Happy Pentecost!

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

And the spirit dances

Within our doubt

They are words which still resonate today.

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

Happy Pentecost!

The isolation at the centre

We live right at the heart of a city centre.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All the things we do not write

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is blog post number 300. 

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

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

It continues ...

Like daisies...

 We

like daisies

turn our faces

towards the light

so bright

But

perhaps, sometimes

it is right

We too

must curl up tight

against

the dark 

of night

So long as we remember that

Morning comes

And when it does

we must

allow its warmth

to penetrate

And thus

unfurl

and open

turn

to face

our world

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

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

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

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

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

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

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