What I have learned

It is just over a year since I signed the contract on this flat (the anniversary was Wednesday), and slightly less since I moved in. This has been the first time for a very long time I have lived alone; the only other time being my year abroad from university when I lived in a school in France. 

As I look back on the past year (and prepare to move on again), I have been reflecting on some of the things I have discovered and learned. Here are a few snippets from those thoughts:

• It will come as no surprise to anyone, least of all me that I am still very much a people person. I love spending time with other people; both in group settings and one-to-one with friends. I love the fact that I have so many different, wonderful people in my life; and community and belonging are definitely important to me. Much of my people time is in other places, and I love hosting guests here too. But having my own space does, it turns out, also really suit me: I do also enjoy my own company and in between my very peopled existence, I have been very much appreciating time spent alone.
• My life is rich in variety and no two days are the same, which is exactly the way I want it to be. Having said that, I have found that having some elements of routine or structure in life do matter ... and so is the flexibility to bend or break those routines when necessary. I appreciate the fixed points, both external and self-imposed around which my life is organised. As a rule, I have intentionally kept the weekends having a distinct and different feel to them to weekdays too which feels like it is probably important.
• Before moving to Birmingham all those years ago, I was very unsure about how much I would enjoy life at the heart of a busy city: it turned out that I did, very much. It became my normality, and moving out into a residential area has been a reminder of some of the ways it was quite a distinctive place to live and things I was missing there: little things, mostly: such as having easy access to a proper supermarket that isn't just set up for convenience foods, and just the very different feel to the streets I walk around.
• Another significant change from being in the city centre revolves around transport and I acknowledge having lost a level of convenience on that front: many of my activities still take place in the city centre or now involve significantly more travel. It has meant some earlier starts, more time at bus stops and sometimes finding myself with time to kill between activities when I previously would have nipped home but it isn't worth coming back here. But I have also learned that you can get used to most things fairly quickly and I have adapted to this now just being the reality: I rarely find myself comparing it to an alternative.
• I've let myself know that it is ok to resort to 'stick something in the oven' convenience foods some of the time, and I've found batch cooking is a must since living by myself. It's also nice to have visitors which can be a prompt to make more effort ... but sometimes it is also nice to put in lots of effort to cook a really nice meal, just for yourself. 
• I am aware I am extremely privileged with the amount of space I have to myself here. Having my bedroom as a space distinct from my living and working space is definitely a gift I have come to appreciate. Admittedly, I haven't entirely kept technology out as I do still take my phone (maybe that's a next step!) but I have never taken my laptop in, nor many other things, and I have recognised the benefits of generally keeping my sleeping space distinct from the rest of life.
• One of the things I think others, perhaps more than me although I too sensed the risk, thought when I moved here was that I might not be able to switch off from work and the things that keep me busy. But while it does remain true that I lead a very busy life, and yes, I do occasionally have moments of being utterly overwhelmed and feeling like I am not on top of everything I need or want to do; actually, I have, I think quite effectively been able to build down time into my life. And if some of that is meaningless time wasting by scrolling through social media and the like, it has also included reading plenty of books, spending time with friends, arts and crafts, taking advantage of having green space at the end of the road, and plenty of other ways to relax.

I'm sure there are plenty of other things I could say, but those are my disparate thoughts at this particular point in time. 

Re-establishing a routine of prayer

For the past nine years, the life of the Carrs Lane Lived Community revolved around a rhythm of daily prayer. There was, over that time, some tinkering at the edges, and yes, there were holiday breaks in the routine but it, and my commitment to it, remained fundamentally unchanged. 

The strict rhythms of prayer at Carrs Lane, and the unwavering commitment to public, open prayer did exert certain limitations; but while there were odd occasions when that felt restrictive, over all, the immovability felt like a positive. Prayer didn't need to be thought about or negotiated. Prayer just was.

With the drawing to an end of the life of the community, I have had to rethink what prayer looks like now and how it slots back into my life and routines. I can't always effectively articulate why, but I know making space for prayer in my life is important to me. I know that it has a positive impact on how I feel and that more becomes possible because of it. 

This is not about compartmentalising prayer away from the rest of my life. There are plenty of other parts of my life which feel prayerful, which feel like places where I encounter God, but I recognise the value I find in this conscious carving out of time to pause and be present.

I am lucky that where I live now I have still been able to create a dedicated space for prayer. I know, for me, having sacred space, makes a difference to my ability to focus: putting my body in a prayerful space helps me put my head and heart there too. 

I like thoughtful, creative ways of praying which have taken effort and energy to pull together. But I also know that for a regular routine of prayer I need something that requires little preparation, thought or energy, which can be slotted in easily and not feel like a burden. Something simple enough that I can do it even when I am not in the mood. Something which creates a space where I can consciously put myself in the presence of God and simply be.

I played around with a few things at the beginning of September and think I have found a model that is working, for now at least. Mostly, then, this is how I am now starting my days: with a cup of tea and a short time of prayer. Some days, if I haven't started the day with it, I fit it in later, some days, it doesn't happen at all. While definitely a less strict routine than the one I followed at Carrs Lane it feels like I am establishing enough of a routine for it to become part of life in the way I want and need it to be.

After playing a song or two (on Spotify, I haven't suddenly developed musical talent or anything), I've been reading one psam a day, starting from the beginning (a very good place to start). Even though I am praying alone, I have been reading them out loud ... words definitely resonate differently read aloud. I have also read each in two different translations (a stark reminder, if one were needed that even the very words of our biblical texts are an interpretation, before we even start on everything else about them that needs interpreting, but I digress). I've then been choosing and copying out one verse (or part of a verse, or occasionally a couple of verses) Laying out the words on the page, tracing back over letters already written is proving, as much if not more than the words themselves, a form of meditative reflection.

I don't, honestly, think this is going to be what I do for the the next nine years, but for now, for me, it works. 

Autumn days

A place in the Kindom of God

A couple of weeks ago, in a prayer book I came across a prayer which included the words "The Kindom of God". I don't remember anything else about what the prayer was about. Just that phrase from it.

I suspected, if I was honest, it may have been a typo (although have since been assured it wasn't and was entirely intended), but the term immediately struck me and stuck with me. I instantly knew I liked it as an alternative to the "Kingdom of God" a term with which I am deeply familiar but not entirely comfortable, both because of its gendering of God and of its association with authoritarianism, wealth and privilege ... none of which sits easily with my image of the kind of society God is calling us towards.

For me "kindom of God" implies humanity united across all its various divides as one family, drawn into oneness by love and by a mystery greater than and beyond ourselves and our understanding ... and as such sums up much of what I believe about what my faith calls me towards.

A quick google search showed me that others are already exploring using the term, but the squiggly red line beneath it here indicates it has not yet found a place in common parlance. It was new to me, gave me pause for thought, and is a word I will definitely be adding to my vocabulary for trying to make sense of the mystery of God, and so for what it worth, I am sharing it here to remind myself, and in case others find it helpful too.

September Haikus

Apparently genuine Haiku, as well as the 17-syllable pattern, are supposed to have a “seasonal reference”. Well, September feels like a good time to try that out. Each of these attempts to be loosely inspired by something of my days this month, coupled with this idea of seasonal references.

I’m not very good at “short” so this proved to be quite a test with my main discovery being that Haiku definitely aren’t as easy as I thought.

Still, for what they’re worth, here they are…

1st
Some things stay the same
But so much is different now
A new year begins

2nd
Went out. Brought no coat
It starts to rain. But the sky
Is still beautiful.

3rd
It had been a while.
Perhaps that’s why I barely
Noticed the weather

4th
Children laugh and play
Together to celebrate
Dodging the raindrops

5th
Music, colour, light
Invite us to look up as
Day fades into night

6th
Waking to the sound
Of rain drumming on rooftops
And against windows

7th
Sometimes low rumbles
Of thunder instil more fear
Than a sudden CRASH

8th
Glowering skies spill rain
As the sun breaks through, I watch,
Waiting for rainbows

9th
Media subdued
And politics strangely calmed
But the world still turns

10th
Autumn approaches
But for now, most leaves are still
Different shades of green

11th
The sound of autumn
Leaves rustle on trees then fall
To crunch underfoot

12th
The sky was bright with
A sunrise glow, so the rain
Took me by surprise

13th
I wish it didn’t
Feel noteworthy, going out
Not bringing my phone

14th
Heart and mind, filled with
Memories of summertime
As the nights draw in

15th
The sun hangs low in
A deep’ning blue sky and the
Clouds are tinged with gold

16th
The sky is bright blue
But the chilled edge to the air
Says autumn is near

17th
The trees stand tall as
The sun sinks through the blue sky
Casting long shadows

18th
Far from home I see
Dark clouds gather, threat’ning rain
Somehow, it stayed dry

19th
Words can’t really catch
How many colours we mean
When we just say grey

20th
Walking in sunlight
In the midst of busy days
Grateful for this gift

21st
From tiny acorns
Mighty oak trees grow … unless
Squirrels get there first

22nd
Autumn equinox
The earth hangs, finely balanced
Between dark and light

23rd
There’s a special warmth
That’s found among friends in front
Of an open fire

24th
Green on the doorstep
In perfect walking weather
The best of autumn

25th
Friends and family
In these fleeting reunions
Together again

26th
Dark fades toward light
As hidden behind the clouds
The sun still rises

27th
Ah, English weather

Bright sun, cold rain, gusts of wind

Four seasons, each day

28th
I thought I might put
The heating on but went for
A jumper instead

29th
Nothing says autumn
Quite like shiny conkers hidden
Among crunchy leaves

30th

No cup of tea tastes
Better than one when you’ve just
Come in from the rain

Breadcrumbs 2022

Over the past week, for the third year in a row, I have completed the Art2Life "breadcrumbs challenge". The first time I wrote about it here, and the second got a mention in this post. Each year it has proved a helpful interlude in helping me rediscover a creative spark and make some space in my schedule for playing with colour.

Each day builds towards the creation of a "creative compass", through prompts and questions which have been the same each year. It has been interesting to see both the similarities and the differences in my responses each time and in the art I have created. Without wanting to overstate the significance, my three completed compasses stand as witness to some of what has changed for me over the past three autumns, and some of what has stood the test of those changes to be very much still part of who I am.

The course is based not on learning new art skills but on connecting to your inner artist. The basic premise is that if we connect to the deepest part of ourselves, our souls; if we give ourselves permission to be free, to play, to do more of what we love; we will be the best version of our creative selves. It is, perhaps, a lesson for life as much as for art.  

The final livestream ended with one of my (current) favourite quotes:

End of an era

It feels like the end of an era.

Does 9 years constitute an era? Probably not. But it is longer than I have ever invested in anything else in my life.

As many people already know, I moved out from Carrs Lane last December. Since then I have had one foot out of the door, but one still firmly in it ... I have remained active in the life of the community. I continued to play an active part in the routine of daily prayer and our weekly bible discussion until we broke up for summer in late July. I have still been a frequent visitor to the community flat. 

Now that too comes to an end. 

From the beginning of September, the flat now sits empty as does most of the rest of the building, most of the time, although some activities including a Sunday service will continue. And my own connection with this place and community is gently drawing to a close. (Though not entirely, because the Stories group will continue to use the space for the time being)

I have enough respect for those involved to not go into the details, but in honour of this being an honest record of my life, I will simply say that I don't feel the end of the life of the Carrs Lane Lived Community has been handled well by those with power in the institutional church. I have been left angry, hurt and deeply sad about the way I feel I have been treated ... but I refuse to be embittered. 

I refuse to be embittered because thanks to, and at times perhaps in spite of, the wider church we created something incredibly beautiful here of which I am very proud. We created a place of silence and prayer at the heart of a busy city. We filled the flat with people and enabled them to meet one another. We reached out and engaged with the city in all its messy complexity.

Perhaps with all endings there is a tendency to want to dwell on the "what might have beens", and there are a certainly a few of those mixed in with the journey of the Carrs Lane Lived Community; but mostly today, I want to look back and celebrate "what has been", because there is much to celebrate.

When we were invited to come to Carrs Lane we were called here to "be church" at the heart of the city. To "listen to the rhythms of the city" and to find fitting ways to pray and to respond. It wasn't always easy: there is much complexity and pain as well as beauty in this city. 

And at times, those with whom we shared what we were hearing and discovering didn't like what they heard: but I did. I loved the rhythms I danced to during my time at Carrs Lane. Not that everything was perfect and positive. We witnessed sadness and anger and occasional violence. We witnessed excessive consumerism being used as a salve to emptiness. We witnessed the lives of those who have been discarded by society, those from whom all of us, often, prefer to look away. But we also witnessed acts of compassion and community. We witnessed diversity, vibrancy and life in all its fullness.

There have of course been many individual highlights, too many to name, but including, in no specific order: feeling able to give up a permanent city council contract to be paid by cheque instead at St Chad's Sanctuary; buying a house which has enabled Hope Projects to house destitute asylum seekers for coming up for six years; helping to organise the Hidden Treasure Taize meeting bringing together hundreds of young adults from all across Europe at a point where friendship with our European neighbours felt more important than ever; welcoming our teenage Goddaughter to live with us, cementing pray24brum as part of the ecumenical life of the city and all the relationships that have grown from it, a series of Christmas celebrations where we filled the flat with people. 

But although I can pick out those moments; more significantly, ultimately, there was also a day to day life, with a vision to be open to others and stitched together by a consistent routine of prayer. Much of what is written in the community agreement we wrote when we began still rings true for how I want to live my life. Much of what has been of the greatest value is not newsworthy highlights but little every day moments many of which I can probably scarcely remember but which I know have mattered, both individually and as part of a whole.

There was, at the heart of it all, prayer. For nine years, we prayed, daily. We will never know what the impact of that was, is or will be, but I believe it was an important ministry to the city around us and I trust that it mattered for at least my own life, and perhaps for others too. Everything else was possible because of it.

There were all the events and projects and protests that we were able to be a part of. There were the opportunities to use our time, our space, our energies and our resources to do good, hopefully, in and for and with our city and the wider world. There were the times when we could use our voices to speak up for the things we believe in. 

There were all the little everyday moments of joy and community: shared meals, cups of tea, conversations. There was theological reflection, action for change on the big issues of the world, as well as plenty of moments for just having a lot of fun. There was safe space for frustration and anger and tears: but there was also lots and lots of laughter. 

There were the different people who came to stay with us and share our lives at vastly different points on their own life journeys. There were people who passed through, briefly, and others who paused for much longer. There were people who came into our lives and out again and others with whom we have built lasting relationships. There were chance encounters and deepening friendships that would never have happened without this space at the heart of the city and what we made it into. There were the many different ways we learned to understand what community is and the elastic edges of who belongs. There is a tablecloth with 605 names stitched into it which stands as testament to it.

So thank you, Carrs Lane.

It is time to walk away. Gracefully. Brushing the dust from my sandals but carrying many treasures in my heart.

Adventures in Morocco

It is several years since one of my then St Chad's Sanctuary students (and now Stories group participant) said that one day, we should travel to Morocco together. At that point, as she engaged in battle with the Home Office and waited seemingly indeterminately for a decision, it seemed a distant prospect. One of those things said with genuine intent, but which I assumed would probably never come true.

And then, finally, earlier this year, those long-awaited papers were granted. A passport held hostage was returned. A date was set for a wedding celebration and that vague invite became something far more concrete. I debated with myself about the cost and the climate. I reminded myself that such opportunities don't come along every day. I booked flights, bought sun cream and got ready to go.

At some point I mentioned this possibility to Lydia and in the end (somewhat unexpectedly if I'm honest) she and her mum and sister all joined me for a Moroccan adventure. I very much appreciated their presence: firstly because it was lovely to spend the time with them; but also because not being the sole non-Moroccan, non-Arabic-speaking guest in the mix reduced the intensity and probably made things easier for both my hosts and me.

Of all the reflections I have brought away from my time in Morocco, the warmth and generosity of the hospitality we experienced is top of the list. People we did not know opened their homes and hearts and ushered us in. We were unquestioningly invited to share in both everyday life and a very special occasion. It is hard to put into words how, but it felt like we were simultaneously treated both as honoured guests and as members of the family. 

Much of this welcome centred around the meal table. There was always so much food! Not having a shared language didn't prevent us from very quickly picking up on the instruction to "go on, eat!". Without in any way wanting to offend my Muslim hosts by saying so there was, for me, something almost biblical about the way in which food was shared. Everyone ate together, with our hands, from a common plate in the centre of the table. Bread was broken and passed around. The pouring of tea was an act of ceremony and service. Often there was one or perhaps two water cups on the table from which everyone drank. In this context, communion made so much sense. 

As someone who spends much of work and life trying to create spaces where others are, I hope, made welcome, there was great value in experiencing hospitality done so well; and also to take my turn on the other side: the reminder of the feeling being the outsider, the one who doesn't quite understand the expectations, the one for whom the gestures of inclusion make all the difference to help them feel at ease.

I also want to find the right words to say something about my observations around gender: which I do with the caveat that these are simply my reflections of how I experienced my own particular brief stay. 

We spent a lot of our time in all-female or female-dominated spaces. Whilst there are, of course, times when I end up in female-dominated environments (or for that matter, most notably during my year in the Philippines, in male dominated ones), in my normal life it is very rare that I spend time in intentionally gender segregated spaces, and to do so gave me plenty of food for thought. 

Whether or not it is universally true, in the various home environments we experienced it felt like these were spaces where the terms were dictated by the women. They also felt like they were spaces of joy and laughter and conversation and community. To say a 'woman's place is in the home' has, probably rightly, hugely negative connotations and it would take more than ten days as a relative outsider in a culture I probably barely understood, listening in to conversations I mostly couldn't comprehend to make me re-evaluate that assessment. But equally, I can't deny there was much that felt very positive and empowered about these spaces. I saw nothing, obviously, of the other side of the coin: of what was going on in the male dominated spaces, relatively little of the spaces where genders interacted with each other, and nothing of where those whose gender identity doesn't fit neatly in to those boxes found themselves. 

To go out my Moroccan friend conscientiously covers up, and I have rarely seen her with her hair or any part of her body uncovered. But then we were at home and the contrast was stark. Head scarves and outer layers were discarded and it felt like everyone was entirely comfortable with one another other. People did not hesitate to get changed in front of each other or to sit wrapped in a towel to drip-dry after a shower. We shared sleeping spaces with people we had only just met. Towards the end of our stay in Morocco we visited a Hammam (a kind of public bathroom). It had been held up as a fantastic experience but to be honest I was expecting it to feel extremely awkward. Public nudity is not really my thing. Conversations with Lydia and Helena before and after betrayed that we all felt similarly: an expectation of awkwardness, a surprised discovery that it really wasn't, and was indeed the positive experience we had been promised. I experienced girls and women of every age seemingly at ease in their own bodies in a way that I am not sure I have ever seen before. 

Not that all the locals were covered head to toe out in public. I have always had the sense that my friend's choice to cover up was entirely her own, and my limited experience of Morocco was to witness a whole range of different choices (I mean true, I didn't see anyone in skimpy tops and mini skirts!) and it really didn't feel like anyone was watching or judging anybody else. Even as an obvious outsider I didn't feel watched. Even for our guided tour of the Casablanca mosque we were told head-covering was optional and while Lydia and I decided we would seeing it as a sign of respect for another culture into which we were being welcomed, I noted our Moroccan guide did not. 

Like probably many of my culture I have questioned the need of women to hide away their bodies, to feel the need to erase their physical presence from public space. But this was my first real experience of the corollary: of how it then feels in spaces where those bodies are uncovered and it contributed something new to my perspective. I have never been sure that our theoretical wear-what-you-like environments which have descended into a highly-sexualised culture in which everyone's body is being constantly judged by others and even more critically by themselves is the answer either.  Perhaps, like gender, none of these things are the binary positions we have often been guilty of turning them into.  

Another thing that I was really struck by was how differently time worked there: I know it is a stereotype, one which I have to say many of my international friends do live up to, but the whole approach  to time and time keeping and the importance of time was just completely different. I learned to relax into the not knowing and the vagueness of what terms such as 'morning' might mean! I was on holiday, and so the relaxed approach to time really didn't matter but I suspect it would take some major adjustment to live in such a culture. Perhaps it should remind me to be more sympathetic to those who really struggle to get used to our expectations of time-keeping where two really does mean two! 

Morocco isn't, at least in the summer, in a different time zone to the UK ... but the way I felt when I got home did have some recognisable parallels to jetlag: because though it wasn't a different time zone, everything did happen in an entirely different time frame and my body clock was certainly very out of sync. The first evening was a case in point. Having landed well after 9pm, one might have thought a cup of tea, perhaps a light snack, and an early night ... but we arrived to a full meal and then an invitation, which we duly accepted, to go out and see the city. It was after midnight by the time we arrived in the square in the old city but there was no sign it was quietening down for the night, quite the contrary. It was the first of a series of very late nights!

At the heart of it all was the wedding ... or strictly speaking I suppose, the celebration of the wedding given the couple concerned have already been married for some time, but this was their first opportunity to celebrate surrounded by family and friends. Cue another exceptionally late night, well all night: we arrived for 10pm, the bride and groom appeared around midnight and the whole thing wrapped up around six am: it's a very long time since I've survived an all night party! 

The wedding involved the couple making five dramatic entrances, for the first two of which they were carried aloft in what I can only really describe as fairy-tale carriages, wearing five entirely different stunning outfits. There was music and drumming and lots of dancing as well as, of course, lots of food. Everyone made sure we felt fully included and even people we had never met were insistent we should get up on the dance floor. 

It was a truly amazing experience, quite unlike anything I have ever experienced before and as well as having a lot of fun, I was aware throughout of the incredible privilege of being there and not just witnessing, but being invited to be fully part of such a beautiful occasion. 

Morocco is, of course, a popular holiday destination, and we did do a few touristy things in the mix of our stay. We were mostly based in Marrakesh with a couple of days by the sea in Casablanca. In Marrakesh we took a day trip to the mountains, and visited the famous markets of the old city both by day and by night. In Casablanca we did a guided tour of a very impressive mosque, had a day at the beach, and had the location of "that" famous bar from the film pointed out to us.

But we also spent a lot of the time simply being welcomed into people's homes and lives. We were invited into conversations. We ate a lot of very good food. We drank many, many cups of Moroccan mint tea. We spent a lot of time being part of a community, of a family. And I really wouldn't have wanted to do it any other way.

Carrying the baton

A few weeks ago I was one of the thousands of people around the world who carried the Queen’s Baton on its journey to the Commonwealth Games in Birmingham. 

I confess, I had my doubts about the nomination: aside from really not anticipating being selected; I am, at best, ambivalent about the Commonwealth: about the complexity of its history and about all that it represents in terms of empire, aggression and stolen resources behind the glitz, glamour and excitement of a sporting event every four years.

If I accepted the nomination, which was for my role supporting, befriending, and empowering people who have sought asylum in the UK, it was for the chance to give voice to this issue about which I am so passionate. A chance to shine a light on the ways sanctuary-seekers enrich our communities and our lives; as well as on the unnecessary barriers they face in the hostility of a system which, with recent legislative changes in the shape of the Nationality and Borders Act is becoming even more cruel and inhumane. With the Conservative leadership candidates trying to out anti-migration each other, things don’t look like they are going to improve any day soon.

Even then, I was not convinced I wanted this platform. I spend my days championing the right of those with lived experience to have their voices heard: not for me to have the opportunity to speak on their behalf. These people who have escaped unimaginable trauma, experienced indescribably difficult journeys, arrived to an at-best-mixed welcome, and yet whose dignity and resilience shine through are, to my mind, far more inspiring than I will ever be. They too should be recognised for the positive change they bring to our complicated but beautiful communities. They too should be given the platform to speak out: but with their voices are so often closed out of public discourse, if I have the privilege of being given a voice, with it comes the responsibility to use it to speak, however inadequately, for those who have been silenced.

Just under three years ago I founded “Stories of Hope and Home”, with dual aims of providing safe space for people with lived experience of the asylum process to come together, build community and process their experience; and enabling and empowering them to share those stories with others to challenge misconceptions and change perspectives, one story at a time.

It was founded off the back of my personal experience of seeing the importance of safe space to build community and explore personal histories and of the transformational power of encounter; and off the back of the words of a primary school child who said, on having the chance to hear the stories of some of my wonderful asylum-seeking friends “but they don’t look like refugees, miss, they just look like us”

Of course they do. Because they are “us”.

My experience of Birmingham is of a place which, in its own unassuming way, allows people, whoever they are, to belong. Those I call friends, and even count as family, come from all over the world. When I picked up the baton, I was cheered on by friends from four continents. I carried the baton for them. For them and those like them I will never have the privilege to meet: for those whose paths will not cross with mine, for those who will die at the borders of fortress Europe. For those our government will fight hard to keep out and who if they arrive at all will do so retraumatised and facing increasing social exclusion by being prevented at every turn from integrating into the communities which are ready to welcome them.

With the arrival of the Commonwealth Games, Birmingham and the wider West Midlands welcomed the world. I was always confident they would do it well, because welcoming the world is what Birmingham does on a daily basis. But as we celebrated the games, we did so against a backdrop of a significant failure to join the dots.

The Commonwealth is our celebration of conquering and exploiting the world: but then we question why those self-same people might choose to come to our shores when they find themselves in need of sanctuary from the legacy we left behind. It is our celebration of holding ourselves up as a bastion of civilisation and yet we question why we should welcome those who come in search of the peace and freedom we claim to champion?

As well as those wider questions of imperial history there were various specific issues which I felt could or should have been highlighted by the arrival of the games. In reality, it didn't happen: most of the media discourse and discussion seemed to cast a very uncritical eye and shied away from the more difficult parts of what the commonwealth represents.

One of the very few countries in the Commonwealth never to have been part of the British Empire is Rwanda. It proved barely to get a mention in the coverage I saw, but I had suspected that, whatever their prowess on the pitches, the Rwandan athletes might come in for more media interest than usual. Not since 1994 has Rwanda featured in so many headlines, albeit for very different reasons this time. Undoubtedly, the trauma of the threat of deportation is less visceral and visually impactful than those grim images of genocide, but I don’t think we should underestimate the torture it is causing to some of the most vulnerable people in the world who have come here desperate for help. The anonymous statistics who have got off those little boats? I have met some of them. They are people who bring stories of tragedy but also hopes and dreams for the future, people who just want to be free to be who they are and get on with their lives, people who need support not threats, people who are, as that schoolchild said, “just like us.”

The other story that overlapped with Commonwealth Games coverage, even though he wasn’t competing in Birmingham, was Mo Farah’s recent revelation of his childhood experience of being trafficked to the UK. One of our most successful ever athletes has, years later, felt able to finally process those experiences.

Without being as headline-grabbing as the Rwanda policy, the introduction of the New Nationality and Borders Act rips its way through Refugee Protections and is set to be hugely detrimental to people who are already extremely traumatised. There are so many aspects of this law that are utterly horrendous that it is hard to pick out the worst, but discrediting evidence on the basis of people not revealing it immediately on arrival must be up there.

It does not surprise me that it took Mo Farah many years to come to terms with his traumatic past. Nor do I think he should be penalised for it. When he finally revealed the truth of his past he did so from a place of privilege and, despite some risks, relative security. He has a supportive family around him, he has British citizenship, and he has the respect and adulation of millions of people in the UK, including from within the establishment.

The new law fails to see why someone who has been traumatised, someone still living in uncertainty and fear, someone without access to meaningful support, might not be in a position to share the deepest, darkest realities of their past. Not all those who seek asylum have access to someone amazing who will champion their cause or to a talent that will turn them into a hero.

Some of the friends I work with, who have built a loving community with one another, don’t even feel able to tell each other about their experiences. Why would they feel safe to do so to someone who they know is part of a culture which sets out to disbelieve or discredit them? Have I met people who have not been able to tell me the whole truth about their lives: almost certainly. Have I met people who have only gradually, with the healing of time and trust felt able to reveal some of what they have experienced: most definitely. Have I met anyone who has claimed asylum who I think came here for anything other than seeking freedom and safety: not even once. Have I met anyone whose story I would discredit for the time it took them to feel safe enough to share it, never. For this, and many other reasons, I will continue to fight against the inhumanity of the new legislation.

Despite my ambivalence, I did, in fact, really enjoyed my baton-bearing moment. I enjoyed sharing it with the friends who stood alongside me. I enjoyed the tea, cake and conversation that followed. I also enjoyed the games of which, thanks to my bout of Covid, I watched many, many hours of coverage. I enjoyed hearing this city that I love so much getting the praise and recognition it deserves.

The fact of that enjoyment being genuine does not have to detract from my acknowledgement of the challenge and complexity of all things commonwealth-related. So here I am, I will continue to sit uncomfortably in the paradox. 

Encounters with Covid

Having somehow managed to escape the dreaded Covid-19 for more than two years (more by luck than judgement, although to be fair, I wasn't having parties, sorry, work meetings, during lockdown), I guess it was always going to get me in the end.

And while I would very much like to be out soaking up the atmosphere of the Commonwealth Games in Birmingham and catching up with friends visiting for that purpose, if it was going to get me this summer it was, on balance, probably the best timing I could have hoped for: I'd have been devastated if it had struck during refugee week or before the opera, and I should be well clear of infection before I am due to go away on holiday; and hey, I can lie on the sofa in my pyjamas watching wall-to-wall commonwealth games coverage without feeling as guilty about it as I would in other circumstances. All in all it definitely could have been worse.

Having woken at 5am feeling shivery and with a sore throat, on Thursday morning I knew I should do a test before heading out. Despite the fact that, at that point, I felt ok, the dreaded second red line didn't really surprise me. I figured that I'd have some commonwealth games watching, but also the opportunity to catch up on some long overdue admin as I sat out a few days of isolation. I exchanged messages with my colleague about arrangements for the day, and let a few people know I had finally succumbed.

It wasn't long before the middle-of-the-night paracetamol had worn off and I discovered that I was going to be in no fit state to do any admin or, in fact, anything much at all. By late morning I was back in bed and slept on and off all day. I woke up sufficiently to relocate to the sofa for the fabulous spectacle of the commonwealth games opening ceremony.

There followed two days of lying on the sofa in my pyjamas in front of whichever sports the BBC chose to throw at me because even selecting which stream I might most want to watch felt like a lot of effort. I don't think I have ever experienced exhaustion quite like it, where even the smallest of tasks feels like really hard work. I did manage to do some washing up on Friday evening but even just standing up for that long wiped me out and I genuinely needed to sit down and recover.

Today is day four and the fact that I feel up to writing this is an indication I am now well on the road to recovery. I'm not back to full strength but certainly have some energy back, about which I am both very glad and very relieved ... because I don't think I am very good at being ill. I have, fortunately, had very little practice. I guess the next trick is to not immediately overdo it and so give myself the chance to properly recover.

I still might get some of that overdue admin ticked off before isolation ends, and I am still optimistic that I will be out and about enjoying some of the Commonwealth Games atmosphere soon, but for today I'm going to appreciate walking to the kitchen to make a cup of tea not feeling like a massive effort.

Refugee: What do you know about me?

Many months ago, over a cup of tea in the Waterstones Café, I said "yes" to Stories of Hope and Home doing "something" in collaboration with Welsh National Opera. At that point it was all very vague and I had no idea what that "something" would turn out to be. 

Separately, an email from someone at Birmingham City Council, put me in touch with the REP Theatre, where we found a very warm welcome and started meeting in their community hub and making ourselves at home.

And so we launched into the project of creating, producing and performing "something". 

We started off by working with writer Steven Camden, who did an amazing job of drawing out stories and identifying and collating the words and phrases that spoke of our experiences. Most importantly, he helped us capture the essence of what we wanted to express: the struggles and frustrations of a hostile system, yes, but above all the laughter and the joy of who we are. When he turned up on his second week with a box of samosas it was pretty clear he'd understood how we roll! 

With the script written it was the turn of the composer, Dani, and singers and musicians to come in and create a score to reflect and enhance the words. After the first session one of the members of the groups summed up how we were feeling about this bit by stating, with admiration, "they speak music" ...  

Even before the score was complete, the third stage of practicing and preparing to perform was well underway. Not everyone in the group wanted to be on stage, and there was never going to be any pressure to do so. The cast shifted and changed week by week (up to and including on the day itself!) but we also watched as people's confidence grew and something we could imagine seeing on stage began to take shape.

Each stage began without us knowing the exact direction it might take. Each stage resulted in something beautiful.

Eventually, after a few changes along the way, a date and venue was set and invitations were sent out to schools across the city, optimistic of a positive response but without really knowing what the uptake might be.

Yesterday, members of Stories of Hope and Home, together with singers and musicians from Welsh National Opera performed "Refugee: what do you know about me?" to an audience of 500 school children and their staff and other invited guests in the main house at the Birmingham Rep.

It was a magical day, the culmination of an incredible project.

Of course, like with any significant project there was a lot of work involved and a few stresses and strains along the way: it would be silly to suggest otherwise, but the they had all dissipated by the time the house lights dimmed. 

There was the sharing of stories to evoke pain and frustration and stories to make people smile or laugh.

There were beautiful arias and catchy choruses.

There was speech and there was song. 

There were words and music combining to tell stories that need to be heard.

There were performers and an audience who felt like they were having a lot of fun along the way.

There is no doubt in my mind it was definitely worth it.

*          *          *

Stories of Hope and Home can trace its origins to a play my St Chad's Sanctuary ESOL class performed during refugee week 2019, a beautiful day and experience from which I came away thinking "more of this". Stories of Hope and Home was the "more of this". It was always part of the plan that there would be another play in refugee week 2020. It wasn't to be. 

Plenty of other things have happened in the interim and the project has developed in expected and unexpected ways and become something more beautiful than my wildest dreams of what might be possible in the beginning. 

It may have taken longer than expected to get back on stage but what a stage it was, and well worth the wait! What a privilege to share a stage with this truly wonderful group of people I am lucky enough to call my friends.

I am not planning to use this latest performance as a springboard for setting up an entirely new project: Stories of Hope and Home still has so much more to give and to to be. But I remain excited for what new adventures lie ahead for this project and the people in it who make it so special.

Journeying through June

My theoretical "I want to write stuff" and my practical "sit down, show up, write stuff" seem to be rarely in sync with each other. And while I could use the "just too busy" excuse, I don't actually believe that myself, so I'm not going to try and convince anyone else of it. 

I recently saw this quote by Octavia Butler: "First, forget inspiration. Habit is more dependable. Habit will sustain you whether you're inspired or not ... habit is persistence in practice." Somewhere inside me, I know this to be true. Waiting for the inspiration will not make the inspiration appear. Sitting down in front of an open notebook, pen in hand, scribbling nonsense, just might.

So I'm back, trying to form a habit.

During June I decided I would write, every day. I knew well enough that just saying that to myself wasn't going to be enough. How? When? About what? So I set myself a challenge ... each day I would go on a journey: not some dramatic adventure, just the everyday wanderings that are part of normal life. Every day I would write about that. Something, anything. Without thinking too much or trying too hard. Words on paper. 

I sort of managed it. If I'm honest I didn't write something every single day, but I did write something about every single day and that still feels like quite an achievement. 

Later, I went back through everything I had written. I highlighted the sentences or phrases that I liked or that captured my attention. I chose one for each day. I strung them together, edited the odd bit, added a few words here and there, played with the sequence. And lo, poetry (of a sort!) 

Journeying through June

This is the story I should be telling:

Baby steps still move us forward
But sometimes we should pause
Intentionally
To appreciate early morning hints of warmth.

For long enough to get our breath back.

Even when sheltering from the rainstorm,
When wondering why someone is watering the flowers with their hood up,
When it is a day for staying indoors, padding barefoot down corridors,

Even when between the brightening, there is the threat of rain

There are always
Enough blue skies and shades of green to lift my spirits and restore my energies
And then comes
One of those days where, as soon as you step outside,
Warm sun permeates the whole of your being

So on those days
When I run out of energy whenever I am faced with an incline
When faced with randomly frustrating anomalies
When the day involves a lot of time on buses

I remember
The places that will be forever associated with joy
And a goodly dose of relief
The special texture to the blues and golden yellows of the evening
Wending through woodland, dappled light breaking through canopies gathered above
The controlled wildness which suits my tastes
A family of goslings, a pair of fluffy ducklings,
Unequivocal highlights
Unexpected delights

But also
The mere minutes of the everyday,
The strikingly unremarkable and familiar,
Little gestures of community to treasure
All because I paused and responded to a stranger
A slightly wonky front gate, the turning of a key,
One, two, three … jump… one two three …
Breathing free

Those little things that make your eyes smile

Isn’t it ironic that it takes a bamboo puppet to rehumanise real people?
Isn’t it funny the ways memories are created and association forged?
Isn’t it amazing how the human brain works?

So I set off on a journey
Made of more than fifty per cent faffing
And seamless changes of direction, noticed by no one but me
Which in the end will,

More by luck than judgement,
Be timed to perfection

Guided by the promise of a party
And laden down with cake
I dance until the very end.

I wouldn’t want it any other way.

There were tears, but there was also dancing!

The last fortnight has been something of a roller coaster of emotions.

Two weeks ago, on the evening of Monday 13th June I found myself dissolving into tears while scrolling through twitter. I remained emotionally fragile throughout the following day. It was the day the first deportation flight was scheduled to fly to Rwanda.

I had had a particularly long and intense day and was probably overtired. After an all-day school visit I headed straight into a Stories group session. I was out for more than twelve hours without really having much of a break. Turning to mindless scrolling on twitter was perhaps not the best choice of relaxation strategy.

Nonetheless, it is not often I let this stuff really get to me. But that day, it really did.

Perhaps because I had spent all day in school with a young man as he repeatedly shared his story of speaking out for equality and human rights, of being forced to flee his country, of undergoing an unimaginably difficult journey, of arriving to an at best mixed welcome in the UK. He speaks with immense dignity and grace. Already, he says that although to stay in his home country meant certain death, he wishes he had never left.

He spent several hours in the channel in a little boat and feared for his life. It was a terrifying experience for which he should be offered support, not be threatened with punishment. 

That Rwanda flight wasn't due to be full of anonymous statistics. It was due to to be full of people like him. If he'd arrived six months later that softly spoken, inspirational young man could have been in detention awaiting deportation. He could have been dragged across the tarmac to that plane. 

And I might never have had the privilege of meeting him. I cried for him, and for those like him locked up in immigration detention. For all those who still live each day in more fear than they should since arriving in their longed-for safe haven which turned out not to be so safe.

By the time it was due for take-off the presence of every single person who had been due to be on that flight had been deemed illegal by one court or another. 

I think I was supposed to feel euphoria or at least relief: there was very little of either. 

Don't get me wrong: I was relieved for those who would sleep another night in the UK: albeit retraumatised, still in detention and with a hideous threat still hanging over their heads. And I was encouraged and reassured by the shows of support and solidarity from up and down the country: from the legal teams, the people and organisations supporting the individuals most effected, those who raised their voices, those willing to take direct action to block the vans.

But the threat still looms large. Far from backing down, the government are wedded to the cruelty of this and other equally vile policies and, sadly, significant chunks of the electorate seem to support them in it. Our country's commitment to universal human rights is being called into question. There is much work still to be done. 

But I recovered my equilibrium. I am too busy and life is too short to spend too many hours crying over my twitter feed. Not least because we were hurtling towards Refugee Week, which has long been one of the busiest of my year and I had various things to get organised and get ready for. There was work to be done ... and fun to be had!

If Refugee Week is partly an opportunity to raise awareness and to campaign for things that need to see drastic improvements, it is above all an opportunity to celebrate: to recognise the richness and joy which those who have sought sanctuary here bring to our communities, to our lives. To my life. And there is so much to celebrate!

I filled the week with enjoyable activities with people I care about. 

There were walks in both the sunshine and in the rain, performances of poetry, a little bit of art, and a lot of music. There was an art gallery and a giant puppet. There were good conversations with good people. There were warm reunions with people I hadn't seen in a while. There was a school visit thrown in for good measure. There was hospitality offered and received. There was support and reassurance in places where it was much needed. There were reasons to smile and to laugh. There was the excitement of children. There were hugs. There was food and cups of tea to be shared. There were reminders of generosity and solidarity and compassion and a desire for justice. There was even some much appreciated good news about funding.  

Yesterday, a busy week drew to a close with the final event of Refugee Week: a picnic in the park, and a musical extravaganza in an outdoor theatre. The sun shone, mostly. We sheltered from the rain storms when it didn't. I ate delicious samosas. I watched my talented friends perform their poetry. I chatted to many friends. 

I danced with abandon almost all afternoon. 

I am definitely not a particularly good dancer. It didn't matter.  

Because I did so with friends (and strangers) from all over the world. With this community who have made Birmingham their home.

The theme of this year's refugee week was "healing". This laughter and joy and friendship; these beautiful shared moments with an amazing bunch of people was just what I needed as fuel for the fight. 

There are times when the tears can and will flow. There are times when it is right to rage against all that is wrong with the world right now. There are times for working hard. 

There are times when love and life and laughter are radical acts too.

I will keep dancing, however badly.  

A little bit of bee-ing creative

I can't remember how long ago it was that I bought a latch hook kit as another fun creative project to try, nor can I remember how long ago it was I actually started it. A while, certainly. It has progressed very much in fits and starts since then  but I have quite enjoyed having it on the go as something to come back to and pick up and then leave to one side again. 

I have written previously about the value of these kinds of craft activities as a form of relaxation in the midst of the busyness of life. Something to do which doesn't require too much thought or energy but from which the end result is infinitely more satisfying than from mindlessly scrolling through social media.

Today, on a damp and gloomy day, which feels like it would sit more comfortably in February than in June, I finally finished it. I rather like bees, and I am quite pleased with how it turned out.

Right, what next?

A change is as good as a rest

Last week I went on holiday. 

I spent five days in a caravan on the beautiful west coast of Wales with friends. In total there were 8 of us: including a four month old baby, and three very energetic small children. 

Before I went, another friend commented that it didn't sound much like a relaxing break. But on the contrary, it was very much what I needed. 

You see the thing about sharing a small space with lots of people is you have to be very much present to and with one another, and the thing about going on holiday with little people is that they are very engrossing and demand all of your attention.

As such, it forced me to switch off from the strains and stresses of everyday life.

I barely looked at my emails, responded to far fewer messages than usual, ignored the news, and didn't scroll endlessly through twitter getting depressed about the state of the world.

Instead I spent hours splashing in the swimming pool and hours on the beach. I went for long walks in the wind and got caught in a rain storm. I read bedtime stories. I paddled and I played. I entertained children on two long train journeys. I stayed up too late chatting, slept a little and got woken up early. I ate good food and drank many cups of tea. I watched the sunset over the sea and the tide splash against the rocks. 

I remembered to appreciate these precious people who are such an important part of my life. 

I allowed myself to be fully present where I was.

So yes, I came home shattered and slept extremely well on Friday night: but through the exhaustion, I also returned home thoroughly mentally refreshed. So now I suppose I better get back to the email inbox and funding applications and other such joys ...

Reasons to smile

My last two blogposts have been distinctly less than cheery. I make no apology for that: too much online presence, particularly on social media, presents an overly glamourised version of reality and I have always aspired for this blog to be an honest reflection of reality. 

That said, my life also remains filled with joy and laughter and many blessings for which I am incredibly grateful so in the name of balance now feels like an appropriate moment to share a long overdue blog post that's been unfinished in my drafts folder for a while.

There are always reasons to smile ... even in the cold, dreary winter months! But sometimes we do have to remind ourselves to seek them out, or at least to recognise them. Following previous incarnations of various joy / gratitude journals, when the nights started drawing in and the clocks changed, I started another.

My intention was to continue until the clocks changed back again but I realised I was going to run out of pages in my notebook so instead, I made the final entry on 22.02.2022 

Some days I had to think harder than others but there was never a day with nothing to say. Some are big things: news, achievements, events, celebrations. Many more are little things: sunshine after the rain, a passing affirmative comment, a favourite dish, flowers heralding spring, a moment of shared laughter, coming in from the cold to a hot cup of tea. On some days it is a perhaps slightly incongruous mix of the two. It is a varied and wide ranging collection which captures something of the beauty of nature, my gratitude for the many privileges of my comfortable life, and perhaps more than anything the love and friendship of the many wonderful people I share my life with. And now it stands as a reminder of the many things which filled me with joy and with gratitude.

I ran out of pages, I stopped taking the time each day to make a note: but I haven't run out of reasons to smile.

Rwanda

This week the Home Secretary hit a new low (which is saying something, given the cruelty already embedded in the hostile environment for people who arrive here seeking sanctuary) by announcing that the latest "solution" for how to respond to people who have fled war and persecution and arrived here via the only routes available to them is to ship them to Rwanda, not to be processed and brought back if found to have a genuine need of protection but on a one-way ticket. 

The Home Office claims the deal will stop human trafficking. The definition of human trafficking, I would posit, is to move people from one country to another, against their will, and for money to change hands in the process allowing people to profit from this trade in human lives. Far from stopping human trafficking, then, it seems like the Rwanda Scheme is a somewhat sordid case of "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em". You would think we would have learned from history that state-sponsored trading in people is not good practice.

The timing of the announcement, a blatant example of trying to distract from epic government failures, by inflicting further misery on some of the most vulnerable in society only adds to its despicable nature.

The Home Secretary's accusation that those who object have no viable alternatives makes it clear she has closed her ears to many of those who work with people who have sought asylum here, to say nothing of the sanctuary-seekers themselves, because I have heard lots of much better ideas.

There is a very simple way to stop people getting into the backs of lorries or into flimsy dinghies to cross the channel ... something nobody would do if they had a viable alternative, which would be to offer safe passage, allowing people to travel by regular means to arrive in the UK and exercise their rights under the legally binding UN refugee convention to which we are signatories.

There is a very simple way to not have thousands of people caught up in the asylum system, which would be to process their claims efficiently, fairly and compassionately. A number of my friends have waited literally years before being, ultimately told that yes, they did have a well-founded fear of persecution and had the right to and need of our protection. Of the people who I know who have arrived in the last couple years, I can barely name any who have even had the interview which gives them the opportunity to share the story on which their asylum claim will be assessed.  

Anyway, back to Rwanda.

I have heard the Rwanda plan called out because it is against international law, UK law or both.

But even if it is found to be entirely legal ... it is still wrong.

I have heard the Rwanda plan called out for being unworkable and expensive.

But even if it can be delivered efficiently and effectively with huge cost savings to the government ... it is still wrong.

I have heard the Rwanda plan called out because although initially targeting single men, there is no assurance it won't be extended to include women and children. 

But even if it only ever men who are sent ... it is still wrong. 

I have heard the Rwanda plan called out for the likelihood that it will not in fact be an effective deterrent to those who will still undertake dangerous journeys.

But even if it does reduce the number of desperate people who make their way to our shores ... it is still wrong.

I have heard the Rwanda plan called out because of Rwanda's own human rights record and questions around how the people who claim asylum there are treated.

But even if this was a deal with the country with the very best human rights record and refugee protection in the world ... it is still wrong.

It is wrong for one simple reason.

Lost in all of the Home Office rhetoric about "migrants" and "illegality" is a fundamental reality...

Humanity.

All those who will be effected by this deal are human beings. 

They are people just like us. 

I do get the need to be pragmatic, to use arguments that will serve to convince those who don't already agree, and those whose morally compasses are seemingly rather askew. I'm sure I too will retweet the tweets pointing out all the side issues with this sordid deal.

But all that aside, let us not lose sight that this is, simply, wrong.

And for the sake of my friends, among whom I have seen in the past week increased levels of unsettledness and anxiety and fear, I will call it out for what it is.

The past month

There are a number of intertwined reasons why it is has been more than a month since I last posted anything here; the simplest of which is that I have been, objectively, too busy.

My series of hectic weeks was a combination of having planned perhaps slightly too many things, but also having a slightly higher than usual number of unplanned things that required an immediate response which therefore took up the non-existent-slack all coming at once. This is not the place for a list of all the many and varied things I have got up to in the last month, that isn't the point. Suffice it to say that many, most, perhaps even all of both the planned and the unplanned, I felt were good things to be doing, things where I had the potential to make a positive difference, things I think I was right to say yes to. Not to mention that it included plenty of joy and fun along the way.

I do know I have a tendency towards taking on too much, and, being aware of the tendency, I have tried quite hard to create balance and find ways and means of having switch off time. And actually, I know, from experience, that to have odd weeks where my busy-ness has an unsustainable feel to it is probably ok, so long as it isn't every week stretching on for ever.

And although it is true that I have had a few hectic weeks, I don't actually think it was as simple as the sheer number and variety of appointments and activities in my diary that pushed me to the edge of feeling overwhelmed. Because overwhelm isn't just about diary space, it is also about headspace: and switching off strategies have to be about headspace as well as diary space.

In the midst of what promised to already be a very busy period the Ukraine crisis hit: and both in practical and emotional levels added to my sense of overload. It also felt like the thing I should, and not just should but wanted to, write about, but although I tried a number of times, I couldn't put in to words what I wanted to say write.

It seemed the whole country watched in horror as Ukrainians were forced to flee from the home in the face of bombs dropped by a foreign power. It prompted an outpouring of compassion and the desire to help. Social media and public spaces were awash with blue and yellow flags. Even the Daily Mail came out in support of welcoming refugees.

And of course I knew I was supposed to want to celebrate such a show of generosity and concern and welcome ... but the whole thing made me feel deeply, deeply uncomfortable. It is not as if feeling deeply uncomfortable with reactions to refugees is anything new: the hostile environment provides ample opportunities for that, but this was a bit different because it came, at least ostensibly, from a place of goodwill and kindness. I am sure this internal struggle to find the the right ways to respond to the subtle and not so subtle racism inherent in so much of what I saw; the right words to gently challenge those who seemed oblivious to the unhelpful refugees narrative they were, perhaps subconsciously, helping to perpetuate, was one of the things which has been exhausting recently.

There was another facet to the whole Ukraine situation which deeply affected me too, which was seeing the direct impact it had on many of my friends who are still stuck in the asylum process. It felt like for some it was really the straw that broke the camels back in terms of mental health as I watched people struggle with anger and despair, that their own suffering and their own situations did not illicit the same sympathetic response. I had no answer for the person who asked why we "didn't even know about my country's war?". I had no answer as to why Ukrainian refugees would immediately be given the right to work while many of them, who were desperate to work and to contribute were still denied that right after several / many years. They didn't need me to answer. I had no challenge when they said that the difference was because they are white and European, because ultimately, I knew they were right.

*           *          *

Then, last week I spent a few days walking part of Northern Leg of Pilgrim Cross. Five days of long walks, of late night conversations and of sleeping on church hall floors are perhaps not best approached from a position of already being exhausted; but actually, while I didn't manage to switch off entirely form the rest of life, spending five days walking in the countryside under sunny skies surrounded by friends was exactly what I needed. It is an all-encompassing experience which, although it was physically tiring, was also a reasonably effective mental rest.

Prior to that I had also had helpful conversations with both my Birch supervisor and the person I meet with regularly as my 'sounding board' about the Stories project, among others.

I came back to a relatively busy work day, which involved both facilitating a new hosting placement and helping run an Easter activity afternoon for families in initial accommodation; as well as to the news that the government, in its latest desperate attempt to distract from its own failings had sunk to a new low in its plans to export asylum seekers for cash.

But I also came back to several days of not setting a morning alarm, to plenty of gaps in my diary for a few days, to a commitment, which I have honoured, to carving out some personal space to rest and relax.

*           *          *

The Rwanda policy, as the latest step in an increasingly abhorrent approach to how we treat those seeking sanctuary on our shores, has caused many of my friends to experience new levels of fear and anxiety about the precariousness of their situation in a place where all they are asking for is safety and welcome. Next week it is highly likely the Nationality and Borders Bill will once again be passed by the Commons, probably with most or all of the Lords' amendments attempting to make it marginally more humane removed.

But I have stepped back from the place of feeling overwhelmed. My energy levels are topped back up.

And today it is Easter.

So I will continue to believe that goodness is stronger than evil, even where evil appears to prevail; I will continue to believe that light can dispel the darkness, even when the world feels like a very sombre place.

I will continue the fight to make it so.