School's out for summer!

I have written a couple of posts recently, but prior to that, once again, more than a month, in fact almost two, had slipped by without any blogposts making their way on to the page / screen. In fact in general, my blogpost output this year has been significantly reduced: it looks very likely that 2025 will be the year with the fewest published post since I began this whole endeavour all those years ago. There have been a number of different contributory factors, but over the past couple of months, sheer busy-ness has probably been the main one.

With Refugee Week falling in the middle of it, June has long been one of my busiest months of the year. July, which includes our now annual REP performance and Kintbury residential, is often not far behind. This year was no exception. 

Knowing what was coming, and aware that the early part of the year had taken quite a heavy emotional toll, when May seemed to be shaping up to be a little calmer than some months I managed to be quite intentional about keeping it that way meaning that, perhaps more so than in some years, I faced my busiest season feeling very much ready to go. 

I hit the beginning of June looking at a couple of months in which my diary was certainly very full: with both regular commitments and all the extra things to fit in around them. Already full with things planned well in advance, I also knew there still needed to be space for things which inevitably needed to be squeezed in last minute. 

Refugee Week was filled with activities and celebrations: there was poetry and paint, there was dialogue and dancing, there was laughter and love. This year's theme: Community is a Superpower was a fitting reminder that we are enriched by one another when we create a culture of togetherness rather than isolation. Summer generally makes other trips, activities and outings more possible and more appealing and I had a number of fun days out with different groups of people enjoying fresh air and sunshine and a break from the stresses and strains of their everyday. The REP performance, Home is Where We Belong, already has its own blogpost. The Festival of Encounter would also probably need one to do it justice too.

The number of invitations for school visits always ramps up in the summer term, but this year even more so. We ended the academic year having done a rather satisfying total of 52 visits. For comparison, the previous year's total was 34, so suffice it to say this part of my work has become an increasingly significant time commitment. These visits can, of course, be emotionally heavy but they are also a source of great hope. In a society where the hostile rhetoric around migration sometimes seems to be winning, they feel more important than ever.

In between times, my regular commitments continued: running regular sessions for both Birch and Stories and offering support around the edges to lots of different individuals. The days when my hotel sessions felt like light relief of 'just doing some fun stuff with kids' are long gone: over time they have become increasingly complex and involved, and while often characterised more by what I can't do than what I can, I continue to believe that friendly presence and a listening ear are a valuable contribution to a sense of welcome and wellbeing. As for the Stories group, as well as building towards the REP performance, we've been working on a writing project the outcomes of which I think are going to be incredibly powerful and which I am looking forward to sharing in due course.

I should possibly add that it wasn't all about work: there were plenty of other non-work things, including chances to host visitors and catch up with friends, that also contributed to my over-flowing diary ... not that there is always a clear boundary between work and play in the way I live my life, nor do I want there to be. 

And so here we are in August and despite the fact that June and July were, by any objective standards, a bit bonkers, I reached the slight lull of summer admittedly rather behind on admin, and conscious of big questions to reflect on about capacity going forward from here, but generally feeling like I am in a good place. That's partly because despite the weight of the stories and the state of the world, much of what I have spent my time doing over the past couple of months is, without wanting to underestimate the cost, stuff that gives me life and energy and hope. 

The school summer holidays always mark, for me, a shift in rhythm and routine as well as the ending and beginning of a new year. There is plenty to look back at (and catch up on!), as well as plenty to look forward to. A new diary is waiting to be filled. I am ready. 

Home is here, but it's also there

It is a couple of weeks since Stories of Hope and Home once again took to the stage at Birmingham REP theatre with their latest performance. We have done this enough times now that when, several weeks out, we have lots of ideas but no real form to the script, and when only a couple of weeks out, we still don't really know who the cast will be, I am more able to genuinely believe it'll all be alright, or more than alright, on the day. And as ever, of course, it was. 

For the past couple of years our starting point has been the theme given to us by the REP: after last year's "Love and Rebellion" I didn't think we could possibly be gifted such an appropriate theme again but as it turned out this year's theme "Home and Horizons" was also an excellent fit! Apart from that, we start, in about January, with an entirely blank canvas, with no preconceived ideas of structure or content. And then the conversations begin, the ideas emerge, and slowly but surely, something starts to take shape. It is a genuinely collaborative experience and a process I actively enjoy. The fact that each performance has been so very different in scope and style is testament to the many different people who have been involved in devising, writing and performing each piece: to who they are, individually and collectively, and to what they want to communicate.

One major difference this year from previous years was that we had all of the cast speaking live on stage, something we have never previously attempted. They were, or some at least were, palpably apprehensive, understandably so: but it worked, better even perhaps than they or I might have hoped.  The content was also quite different: while last year's piece focused exclusively on life in the UK asylum system, this year's also drew on the other places our participants call home, as we explored the shared experience of so many of the group of feeling partially at home in two (or more) places, but fully at home in neither. I told someone in advance that I thought it was also less overtly political than last year's piece, but after watching it, they questioned whether that was really true.   

For all the differences each year there are also significant similarities: each year I watch people support and encourage one another, achieving together something many of them didn't think they could do, each year I watch people grow in confidence and find their voice and new ways to express themselves, each year I watch an audience be educated and moved by the stories they hear, each year I watch people get a glimpse of just how amazing this group of people are, each year I am immensely proud of what this wonderful groups of people produce and perform. Above all, each year I watch people who are enjoying the process and having a whole lot of fun!   

"Home is Where we Belong" ended with the performers weaving together ribbons while reciting this poem, itself woven together from words and phrases from the group. It tries to capture much of what home means to them, what it feels like to always be stuck somewhere in the middle, as well as how, when our stories weave together, we can create something beautiful. 

Home is a meal and all those who share it,
Home is the flavours, home is the sounds,
Home is the joy, the dancing, the laughter
Home is the people by whom we've been found
Home is the love of all we call family
And the table we gather around

And home is there, but it's also here

A heart tossed and tugged and torn

And home is here but it's also there

A heart in two places at once

And home is this space in the middle

Where strangers can soon become friends

And home is this space in the middle

Where we each find a place to belong

Home is the cold I'll never get used to
And my skin warmed by African sun
Home is a language that sings in my ears
And one that still tangles my tongue
Home is a place of childhood nostalgia
The things that I've seen, the things that I've done

And home is there, but it's also here

A heart tossed and tugged and torn

And home is here but it's also there

A heart in two places at once

And home is this space in the middle

Where strangers can soon become friends

And home is this space in the middle

Where we each find a place to belong

Home is a place where all is familiar
But a place I was forced to flee
Home is a place that is still slightly strange
But a place where I feel safe and free
Home is traditions I've known forever
Home is where I can truly be me

And home is there, but it's also here

A heart tossed and tugged and torn

And home is here but it's also there

A heart in two places at once

And home is this space in the middle

Where strangers can soon become friends

And home is this space in the middle

Where we each find a place to belong

What's in a name

As of a couple of weeks ago, I am formally divorced. This is a story only snippets of which have been told here, for a number of reasons, not least that it is only partly my story to tell. But it is certainly true to say that, just as my marriage shaped my life over many years, my recent history has been impacted and shaped by its ending. The final order, confirming we are divorced was, in many ways, a mere final formality, but it nonetheless marks a line in the sand. An ending, and as with all endings, a beginning.

But that's not really what this post is about. 

Since we separated, I have been asked by various people whether I will be keeping my surname: so for those who are interested, the answer is yes, I am. I can, of course, understand that for many people, a different decision feels right and appropriate, but for me, for now, this is the right choice. For my own benefit, as much as anyone else's, I decided to try to explain my reasoning.

On a purely practical level, I don't think I can face the administrative hassle of changing everything! But while the sinking sense of dread at the idea of all that paperwork might be a factor, that's not really the reason because of course I could do so if it felt right to. My decision to stick to the surname I have used for the past twenty years actually feels like a much more positive and intentional one than that. 

Having married straight out of university, I have had my current surname for the whole of my adult life. The vast majority of people who know me, whether personally or professionally, have never known me by any other name. And even for those who have, it was a very long time ago. While it may have started out as me adopting "his" name, twenty years on this name is definitely also "mine" in my own right. For me, and for everyone around me, it is my current name which is instantly recognisable, which trips off the tongue. I don't think our names define us, but I do think they are part of our identity. For myself, and for almost everyone I interact with regularly, this, with the name I have, is who I am. 

I tend to think it is significant that our names are, primarily, gifted to us: an acknowledgement that our communities contribute to our identity. (I say this not, of course, to cast judgement on anyone who, for different reasons and in different circumstances, chooses their own name) In a sense, of course, it was a choice to change my name when I got married although it was, to be honest, one to which I gave very little thought. Even twenty years ago, I think there was much more of an assumption (from me as much as anyone else) that I would change my name. I suspect, if I was marrying now (spoiler alert, no, its not something I'm considering!) it would be something I would give more consideration to: But on balance, I don't look back and wish I'd done so at the time. 

In a statement that comes as a surprise to absolutely nobody, I have quite a community orientated view of life. In getting married, I joined not just a husband, but his family: and I was welcomed into a new family with open arms and open hearts. My surname is also a connection to them. There are a myriad of both jokes and horror stories about in-laws but I have said from day 1 (though maybe not out loud often enough) that I am incredibly lucky with mine. The changes and turbulence of recent years have proved it even more so. I know that connection is not created by, and would not be broken by, a name. There are plenty of people I consider part of my family with whom I never have and never will share a name, but I think it is appropriate to acknowledge that my continued sense of belonging is a factor in why my name still feels like a good fit. I know I will always have a place in my biological family, I am lucky enough that I am confident I will always have a place in this family too. I guess, strictly speaking, that final order bit of paper means in "law" is no longer strictly true, but those who know me, will know I am not one to think that either biology or the law gets to have the final word in who we are allowed to call family.

The people who gifted me my childhood names helped shape who I have become. Those who gifted me my married one, no less so. I am not in a place where I want to in anyway deny how significant my married life has been in shaping the person I am today. I realise it is a privilege that I can still say this. While there are of course unbroken threads running through, I know I am not the same person as the 23-year-old me who first signed a new name. A multitude of different experiences have contributed to that, not all of them directly related to being married, but all of them lived out with the name I have now. Reverting to my maiden name just doesn't doesn't seem the right fit for who I have become as a result of all that I have lived in between. Simply put, that name just doesn't really feel mine, any more, in the way my current one does. 

All of this might make it seem like I gave a huge amount of thought to deciding whether to keep my current name: which is not strictly speaking true. As with changing my name at the beginning of my marriage, keeping my name at the end of it came down to the fact that it instinctively just felt right. This is just me subsequently musing and working out why. 

An island of strangers, and of friends

In announcing the latest "let's see which party can do the best job of blaming migrants for all the issues of late-stage consumer capitalism" measures, Keir Starmer made a speech in which he stated that we risk "becoming an island of strangers." 

On one level, he's not wrong. 

We do risk becoming an island of strangers.

But it isn't because of migration.

We risk becoming an island of strangers because, with our heads down and noses buried in devices we don't see the people around us. We risk becoming an island of strangers because we are allowing algorithms to choose what we hear and who we interact with. We risk becoming an island of strangers because we are surrounded by messages telling us to focus solely on ourselves and trying to convince us that it is consumption rather than community which will make us happy. We risk becoming an island of strangers because we are constantly being told to be afraid of anyone who is in anyway different to ourselves or to a perceived norm. 

I am not denying there is a problem here. The impacts of rampant individualism and of so many individuals drowning in isolation are significant for individual health and wellbeing, for the fabric of society and for the very future of our planet. 

But it isn't because of migration. 

On the contrary, if we let it, I'd argue that migration has the potential to be far more a cure than a cause of this isolation. My own experience tells me so.

We do not become strangers because our neighbours are from different countries or cultures: we become strangers because we lock our doors and do not ask their names. And when we dare to unlock our doors and speak to each other? ... We find ourselves living instead on an island of friends.

Of all the places I have ever lived, (and there have been quite a few!) Birmingham is the place I feel most at home. Initially, that took me by surprise: excited as I was by the opportunity that brought us here, one of my hesitations was that I wasn't at all sure how much I'd enjoy living in Birmingham. Those doubts have long since been dispelled. I have now lived here for longer than I've lived anywhere else and find it hard to imagine ever moving away. I describe myself, confidently, as an adopted Brummie.

The map on my living room wall shows the countries of origin of everyone who has visited my home 

If my itchy feet have more-or-less stopped itching, and I have reached a point of being content to put down at least some kind of roots, it wasn't because I lost interest in learning about other cultures and meeting new people: it wasn't because I was ready to retreat to an "island". It was because I came to rest in a place where staying put continued to allow me to feel connected to the world, for my story to be interwoven with and enriched by the stories of so many others whose lives look different to mine. 

Birmingham's diversity, and the communities I am privileged to be a part of which are made up of friends and chosen family from across the globe are definitely a core part of why this place is home. I am deeply grateful for the colour and culture and conversation these friendships have brought into my life. Oh and food, did I mention all the good food?! Far from making me feel like a stranger, migration has played a huge role in me finding a place where my life feels vibrant and fulfilled, a place where I feel I belong. 

I know I am, against all the odds, an incorrigible optimist ... but I am not naïve. 

I know there are people from every wave of migration who have, for a wide variety of reasons found integration incredibly challenging and have turned inwards into segregated groups, and that this does need to be addressed. I know resources are stretched thin and public services have been stripped bare by the systematic concentration of wealth into fewer and fewer hands, which places pressures on communities for which we need to find genuine solutions. I know there are issues around community cohesion that need to be faced head on. 

But I also know that more and more restrictive migration policies, and a rhetoric around migration that presents it as problem rather than gift is not the solution.  

I know this both intellectually and emotionally. I know it to the very core of my being. 

I know it, because I live on an island of friends. 

Reflections on Hope

Sometimes I have found a way to do Lent well; other years, not so much. I was short on inspiration this year, so as it approached I asked various people for suggestions about how I might mark the season. One of the responses was "write a poem every day". After quite a difficult start to the year, I was by that point, in a better place but I knew that I certainly still wasn't in a space where I was going to have the energy or creative spark to write a poem each day. It did, though, prompt what I actually decided to do which was to write, about hope, for three minutes, everyday. 

The three minute timer made it feel manageable: and I kept it up, almost every single day. The odd days I missed I caught up on the day after; at least until I went away for Holy Week when it fell by the wayside entirely.   

Sometimes ideas teemed and I could have filled three minutes several times over, other days I felt like I was forcing words onto blank white pages. Some days, I guess you might have called what I wrote poetry, of a sort. Other days, not so much. Some of the thoughts or words or phrases might turn in to something else at a later date. Others almost certainly won't. 

Here are a few snippets: 

• "In the painting over my dining room table, hope is depicted with a candle and a signpost. A light, albeit a flickering one, and a sense of direction. In the background is the image of an anchor. The holding firm, the holding still. Can hope be both the things that hodls us still and steady as well as the thing that points us forward, urges us on, shows they way?"
• "Hope is the voice that still sings, even as the tears fall unexpectedly, it is the voice that reaches for the tune even when it struggles to catch its breath, hope finds its way, even when it can't find the words"
• "Birthpangs. Miracles. Struggle. And Hope."
• "I was given flowers today: a bunch of tightly closed daffodils, bursting with potential and possibility, but at the moment looking like, well, not a lot really.... but we look at them and know. There is colour to come. This is hope."
• "There is no doubt in my mind that if hope was a person, it would be a small child ... a child who reminds us that when the pressures of life and societal expectation are stripped away, people are, at bottom, good. We are born capable of great compassion, empathy, love." 
• "Sometimes I find my hope in dreaming big dreams, making plans, creating a vision. But not always. Sometimes hope is found in an organised jobs list, in making manageable chunks, in jobs ticked off. In the little things."
• "Hope can seem soft and fluffy, as substance-less as the clouds ... that slips through fingers, turns to nothing when you try to grab hold of it. But I'm not so sure. I think there is something hard and strong at its centre"
• "There is something about waiting for the fun to start. A sense of anticiation. The quiet cup of tea. the calm before the chaos. Tinged with hope"
• Hope is in many ways the heart of my work, of my faith, of my life."
• "Sometimes hope comes in the form of a phone call"
• "Hope is green, like the fresh shoots of spring. Hope is glittering and golden like stars in the night sky. Hope is bright white, a pinprick of light at the end of a tunnel" 
• "Sometimes hope is found among friends. And sometimes, hope is a friend in its own right. A friend that shares in our joys, that looks towards the future, that cheers us on. A friend who sits by our side in the darkness, holds our hand and whispers, don't give up."
• "Sometimes hope is in the fresh-faced new beginnings. The fierce belief you can make a difference. Perhaps this hope is naive at times. Perhaps its exuberance feels misplaced. Maybe it talks too much, treads on the toes of the careworn. But all of us would do well to hold on to this, even overlaid with doubt and cynacism. And just as importantly, how can we nurture it, or at least not crush it, in one another."
• "Sometimes the right choice is to take off your shoes and socks and paddle in the sea at sunset"
• "I am pleased I planted so many spring bulbs because spring flowers bring me so much joy. There are signs of new life and new growth everywhere. And yes, some of those are nettles and tangled weeds. And yes, there is probably work to be done ... But such is life."
• "I wonder how much even a tentative and uncertain hope in the 'after' impacts how we live in the 'before'?"
• "On days like this, when the sun shines, when the birds sing, when there is community and friendship and love and laughter, and spontaneous trips into green spaces, and trees to climb, and conversations ... on days like this hope feels closer, easier to grasp, more tangibly present. It can be sought at other times too, of course, but I am grateful for days like these

It was a helpful discipline and I am glad I did it.

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!