding it quite exhausting. It's a different kind of tired to the lethargy I have experienced in the last year, a better kind of tired, really, I think. But still, I am definitely going to have to build up my stamina again! I shudder to think how my introvert friends are feeling and hope they are finding a route along this map which works for them.

I feel like my "not so perfect list" became longer than my celebratory one. That probably isn't a fair reflection of the balance of how I feel. Overall I am very, very glad to have reached this point. Overall I will definitely take the exhaustion as a price well worth paying for the excitement of encounters and reunions and possibilities and plans. Onwards! 

*      *      *

On another unrelated note: Blogger tells me that some point this month the current email subscription set-up will come to an end. I need to decide whether to look into setting up a different way of sharing my blog by email, or just relying on people clicking on it from time to time to see what's new. If you read this by email and would like to continue to get emails, could you maybe let me know. Thank you!

Hope in the storm

This is not a recent painting, (there aren't any of those because my creative output recently has been practically non-existent). But I don't think this one has ever made it on to my blog, despite the fact I was really quite pleased with how it turned out. Its an unusual one for me: I rarely paint people, because they're really hard (although it turns out somewhat easier from behind when there's no faces to worry about) 

Perhaps now is as apt a time to post it as any. 

So if you are struggling to seek hope in the storm, or if you are managing to find glimmers of light in the darkness; if you can glimpse the light at the end of the tunnel, or if it still feels like it is a very long way away ... this one is for you.