2022 Reading List

When I started reading my third book of the year, I decided it might be interesting to keep a record of what I had read: and whether or not it would eventually make it to publication, the drafts folder of my blog seemed like as good a place to keep it as any. And hey now it is written, it might as well be published. So this is what I have read this year ...

Two Lives - Vikram Seth

Girl with a Pearl Earring - Tracy Chevalier

A Long Petal of the Sea - Isabel Allende

A Change of Climate - Hilary Mantel

The Pier Falls - Mark Haddon

Little Brother - Ibrahima Balde and Amets Arzallus Antia

The Turbulent Term of Tyke Tyler - Gene Kemp

Senor Vivo and the Coca Lord - Louis de Bernieres

In the Full Light of the Sun - Clare Clark

The Salt Path - Raynor Winn

The Silent Boy - Andrew Taylor

Resistance: A Songwriter's Story of Hope, Change and Courage - Tori Amos

The Wreck - Meg Kenneally

The Little Coffee Shop of Kabul - Deborah Rodriguez

Those Who are Loved - Victoria Hislop

The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro 

The Vanishing Half - Brit Bennett

The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane - Lisa See

The Wall - John Lanchester

The Humans - Matt Haig

Resistance - Anita Shreve

My Name is Why? - Lemn Sissay

The History of Bees - Maja Lunde

Circle Song - Nawal El Saadawi (from God dies by the Nile and other Stories)

The Discomfort of Evening - Marieke Lucas Rijneveld

The Echo Chamber - John Boyne

The Dictionary of Lost Words - Pip Williams

Radio Silence - Alice Oseman

Klara and the Sun -  Kazuo Ishiguro

When God was a Rabbit - Sarah Winman

The Second City Trilogy - Steven Camden

Redemption Song and Other Stories - The Caine Prize for African Writing 2018

Spanish Steps - Tim Moore

Summer - Ali Smith

The Memory of Love - Aminatta Forna

Hope in the Dark - Rebecca Solnit

The Girl in the Picture - Denise Chong

Home - Salman Rushdie

The Girl on the Train - Paula Hawkins

The Kindness of Strangers - Edited by Don George

No Friend but the Mountains - Behrouz Boochani

I have also read far too many social media posts! I sometimes wonder just how many more good books I could read if I didn't waste quite so much time on twitter ... but there you have it, my reading list for the year

And the Word was God

This week, it was my turn to lead our bible reflection. We usually reflect on the following Sunday's gospel, but, it being Christmas, I probably had a choice of readings, and it may seem strange that I opted for the prologue of John: but I love this reading. 

I love it for its mystery and complexity. I also love it because, as a lover of language and someone passionate about words, God being identified as the word deeply appeals to me. It is a text so rich and deep and complex that of course we cannot unpack it fully in a short space of time so I am just going to focus on that single word, the word.

The original Greek word in the text is logos, and I have commonly heard it said that “the word” is an over simplified translation of a word that holds much deeper meanings within it. In some ways, I would take issue with that, because I think “word” also holds complexities within it: but the point that a word from one language cannot be adequately translated into another still stands.

I remember when I first read this text in French where logos is commonly translated as “le verbe”: a small change that instantly implies something slightly different, something more active. Hearing that made me reflect on my understanding of the text. I think it would be fascinating to know how other languages translate it, and to think about how each translation might shape how we hear this reading.

The word that is God also cannot be adequately translated into our language or culture: our understanding of God is, I would argue, all the richer when we understand that all the words we use can only ever be an approximation: at its best, describing God as the word could perhaps help remind us of this: In the beginning was the untranslatable word.

Logos could, I am told also be translated as “meaning”: and again, if we put this in place in the text I think it adds another layer to how we hear and understand this text: If each Christmas we heard the familiar words: “In the beginning there was meaning” and “the meaning was made flesh”, or “the meaning was made tangible or real” would it change how we understand what John is trying to say?

Apparently the etymology of logos goes back to ‘to pick up, to collect, to gather together’. The gathering of our thoughts of our sense of meaning. Words.

Linguists have long argued about whether language describes reality or whether it creates reality and I suspect while there are probably people on both extremes, consensus is that it does something of both. The words we hear and the language we use shape our understanding of the world around us as well as being the means by which we describe our reality and experiences. There are lots of examples of the ways people speak or the different words they have access to leading to them understanding things differently. There are also plenty of examples of how language is used both unintentionally and deliberately to shape people’s thinking and their action and behaviours.

If God is the word, God is present in how we do both of these things. God as word, God as language helps us to describe and make sense of our experiences and our reality; but God as word, God as language also shapes and co-creates our reality, but perhaps in ways that are subtle and unnoticed, much the way we don’t always notice how the words we use are shaping our sense of our selves and our world.

And then sometimes, we also need to challenge the way words are used: or allow and accept them being challenged by others; and through those challenges to our language, subtle shifts occur in how we understand the world. The same is undoubtedly true of the word that is God: there are times when we also need to challenge, or allow ourselves to be challenged about the way God is used too, and allow our understanding to shift.

So perhaps, just as having access to more words allows us to better describe and make sense of and create our reality; perhaps growing and deepening our connection to God, gives us the same gift.

Next Steps

I am on the move again... because just before Christmas is an eminently sensible time to do that, right?

This time I am moving into the house which, several years ago, was bought to be entrusted to Hope Projects to house destitute asylum seekers. We always knew the gift of this space to others might, at some point, have to come to an end, and as circumstances have changed, this is the right next move. 

I would be lying if I didn't admit to having had to process some sadness that we can't continue to support Hope Projects in this way. I continue to really believe in their model of supporting people but also challenging the injustice that leave people in need of that support. I know some of those who have benefitted from living in their houses, including ours, and I know the tangible difference they make to people's lives.

But I hope and trust that the last six years of support has made a difference to the individuals, and to the organisation. I hope that perhaps something of those early news stories offered some inspiration to others, not necessarily to do the same, but to believe in the possibility of making choices that make a difference. And I hope and trust that I am continuing to make choices which, in other ways, still benefit those who are victims of the hostile environment.

I am aware that there is going to quite some adjustment to this latest move. This house has been, in some ways part of my story for a number of years and yet it has always been, intentionally, kept at arms length. Until a few weeks ago, I hadn't set foot in this house for six years. It was our house, but other people's "home". 

So now, once all the packing and moving and unpacking has been done, the next task is, in this house, to create "my home". I am sure it won't take long. I am looking forward to discovering the community that will be created, the stories that will be celebrated and the memories that will be made here, in this space.

A month in the life

A little over a year ago I wrote a post about a "typical" week in my life, or if not a typical one then at least a randomly selected specific one. It occurred to me that it might be interesting, a year or so on, to repeat the exercise, but as life is so varied, and every week so different, this time I have gone for edited highlights of "a month in the life". It's probably too long to be of interest to anyone but me, but for what it is worth, this was my November: 

Week 1: Tuesday 1st - Sunday 6th November  

Tuesday was an odds and ends jobs sort of a day including a trip to my old haunt St Chad's Sanctuary to pick up school uniform: it was nice to see a few familiar faces I hadn't caught up with for a while and I did also fit in a cup of tea in a coffee shop with a friend. Then I had back to back zooms in the evening which used to be normality but is very rare these days. Wednesday took me to London with some of the stories group for the "Lift the Ban" coalition gathering. By some minor miracle everyone arrived on time, it was a lovely but long day: extended even further by the fact that the person who told us they knew exactly where the restaurant they wanted to eat at was, and that it really wasn't far, may not have been as confident in their London geography as they thought! Thursday was another pretty busy day as I had a Birch Staff Meeting in the morning before going directly to run the Birch family drop-in, followed by another meeting, but Friday was a bit quieter with only admin to do in the morning ahead of the Stories group session which was an art workshop with Celebrating Sanctuary. It was particularly nice to see one or two people who hadn't been able to be around for a while. From there I went directly to see friends for a very lovely evening chatting and, due to the train strike that wasn't, ended up staying over. I had deliberately kept the weekend fairly empty ahead of what I knew was going to be another busy week ahead.

Week 2: Monday 7th - Sunday 13th November

Even by my standards, this week was set to be exceptionally busy. We had two school visits all day Monday and Wednesday: one in a primary school, one in a high school; one in a school who are already good friends of the Stories project, one to a school we were visiting for the first time: both went really well and I was, as ever, humbled by the incredible people I get to work alongside. From Monday's visit it was straight in to the evening Stories session where we began exploring the peculiarly British cultural phenomenon that is panto! Between the two, on Tuesday, a group of us went to Liverpool for the Churches Together in Britain and Ireland conference where we led a workshop, and contributed to the panel as well as to lots of informal conversations, and one of the group did an outstanding job of selling a box full of poetry books! Expected travel disruption meant the NACCOM conference on Thursday had moved online and while I was disappointed not to be meeting people in person, in the midst of everything else going on this week perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing. It did make for a very intensive day of screen time, and by the evening I had realised I definitely should have done other things during the breaks rather than trying to fit in other computer jobs! I was back out all day on Friday, including a meeting with my supervisor for Birch, and our second art workshop with the Stories group. We were due to be going to Doncaster on Saturday but I think it was the right call to do that particular encounter by zoom instead. On Saturday evening Welsh National Opera who we had worked with last year had given us tickets to their Opera "Migrations" which was absolutely stunning as well as deeply meaningful; and a small group of us went to a classical concert at the town hall on Sunday afternoon too so a very cultured weekend! 

Week 3: Monday 14th - Sunday 20th November

This week was, at least partly by design, much quieter. It is the nature of my life and work that some weeks are exceptionally busy and that is made manageable by the balance of the weeks with a bit more space in them: both to relax, and to catch up on the much needed admin tasks. On Monday I spent several hours meeting lots of newly arrived families and collecting information for the next round of helping with accessing school places; a task which took up a good chunk of Thursday morning as well. On both Monday and Friday we were playing with panto in the Stories sessions which involved a whole lot of fun and laughter! The Birch drop-in session was quiet but did include offering some much needed emotional support to some of the mums. And on Friday I had a meeting over doughnuts and another over delicious falafel wraps which was most excellent! Tuesday and Wednesday were both days almost entirely spent at home, partly catching up on jobs that desperately needed doing but with a very relaxed rhythm. I also had a friend staying throughout throughout this week while he recovered from an operation he'd had the previous week, so it was good that I was around a bit more and I very much enjoyed his company and many good conversations. A couple of evenings other friends popped round too, to see him or me or both. Saturday was a fairly busy day with an early start for a (sadly not well attended but you can but try) coffee morning about hosting, then lunch with prospective hosts, and then I had a really lovely afternoon having been invited to the birthday party of delightful twin girls who were turning 13. After a lazy Sunday morning the week was topped off by an afternoon of comedy and a visit to the beautiful Birmingham Progressive Synagogue.

Week 4: Monday 21st - Sunday 27th November

It was a thoroughly dull, grey and wet start to the week so in a way I was glad I had a meeting on Monday afternoon that forced me to get out of the house, because even if I got rather cold and damp, on balance, I always feel better when I get out and about. Usually, the Stories group would be meeting on a Monday afternoon but our venue isn't available for a few weeks and as there are plenty of other activities to keep us occupied we are taking a break from that regular session. On Tuesday, among various other things, I was at St Chad's Cathedral for a planning meeting for the next edition of pray24brum, and having not been able to get to the last meeting, it was lovely to be back in person with this little group. There were as always, a million emails to catch up on, conversations to have, things to organise and various meetings to attend, both in person and online: including the Migration Forum meeting, a "cathedral conversations" event, a meeting with a councillor and another about school admissions. I also went to not one but two poetry / spoken word events: the wonderful Steven Camden, aka Polarbear, who we worked with last year; and one of my all-time favourite poets, Brian Bilston. Plus on Saturday we had tickets to see nativity at the REP which I very much enjoyed even if I did spend a lot of it shushing small children! In the midst of all that, probably the most significant thing to happen this week was handing in the notice on my current flat and setting things in train for my next move which, all being well, will take place just before Christmas.

Week 5: Monday 28th November - Wednesday 30th

Monday was a fairly full day of mostly school related shenanigans as I continue the process of trying to help lots of newly arrived children into school. The absolute joy and excitement of the children at the prospect was well worth the slight sense of overwhelm when I was surrounded by families! But I was glad of a walk home in the fading sunlight to clear my head. I was expecting to spend a chunk of Tuesday moving a Birch guest in with their hosts but, as can sometimes happen last minute, the need for emergency accommodation was averted, which meant I had more time for a few other jobs, including continuing the school mission, but with an intentionally slightly less busy feel to the day. I rounded off the month with a day that included a helpful conversation with the person I meet to help me to reflect on and process the many experiences and stories I hold with my friends in the Stories group, then called in briefly to Carrs Lane before a fabulous school visit in the afternoon to round off the month.

And now December awaits. Bring it on!

Do we need God?

This blog post first came about after a conversation (quite some months ago now) with a very good friend for whom I have a huge amount of respect. 

She does good things in the world. She cares about humanity. She does not have a faith.

I am not entirely sure how we got on to the topic of religion but somewhere in the mix was what I took to be a very genuine question, which went something along the lines of "what is the point of religion and do we really need God?" It is not the first time I have faced such a question: from someone else or at times even from myself. 

I had no immediately coherent answer to offer. And not only because it was late in the evening and I was tired.

She is just as capable as me of doing good in the world. According to my theology, her chances of finding herself in heaven (if it exists) are just as high as mine. I am not somehow her superior ... there is nothing about me that is better than her because I have a faith and she doesn't. I have friends of many faiths and of none who have just as much to offer to the world as I do. 

And to be honest I can find much to criticise about the role of religion in our lives, communities, world. Over the years I have cried many tears over the church and its (as I perceive them) failings.   

And yet it is no secret that my faith remains important to me. I wanted to be able to try and explain why. 

I guess I started writing this as my attempt to do so: to myself, to her, and to the world. Many weeks later, more recent conversations with another friend prompted me to try and draw my scattered thoughts together. I have struggled to do so, because the mystery I call God defies explanation and eludes description in mere words, but this is my best attempt.

It comes with multiple disclaimers. My faith and my theology have changed significantly over time so if this stands as a (slightly blurry) reflection of where I am right now; it may not sum up where I was yesterday, nor where I will be tomorrow. Nor does it reflect a set of beliefs of anyone else or any institution: my faith has been shaped by my experiences of several Christian denominations but has also been worked out through reflection, conversation and encounter so doesn't sit easily in any of the pre-designed boxes different churches present to us and I like to hope that I would be seen as mildly heretical by at least most models of church. And just in case anyone is in any doubt, my explanation or defence of my own faith does not hold within it any criticism of anyone else's journey along this very winding road we call life. 

*     *     *

Undoubtedly, part of my reason for being an adult with Christian faith is that it was the faith I was introduced to as a child. I have no recollection of a time before church was part of my life. I do, though, have fairly clear recollections of the first times church was an active choice. 

At some point as a (probably slightly precocious) primary school child, I decided I would rather go to church than to Sunday school: I have no idea, now, what drew me to sit through the probably fairly dull church services instead of doing colouring in ... these days, I much prefer Sunday School! More significantly, when I was in my early teens, my parents stopped going to church. It was no longer something we were expected to do as part of our weekly routine as a family. If I wanted to be part of this thing, it became my own responsibility. I sometimes joke that going to church was my teenage rebellion. As my faith has developed and I have understood more about who I believe Jesus to be, I have realised maybe it wasn't as much of a joke as I thought.

My faith today is unrecognisable from the nascent faith I had then: my journey has taken me far from what I would probably describe as "dull, bog-standard Anglicanism" and the church which was such a haven for my fourteen-year-old-self would undoubtedly now be a place which I would find intensely frustrating ...  but the essence of perhaps the most significant aspect of why my faith still matters does seemingly date to those days, though I certainly wouldn't have articulated it thus at the time. 

I was an unhappy teenager. At home, though I never questioned the love of my family, I carried a deep resentment about being moved away from a place where I had convinced myself I'd have been happier; and school was a fairly miserable experience where I was torn between the desperate desire to fit in and the desperate desire to be true to the person I was who didn't. And then there were hormones and the general unease that probably afflicts all teenagers as they grow out of being children long before they grow into being adults.

Church gave me the incredibly precious gift of being a place where I didn't have to "fit in" in order to belong and a place where somewhere deep within I felt like I had inherent value, just as I was. I associated church, and therefore God, as a place of safety and acceptance. I have changed a lot since those days, as has my faith, but I still deeply believe that, at its best, an experience of God is an experience of learning that you can belong and have value and be loved, just the way you are.

*     *     *

The world can be a very dark place. Throughout history, and in the world we now inhabit, we can scarcely fail to notice the destructive capacity of humanity: the myriad ways in which people can commit acts of utter evil against each other, and even against ourselves. All too often there can seem to be so much to make us angry and so little in the world that inspires hope.

We have put our planet on a collision course for climate catastrophe. Dictatorial regimes and human rights abuses abound. Conflicts are proliferating. Far-right ideologies are increasingly unchecked and accepted in the mainstream. The rich and powerful continue their love affair with an economic system which thrives on an ever widening divide between the haves and have nots.

Many of the core messages which surround us, both the explicit and the implied are ones which want us to believe that the only thing that matters is looking out for ourselves and our own interests, or, potentially, by extension, those perceived as belonging to our group or sharing our identity. They are messages which tell us the pursuit of material wealth is the route to happiness, that we will find our worth in what we possess. They are messages which tell us the weakest and most vulnerable are at best, not our problem or responsibility, and at worst to be cast as scapegoats, blamed for a variety of social ills and subjected to further suffering. They are messages seeking to divide, telling us to fear or to hate those who are in any way different to ourselves.

Social pressure of this sort is insidious and, whatever we tell ourselves, nigh on impossible to entirely resist. We are products of the societies that form us. 

I do not want to believe this is all there is to the world. And for me it is God and the message of the gospels that allows me to hope in an alternative. I fear that without that sense of the divine, that sense of something beyond ourselves, I might just lose hope.

Faith is what gives me the strength to, however imperfectly, stand up as best I can to the rhetoric the world wants us to believe and to try to stand for something different. 

Faith is what makes me trust that, even when it doesn't feel like it, "the arc of the universe bends towards justice" (MLK)

Faith is what constantly reminds me that no human has any less worth or value than any other, that reminds me to stretch out a hand in warmth and welcome to the "other", because they are, as I am, loved and worthy of love. 

Faith is that which which ensures and assures me that good is possible. 

*     *     *

For many years my life has involved a routine of prayer and specifically, times of silence integrated into my day. I struggle to articulate how or why but I remain completely convinced my life would look different without it. It is my space to be reminded, or to remind myself of the possibility of joy, hope, goodness and unconditional love even when they seem so far from the reality every time we switch on the news. I believe those reminders come from somewhere beyond myself.

The essence of my faith remains that God is and only can be love and nothing we do, nothing we are can exclude us from that unconditional love. The essence of my faith remains that, created in the image of God, we are called into the experience of love and called to offer it onwards and outwards to others. The essence of my faith is that we exist to love and to be loved. 

Others perhaps have a different explanation, but for me, my way of making sense of the world and holding on to the possibility of hope, is the existence of a mystery I choose to call God; a God who is and only can be love, a God who ensures there is always a force for good in the world, a God who flares or who flickers in the darkest of places. A God from whom I acknowledge religions, as much as the wider world, have ofttimes turned away. 

I don't think having a faith in God has made my life any easier: nor should it: there is plenty of challenge inherent in the gospels. But I think it has been one of the ways in which I have discovered a deep joy that exists despite, beyond and in the midst of the world with all its broken beauty. 

So back to those conversations with friends that inspired me to write this ... 

Does she need God? Does he? I don't know and it is not for me to say. 

But do I need God? ... Yes, I think I do.

What I have learned

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

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

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

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

Re-establishing a routine of prayer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Autumn days

A place in the Kindom of God

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

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

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

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

September Haikus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

25th
Friends and family
In these fleeting reunions
Together again

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

27th
Ah, English weather

Bright sun, cold rain, gusts of wind

Four seasons, each day

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

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

30th

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

Breadcrumbs 2022

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

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

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

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

End of an era

It feels like the end of an era.

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

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

Now that too comes to an end. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So thank you, Carrs Lane.

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

Adventures in Morocco

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carrying the baton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Encounters with Covid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Refugee: What do you know about me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There were beautiful arias and catchy choruses.

There was speech and there was song. 

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

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

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

*          *          *

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

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

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

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

Journeying through June

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

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

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

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

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

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

Journeying through June

This is the story I should be telling:

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

For long enough to get our breath back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those little things that make your eyes smile

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

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

More by luck than judgement,
Be timed to perfection

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

I wouldn’t want it any other way.