Aunty Mary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Answers (11)

This is it, we have reached the final instalment of the Q and A, the "to answer" jar is now empty so these are the last 6 answers...

49) What is your greatest regret?

I'm struggling to think of an answer to this. Obviously I have made choices that possibly / probably weren't ideal. Of course if I put my mind to it I can think of conversations that could have progressed differently, relationships I could have nurtured more, actions I possibly ought (or ought not) to have taken, places I perhaps wish I'd been. I am sure I have unintentionally (and sometimes intentionally) made decisions which have not been in my best interests and which have also negatively impacted on / hurt others. But while learning from our mistakes and misjudgements is of course incredibly important, dwelling on regret seems particularly unhelpful. We cannot change the past. We are shaped by it, and we can learn from it, but we can not rewrite it. It is easy to look back at decisions or actions we have made and judge them by the standards of the person we are today ... the person we have only become because of the things we did then. For sure, some of the choices my younger self made I might not make again as the person I am now ... but had I not made them, I wouldn't be who I am. So it is in all honesty that I write that I don't believe I am holding on to any really significant regrets.  

50) Where does happiness come from?

I consider myself immensely privileged to have found happiness, but that doesn't mean I have found the answer to where it comes from. Of course I experience all the other emotions too: I get sad, and scared, and frustrated, and lethargic and overwhelmed and ... but at some deeper level I know myself to be happy. I know that this is a privilege, one which I trust I never take for granted. I can identify some of the things that contribute to my happiness, but I don't think I have a universal answer to where happiness comes from: I wish I did. I have met so many people who wrestle with deep sadness and struggle to find true joy: if I knew the answer to this and could gift it to them, I would do so in a heartbeat. 

51) What is the weirdest thing about you?

Obviously I looked up a definition: apparently weird means "very strange, unusual, unexpected or unnatural." I suspect there are probably quite a few things I could choose for this one. In many ways I am an entirely conventional product of my culture and upbringing, but I also acknowledge that there are aspects to who I am and how I live my life that perhaps aren't entirely typical. Some are fairly superficial, others perhaps more fundamental. I guess some people find it weird that I honestly can't remember the last time I wore make up. I know quite a few people who think it strange that I have never learned to drive. Some might even think me liking marmite is weird (but they'd be wrong). I know, or at least hope, that some of my values and principles and choices are at least a little bit counter-cultural... but I hesitate to call them weird. 

To be honest, I think I am entirely normal, so this is probably really one other people need to answer for / about me!  

52) Who is your greatest hero? 

Google tells me that the definition of a hero is "a person who is admired for their courage, outstanding achievements or noble qualities."  I can't possibly pick out one individual. I am privileged to meet people every single day who meet that definition: People whose resilience and capacity to hold on to hope, whose ability to keep loving and keep laughing through unimaginable trauma, is nothing short of heroic. 

53) Is love a feeling or a choice?

I guess my answer would be that it is a combination of both. I do think feelings come into it: we have a natural affinity with certain people, often times in ways we can't really explain and which may seem entirely illogical, even to ourselves. There are people we click with, and who we naturally feel at ease around, or want to spend time with, or ... 

But love is more than that too. It is, most definitely, also a choice that we make and remake. Love is beautiful, but not effortless. It is about having in mind another person's wants and needs, and responding accordingly. It is about showing up and being there for each other when it is easy, yes, but also when it isn't. 

54) What's your biggest dream?

I honestly didn't plan it this way, but it seems fitting to end on a dream. I have mulled over for a while all the things I would love to see and trying to choose the "biggest". In the end, though, I think they all distil into one huge, but really quite simple dream. I dream of living in a world where we all, genuinely, see one another as fully human with equal rights, dignity and worth. I genuinely believe that if that dream were fulfilled, if we truly, genuinely recognised one another's humanity, everything else of which I dream would also fall neatly (or to be honest fairly messily) into place.  

Death is something, after all

There is a very famous poem by Henry Scott Holland which begins with the words "Death is nothing at all". I understand both the intention and the sentiment. I am sure there are many who have found it a great comfort and, of course, I do not intend to cast judgement on anyone who has found solace in it. There are lines within the poem that I like and with which I don't disagree.

But it isn't, in fact, true. And for me personally, it doesn't really feel comforting either.

Because death is not nothing at all. Generally, I think it is probably healthy and helpful to acknowledge that death is, in fact, very much something. When someone dies, even the language we use so often dances around the reality. How often do we hear people speak of loss, of passing away, ...? But refusing to name death doesn't make it go away. Shying away from acknowledging the enormity of it doesn't make it disappear or make it easier. Having had some involvement in such things recently, I can confirm that even on a purely practical level, death is certainly not nothing at all; on a social and emotional level, even more so.

Death is not nothing at all, because life is not nothing at all either. And our relationships with those around us are one of the things by which our lives are most enriched. Whatever our beliefs about what happens after death, however much confidence we have in eternal life and whether and how we might meet again those from whom we have been separated by death, to suggests that death is "nothing at all" feels like it denies just how much our relationships matter in life. It should be ok to acknowledge that death is painful, confusing, strange. That in their dying, as in their living, our relationships, with all their beauty and their messy complexity: with the light and the laughter, with the relief and the regret, with the poignancy and the pain: are most definitely not nothing.

Recently I have experienced the deaths of two people I knew and loved.

One of those deaths was sudden, and shocking. A friend who it had definitely not crossed my mind, the last time I saw him, that we would never meet again. He was one of those people who you'd not even realised you'd assumed would just always still be there ... until they aren't. He has left a gaping hole in a community which will probably never be entirely filled. A community which is still reeling. Whatever his death was, it was certainly not "nothing at all".

My aunt, meanwhile, had what can only really be described as a good death, at the end of a good life. She died after a short illness, well looked after and with family at her side. I have described her death to several people as sad, but not tragic. But it was not "nothing at all" either.

Over the past couple of years I have watched several other people I know struggle with the grief of the deaths of people they loved too: in some cases at the end of a long life, in others much too young, much to soon. None of these deaths were "nothing at all" either.

So in a similar vein to Caitlin Seida's response to Emily Dickinson's "Hope is a thing with Feathers", here is my response to Henry Scott Holland's poem:

Death is something after all, Henry.

Death is something, after all,
And while there may be times 

When it seems 

You have only slipped away to the next room

With a sharp jolt

Or a gentle whisper

We remember

You won't, in fact, 

Pop your head around the door frame

To interject

To take up where you left off

And if we call you by your old familiar name

Putting no difference in our tone
It hangs in the air

Unanswered

There is an echo to this emptiness

And silence does not fill the space

As the stories once did

We will, indeed,

Play, smile, think of you. Pray for you.

And I promise we will 

Laugh as we always laughed

But we will also

Cry

And sometimes 

We will laugh through tears

Or cry through our laughter

For there will be light

But there will also be traces 

Of the shadows it casts

And

Your absence will change us

Just as your presence did

For this is love

There is absolute unbroken continuity

But things are not the same

So you see 

Death is something, after all, Henry,

Because so is life

But you are also right...

That all will be well.

Resolutions

I am not a great believer in making new year's resolutions. I think all too often they can risk being just another pressure we put on ourselves to perform or achieve. Having said that, there are certainly times when I have found it helpful to reflect on those things that I know I want as part of my life that I have been neglecting and want to make a point of reprioritising. January is as good a time to do that as any. 

2024 was filled with many, many beautiful moments, shared with lots of very special people ... but it also threw a good many challenges my way, and more than once I only just stepped back from the brink of burnout. 2025 will undoubtedly have its own challenges. It will also be filled with many, many beautiful moments: but for that to be the case, I need to make sure I put in place the things I need to live it well. I know they include, among other things, time with others and time alone, spending time outdoors and away from a screen, a routine of prayer.

I also know that, when I make the time, space and energy for it, I value doing various creative activities. So I set myself not so much a resolution, as a challenge to put a bit more creativity back in my life. I decided that, for the whole of January at least, I would try to do something creative, however small, each day. I am not setting myself the target of keeping that up for the whole year. My hope is that, by cementing it into my routine at the beginning of the year, it will become sufficiently embedded into my life again.

I've discovered digital colour by numbers as a much better activity than doom-scrolling to keep me occupied on the bus; done the odd bit of painting; drawn, coloured and doodled. Some days I have set aside proper time, but more than once it has been a quick little scribble last thing at night. I have not produced any amazing works of art ... but that was never the point. 

So far, so good. For the rest, let's wait and see.  

Joseph is Missing - Christmas poem 2024

The Stories group Christmas party was a magical afternoon: Christmas dinner for 40 people, home-made cake and traditional Eritrean coffee, hilarious and highly-competitive games of pass the parcel, a visit from mother Christmas, music and conversation and laughter. There was a lot of noise and a lot of mess and at times utter chaos: but there were also plenty of people who by the end had helped restore some level of order. There was a whole lot of joy and a palpable sense of being community. 

At some point during it, Joseph went missing from the nativity scene.

A couple of days earlier, I'd had a smaller (all things being relative) gathering of ten for Christmas eve / day which had been also filled with so many beautiful moments, and during which the nativity scene had been augmented by home made shepherds and sheep and a wide variety of other toy animals. 

Another few days later we had another party ... one of the group had told me she had never had a birthday party or birthday cake so we were determined to give her a celebration to remember: another houseful (though only 33 this time!), more good food, more silly games, more music and dancing and karaoke and disco lights. Joseph did not reappear. The angel has now disappeared too.

In between times there were other lovely smaller gatherings with friends and family, and quiet days to myself with lots of preparing, sorting and tidying to do, but also space for the gathering of thoughts and space to rest and relax. 

I have often (last year being an exception) written a poem for Christmas and if I was going to write something this year, I really wanted it to capture the beauty of these Christmas celebrations with all these wonderful different people who I have in my life. I wanted it to capture the chaos and the joy, and perhaps a little of the in between downtime too. I wanted it to capture that this, for me, was a most fitting celebration of the incarnation and the kind of celebration Jesus would approve of and want to be in the midst of. 

The thought that "Joseph is missing" was a starting point which might capture some of that began to flicker around in my head. That, gradually became this, and as I am fully embracing the idea that the Christmas season lasts until Candelmas, I don't think it is too late to call it a Christmas poem.

Joseph is Missing

Joseph is missing
And the elephant, 

Yes, the one from the nativity scene,
Has lost a leg

He might turn up

But he wasn't under the table
With the widely-scattered popcorn

With the biscuit crumbs and sprinkles

Nor, seemingly, on the draining board

Or in a kitchen drawer

Put away 

Helpfully, unhelpfully, 

In the wrong place.

It's unlikely he's been eaten
But you never know

There was so much food

Which I'm sure tasted better 

Than a wooden Joseph
But nestled in the branches of the Christmas tree
A half-eaten bauble, 

Souvenir of another party,
Suggests others have different taste

He might turn up

Tucked amongst the tinsel, perhaps, 

Or at the bottom of a box

With the toy cars and the lego bricks

With the pencils, the pompoms and the plasticine

Or down the back of the sofa 

The one where Santa sat 

And inner children were embraced

He might turn up

But there's a pretty high chance
That as the music played

And the chaos reigned

He was bundled up, 

Helpfully, unhelpfully,

With the pass the parcel paper
And thrown away.

The elephant has, 

Definitely, 

Been thrown away
Sharp edges didn't pass the risk assessment to stay
But the zebras are still here
Worshipping the Christ-child
With the cows

And some time later
When the chaos has calmed
Fairy lights still twinkling like stars
The magi also arrive

And Joseph is still missing

But I can't help thinking
That looking out 

From this unconventional nativity scene

Jesus is smiling.

Reading List 2024

Having done it in 2022 and 2023, I guess it is now tradition that I collate my reading list for the year here on my blog. 

This year's again includes some books which I have really appreciated and enjoyed, but it is noticeably shorter than the previous two. This doesn't in the least bit surprise me, given how this year has been, but is perhaps something to deliberately work on for next year!

• On Heroes and Tombs - Ernesto Sabato
• Memphis - Tara M Stringfellow
• Absolutely and Forever - Rose Tremain
• The Forty Rules of Love - Elif Shafak
• Songbirds - Christi Lefteri
• The House of Doors - Tan Twa Eng
• The Bread the Devil Knead - Lisa Allen Agostini
• Wed Wabbit - Lissa Evans
• We are all completely beside ourselves - Karen Joy Fowler
• My Father's House - Joseph O'Connor
• An Unquiet Mind - Kay Redfield Jamison
• Brotherless Night - VV Ganeshananthan
• An Artist of the Floating World - Kazuo Ishiguro
• The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher - Hilary Mantel
• Why I'm no longer talking to white people about Race - Reni Eddo-Lodge
• The Life and Times of Michael K - J.M. Coetzee
• Welcome to the Hyunam-Dong Bookshop - Hwang Bo-Reum
• Mothers Boy - Patrick Gale
• A history of the world in 10 1/2 chapters - Julian Barnes

I have just started "An Equal Music" by Vikram Seth, which will start off next year's list, but I am very much open to recommendations as to what else to add!

An advent poem

Winter definitely isn't my favourite meteorological season, but I think Advent possibly is my favourite liturgical season. Advent is filled with so much imagery which resonates with my sense of faith: images of light shining in dark places; images of a sense of anticipation and that there is so much more still to be revealed; images of trust, of promise and of hope.

While I love the one and am not a massive fan of the other, it does work for me that, here, Advent and winter coincide. My faith is not one which seeks to deny the darkness; it is one which recognises that God's promise comes into the midst of our messy reality. It is a faith of starlight, candle-light and fairy-lights: that while the dark is still there, fragile lights flicker and somehow manage to make everything more beautiful. My hope is not some naïve belief that everything will magically all turn out ok, but that in some mysterious way we will never fully understand, love does still triumph over hate. 

This poem attempts to capture something of those sentiments.

Shrouded in darkness
Winter comes
Weighing 

Damp and heavy on the earth

Huddled together
Exhaling clouds of breath

A whispered invitation

To tilt our faces

Look up

The dark is still dark
But as clouds part
Winter sun breaks through
Pale but promisingly present

The dark is still dark
But casting its warm glow
A candle flame flickers
And pierces the gloom

The dark is still dark
But twisted into branches
Colourful lights twinkle
To raise a smile

The dark is still dark
But reaching across time and space
Stars, bright and burning, shine
Pinpricks of light in the night sky

An intake of breath
The glimmer of a promise

Look up

The dark is still dark
But gestures of love stubbornly sparkle
An invitation to trust 
To cling to tentative hope

And so
with bated breath
we wait

together

in hushed silence

Dawn breaks
And the spring will come

Look up

Love is a Rebellion

Back in the summer I wrote about Stories of Hope and Home's latest performance, on stage at the Birmingham REP, "Love is a Rebellion". Six months later, I am still incredibly proud of everyone involved in devising, writing and performing this incredibly powerful piece.

While it isn't quite the same as seeing it live, we are celebrating International Migrants' Day by making it available to watch online:  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbvEMb3XzMs

One of the things which has been particularly precious about this year's play is that it has had a life beyond the performance day itself, special thought that day was. In the months since, we have been able to share the piece with different people in a number of different ways: we performed it to 150 teachers on an INSET day, used it as a vehicle to structure the sharing of stories on our residential with primary head teachers, and did a 'play in a day', helping a group of Year 9 drama students perform it to younger students in their school. We are looking forward to further opportunities to share it with others to help them understand the realities of seeking sanctuary in the UK.

The song from the show, "Love is How we Rebel" quickly became something of a theme tune for our community and, again with help from Birmingham REP we were delighted to be able to record and release it. You can now stream it in all the usual places you listen to music, and after a somewhat faffy process it now has synced lyrics so you can even sing along too! 

Our performance from the previous year, In the Shadow of the Trees, is also available to watch online.

Answers (10)

 44) What is my life's purpose?

Some of the questions in the jar feel relatively manageable ... and then you pull out one like this! Interestingly, a similar question / conversation came up at our weekly bible discussion recently. 

There are so many things in my life which I really believe are things which I am meant to be doing. Things which give life to me and which, I believe contribute something positive to the world around me. I have written previously about vocation, and I do believe both teaching and my work supporting people seeking sanctuary are part of my vocation.

But life's purpose, that's something different. Something infinitely bigger but, ultimately simpler. Deep down, I really believe my life's purpose is simply to exist. To live my life to the full. To be me, as authentically as I can. 

As simple, and as complicated, as that. 

45) If you could have any animal in the world as a pet, what would it be and why?

It is probably a cop out, but the honest answer would really be none. While I know that for many people pets are a hugely significant part of their life, it doesn't really hold any appeal for me. I'll stick to soft toy animals instead of real ones I think.

46) What fictional character do you most relate to?

I'm not sure if I really relate, but the fictional character I feel I have most often been compared to is Tigger from Winnie-the-Pooh which is a nickname or association I have picked-up periodically in different settings and among different groups of people so perhaps I should accept the appellation and run with it. Tigger comes with a reputation for boundless energy and enthusiasm, and being completely unique which in both cases I mostly feel I can generally live up to, (despite this year having somewhat taken its toll on my energy levels and optimism at times). Like Tigger, I am also lucky enough to have found, and to be loved and accepted by a wonderful community of friends who are all very different but who accept me just the way I am.

47) What are you most grateful for?

I have so much to be grateful for ... to narrow it down to one thing doesn't seem possible or, more importantly, even right. Periodically, I keep a gratitude diary and make a point, each day, of noting down something(s) I am grateful for. It is a valuable discipline: a reminder on the good days and the harder ones that I always have things to be grateful for, a reminder that so many of those things are tiny and often pass us by barely being noticed. But if I do have to choose, and sum up the one thing I am most grateful for, it would be love: the love I am privileged to be given by so many wonderful people, the love I am privileged to be able to offer.

48) What was your best birthday?

The one that stands out, really, is my 30th. In April, midway between Matthew's thirtieth and mine, we hired out a youth hostel for a weekend and  invited family and friends from all different parts of our lives to come together and celebrate with us. There was a walk in the countryside, bright sunshine, and lots of good food, there were quizzes and silly games, late night conversations, and lots and lots of cake, there were reunions with old friends and a bringing together of people who had never met each other, there was a beautiful community and the knowledge I am very loved. My actual birthday was much more low-key but on (or close to) it, I gathered friends for a picnic in the park. The sun shone again, I do love a picnic and, as we prepared to move on to our next adventure, it brought together many of those who had been important to us during our two years in France.

Answers (9)

As promised, the Q and A returns. I said at the time (and since) that it was an amazing gift. Now, while I am quite enjoying the process of going back to the remaining questions, I am also able to acknowledge just how fitting a gift it was for the context at the time. Christmas 2018 was a point at which, as well as the four of us living in the flat, Carrs Lane Lived Community was a place where different people were constantly coming and going and which a number of others considered to be, in a certain way, 'home'. It had become, in expected and unexpected ways, a real community. These questions, dropped into that space, generated discussion, friendly disagreement, laughter and deep reflections. My own answers were without a doubt significantly enriched by reaching them through conversation with others.  

39) If you died tomorrow, would you go to heaven?

I firmly believe that, if heaven exists, whether as a place or as a state of being, then when I die, that yes I will go there. 

I say so with confidence, not because of what I believe about myself, but because of what I believe about God. I believe in a God whose love knows no bounds, whose generosity and capacity to forgive is without limit. 

The closest I have ever come to defining heaven and hell is that one is the fullness of God's presence, the other, the totality of God's absence. If God is able to love us unconditionally, I see no reason why any arbitrary dividing line, even one as significant as the line between life and death, would cut us off from that love. I am convinced that in death, as in life, God offers us love. Us being all of us, without exception. If we want heaven, God will not turn us away from it.

I believe in a heaven with an open door. And frankly, if God isn't like that, and heaven is just an exclusive club like the ones we ourselves create, then I'm not sure it's really the place for me.  

The corollary, of course, is that love cannot be forced, it must, by definition, only ever be offered. We must always be free to choose to reject it, to choose not to enter heaven. Maybe this is where my confidence in my answer falters, ever so slightly. Can I be certain what choice I would make? It is easy to say that of course we would choose unconditional love, but how often, as human's do we turn to fear and hate instead? But on balance, I like to think that I have experienced enough of the beauty of the love of God and the love of others, that I would walk through the open door.

40) If your life was a book / movie, what would the title be? 

This is one of the questions which I am fairly sure would have worked better discussed around a communal dinner table than it has being turned over in my head on my own, because I feel like in conversation there'd have been something someone else said that would have prompted a thought that would have crystalized into something vaguely fitting. The best I could come up with, then, based on something I say not infrequently about the way I choose to live my life is something along the lines of "Just about the right amount of bonkers" but I'm open to suggestions if anyone has a better title for my biopic! 

41) What makes you feel accomplished?

I could, possibly, write here about some of the things I think of as my more significant achievements ... but to be honest, in reality, when I actually feel accomplished usually revolves around getting jobs ticked off my jobs list that have been languishing there for a long time: invariable admin tasks and more often than not, ones which, once I set my mind to it and just get down to it, aren't huge tasks. Not that I ever learn, though, the sense of accomplishment when I actually submit my expenses doesn't mean I get down to them any more efficiently next time around! 

42) What are your top five favourite films?

Until fairly recently, while I consider myself well-read, the same was not true of my film viewing and my range of film choices was really very limited. Over the past year or so I have, with the encouragement of a good friend, significantly branched out in my viewing and we have watched some excellent films, many of which I have enjoyed or been challenged by, or have made me think, or all of the above. I confess that I also still often retreat to Disney Pixar animations or cheesy romcoms for relaxation and many of the films I have watched over and over again are definitely aimed at children or require a whole lot less brain power than some of the really powerful and meaningful films I have watched recently. I'm waffling, clearly, because I'm putting off actually compiling a list but, with the provisos that the question was favourites not best, and that this is what occurs to me today, but asked on any other given day I might come up with something different I am going with (in no specific order: Pride, Paddington, The Mission, Love Actually, and one of the Disney / Pixar collection although it would be hard to choose which one!

43) What is one thing you love about the world? 

Given the state of the world in which we live, it feels important to keep coming back to questions like this: to find ways to remind ourselves that despite everything, there are things to love and cherish about this world of ours. I think for me the key one is that, however dark things appear, if we are willing to open our eyes and look for it, there are always people doing good and bringing hope. Yes there is a lot of hate and fear, but there are also always, always acts of love.  

TBC...

My End of Summer Table

I first wrote and shared a poem inspired by Edip Cansaver's 'The Table' way back in early 2021. Since then I have used it more than once with Stories of Hope and Home as a vehicle for exploring life, identity, experiences and memories.

Most recently, we used it to look back over the summer, to reflect on the highs and lows of a season which for many of us included moments of community, great joys and lots of laughter, but also some significant challenges and sources of stress. Through conversation, writing and drama, we reflected on what the summer had meant for us, on what we were taking with us into the next season, and on what we hoped to leave behind. After several weeks of collaborative exploration, I invited individuals, using the original poem as a template, to write their own version. Despite following the same structure, they were each very different.

This is mine.

My end-of-summer Table

I, a friend, filled with sunshine
Came in from the summer
And put my pile of used bus tickets on the table
I put left-over cake and an unfinished cup of tea there
I put my sunhat as well as my raincoat on the table.
I put there the warmth of community
The sound of laughter and of a special song
The gentle pressure of another hand in mine
And new life I put there
On the table the friend put
Things that happened in my mind
A never endling list of things still to be done
I put that there.
Those I really wanted to understand and those I knew I never would
I put them on the table.
All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights
I put our shared humanity on the table.
I was next to a window, looking out on a sky within and beyond reach,
I reached out and placed silver-lined storm clouds on the table.
So many times I wanted to be able to make a difference
I put on the table my limitations
I placed there my energy and my exhaustion,
My memories of what was and my dreams of what might be
The state of the world and my tenacious hope for something different I placed there
I stood by the table and leant against it.
It sagged but did not break.
I turned, and walked into the colours of autumn and their promise of change.

The adventures of a hat

This is a story which I suspect may be of no interest to anybody else. But I write my blog as much for myself as for whoever reads it, and it is one I wish to preserve and remember.

Given my propensity for losing scarves, hats and the like, it is perhaps surprising that I had managed to hold on to this hat for a remarkably long time, having been given it when we were in Corrymeela, way back in 2012. (It makes its first blog appearance here!)

I remember being very touched at the time. The hat was a gift from one of the groups we had supported. It was notable because while they bought hats for both of us, the two volunteers who worked with them, we were quite different in character and the two different hats were a very good match for each of us. It showed, I thought, an attentiveness to our different identities and a thoughtfulness to the choice. 

Plus, I just really liked it! It had certainly had a lot of wear, and has been a good many places in the ten years that followed. 

Until I lost it, back in February 2023. I thought I knew when, and figured I had left it on a bus or train that day. I was kind of sad, but resigned to not seeing it again.

I accepted it was time to get a new hat, but as winter was, hopefully, reaching its end, decided there was no immediate rush to do so.

Several months later, in June, I was back at a meeting with those I had been with that day, and was greeted with someone telling me they had my hat, but despite the best of intentions, had forgotten to bring it with them. Turns out I had not left it on the train, but at the meeting and someone had picked it up, recognised it as mine, and held on to it until they saw me again. These are not people I meet often or know well, and I was again touched that someone had identified it as mine, and intentionally kept it for me. 

I didn't mind that I wasn't to be reunited that day, it was, apart form anything else, definitely not bobble hat season, but I confess to a little spark of joy that it was not, in fact, after all, lost for good. 

She said she would post it. More months passed before we met again, some time in autumn / winter 2023 but online this time, and a few messages exchanged in the chat revealed she had indeed posted it, but that it had never arrived. Lost in the post. She felt guilty, I told her not to. It was a shame, especially after I'd had my hopes of seeing it again raised, but really not that big a deal. It seems I wasn't meant to be reunited with my hat after all.

I accepted, again, it was time to get a new hat. 

Jump forward a whole year to this week and the hat saga's happy ending. 

Earlier in the week a colleague had let me know of a parcel addressed to me that had arrived, which she offered to bring along to our meeting. I had really no idea what it could be, having come to an address we no longer use, and I was certainly intrigued. 

And there it was my long-lost hat, plus two others, with a note explaining the rest of the story. 

After the original hat going missing, she had, very generously, bought me a replacement (well two actually) but then in the interim, my 'lost in the post' hat had eventually found its way back to her, and she had posted all three on to me, and this time they made it. Almost two years after losing it, my hat and I are together again.

Just in time for winter. 

Having had to accept, twice, that my hat was lost for ever, it brought a broad smile to my face to be reunited with it after all this time.

I will be trying to take good care of it from now on and will do my best not to leave it behind anywhere else! 

The Last of England

Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery has been closed since 2020, first for covid, and since then for rewiring and other such things which, it turns out, in a building of its size and age, is fairly complicated. It is gradually heading towards reopening and over the summer one part of it hosted an exhibition of the "Victorian Radicals" which some of the Stories group headed to see one August afternoon. 

Once a teacher, always a teacher ... so I can never organise a trip that doesn't involve a task to do on the way around! I asked the group to each pick out their favourite piece, and we gathered at the the end to compare notes and describe what we had chosen and why. Interestingly, there were almost no duplicates: we clearly have very varied artistic tastes! 

My own choice was "The Last of England" by Ford Madox Brown. 

The painting depicts a boat setting sail, leaving England, filled with people in search of a better life in Australia, featuring in the foreground a couple with their young child, barely visible, tucked inside the mother's shawl. 

To be honest, I don't think I could really call it my "favourite", at least not aesthetically: I definitely wouldn't want it on my wall. But nonetheless, it is the one I picked out. 

It's a painting I have stood in front of many times at the museum, and pointed out to many people. I'm still not sure whether I like it, really, but I find it strangely compelling and it always draws my eye. I used to discuss it with groups of ESOL students on trips from the Sanctuary. I did so again this summer with my Stories group friends: some of whom arrived here by boat in search of safety and the promise of a better life than the ones they left behind.

The people who get into small boats to try and reach Britain's shores do so because they believe in the promise of safety, freedom and human rights to be found on the other side. They are, in my experience, not naïve about the risks involved, and yet they make a judgement that it is still worth it.  

Likewise for the family in the painting, and the thousands of others like them who got into boats to escape Britain's shores, hoping that somewhere else held the promise of a better life. They too faced grave risks but chose or felt forced to do so, leaving behind all they had ever known to travel half way round the world in an era where there was no turning back. 

For many who arrive here, I know that what they find on arrival doesn't entirely live up to what they hoped and dreamt. I suspect the same was true for many who headed to Australia and America and elsewhere in Ford Madox Brown's day.  

But here we are.

Even though I wouldn't want it on my living room wall, I picked out "The Last of England" for its reminder that people always have and always will migrate and that I believe that (while I'd like people to be able to do so in ways that are far safer) the principle of migration is something to be celebrated not stopped. I chose it for its reminder that whatever the the pain and risks it involves, people will always find the courage to follow their dreams for the promise of a better tomorrow. It is part of being human and something in which we should rejoice: shouldn't we want people to strive for the very best for themselves and their children, qualities which, in other contexts, are admired and revered? I chose it for its reminder that there will always be boats: and for those of us who are lucky enough not to have ever felt we've had no choice but to get in one in order to live our life in safety and freedom, our responsibility is to offer as warm as possible a welcome to those who have. 

Five years

Last month marked 5 years since Stories of Hope and Home became a reality. In some ways, it doesn't feel anywhere near that long, but in other ways it has already far surpassed what I dreamed it might become. 

Our exact start date is somewhat disputed... wass it the moment the vague idea was voiced aloud, the writing of the first version of our constitution, the day we opened the bank account, designed the logo, set up our social media accounts, got our first grant, or held our first meeting...? One way or another, in autumn 2019, Stories of Hope and Home came to be and by March the following year we had welcomed over 30 different participants, visited multiple schools, had several trips and parties and our first slightly bonkers residential in Wales. The tone had been set, a family was being created. 

I have said many times since that if anyone is thinking of starting an organisation focused on building community which relies on spending time together over coffee and cake, then starting six months before a pandemic may not be the ideal time ... but then again, we are still here and still going strong, so maybe it was. 

As 2020 turned the world we knew upside down, our little community supported one another through some difficult days and survived to tell the tale of the zoom era. And then with risk assessments endlessly written and rewritten, as restrictions allowed we came back together: first outdoors, then 2 metres apart, and finally with hugs allowed once more. We have never looked back.

We have shared anger and frustration as we have watched a hostile system get ever harder to face, we have created safe space that has held many tears. But we have also laughed loud and laughed often. We have danced together and built beautiful friendships. We have shared hope and joy. We have welcomed many newcomers into our fold. We have engaged with thousands of children and young people, educators and others and gently (and at times less gently) challenged perceptions and misconceptions. I am convinced we have played a part in creating change. We have become a charity, published a book, performed on stage. We have eaten so much good food and drunk an uncountable number of cups of tea. Together we have done many incredible things, and touched many lives. Of all of it, I think the greatest achievement is that we have created a community that such a diverse group of people describe as their family. 

In early September, well over a hundred people turned out to celebrate together. I looked around a room filled with good food and friendship, filled with noise and mess and a fair degree of chaos, filled with joy and laughter and a palpable sense of community, filled with people from all over the world who I know face unimaginable struggles and yet who get up and keep going, people who have the courage to speak out and make a difference, people who look out for and care about one another, people who have allowed me to be part of the most incredible family.

Among the things I did in preparation for the celebration event, was spend time looking back over the preceding years. Whether or not it was the best use of time, I spent many happy moments scrolling back through old photos and adding up past statistics. 

Statistics are only ever going to tell a tiny part of what has been, and continues to be a beautiful story, which is mainly told through snippets of shared experience, but nonetheless...

(Almost all of these numbers are already out of date!)

I think it is ok that I am more than a little bit proud of what that germ of an idea has turned into. 

My heart is full. 

And there is so much more still to come.

Getting back on track

It has been a good while since my last blogpost: September came and went without me writing anything here. A quick scroll back told me that April 2017 was the last time I didn't publish anything for a whole calendar month so it is certainly high time to polish off this one which has been a work in progress for a good while.

Needless to say, I have been busy (there is at least one other, also half-written post, to follow about some of that): but not exceptionally so by my standards, so that only offers a partial explanation for not putting pen to paper (or cursor to screen). I do know, more or less, what the explanation is, so we'll see whether this attempt to express it succeeds where my previous attempts to force the words to coalesce into something coherent have spectacularly failed.

Summer 2024 was a complicated mix. It was filled with loads of wonderful, joyful activities, with trips and visits and parties, with good food and lots of dancing. It was also marked by both good and bad news for people I care about, by hard conversations as well as jokes and laughter, and significantly, by the eruption of far-right, anti-migrant violence which rocked the country and deeply affected the communities I love.

In the midst of all that, in mid-August, I had a really lovely week in France staying with very dear friends. I was in need of a break, and I switched off, far more successfully than I had though I might manage. We did a few sort-of-touristy activities, but mostly I read good books, ate good food, and chatted endlessly about both silly and serious subjects, spending time with people I love very much. 

And then I came back.

I came back to an overflowing jobs list, populated with the things I expected to have to do, the inevitably unexpected additions, but also the things I had promised myself I would get ticked off before I went away but hadn't because everything had been put on a back-burner to deal with the fall out and impact of the riots.  

What I needed was a burst of productivity to get back on top of things, but instead I found myself feeling paralysed and overwhelmed, and lacking my usual motivation. Not to say I achieved nothing, but I definitely didn't feel like I was doing what I needed or wanted to achieve. As a person with a universal reputation for boundless energy, that hasn't been an easy thing to admit, even to myself. And while rationally I could tell myself this was not, perhaps, surprising, given how heavy the year had been; part of me definitely also felt like I was failing, not able to do what I "should".

To some extent, the life I have chosen means this is a reality I will always have to live with: I will never be able to do all that needs to be done, meet all the needs I would like to meet, solve all the problems I would like to be able to solve. Generally this is something I have made my peace with and a tension I manage relatively well: but for a few weeks in late August / September, I really struggled. There were tears in both a Birch staff meeting and my Stories supervision, as well as more than once on my sofa. I read up (again) on burnout and vicarious trauma, recognising elements of both in how I was feeling. The absence of blogposts was another symptoms of the space I was in: writing is often one of my ways of processing thoughts and emotions but my attempts to put this or anything else into words in the midst of it came to nothing. 

It was a tough few weeks: something I knew at the time but perhaps recognise even better now, from the other side. Because now? Now I am very much back on track, and I am grateful for the many things that have helped, including:

• I thrive on variety and would hate for every week to look exactly the same, but even I had perhaps hit a point where at least some semblance of return to routine, with a few fixed points has been beneficial. 
• I forced myself, at the point when I least felt like it, to re-establish, again, my routine of fairly regular morning prayer, something which always helps my equilibrium, in ways I can never explain. 
• At least some of the jobs in my jobs list, including some of those that I don't particularly enjoy have been successfully ticked off. There are still too many jobs to do, some of which I am inevitably still putting off, but it is back to feeling within the realms of achievable.
• I have also made conscious choices to take time off: ignoring the call of the jobs list and reminding myself not to feel guilty for making space for doing things I enjoy. 
• Stories of Hope and Home celebrated its fifth birthday with an incredible party and in the midst of the running around, I was able to pause and appreciate all this little project has achieved.
• A few weeks into the new academic year, every school age child in the hotel where I offer support to families is now in school: offering a sliver of normality for both them and their families.  
• Most of all, perhaps, I am surrounded by an incredible, supportive community around me who, knowingly or unknowingly, have played an important part in keeping me going and restoring my spirits.  

Onwards!

Answers (8) - the return

Several years ago, our amazing Goddaughter Lydia gave us a jar of questions as a Christmas gift. For over a year, they generated lots of reflection and discussion, as we, and whoever happened to be living with or visiting us at the time thought about one each week or so and shared our answers. Over the course of many months, I shared my own answers here. 

For whatever variety of reasons, we fell out of the habit of answering them before the 'still to be answered' pot was empty. Both jars, the 'done' and the 'to do' have sat on a shelf ever since. I had always had the intention to return and reflect on the others and when I was recently looking for something to inspire me to get back into doing a bit more writing, I decided they might be a suitable prompt.

In the process, I found a post that had been in my drafts folder since early 2020 (back in those pre-pandemic days if you remember them!) with the last few answers I wrote at the time. Clearly, all the answers represent my reflections at a particular moment in time: for some, those answers would change little over time, others are more of the moment. Life has moved on since spring 2020, but before kicking off with new answers, I am going to publish them here as they were written at the time, unedited, but with annotations.

35) Is home a place or a feeling?

These questions were written long before first the play, and then an entire project, grew out of the question "what is home?"... I could probably write an entire essay in answer to this! 

But in short ... both, and neither and a multitude of other things besides. It is a feeling: but it is something more definite, more concrete than that too. It is affected by geographical location too, but not defined by it. People are a significant, perhaps the most significant, part of it too. 

After many, many more conversations and creative activities reflecting on this very theme, as well as two house moves in the intervening years, I still pretty much stand by what I wrote back then. There is something about a sense of belonging, something about a sense of the freedom and safety to be who I am, something about community and hospitality, something very nebulous as well as something solid and concrete. 

36) What is one food you couldn't live without?

At first I opted for cheese, because I do love cheese ... but then someone else said bread and that felt like a pretty good call too! 

In reality, what I would most want to 'not live without' is variety: taking out any individual food stuff would, I guess, be something I could adapt to far more easily than having to eat the same thing all the time. 

Hmmm, yes, this answer wouldn't have been much different if I was presented with the same question today either. 

37) Which has been the best phase of your life so far?

I think this one is turning out pretty well to be honest. There are plenty of challenges to life in Birmingham, and I'm not denying there have been a fair few struggles in the last six and a half years; but on balance, life feels like it is in a very good place. 

Someone else who was sat round the dinner table with us when we were discussing this one, said, this one is good, but I'm expecting the next one to be even better ... we vetoed phases that haven't yet happened as an acceptable answer, but actually, it is a pretty good way to live life! To live with the belief and hope that however good life is right now, there may be better things ahead.

I look back with great affection, for instance, on my time at university and other experiences I have had, but life has continued to grow in richness since. It doesn't take away from how amazing those experiences were to acknowledge that life is now richer and better. It saddens me when people say "school is the best days of your life" ... I mean, I get the encouragement to appreciate what you've got and to make the most of the opportunities, but I do feel very sad for those who, later in life, hanker after something they had then because they feel trapped in a less happy life now. 

I think I would still say "this one", or maybe more accurately would again say "this one" ... I think it would be fair to say there was a bit in the middle that wouldn't feature on my 'best phases of my life' list, but right now, life is once again, very good, and continues to be enriched by the people and experiences I am privileged to encounter. 

38) What is the most exciting thing that has happened to you in the last year?

For me, this was an easy one ... without a doubt, starting the Stories of Hope and Home project has been the most exciting part of my year, watching something that started as a vague idea take shape and grow has been amazing. I remain excited to see how it will develop further.

We are about to celebrate Stories of Hope and Home's fifth birthday so it was strange to look back at this answer when it was only just beginning and I had no real idea what it would become! four and a half years on from writing this, though, so much about this project continues to excite and energise me!

So the Q and A is back*, picking up where it left off at question 39 ... watch this space!

(*For how long I can't be sure. While my intention is to work through all the remaining questions over coming weeks, its not entirely unlikely I may not manage to stick at it, we shall see)

The value of a life

Just over a week ago, news broke of a luxury yacht sinking in the Mediterranean. One person was confirmed dead, six missing, all of whose bodies were later found after extensive complex searches.

For several days it dominated the headlines. One of the days, when I checked the front page of the BBC news webpage, it accounted for the top six stories.

No-one, including me, is denying the tragic loss of life and the devastating impact on the family and friends of those who died. 

And yet, and yet.

By the end of May, in the Mediterranean, 880 deaths of people seeking safety had been recorded this year (so far). That statistic is likely to be an underestimate and will have increased significantly since. Many are never found, most never identified. 

There are no painstaking searches for bodies, no endless analysis of what went wrong, no interviews with families and friends. There are, mostly, no headlines. 

There is no recognition that each of those 880+ people is an individual human being with their own character, their own hopes and dreams, their own communities who care about them, and their own stories cut tragically short.

I know people who have made that journey.

Clearly, the people I know are those that survived, although many witnessed en route that others did not.

They tell stories threaded through with darkness, suffering, loss and fear. But they also tell stories imbued with hope and resilience. They tell stories which are fully human.

They have arrived here carrying their gifts and skills, their different personalities, and their dreams of rebuilding a life and contributing to the societies they are learning to try and call home. They carry, in many cases, terrible trauma, but they carry too an irrespressible zest for life.

I believe our communities are immeasurably enriched by their presence, and that our world is the poorer for the loss of all those who didn't make it. 

I believe their lives were / are worth as much as that of a millionaire and his friends.

It's hard to explore these subjects without the risk of it being misinterpreted, but it feels important to try. To at least ask the question as to how we got to a place where some lives are considered to be worth so much more than others. 

And after that 'starter for ten', to dare to ask how we might at least move in the direction of understanding that "All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights" (Universal declaration of human rights, Article 1) and then begin to act accordingly.

https://www.statista.com/statistics/1082077/deaths-of-migrants-in-the-mediterranean-sea/

Love is how we rebel!

On Thursday 18th July, Stories of Hope and Home took to the stage at Birmingham REP theatre with our latest performance, "Love is a Rebellion". As soon as the REP told us that the theme for their community festival this year was "Love and Rebellion" I knew we would be in our element! 

Early explorations of "what is love", "what is rebellion" and "where do they come together" generated some truly incredible discussions. As we started to devise what form our performance would take it became clear that the group wanted the focus this time to be on life in the UK asylum process. Much of what was shared spoke to where people were at and what they were feeling during what has been a particularly difficult year. As we began to shape the piece, we had some exceptionally challenging, but powerfully cathartic conversations about what the home office want from those trapped in its clutches. They did not hold back, and if anyone wonders how aware people seeking asylum might be of the the intentions and impacts of home office policies, the answer is they know exactly what it is all about. But we also reflected on the many gestures that help people to survive in the face of a hostile system. We explored how, in a system designed to divide, isolate and exclude, love is an act of rebellion.

For the first time since the very first play I facilitated which precipitated the creation of Stories of Hope and Home, this was an entirely 'in-house' creation (apart from some wonderful support from the tech / stage team at the REP on the day itself). There was a bit of overlap with those involved in devising and performing last year, but it also involved many who were new to the group and who came to the fore in expected and unexpected ways. It was, importantly, very much "us." 

In the midst of many moments when it felt quite hard to see how it would all come together, little by little a structure and script emerged. It was simple and understated: but didn't shy away from the challenges the participants wanted to share. Music was added: a piece of gentle background music ... but to those in the know, the hold music for Migrant Help which all those in the system, and all those who have walked alongside them have listened to for many more hours than they'd like. We also wrote the closing song: words drawn from our shared conversations, and with thanks to our very talented young volunteer for a catchy tune. It looks set to become something of an anthem for the group. 

We played around with movement and actions. Many of the on-stage interactions reflected keenly observed reproductions of their own lived experiences. Key cast members fell into place, other roles were gradually filled and endlessly switched around. Confidence grew and people stepped up in ways they might never have thought possible, which is always a very beautiful thing to watch and be part of.  We had, probably predictably, our first full run through with the complete final cast just three hours before the performance. But carried by energy, enthusiasm and a fair amount of talent, it worked, if I do say so myself, exceptionally well. 

Our previous performances have been to audiences of school children but the timing meant that wasn't possible this year and for quite a while we had no idea how much of an audience we would have. We knew that the experience of being on stage would still be incredible for the performers but it turns out we needn't have worried, as we had a brilliant turnout. One of the most special parts was that, having reached out to as many different charities and organisations in the sector as possible, a good proportion of the audience was made up of other people seeking sanctuary, and feedback from them suggested there was something beautifully beneficial in them seeing stories which resonated with their own experiences shared and celebrated on stage. Others in the audience spoke of being given shocking and important insights into a system and its impacts that they had not realised was so cruel and destructive. We are now talking and thinking about how we find ways to take what we believe was a truly special performance to a wider audience.  

Most important of all, it was clear that, despite the sometimes challenging subject matter, everyone on stage had a huge amount of fun, both in the preceding months and on the day itself. It worked, because it reflected the lived experience of this incredible community of people: in the challenges they face, and in the community we build and the ways we are together: that love is indeed how we rebel!

20 years

20 years (and a few days) ago, I graduated from Lancaster University and got married. It marked the end, and then the beginning of hugely significant parts of my life. 

Although my degree officially took four years, if you take out the year in France and work out the maths on just how short university terms are, I actually only spent a total of 99 weeks at Lancaster University, the equivalent of less than two years ... and yet it very definitely changed who I was. I learned quite a bit about English and French, a fair amount of which I have since forgotten, but also a whole lot about life. I found my tribe, found my joy and found myself. 

I graduated and got married two days apart (because why wouldn't you do all the dressing up in one go?) My memories of graduation day are fairly hazy: of the two, the wedding was by far the more significant and memorable event. It was, if I do say so myself, a very good wedding and an incredibly special day. I am still proud of the ceremony and party we created, of the things we prioritised and included, of the parts of ourselves we put into the day. I also remain very grateful for the community of people it brought together around us. 

The photo of the 300+ people who helped us celebrate, which includes many, possibly even most, of those who formed our communities at the time, is still on my wall, and still brings a smile to my face. There are quite a number of people in the picture who remain hugely important to me, as well as many from whom I have drifted apart and some who are no longer with us. In many ways, it still seems strange to think just how many of those I now count among my community don't feature in it: although I suppose it should be no surprise that in twenty years so many more people have come to be part of the many overlapping circles in which I mix. I am still adapting to a much newer reality that we both now have people who are really significant to us who are complete strangers, unknown to the other.

The day itself holds a special place in my heart, but, of course, it was always about much more than just that. For many of the years between then and now, my marriage shaped the places I (we) went, the things I (we) did, the adventures I (we) had, the causes I (we) fought for, the families I (we) are part of, the friendships I (we) built, the communities I (we) created, the lives I (we) lived ... the person I have become. There were challenges too, for sure, but there are very few regrets. I stand by my belief that my marriage enriched my life in immeasurable ways, something for which I will always remain grateful. 

Life has moved on, in all sorts of ways, since 2004. I am not the person I was then, although firm foundations for who I would become had certainly already been laid. Probably 20 years into the future, I will be just as different from who I am today. Society has long since left behind the days when people's lives might have mostly looked very similar twenty years on: with the same 'job for life', in the same locality, amidst the same friendships and community. I, and many of those I know, have lived in different places (including different countries), I have had multiple jobs, I have lost contact with people who mattered to me, just because our lives have drifted in different directions, I have been welcomed into or helped create new communities around me. I've attended different churches, been part of different social groups, explored different interests, developed different skills. 

Almost every aspect of the life I live looks different: and for the most part that is widely accepted and even celebrated. The 'what comes next' doesn't devalue the 'what came before'. I love Birmingham, but I am glad I have had opportunities to live in Paris and the Philippines and on the stunning coast of Northern Ireland before landing up here (for now). I describe my current work as a vocation, but see / saw teaching as a vocation too. My new friendships don't detract from the previous ones. These aren't necessarily things I walked away from easily or painlessly, but I accepted life was taking me in new directions. It has taken me time to accept that it is ok to see changes in relationships, even married ones with binding vows, in the same way too. 

Even though I am now well settled into another new phase of life, and even though a few short paragraphs could never hope to sum up everything my marriage gave me over many years, it feels appropriate to note and mark the passing of such a significant anniversary.

Dancing in the storm

With my previous blogpost having been entitled "after" the tsunami, you may notice that with this one I'm referring to being back in the storm. It is not a mistake: because although though that specific wave has subsided, I don't think it would be appropriate to suggest that the storm has passed for those subject to the hostile environment.

They, we, are still in the storm. But they, we are still dancing in the midst of it. 

The week before last was refugee week.

For a number of years it has been one of the busiest weeks of my year. This year, I would say, in terms of busy-ness, it stood out less. Not because it was any less busy, but because the previous weeks had been equally full-on, and the next few are looking relatively hectic too! 

What did set it apart though, was the sheer joyfulness of it. 

Don't get me wrong: the challenge and struggle were never far away. We did three school visits, all of which involved the sharing of difficult stories. We did three performances which didn't hold back from acknowledging the reality of the hostility faced by people seeking sanctuary in the UK. I still spoke with lots of individuals struggling with specific issues. There were still tears.

But there was also laughter.

And there was poetry and song, and the confidence of standing on a stage and knowing that your voice is being heard. There were reasons to celebrate, and excuses for parties with plenty of good food and friendship. There were signs of support and solidarity, in the sunshine and in the rain!. There was the building of community, the sharing of time. There was forgetting about it all and having a bit of fun.

And thus, in the midst of the storm, we danced! 

I reached the end of the week tired, but reminded that, joy, too, is a form of resistance, and, just as we said and sang: love is how we rebel*.

I did intend to write this more than a week ago, and therefore before the election which has perhaps also given us reasons to be tentatively hopeful, so this post really isn't about that, although there may be others to follow that are!  

* Love is a Rebellion is our performance at Birmingham REP this year, written and performed by Stories of Hope and Home it promises to be a wonderful show and if you are in Birmingham (or nearby), and would like to join us, you'd be most welcome! https://www.birmingham-rep.co.uk/whats-on/stories-of-hope-and-home/

After the Tsunami...

I am hesitant to speak too soon, but it seems the Rwanda plan, which has dominated my life in recent weeks, in terms of time, energy and headspace, may be dead and gone. Even if / when that proves to be the case, it has left a trail of devastation in its wake. When people have asked (or assumed) that the news of its demise must have come with a great sense of relief, and also a lessening of the hectic pace of the past few weeks, my response has been measured: yes, of course; but also, well no. 

I was in a meeting recently where someone described those few weeks after the Safety of Rwanda Law passed as having been like a tsunami. It seemed a very apt image. The damage in the moment was immense, but now that the wave has passed through, the clean-up operation is also going to be long and slow and difficult. We will be picking up the pieces for quite some time.

Some of that 'clear-up' is entirely practical. It is no secret that I am never the best at keeping on top of admin and my email inbox, but I am sure that I am not the only one now playing catch-up on a million 'not urgent' tasks, some of which have grown out of the response to the Rwanda plan itself, many more of which are a backlog which have built up and now acquired a certain urgency by having been even more neglected than usual. I know I now need to make a concerted effort to get my to do list back down to a manageable length ... but the clear-up after the wave is about much more than that.

It is also about the significant emotional impact that the last few weeks has had: on those at risk of the Rwanda plan, on those who were or are detained and those who saw it happen to their friends, on all those subject to immigration control even if not specifically at risk of Rwanda who were remined again of the cruelty of which these systems are capable, as well as on those of us trying to offer support in the midst of all the awfulness. Like the interminable jobs list, none of that is just going to go away. This too will take effort and energy and time and intention to begin to heal and rebuild. It will take care and conversation and community and the creation of safe spaces. And there will still be sore spots and scars that need to be acknowledged and held. 

And then, after the wave of destruction and the clear-up, there is is the creation of space to reflect on the 'what next'; on how we rebuild, how we build on the movement of solidarity and continue to fight against the hostile environment. Like many others, of course I greeted with joy the news that the Rwanda plan might be finished. We need to celebrate the victories, big or small. But my celebrations remain tentative, and not only because it isn't yet guaranteed. If this one particular facet of the hostile environment is on its way to being dismantled, the policies and rhetoric of hostility are not going away any time soon. The scapegoating and criminalisation of those who simply dared to seek safety began long before the Rwanda plan had been dreamt up, and continues apace. Marginally less bad can still be utterly awful for those trapped in this system. Taking an emergency response and turning it into a sustained movement for systemic change will take time and energy, but it will be time and energy well spent.

So yes, of course, I am very glad the wave has subsided. But the work still goes on!

Resilience and rest

Following on from my two previous posts, I knew I wanted to write something about, in the midst of all of the stuff, how we, or at least I, strive to look after myself too. 

My refrain to others around me the last few weeks has been "marathon, not sprint": I have been repeating it as much for myself as anyone else. I know I need to still be standing tomorrow, and next week, and next year. I know I have more to do, give, be that I can't if I get broken at this stage. And yes, of course I have my moments of feeling utterly overwhelmed and there are occasional tears: I don't ever want to get to the stage where I can remain entirely impassive and unaffected; but on balance, I'm doing ok. Even if it doesn't always seem like it from the outside, I think I am in fact reasonably good at looking after and out for myself. I live life to the full and often stretch myself to my limits: but I do also know where those limits lie and generally don't cross them more often than I can cope with. 

I wrote in my previous post of the many things community looks like, and the many beautiful expressions of it I have seen and been part of in recent weeks. On a personal level it has also looked like a whole lot of people looking out for me too: people who have checked in, people who I know care and worry about me. People who have been there with supportive messages and conversations, with cups of tea and glasses of wine, with invitations to relax and have fun and with hugs on demand. I am very grateful to them / you all.  

So I was all set to write a post, about how, individually and collectively, resilience and rest matter, and the different ways in which I try to build them into my life and create rhythms and realities that work for me but what I planned to say has now been slightly derailed / reconfigured. 

This week, we re-enter ordinary time in the church, the coming Sunday's gospel reading is Mark 2:23 - 3:6 and it has fallen as my turn to prepare something to say for our Tuesday bible discussion group. It has proved to be a reminder, should I need one, that the lenses through which we read these texts are so often strongly influenced by our current context and experience.

In the story, the disciples pick and eat corn from the fields as they walk and then Jesus heals a man's withered hand. Both take place on the sabbath, and Jesus uses them to challenge the rules of what is and isn't allowed. I am sure there have been, and will be, times when I would read this text as a comfortably reassuring reminder that we are not called to a blind following of restrictive rules and that faith is something mor active and dynamic than that. 

That is not, at least initially how I read it this week. I'm never afraid to sound mildly heretical, and on first reading this time around I was, frankly, a bit irritated with Jesus. In the story he asks the question, what is lawful to do on the sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to kill?"

 

I aspire for my life and my work to be about doing good and bringing life. I am not pretending I do so perfectly or consistently, but I am trying to do my little bit. In many ways, these things are the very hardest from which to 'take a sabbath', to recognise the need for rest and recuperation. I have had to learn that it is ok to stop, even when the stopping means that good and important thing may not get done. I have had to learn to switch off, even while acknowledging it is a luxury those I support don't have. These have been hard learned lessons, and continue to be something which takes conscious discipline. I definitely do not need Jesus to tell me that I can give up my sabbath as long as it is to do good. I need to hear that it is ok to stop doing good, too. Fortunately, my inner voice, which may or may not be of God, continues to say exactly that, even if it is a whisper I have to consciously make space to hear.

And no, I don't want a strict set of rules: either external or self-imposed, by which to live the sabbath, but I do also recognise the value of doing sabbath well; and while Jesus may have had a point, in our current context and culture, I wonder if he'd have been trying to convey a different message to his audience. 

We (I) live in a society that has made a virtue of being constantly busy: where having something else on is considered a valid reason to not accept another commitment but just wanting time off isn't. We may have made a joke of the idea of turning down invites because "I'm washing my hair" but it does play into a deeper reality that just stopping and doing nothing isn't considered reason enough. While there have been certain positive steps in recent years, with looking after ones own wellbeing being increasingly recognised as valid, there is still a deeply embedded culture of 'busier is best'. I have no doubt that this culture contributes to my own struggle with building in 'sabbath time'. But it is not the only thing. 

My life, like many peoples, is made up of many, many blurred boundaries: of space and time and people. In many, even most, ways this suits me exceptionally well. I know I would hate (and know I would be spectacularly unproductive) in an office job with set hours. I like being able to choose what I do, and when I do it, but it mans there are no hard and fast lines drawn around what counts as work time. Technology, and the communication it facilitates, is both blessing and curse. The people I work with are also my community: they are the people I socialise and celebrate with. I enjoy their company and some have become people I count among my closest friends; but in many of these relationships I still fulfil a role of offering support where it is needed. I would not change any of this: but I acknowledge that it means working harder to identify the best ways to find sabbath in its midst.

And then there is this question, straight out of the gospel "is it lawful to do good, or to do evil?" One doesn't have to look far to find the suggestion that, where evil exists, and when we look around us it is ever-present, that to fail to do good is already to do evil. So wherein lies our right to pause and look after ourselves too? A couple of weeks ago I found myself responding to a friend who said "I should have been there" by trying to reassure her that no, she shouldn't. It was ok, right even, that she had not been there, even if that meant the situation didn't have as satisfactory a resolution as it might have done if she had been. On another day, those words, said out loud to someone else, could just have easily been the ones I told myself. When it comes to mundane admin tasks or replying to emails, anyone who has ever had to chase me will know very well that I don't find it so difficult to stop and not get them done! But when it comes to those things which feel like they will genuinely effect other people's lives and with which they need help, the things where I ask myself, 'yes, but if I don't ...': those are definitely the times it is harder to switch off. The resilience part of the blogpost title at least partly relates to this: the gradual learning to find ways to manage doing what I can, while also dealing healthily with what I can't or don't. The learning to know that other people can and will pick up the pieces too, and that even if they can't or won't or don't ... that I am still not called to do it all. 

Despite these challenges, I have learned to build sabbath time into my life in lots of different ways. My frequently lapsed and frequently reinstituted routine of prayer; days out and weekends away; time spent with friends and time spent alone; creative interludes, cooking nice food, and sitting on the sofa doing very little at all; not (or not always) feeling I have to explain or justify why something might have taken longer to complete or reply to than it 'should'; days, including work days, where I make a decision not to set an alarm, ... the list goes on. 

My version of sabbath probably looks very different to anyone else's, as well as looking different to what mine has looked like in the past, or will in the future. And that is ok. Maybe, now that I am past my mild irritation at what I read as Jesus' slightly unhelpful intervention, that's the point he too was trying to make. He does go on to say that the sabbath was made for us, not we for the sabbath ... he does not actually question the reality or value of the existence or principle of it. Maybe the point is that we can be the "Lord of our own sabbath" too. I am doing my best to find ways to do exactly that.

And so here we are. Bank holiday Monday. And I refuse to feel guilty that I am sitting in my pyjamas as I write.