Thirty words (3)

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

Part 1 

Part 2

And these: 

21st June

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

22nd June

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

23rd June

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

24th June

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

25th June

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

26th June

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

27th June

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

28th June

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

 

29th June

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

30th June

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

And so, tomorrow, another month begins. 

A willingness to listen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thirty Words (2)

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

11th June

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

12th June

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

13th June

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

14th June

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

15th June

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

16th June

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

17th June

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

18th June

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

19th June

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

20th June

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

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

Stories of Hope and Home (3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pulling off a genuinely wonderful residential trip.

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

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

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

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

thirty words (1)

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

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

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

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

1st June

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

2nd June

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

3rd June

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

4th June

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

5th June

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

6th June

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

7th June

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

8th June

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

9th June

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

10th June

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

Gratitude (2)

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

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

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

Sunshine through the windows at morning prayer, 

good news about school places, 

sharing poetry, 

random messages from friends, 

the Birch drop-in, 

coffee shops, 

walks in the sunshine, 

good conversations, 

a grant from the national lottery, 

lunch with friends, 

a concert, 

a lie-in, 

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

childish enthusiasm, 

junior church, 

dinner with friends, 

primary school visits, 

positive feedback, 

doing something creative, 

a tidy room and a jobs list in order, 

long overdue catch-ups, 

celebrating birthdays, 

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

being trusted by a friend, 

messages about new projects starting, 

a nap, 

watching children I care about grow up, 

the amazing, inspiring women I am privileged to know, 

time shared with friends, 

making plans with others, 

the reassurance of knowing views are shared, 

affirmation from friends, 

impromptu dinner invites, 

fresh clean sheets, 

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

being thanked, 

homemade cookies, 

reusable sanitary towels, 

story-sharing and singing with little people, 

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

loving and being loved, 

hospitality offered and received, 

being able to support, advise and mentor, 

wasting time together with important people in my life, 

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

pub trips, 

planning for what remains possible in uncertain times, 

zoom, 

getting my bike out for the first time in forever, 

friendship, 

phone calls just because, 

so many education related things, 

blue skies, fresh air, sunshine

being the right kind of tired, 

seeing people again after a long interval,

family in all its many forms, 

random banter and nonsense, 

BVSC payroll services, 

living in a big building, 

impromptu contact, 

modern technology, 

sleeping until the alarm, 

face-to-face encounters, 

canals and towpaths, 

signs of spring, 

mains electricity, 

school stories, 

poetry, 

empty roads, 

the privileges of wealth, 

Godchildren, 

roast dinner, 

bike-rides and growing cycling confidence, 

lovely but predictably bonkers mums and tots online, 

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

painting, 

finding pussy willow, 

a sense of purpose, 

prioritising getting outside, 

group chats and individual chats, 

leaving the city centre, 

time offline, 

safe spaces for tears, 

traidcraft, 

footwashing, 

beautiful songs, 

feeling supported by colleagues, 

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

being busy, 

ice-cream on the roof, 

buds and spring flowers, 

watching the sunrise, 

the virtual pilgrimage, 

sunlight reflected in water, 

pretty pink blossom, 

online sessions for school kids, 

a tablecloth with 585 names stitched into it, 

good mental and physical health, 

a comfortable home, 

good food, 

the satisfaction of a deep clean, 

not-pub quizzes, 

google maps, 

thoughtful gifts, 

planting things and the possibility of new growth, 

memories of Christmas day, 

a new laptop, 

thousands of daisies, 

chance encounters, 

the market cheese stall, 

lengthening days and light evenings, 

leaf tea, 

sunflowers growing, 

the NHS, 

the completed We Tell Stories performance project, 

chocolate brownies, 

singing and laughter, 

painkillers, 

the centenary square fountains, 

time and space to myself, 

sunshine after rain, 

watching the seasons change, 

goslings and ducklings, 

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

finding ways to feel connected to others, 

Taize, 

featuring in the Imix positive stories blog, 

relaxing and having fun, 

chalk-art on the roof, 

reduced price stickers, 

City Academy Birmingham, 

good books and the time to read them, 

chocolate cornflake cakes, 

seeing progress in English and watching confidence grow, 

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

a spectacular moon, 

warm evenings, 

wisdom and guidance and support received, 

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

brightly coloured flowers, 

Lancaster chaplaincy, 

the kindness of strangers, 

standing outside in warm summer rain, 

learning how places interconnect, 

sharing my love of words with friends, 

cream cakes, 

libraries and museums, 

parcels in the post, 

always having enough to eat, 

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

summer trips with families, 

walking without a specific plan, 

takeaway curry night, 

Eurovision, 

meeting people not through a screen, 

 my blog, 

books that say a lot in a few words, 

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

bamboo socks, 

a zoom Iftar meal and memories of previous shared meals, 

the first cup of tea in the morning, 

parks and public outdoor spaces, 

being in the moment, 

the early days of summer, 

paddling, 

scotch pancakes for breakfast, 

technology and technical skills, 

duolingo, 

interfaith / intercultural friendships, 

gestures of intimacy and friendship, 

curlywurlies and memories of Lonsdale, 

waking up to radio 3, 

picnics, 

glasses, 

a friendly postman, 

a routine of regular prayer, 

the gift of bringing people together and building community, 

freshly picked strawberries, 

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

bamboo towels, 

cycling and walking infrastructure, 

many shades of green, 

optimism.

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

Happy Pentecost!

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

And the spirit dances

Within our doubt

They are words which still resonate today.

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

Happy Pentecost!

The isolation at the centre

We live right at the heart of a city centre.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All the things we do not write

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is blog post number 300. 

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

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

It continues ...

Like daisies...

 We

like daisies

turn our faces

towards the light

so bright

But

perhaps, sometimes

it is right

We too

must curl up tight

against

the dark 

of night

So long as we remember that

Morning comes

And when it does

we must

allow its warmth

to penetrate

And thus

unfurl

and open

turn

to face

our world

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More playing with colour

Gratitude

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zoom Squares

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

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

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

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

In the meantime, that became this.

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

It is here, perhaps

In this the space

Where everything changes

That we discover

That these the cords

Which tied us down

Were

In fact

The bonds which bound us

To a reality

We at least kind of understood

The anchor

Now cut adrift 

From all we thought we knew

To be true

We don't quite know

Where we will go

But we will find

We're intertwined

With others who

Apart, together

Still turn me

Towards you

Suddenly

Almost overnight

All these the people

Who once were

Flesh and blood

With outstretched arms

And hugs

To hold us close

Became

Zoom Squares

Just

Moving pictures on a screen

And yet

Though slightly out of focus

From that we thought we knew

They smile at us

And we at them

And so

While we may freeze or falter

We realise

The connections has not

In fact

Been lost

And there is hope

Because

They still turn me

Into us.

Adjusting to a new reality

It's about a month since I last posted anything on here. As always, there are a few unfinished drafts which may or may not see the light of day at some point ... but suddenly most seem less relevant to the strange new reality in which we find ourselves. In one sense it feels like hyperbole to suggest 'everything has changed' but actually, it kind of has: and it means that I feel like to write something, it has to, at least somehow relate to this new situation. Perhaps that will change, when this becomes our mundane reality, but that's not how it feels right now. And so here I am, just one more person casting their disparate and at times dysfunctional thoughts about life in the pandemic into the ether, perhaps as nothing more than a reminder to myself, in times to come, of how it felt to be caught up in the story of this generation.

As it became increasingly obvious that, some point soon, we'd be heading to a time of increased physical distancing and lock-down, my brain was teeming with ideas of things that I would do with all the extra time I found myself with: jobs that had been hovering at the bottom of jobs lists for a very long time, creative projects, more writing: I nearly posted an apology on here for the inevitable deluge of blog posts to follow.

You'll have noticed. This has not been the case.

Time has become a strange paradox of stretching indefinitely into emptiness and flying by as quickly as ever. Whole days seem to disappear with the same struggle to fit everything I want to do in. No change there then: but it is not how I expected this time to feel.

In some ways, life looks very, very different to it did a month ago, but in other ways, not as much as I thought it might. My energies have, for the most part, been directed exactly where they always were: towards building relationships and community with those I love and care about. There's still some stuff that could be very loosely defined as teaching mixed in. The fact that the format is very different, and I, like the rest of the world, have discovered new depths of appreciation for technology, has not detracted from my first priority in my new routine and reality being sustaining human connection.

I abandoned the term social distancing almost as soon as it had become common parlance: this is not, I suggest, what any of us need right now. Physical distancing, certainly, but that is a very different thing. I know that the last thing I need right now is to feel more socially distant from my communities I would say it is part of the human condition to need social connection, perhaps even more so in times of uncertainty and crisis. We are made for togetherness. Perhaps the imposed separateness has given many of us a renewed appreciation for this need.

Despite the reality of almost no physical face-to-face contact (answering the door to the postman has become one of the highlights of my day, I kid ye not!) there have definitely been times when I have felt almost overwhelmed by the quantity of social contact. There is, perhaps a certain increased intensity inherent in continuing conversations and 'holding space' online rather than in person. Overall though, I am pleased with how my (virtual) social connectedness is shaping up.

I know myself well enough to know that a sense of purpose is deeply important to me. I know how much I would struggle to feel I wasn't able to contribute or make a difference: it was one of my biggest fears as we headed towards this strange new reality. For different people, I am sure the approach of lockdown presented very different things to stress about for different people. This was mine. When so much of my raison d'etre is focused around human encounter, what would I still have to offer from being tucked away in a corner?

I am deeply grateful that the reality has felt much more constructive than some of my concerns beforehand suggested. Much of what I am committing my time and energy to has, I hope, great value for those towards whom it is directed: but I make no illusions that this is entirely altruistic. All this reaching out in support of others is also fulfilling a deep need in me. I had twinges of guilt about that to start with as I questioned my own motivations.

This is not the first time I have wrestled with such a thing, working out how to justify whether roles which bring me great joy and fulfillment can really be called work. But I think I have made peace with it, at least for now, at least in the context. I don't think it detracts from the good I can offer others if it also gives me life: on the contrary, perhaps it is this which will make it more sustainable. Perhaps it is this which confirms it is vocation.

Now I've started writing, I have a number of other tangentially related things I think I want to say, but this post is probably already long enough, so maybe that's for another day.

Wonderful Wales

It is now almost a fortnight since I got back from a truly wonderful few days in Wales with the participants from the Stories of Hope and Home project. Nearly everyone I have spoken to about it has said I should be "writing all this down" so I guess this is my attempt to do so, at least in part.

Perhaps I should have written something immediately when the impressions of the trip and all that it meant, to them and to me, were still fresh and raw. But at the point I was certainly too tired to string together a coherent sentence! I came home utterly exhausted ... and with zero regrets about a truly wonderful shared experience.

I was fairly tired even before we set off... after a few semi-sleepless nights worrying about ensuring everything was in place for it all to go as smoothly as possible and for everyone to have a wonderful time: expectations, mine and theirs, of this being a very special experience, were high, so I was desperately keen to ensure it lived up to the dream! But with the activities planned, the resources collated, the menus decided, the participant list finalised, what could possibly go wrong?

By departure day, it was fairly obvious that Storm Dennis was going to be wreaking havoc across the whole of South Wales. Red weather warnings are hardly an auspicious start to a few days away to enjoy the countryside! We were travelling as far as Cardiff by megabus (because it was cheap, but given the number of cancelled trains that weekend, it turned out to have been an excellent choice). By the time we were en route (with everyone having made it comfortably on time, thereby alleviating the first of my significant worries) it was clear the train we were due to get up to the village where we were staying was not running; but the local bus service wasn't showing any disruptions, so it looked like we weren't going to have to change our plans too much, and we enjoyed a couple of hours in the National Museum before locating a bus stop.

I think it's fair to say it was pretty obvious we weren't locals: the ethnic mix of the Stories of Hope and Home group is somewhat different to the general make up of the population in the Welsh valleys. It wasn't surprising we attracted a degree of interest. We were asked by interested locals where we were from and where we were going... When I said (with some trepidation about my pronunciation of Welsh place names), that we were en route to Troedyrhiw, the reply "but you can't be, the village was evacuated this morning" was not, if I'm entirely honest, what I wanted to hear. Not that anyone else understood what was going on ... this was one of several occasions when I had to identify that no, that wasn't welsh,just English with a strong welsh accent. So I spent the rest of the journey carrying out hasty google searches to try and work out whether the place where we were staying was outside the evacuation zone. 19 people including a toddler in self-contained accommodation with a clear plan of activities was quite stressful enough ... ending up in an evacuation centre with a lot of undoubtedly distressed locals was probably not my ideal scenario at this stage.

As we walked passed lots of houses with their sodden furniture and carpets out in their front yards; rarely have I been so grateful for the fact that we were walking uphill!  Anyway, we arrived and if the downstairs kitchen floor showed some evidence that flood water had made its way in, it was not going to deter us from settling in and having a good time. And after that beginning, the only way was up, surely!? It was just as well Helena was joining us the next day and that, as well as bringing the food for the rest of our trip, could throw in a few extra essentials ... such as a mop and bucket!

By dinner time on the first evening it was fairly obvious that the timetable was going to have to be fairly flexible, ... and that was even before such complications as a stay in a local hospital for one of the participants were added to the mix the following day. Frequent adjustments to the timetable were probably inevitable, adapting to various complications and to the weather forecast; but having a timetable and a plan meant that we did fit a lot in to the time we had together. Helped, undoubtedly too, that everyone had come with a desire to get the most they could out of the trip.

While we may have come to the table late, come to the table we did: all of us. It was something of a squeeze to fit everyone into the dining room, but we managed it: this was to prove to be a significant and beautiful feature of the trip: to sit and eat together as family; with good food, conversation and laughter. 

I'm not sure I slept at all the first night, a situation that improved slightly, but not hugely on the following nights. It meant I was already awake when I heard someone in the kitchen making falafel for breakfast ... at 4am! You'd think, after the early start (I gave up all pretense at sleeping and was in the kitchen myself, watching rather than being useful, by 5), that breakfast would be ready on time, but in a pattern that was to be repeated throughout, that didn't exactly come to pass.

The locals we met on the bus had suggested that Troedyrhiw was not a particularly attractive place, but I guess it depends on your points of comparison .. because no, this was not the Brecon Beacons, but nor was it inner city Birmingham, and to be able to step outside and be on a grass covered hillside within a few minutes walk from the front door was a much-appreciated novelty, even for those who were not particularly motivated by outdoor activity and opted for the shorter version of the walk each day. For those who were more adventurous, and continued for a longer walk, being caught on the hillside in a hailstorm was all part of the experience. For me, it feels like a feature of British holidays that if, when walking in the countryside you find yourself in a mix of sleet, rain and hail, you do up your coat a little tighter and carry on regardless, so I consider them now to be fully inculturated! The weather was kinder to us the following day (for February, anyway), and after a visit to Aberfan with the whole group, about half went on for what turned out to be about a five hour walk. Those who know me will be aware that the fact I was the one entrusted with an OS map was always going to be a bit of a risk, but we only had to climb over one (or was it two?) fences when we got slightly off track, and a good time was had by all! The rest of the group who had wandered back to the house to chill out also seemed to have had a nice time too, so everyone was satisfied.

In between and around all that, we did various activities back at the house: this was, after all, at least in theory, a residential trip not just a holiday! And so it proved to be. I continue to appreciate the enthusiasm with which this group of people throw themselves into the things I invite them to do: which this time included art, charades and drama as well as discussion. There was lots and lots of laughter, a healthy dose of competitiveness at times, but also some deep thoughtfulness and careful reflections shared. Some of the foundations for our summer play have certainly been laid and our community is a little, or maybe a lot, closer than it already was.

And so we arrived at the final evening, and if I hit a wall of utter exhaustion and slightly overwrought emotion by early evening, I think that's allowed! And I came out the other side to a lovely evening of good company, and expressions of gratitude and friendship.

By some minor miracle, we managed to leave the house not just on time, but early, for our return journey; which meant we had longer in Cardiff than I had dared to hope... although after a fascinating visit to the Senedd we did end up cutting it rather more fine than was good for anyone's blood pressure to make it back to the megabus stop. But we made it, and the rest is history. By early evening, as planned, we were back in Birmingham, and I suspect the suggestion of stopping for a cup of tea was as much because of an unspoken desire for the experience not to come to an end as for any other reason. I know, because despite my exhaustion, there was something of that in me, too. That said, when every did, finally, wend their way homeward, I appreciated an early night and a very good night's sleep!

So that was that, in the broadest of broad brushstrokes, our few days in Wales. Lots of joy, a few tears, and, as I mentioned more than once during the trip, "only manageable amounts of stress!" This blog post is already (more than) long enough but in fact, it is probably not the broad brushstrokes and sketched outlines that best tell the story of this trip. It is the endless little anecdotes of individual moments, the mundane as much as the noteworthy, which really tell the story. Or perhaps it is a story which can't really be told, and had to be lived. That too, probably.

There is also this post https://www.storiesofhome.org.uk/2020/02/wales.html which says something about what the trip meant to those who I accompanied.

Stories of Hope and Home (2)

Scrolling through my blog feed, I realised it was a long time since I wrote anything here about Stories of Hope and Home... which is some what surprising, given that it has very quickly expanded to fill much of my time and even more of my head-space.

The last post on the subject was written way back in September, before it really even existed. Five months later, it is in a very different place.

Much has happened, and it has been (and I am sure will continue to be) a truly amazing privilege to help this fledgling project take flight. Somehow, though, it seems pretty hard to put into words, which is ironic, given it is a project entirely based around doing exactly that. It surely shouldn't be so difficult to tell the story of telling stories? And yet, somehow, there is no simple, coherent narrative to capture all that this project has very quickly become. Perhaps though, that is one of the many things we are learning together: that stories are not simple and ordered and complete. They are made up of seemingly throw-away comments which tell deep truths, and of tattered scraps of paper which reveal something of ourselves.

The Stories of Hope and Home group started meeting at the beginning of October. Since then, 30 different individuals have engaged with the project, from eighteen different nationalities. Men and women, of different ages, different cultures, different religions, different languages ... who have built a truly beautiful, supportive community which cradles both laughter and tears. The numbers only tell a tiny part of a story which is woven out of so many other stories being brought together and held in this space.

And for me, in the midst of it all, to be entrusted with so many snippets of so many stories feels like an immense privilege but also a significant responsibility. Back in the autumn, I asked one of the participants for permission to share a part of their story. She replied "you don't have to ask, because my story is also your story now" That, which encapsulated in words much of what I feel I have been given by those I am working with, felt like such an act of trust and such a very precious gift.

The other part of the project, to create opportunities for the project participants to share their stories with children and young people in schools also already feels like it is bearing fruit. A rough calculation suggests we have spoken to almost 300 school students, plus their staff, since we got started. But again, the numbers tell only a tiny snippet of the story. The real story lies in watching young people's faces change as they listen, in hearing them respond, in sensing their engagement; and in listening to conversations between participants about their own reflections on what and why they are sharing their stories with these young people.

There are still, for me, questions and challenges around this part of the project that whir around my brain. I really believe in the power and possibility of this: my own life has been significantly enriched and transformed by my own encounters with these stories and these people; I want to be part of offering something of that experience to others. I have also seen the value for individual participants of having space to share their stories, and having those stories really heard. But none of that has fully assuaged my nagging doubts and questions around the ethics of this work, and I am continuing to reflect on how to ensure I am respecting the integrity of those who are participating in the project and ensuring I do not abuse the trust they are placing in me. I hope I am getting the balance right. I hope I will be forgiven for the occasions I inevitably get it wrong.

Saying goodbye

On the 31st December 2019 I was walking along the spectacular coast path of northern Cornwall. It was also, officially, my last day at St Chad's Sanctuary.

In reality, my last 'proper' work day was ten days earlier when I had helped welcome seventy children, and their parents, to a Christmas party: complete with Santa, pass the parcel, and a scratch nativity play; to a room filled with noise and mess and laughter and joy.

Last Sunday I gathered together with some of the many, many friends I have worked alongside there, to mark the end of an era.

You cannot possibly have either known me personally over the last few years, or have followed this blog, without understanding that this place has been hugely important to me. It is where I met many of those I am privileged to now call my friends. It has played a significant part in Birmingham becoming a place I call home.

Deciding that the time was right to part company was, therefore, never going to be easy. There were, predictably, tears. There was a period of angst and uncertainty. But, in the end, for all the sadness, I am at peace that I have made the right decision. Of course there are many things, and people, and activities, that I miss. I'm sure there will be for many weeks (months, years ...) to come.

But there is much I will not miss ... because while I am saying goodbye to St Chad's Sanctuary, I am not going to be saying goodbye to much of what it has given me. There are many, many friends, who, I hope and trust will still be part of my life. The passion it has given me for campaigning about asylum issues and caring about those caught up in the struggle has not diminished. The desire to build supportive, inclusive community which offers safe space to hold both the beauty and challenge of life has not changed. All of that I will take with me, into the new projects I am trying to build and more importantly, I hope, into my approach to the kind of life I am trying to live. And tea. I will continue to drink countless cups of tea.

I will always carry a deep gratitude for St Chad's Sanctuary and all it has given me. In the past six and a half years I have learned a huge amount and grown much. I have discerned and deepened a sense of vocation, discovering and refining where my gifts and enthusiasms lie. Until recently, St Chad's Sanctuary was the right place to fulfill that vocation. Now, new adventures call. My head is already fast filling up with new ideas and possibilities; my diary is already fast filling up with new activities and commitments; and my heart is already overflowing with the love and energy to continue.

The farewells have been said, but the work is only just beginning.

*            *            *

I somehow feel I can't write a blogpost entitled 'saying goodbye' without at least a passing reference to the fact that there was that other significant farewell last week too: the one from an institution which, for all its deep flaws, (and however much I would like us to still be in the EU I'm not going to start pretending it was / is perfect), at least partly tried to stand for a sense that we are better together. 

So I will mourn the small inconveniences it will cause me, but more importantly I will mourn for the attitude of insularity it portrays and the insidious injustices that will cause to many much more vulnerable than myself. But while it is ok to make space to mourn, now is not the time to curl up in a ball and weep... now is the time to stand up and be counted.

The farewells have been said, but the work is only just beginning!

Answers (7)

It continues ...

30) What's been the biggest mistake so far in your life and what did you learn from it?

I found this one so hard! Actually, we all did, and in fact, it's still blue-tacked to the wall because none of us has really come up with a satisfactory answer, but we were at a bit of a standstill so just sort of left it there while we moved on to the next one!

Don't get me wrong ... it's not as if I haven't made plenty of mistakes: I'm pretty sure I've got a whole heap of things wrong, and that I've hurt both others (if that's you, sorry about that) and probably at times myself by my choices and my actions. I'm sure I've had times where I have knowingly made the wrong choice, and there are plenty of occasions where with the benefit of hindsight I might (but also might not) have done something differently. I'm not in denial about that ...but whatever those things are, I've also moved on from them and let them go. I've had, all in all, a pretty easy and privileged life so far, but even the bits that have been the hardest, and the choices that may or may not have been mistakes, have been part of shaping the me I am today: and I have no regrets about who and where I am.

31) What matters the most to you?

What, not who. That was the clarification for this one. Because, yes, people and community would probably have been my go-to answer, but with that excluded I had to think again.

I think then, aside from people, it is having some sort of purpose and feeling like I can have a positive impact on the world which matters most to me.

32) If you could do one thing and get away with it, what would it be?

A lot of different people visited while this one was up on the board ... and many and varied were the ideas (and that's just the ones people felt able to share publicly!) We established that it was 'get away with' not just in a legalistic sense,but genuinely, no repercussions,no guilt, ... 

In the end I settled for acquiring one of the right wing newspapers, changing it to a progressive one without people stopping buying it, and in so doing having a major influence over the opinions and values of the population; and thereby significantly change the political landscape of the country. I do realise there are a number of flaws in the plan (I don't want the former owners to financial benefit from my acquisition of it, deep down, I don't really want one newspaper to hold such deep influence over people, even if it is saying things I agree with, and so on ...) But hey, we can all dream ...

33) If I could change one thing in my life, what would I change and why?

I write this as we approach the end of 2019... which is a year in which I have experienced a fair amount of change one way or another. To be honest then, right now, the answer I want to give is that I think I would choose not to have any more change for a little while, that I want to first give myself time to allow the current changes to settle into place before looking ahead to the next desire for newness and adventure ... which I'm sure will come again soon enough! 

It is interesting (to me at least, perhaps not to anyone else!), that this is how I feel as I reflect on this question. Interesting because it is probably relatively unusual. I think most of those who know me have long given up on the idea that I might "grow up, settle down", and they're right ... I love living a life in which I'm able to be open to turning off down unexpected side roads which open into incredible possibilities. But today is a day for walking down the path I'm currently on, and knowing that's ok too.

34) If you could have anybody else's life, who's would you take?

You know what, actually, I think I'll keep my own. I know my life may not be perfect: but overall, it's hard to imagine anyone else's is much better. I have all the material wealth I need to live an extremely comfortable and privileged life; I have a sense of vocation and a fulfilling work life. I have a faith which sustains me; I am involved in loads of different things which add variety and interest to my week; I have endless opportunities for fun and laughter; I have a wide community of different people to love and by whom I know myself to be loved. 

I am not only satisfied but happy with the life I live. I know that in itself is an immense privilege which I hope I will never take for granted.

This has been sitting unpublished in drafts for a while, but still, we have reached the end of our "year of questions" with a fair few still in the unasked questions jar. We have not yet, after the Christmas break, quite got back into the habit of drawing out a new one, but I think we probably will; so there may yet be a few more of these posts to come. 

Election reflections

I started writing this post a while ago, when the election results were still a very fresh memory invoking very raw emotions. Since then, other priorities and activities mean reflecting on it has easily slipped down the agenda. There are still things I want to say.

Late on that Thursday evening, after the exit poll but while a small glimmer of hope was still alive before the results were actually confirmed, I wrote the following as my facebook status:

Tonight could be very depressing ...

Were it not for the fact that democracy is not just, and not even mostly, about what happens in the polling stations. It is about the choices we make every day. About the lives we choose to live.

So yes, I'll stay up shouting at the television tonight.

But tomorrow I will stand up and do my bit to create the kind of world in which I want to live. It might be a bit harder, but it will still be worth the effort. I am not giving up.

I wrote it because I needed to find a way to remain hopeful and believe I can still make a difference in a society which felt a little more broken than it did the day before. I wrote it because this is the reality we find ourselves in and I know that just blaming "the other" who voted for a set of values I find impossible to understand ultimately isn't helpful. Most of all, I wrote it because I really believe it to be true.

Those words remain at the heart of where I am at in relation to what happened on election night. They remain my most coherent reflection, but I have, unsurprisingly, had plenty of other thoughts too. Despite the elapse of time, my disparate collection of thoughts have not coalesced into some kind of succinct discourse; and if I wait until they form some kind of coherent reflection, the moment will have passed (to some extent,since I started writing this, it feels a little like it already has!), so I thought I'd just share them as random snippets, for what they are worth, just as they are:

*          *          *

I know I am very privileged that my every day reality provides me with many opportunities to help try and create this 'better place' I say I believe in. The tomorrow of which I wrote on Thursday night, mostly involved teaching twenty-something refugee and asylum-seeking children who are waiting for school places. Some of them have been waiting several months for a school place in a system that is clearly not really able to cope, many of them are living in temporary accommodation, in some cases in one room in hostel accommodation with no kitchens, no washing machine. I know their lives are not about to get any easier, and I may not be able to do much about that. I also know that for those couple of hours they learned new words, they shared ideas, they built friendships with each other, they smiled and they laughed. I know that is a good thing.

*          *          *

It feels like on Thursday simplistic certainty won over nuance and compromise. Whatever else one can say about the winning election campaign (and there is much I could write on the subject) it was unquestionably successful. Like the Brexit campaign before it, the strategy of choose a simple message, repeat it endlessly regardless of the topic you are supposed to be discussing, the question you have been asked, seemed to work. And if I found the failure to drop the stuck record intensely irritating ... I guess that didn't matter, because I was never the target audience. My immediate temptation, I think, was to wish that "my side" had perhaps done the same: found a simple, catchy repeatable message to hammer home. Given how election campaigns and media soundbite collection works, maybe some of that would have had value ... But at a deeper level, I know, ultimately, that isn't the solution. It is not what I want. I do not want a political game that is reduced to who can come up with the catchiest slogan. I do not want further polarisation of an already divided society. I want to remind myself not to give up on nuance, and complexity, and grey areas, and doubt.

*          *          *

Fear is an extremely powerful force. I've written about that before. I probably don't need to do so again now, but this election reminded me again of how significant a force it is in the way our society operates, and therefore how important it is, in lots of different situations, to resist succumbing to it. The election result didn't happen in a vacuum: lots of other decisions and scenarios where fear is allowed to dominate discourse have brought us to where we are. I think the message that love overcomes fear, the challenge to not be afraid, lies at the heart of the gospel call. I will continue to aspire to heed it.

*          *          *

One of the conversations I had with someone the day after the election was about the fact that I and others, were quite openly sharing our disappointment and disagreement with the election result. It was one of multiple conversations in recent weeks with those for whom government repression on a scale I in my privilege will undoubtedly never experience, has been a very tangible reality. Those conversations stand as a rallying call: that apathy or running away is not a solution. I remain in an immensely privileged position and it comes with a great responsibility to struggle for those who, in myriad different ways, don't share that privilege.

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If fear is an extremely powerful force,the desire to find someone to blame is an incredibly powerful temptation. 'Othering' and creating scapegoats to shoulder the blame has been a powerful political tool which has, in my opinion helped bring us to where we are... but for those of us who are unhappy with the results said election, the desire to apportion blame to those whose choices were different to our own is also a strong one. In some cases, and in some ways, that is possibly / probably justified. Democracy works on the assumption that people can take responsibility for their choices. But what to do when you have the deep sense that many of those who voted for the current government have and will suffer more as a consequence than I will, protected as I am by my privilege? And if I blame "them" in the way they blamed "the other" in the way they voted, am I not just perpetuating the same story that there always has to be someone to blame, and that someone is always someone else.

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I have struggled to try and understand why it seems so many people are voting against their own best interests. Don't get me wrong: I get that there's a place for voting or acting against your own interests: for choosing to take the "preferential option for the poor", choosing to do what is best for those weaker or more vulnerable or more in need than ourselves even when it is against our own personal benefit. But to vote / act for something that is less good for ourselves than it is for those already richer or more powerful than ourselves? I have really struggled to make sense of that. I have more to say on that subject, I think, probably. But that might be a post in its own right at some point.

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Enough. I think. For now at least.