Christmas Poems, a brief history

I am not sure yet whether there will be a new poem for Christmas 2023. There isn't yet, but if it happens in the next few days, it wouldn't be the first time I've written one before the end of the Christmas season rather than before the start. I haven't been particularly inspired to be creative recently, so there's a very good chance it might not, and although there's a little part of me that will be slightly sad if I don't come up with something, I'm also not going to beat myself up about it.

I have been writing a poem every Christmas for a long time and several pre-date this blog. If for no other reason than this is a more reliable place to keep them for my own record than my hideously disorganised documents folder on my computer / hard drive, I decided I'd put them all in a post here. Their length was, at least partially, determined by the fact that most years I shared them in Christmas cards, until the busy-ness of life and the price of stamps put paid to that tradition!

I think, despite the recent lack of inspiration, I write better poetry now than some of these early examples, but what strikes me is how the themes still resonate. The very first one I wrote, it seems, was calling for peace in Palestine. Almost 20 years on, it could have been written today. Others, similarly, address social issues which have not gone away in the intervening years. My writing has developed, global "civilisation" it seems, not so much.

 

Christmas Poem 2005 – Dreams of Peace in Bethlehem

Bethlehem, holy city, where love came down,

Once surrounded by the angel throng;

Now trapped and stifled by a concrete wall

And bullets have silenced the angelic song.

Songs of joy and peace were once so near

Now the city lives in silent fear.

But there is still a whispered song of hope

Upon this green and troubled hill,

And this is still a holy city,

Where the suffering servant suffers still.

So this Christmas spare a thought for their pain,

And pray that peace may soon come to reign.

Christmas Poem 2006 – You do it unto me

Born into homelessness and poverty,

The first things you knew were darkness and danger.

Victim of violence in an occupied territory,

Forced to grow up, an outcast and a stranger.

Where are you now, oh Christmas Christ child?

In the sanitised stable of a nativity set

Pushed to one side where the gifts are piled,

Forgotten and ignored amidst the credit card debt.

But The Christmas Christ child is still with us here on earth:

He’s here in the poor, the abused, the refugee.

Is he welcome here among us as we celebrate his birth?

For “What you do to them” he said, “you do it unto me.”

Christmas Poem 2007 – A future of hope

In a sanitized stable with a warm orange glow

Well-dressed proud parents put a baby on show.

A nativity scene with saccharine smiles

Makes it easy to hide from the real-life trials

Of that first Christmas night in the cave of a stranger

When a baby was born into darkness and danger.

And what was the message that baby came to proclaim?

A future of peace and freedom from pain.

But around the world tonight it’s like the first Christmas still

As children grow up hungry while we eat our fill.

So tonight as we celebrate a refugee’s birth.

Let’s share his message with everyone on earth.

Stand up and be counted, let our voice be heard to say

That each child deserves a future, one which starts today.

A home to be safe in, enough food and an education

And let’s make this Christmas a real celebration.

Christmas Poem 2008 – A light to the world

A flame flickers faintly in the darkness

A fragile light alive in the night

Winds of change and news of the future:

A breath, shaping this light.

I can let the wind extinguish this flame

Deny my voice and give in to doubt

Close my eyes, turn my back and be silent

And so let the flame go out.

Or I can let the wind be a challenge:

Whatever the messages it may bring

Can fan the flames of inspiration

And let my hopeful soul sing.

A breath can turn sparks to powerful flames

Can let hopes and dreams be unfurled.

Stand up, speak out and burn brightly:

I will be a light to the world.

Christmas Poem 2009 – Peace that’s an advertiser’s dream

Peace on earth was the angel’s song

And to us all goodwill

And where do we search and where do we find

This peace that’s elusive still?

Inside the golden wrapper of a chocolate bar,

Curled up by a mock-Tudor hearth.

Hidden in the pages of a holiday brochure,

Or bottled up with luxury bubble bath.

Is this what was meant by the angelic voices?

Singing for a peace that’s an advertisers dream.

Or was their vision of something deeper?

Through which a glimmer of hope might gleam.

Where is the comfort in a holiday brochure

When you’re gazing on your bombed-out house?

Not much help from chocolate or bubble bath

When you’re grieving for your children or spouse.

So what of peace in far flung places?

What of peace in war-torn lands?

What hope of a peace that’s borne of justice?

Will we reach for a stranger’s outstretched hands?

Can we talk to each other? Can resources be shared?

Can the guns be laid down and the bombing cease?

Can the whisper grow louder than the advertisers jingle?

And can our Christmas carol be a real call for peace?

Christmas Poem 2010 – Do we really want Christ in Christmas?

To put Christ back into Christmas

In the media, is an oft heard cry

They want the cute, smiley baby,

And blond-haired angels in the sky

But do they know what it is they’re wanting?

Have they thought what they’re asking for?

Who is this Christ whose Mass it is?

And what would it cost to restore?

The Christ whose return they’re requesting

I’m not sure would quite fit their bill

He wouldn’t be dressed in a respectable suit

Or tut-tut that the area’s going downhill

The Christ who’s the true Christ of Christmas

Is the one who stretches out open hands

Who welcomes the foreigner, the stranger, the poor,

With society’s outcasts he stands

He mixes with those whose lives are messy

Who don’t fit in society’s neat plan

In the midst of the unlovely, unlovable, unloved

By his life saying, “yes, with love, you can”

So let us all make the same call as they do

For Christ to return to our world

But the media might get more than they bargain for

When the true kingdom of Christ is unfurled.

And then there's all the ones since the blog started which I decided I might as well gather up here too:
https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2011/12/gift-of-christmas.html
https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2011/12/why-should-we-celebrate-christmas.html
https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2012/12/glimmers-of-hope.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2013/12/a-song-of-prophets-and-angels.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2014/12/on-2nd-day-of-christmas.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2015/12/glimmers-of-christmas.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2016/12/this-is-joy.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2017/12/the-innkeepers-song.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2018/12/christmas-poem-2018.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2019/12/christmas-poem-2019.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2020/12/where-there-is-doubt-christmas-poem-2020.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2021/12/the-light-shines-christmas-poem-2021.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2023/01/christmas-poem-2022.html

Submission, but not submissive

This week, for the fourth Sunday of Advent, the lectionary invites us to read the story of the annunciation. Last time it came around, three years ago, I wrote a reflection. I still stand by what I wrote then, and this is, in some ways, the continuation of it.  Like all the texts we read this time of year, this is a deeply familiar one and there is probably nothing to say that has not already been said (which doesn't going to mean I'm not going to add a fair few words of my own to the conversation.)

The annunciation scene opens with the angel greeting Mary, “highly-favoured one”. I know I am not saying anything new, but I think it bears repeating that this greeting, the acknowledgment of Mary as highly-favoured, comes first. God’s blessing already exists. It is not earned. It is not consequent on her choices or actions or response. I do not believe that it would be withdrawn if Mary had said no.

And I believe this to be true for our own lives too. Whatever we are called to, and I am in no way detracting from the reality of that call, the nature of being beloved of God, of being “highly favoured” precedes and is not dependent on anything we might do in response.

And I do absolutely believe that this, the annunciation story is the story of a response, a choice: to accept or to decline the invitation, the challenge, the promise. Perhaps the God who exists out of time did already know that Mary would acquiesce, perhaps. But I don’t think that means Mary wasn’t free to make her own choice. This act of incarnation relies on Mary’s cooperation. She chose to say yes. She could have said no.

The church often focuses on the many ways in which humanity “needs” God, but perhaps speaks less about the possibility that God needs us too. But for me, the story of the annunciation, is the story of God needing, or choosing to need, humanity. The outworking of the incarnation, of God becoming present in the world in this way, is only possible with human agreement. Perhaps that too remains true today: that God can only be made incarnate in the world, again and again with the cooperation of humanity. I wonder if we shy away from this idea because deep down, however challenging we find it to get our heads round the idea of an almighty God, the idea a vulnerable one, reliant on our fragile humanity is something we struggle to get our heads round even more. And perhaps we shy away from it because deep down we are not really sure if we want to accept the responsibility that comes with it.

The other thing that I wanted to reflect on, which is perhaps in some ways related, is the image we have of Mary in this scene. I think, generally, we have a picture of a very submissive Mary, head meekly bowed as she accepts the angel’s instruction. A quick google image search would certainly suggest that’s how it has mostly been portrayed down through the ages. It is there in the lyrics of the angel Gabriel carol “Gentle Mary meekly bowed her head”, but it is not there in the biblical text.

Despite their shared root, I think there is quite a difference between submission, and being submissive. And I think that in Mary’s submission to the will of God, there is nothing that implies she is, or becomes, submissive.

I like to think instead of Mary looking straight at the angel with fire in her eyes as she accepts this mission. There aren't many artistic interpretations which show this, and I don't have the talent to draw or paint the picture in my head... but I’m not sure I believe Mary looked down at her toes. I don’t believe this was a whispered, “ok, I will,” I believe it was a much more feisty, “ok bring it on!” 

Mary doesn’t have a major starring role in the gospels, but she does have a speaking part, and she does have a voice. If we listen to that biblical voice of Mary, I think we find it is quite different to the one that has been culturally created ever since. I suspect we would do well to scrape away the layers of medieval paint and Victorian values, and to rediscover this Mary who submits but whose voice is never submissive. The Mary who dares to question God’s messenger, and who at times challenges and even defies God. The Mary who actively chooses to play her part in the incarnation story, and who does so willingly but not naively.

I wonder if we are called to this kind of submission too: a submission that is chosen, that is a shared responsibility with God and which we are allowed to approach with our heads held high. I wonder how such an invitation feels?

Staying put

Here we are in December again, ushered in with seasonally appropriate freezing temperatures and even a smattering of snow. 

Needless to say, I have as ever hardly started getting my head round Christmas yet, despite commercial Christmas having been underway for a month or more already.

I am however, reflecting with gratitude on the fact that this December, I am staying put. For both of the past two years, I have moved house in December and I am very glad not to be doing so again this year. 

It perhaps means I will have less excuse when I arrive at Christmas woefully under prepared, but nonetheless, in the midst of everything else already in the diary for the next month, I am really rather looking forward to not adding packing boxes and shifting furniture into the mix.

My gratitude is, really, about much more than just not having to face the hassle of moving again (although that is a significant plus!). It is also about having a beautiful home where I feel happy and settled. I know that having this space is an immense privilege which comes with a responsibility, and also a desire, to use it well.  

Both for me, and for others, I want my home to be a place where productivity is possible, but where there is also space to simply be. I want it to be a place of peace and refuge. I want it be a place of welcome and hospitality. I want it to be a place of friendship and love, to be a safe space which can hold both laughter and tears. 

I hope I have begun to create such a space over the past year and I am looking forward to continuing to do so in the weeks, months and years to come.

The year that was 22/23

By the time they are published, annual reports are always distinctly out of date. 

But of the many admin jobs I face, putting together the Stories of Hope and Home report is one of the better ones: going back over the events and achievements of the past year, pulling together and summarising the highlights. It is a chance to reflect and rejoice in all that has been possible: and against a backdrop of a very challenging external environment for those I work with, so much has been. A report such as this can only ever tell a tiny part of the story, so much of which can't be summed up in words, pictures or statistics, but hopefully it captures something of the joy, resilience and hope of this incredible community.   

The other related bit of the job, compiling the annual accounts for the charity commission is distinctly less enjoyable. That said, I confess to a thrill of satisfaction when the figures all added up correctly and balance across the ongoing spreadsheets, the bank statements, and the final report. 

So here it is, a celebration of Stories of Hope and Home, 2022 - 23, shared here as much for my own records in the future as for your interest! 

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1-hTM8NmP-NK1p1Ow8SVau0ZhyFM-WSpU/view?fbclid=IwAR18_16xE05X-JpvDgh1WQe_VAzaqR1UhVg9OLUilJr3ieajgpMWWEe9VOE

*            *            *

I can take far less (by which I mean none) of the credit for the writing of the Birch Annual report, and a much smaller share of the credit for the work of the organisation which I share with some incredible colleagues, all of whom are doing amazing things. But it is another organisation whose work I really believe in, of which I feel extremely privileged to be a part, and whose work also deserves to be known and shared. There are challenges to our work, but knowing that we do so alongside others who share the same commitments and values, within an organisation which trusts and supports us, most definitely helps.

https://birchnetwork.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/11/Birch-Network-Annual-Report-2022-23-1.pdf?fbclid=IwAR0hPtNJ97vwjX-ytv1QbEbCuvEbAQoalMvFZsbxxT_-8RZFZ8XczaqJjAg

The gift of the ordinary

At the church I currently attend, last Sunday (actually, now, the one before because I hadn't got round to finishing this, but my point still stands) was announced as "the fourth Sunday before Advent" in the lectionary, following on from the "twenty-something after Trinity". This way of naming Sundays isn't new to me, but I was remined of it, and aside from being in denial about how quickly Christmas is approaching, I baulk at it.

I want ordinary time back, please. 

I know there are other denominations where ordinary time still exists, and others still where it never has. I also know that even in my church it is only the nomenclature which has changed, this is, really still ordinary time, still liturgically green. 

But names matter. And I believe we need the ordinary. 

Don't get me wrong, I think we need special and unique and extraordinary too. I am very much in favour of marking special occasions, of finding ways to celebrate and ways to acknowledge suffering. But not all the time. I think we should also be prepared to embrace and enjoy the ordinary. I don't think we have to pretend everything has to be anything other than, well, just, ordinary.

If we didn't know it already, surely 2020 taught us that we actually do want and need the ordinary; the dull, humdrum reality of the familiarity and normality of every day life. 

The various versions of a gratitude diary I have kept periodically have always been about reminding me to focus my gratitude and joy not on the big things, but in those little every day moments. They haven't been about trying to find or create something special to happen each day, but rather about seeking out or just recognising the positives in my everyday normality. Some days they are harder to find than others, I know, but every day holds things within it that are beautiful and precious. Ordinary things, in ordinary times are also a gift. 

In terms of the church embracing ordinary time, though, for me, it goes deeper than that too. 

I think there is great value in the church calendar witnessing to and celebrating the importance of the ordinary. For me the great beauty of the incarnation story is that it is a story of God's presence within the ordinary. That it makes real a God that is found in the every day: in human relationships and human realities, in shared meals and shared stories.

I believe in a God who is present in the ordinary. Of course God is present in the big newsworthy events too, in the high points and the low points of our individual and collective human existence. But God is also present in our every day and I fear that in squeezing out ordinary time we risk squeezing out the reminders that this too, maybe even this above all is where God belongs, where God is incarnate, where God is with us. 

And that, (though I doubt the writers of the lectionary are listening) is why I want ordinary time back, please. 

Getting away

A couple of weeks ago I went to Dorset for a few days. By the time I got to it, it was a break that I recognised was somewhat overdue. It may have taught me a valuable lesson about building in down time before I get to that point (but it'll probably be a lesson I have to keep learning again and again, we'll see) 

I'd never been on holiday with my mum and sister before (well, obviously, I had been on family holidays as a kid but that's a bit different), but they seemed genuinely ok with me gate-crashing a trip they had planned before they knew I'd be free to join them. And it was lovely: to spend some quality time together, to share some more serious conversations but also, mostly, lots of laughter. 

The few days were also shaped around lots of other catching-up with relatives and family friends, at least some of whom I hadn't seen for a very long time. There was some re-establishing of relationships which, in the busy-ness of life had somewhat been allowed to drift. 

The best description of the holiday is that mostly, we ate lunch, at length, in good company. 

There was lots of chatting. There were many cups of teas and an excessive quantity of snacks. There were a few games and plenty of time reading a book. 

For an October minibreak in the UK, even the southernmost part of it, we were incredibly lucky with the weather. Sandwiched between rain on the way down and after we got back we had four days of beautiful sunshine.

It meant that while there was plenty of time comfortably curled up back at base it was also perfect for short walks in beautiful surroundings and even an opportunity to paddle in the sea (very briefly, it was October after all!) My holidays are usually defined by where I can get to on public transport but this time, because we travelled by car, there were no such limits, which opened up different possibilities of places to see.  

Politics was banned as a topic of conversation, and while I can't say we stuck to that completely, I definitely spent less time than usual thinking about the state of the world. 

I deliberately didn't pack my laptop. I didn't check my emails and responded to fewer messages than I usually would. 

I didn't set an alarm each morning. 

I switched off. I managed, mostly, not to feel guilty about it.

It's not how I would want to live my life permanently, but for a few days it was perfect and exactly what I needed. 

I came back to a very full inbox and a long jobs list ... but feeling rested and refreshed and ready to face them both.

In The Shadow of the Trees

In June 2019, an ESOL class from St Chad's Sanctuary performed "Home", a performance that was the catalyst to the creation of Stories of Hope and Home. The interruption of a global pandemic as well as the evolution of other parts of the project meant it was July 2022 before we put on another major performance piece, "Refugee: What do you know about me?" at the REP in conjunction with Welsh National Opera. 

There was no three year wait for the next performance as we were back on stage this July. Again at the REP but this time with a mainly "in house" production. 

There was a little bit of external support with the script from Stephen Camden, the wonderful writer we worked with last year, a bit of support with the movement, and a lot of support with the tech from the incredible team at the REP, but without a doubt one of the best things about this year's performance was that it was very much the group's own creation. 

As "In the Shadow of the Trees" came together, it told the stories they wanted to tell, in the ways they wanted them told, structured around a format they wanted to use. Every idea it contained: the overarching themes and all the little details came from people within the group. Creative vision, writing and performance talent, collaboration and leadership skills emerged, sometimes in unexpected places. I was there throughout and honoured to be part of it. I held space, prompted and encouraged. I typed up scripts and turned up with requested props but overall there was very little of me in the performance, exactly as it should be. 

And it was beautiful!

There was deep joy in watching these people I care about flourish and grow. To see the confidence with which they communicated ideas and brought others along with them. To see their stories, so often sidelined, placed quite literally centre stage and treated with the respect they deserve.

Back in July, we shared the performance with hundreds of school children (and a motley collection of others) and now we can share it with you too. While it will not be the same as watching it live, we are delighted that the REP have shared the filmed performance online so we can reach an even wider audience with a performance which is, if I do say so myself, wonderful!

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

A Refuge is ...

The first Thursday in October is National Poetry Day. This year's theme was Refuge so obviously (with thanks to my mum who noticed and pointed it out well in advance), it was something I was keen to invite Stories of Hope and Home to explore. 

We produced a short film and wrote poetry reflecting on the question "What is Refuge?" Both were a collaborative effort between many members of the group, and we were really pleased with how they turned out. 

We shared them with local schools of sanctuary inviting them to engage in exploring the theme too, and it seems appropriate to share them here, as well. (If I'd been a bit more organised, I'd have done so on National Poetry Day. I'm not so I didn't.) 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JopdUpW2Urw

A Refuge is – A poem by Stories of Hope and Home

A refuge is

The sound of birds singing in the summertime

And the wind blowing through the trees in the limitless hills

It is raindrops and running water

It is the kettle boiling

It is family laughing, children playing, friends chatting

And my mother’s voice

It is the bustling sounds as I sit by the river in my city

And the gentle breathing of a loved one as I sit in quiet companionship

It is the sound of music

As well as the sound of silence

I found my refuge and it sounds like an echo of myself

The song of my dreams

A refuge is

The taste of warm milk late at night and buttery porridge in the morning

And milky hot chocolate, sipped while chatting with friends

It is sweet, silky honey,

And bread, freshly baked

It is the first sip of juice as we break the fast together

It is wiggly noodles slipping over my tongue

And my mum’s home-cooked food

It is meals shared with friends

It is sea salt on my lips

And the taste of my voice as I sing this victory song

I found my refuge, and it tastes like British cake

And a cup of tea

A refuge is

The sight of a colourful garden filled with beautiful flowers

And a blanket of snow making everything white and clean and silent

It is all the greens of nature

And it is the horizon over the sea

It is the sight of a good friend’s face after a long absence

It is stepping off a train to see a familiar place

It is watching the happy ending of a movie

It is everything I see in my dreams

And then seeing my dreams coming true

It is the sight of a bright future

I have found my refuge and it looks like the first ray of sunlight

Banishing the darkness of night.

A refuge is

The smell of a garden filled with lavender beneath the evening light

And of the first rain in the autumn falling on dry ground

It is freshly prepared coffee

And my dad’s mint tea

It is the smell of a Salvadorean Christmas

It is woodsmoke and incense

And a blue scented candle

It is steam rising from pots and pans

It is delicate flowers and sweet strawberries

And a perfume that fills me with memories

I have found my refuge and it smells like my mother’s kitchen

Where I am always welcome

A refuge is

The feel of comfortable feet in my favourite walking shoes

And of fresh water splashing on bare feet with the sand between my toes

It is hot sun on my skin and wind ruffling my hair

It is a warm bubble bath

And a baby’s cheek

It is the feel of being wrapped up in a snuggly blanket on a cold winter’s night

It is my soft cosy bed

And Fresh, clean pillows under my head

It is the feel of my tummy aching from real laughter

It is the feel of freedom

I have found my refuge and it feels like the hug of a loved one

Holding me safe enough to close my eyes

I have found my refuge

It is a place where I feel I belong.

September: Exploring Film

Generally, I don't watch many films (or much TV), although in recent months I have done so perhaps more than in the past. When I do, I tend to turn to animated kids films or gentle comedy. As far as I recall, the last film I watched that I chose for myself was Fisherman's Friends, which gives you a sense of the kind of thing I'd usually go for.  

But recently I've been watching quite a few different films with a friend who has introduced me to various ones I probably wouldn't ever have watched (and some I might have actively avoided) without his introduction and encouragement. 

None have been the light and fluffy fare I usually stick to. But I have enjoyed all of them or, if in some cases enjoyed isn't exactly the right word somehow, I am glad to have watched them. 

In the past six weeks or so I have watched: AI, Never Let Me Go, Flatliners, The Butterfly Effect, The Whale, Triangle, Parasite, Everything, Everywhere, All at Once, The Hours, The Fountain, Black Swan

In many ways they are quite different to each other: they certainly wouldn't all sit within the same genre, although I suspect some would defy easy categorisation. What they have in common is that they all, in very different ways, deal with complex themes and pose interesting questions. They all wrestle with trying to understand what it means to be human. They have all made me think.

I have long trusted in the possibility of fiction revealing deep truths about who we are. I have read many books which explore the complexities of life and relationships. I guess it should be no surprise that film is able to do the same. 

It has been a lesson that I should perhaps be more brave in my film choices: I am open to recommendations.

On foot

I do quite a lot of walking.

Sometimes purely for pleasure. More often, it is simply my mode of transport to get from A to B.

During lockdown, with public transport off-limits and the desire to get beyond the city centre overcoming my apprehension on a bike I started cycling again. Throughout the covid restrictions, and for a decent stretch of time afterwards cycling became one of my main modes of transport but I have certainly fallen back out of that habit.

I'm back to using public transport without really thinking about it and spending a lot of time on buses (and at bus stops) but I also go a lot of places on foot. It takes a lot longer than cycling but despite (or in some ways because of) that generally, I've realised I prefer to walk. I don't wear / carry a step counter, but if I did, I suspect I would rack up a good number of steps over the course of a week.

On a purely practical level, when I lived in the city centre, almost everywhere in the city (and, frankly, beyond) was accessible by taking just one bus or train; making public transport almost invariably the quickest and easiest way to get pretty much anywhere, and I rarely gave hopping on a bus much thought. Where I live now, a combination of not always totally reliable bus routes and a fairly swift walking pace means it in't always quite so clear cut. There are various places I need to get to in the course of a day / week where going on foot contends for being as quick (and infinitely less frustrating) that the public transport alternatives. 

I could turn this into a post about the need for better, more reliable and more joined up public transport if we are to encourage people out of private vehicles, but that's not what I set out to write about so I won't. Because if practicality is a factor in why I go quite a lot of places on foot, it certainly isn't the only consideration. 

I love my work, am passionately committed to what I do and therefore generally work hard. It is probably no secret that I am not good at boundaries and my work and home life bleed into one another. Mostly that I see that as an incredibly positive thing: my life is immeasurably enriched by the people I share it with. I also really appreciate the flexibility of my employment which allows me to work my hours at the times that work best for me and for those I support, but it does mean I am not always brilliant at switching off from my responsibilities. I have forms of relaxation that work well for me, but I am frequently surrounded by the temptation to 'just do that one more thing'. 

My work is rich and varied but there are some overarching realities. My work is very people-centred and I spend lots of my time with other people: often in person, and also in between times via frequent digital communication. I also spend a lot of time in front of a computer or phone screen. On the bus, the temptation is to still use the time to catch up on emails or to scroll through social media. There are advantages to that, avoiding it from feeling like dead, wasted time. When I am walking, though, while I do occasionally reply to messages or speak on the phone, generally not so much. Time walking is, generally, time spent doing just that. 

Walking to get somewhere feels like a productive and valuable use of time; but at the same time provides important downtime and breathing space in my routine. It feels justifiable ... it is an easy way to give myself permission to stop, close the laptop, take a break, and yet comes with the combined benefits of fresh air and physical exercise as well as offering valuable headspace. Walking is my time to reflect and get my thoughts in order. Many a blogpost has been partially composed in my head in the streets around where I live! 

Mostly I walk alone and while I am very definitely an extrovert, I have learned to value and appreciate this personal space and the time out from my very peopled existence. It is, more often that not, my time for me. Having said that, recently I have also walked quite a bit with friends too and this is time I value and appreciate too. I believe the conversations we have when we are walking side by side with someone are, often, different to those we have when we sit downface-to-face. Alone or together, reflecting on my own thoughts or sharing thoughts with someone else, walking works for me. 

There are plenty of examples of how walking is built in to my routine but my standard Monday morning routine sums up some of what I'm talking about. While some people might have the personal motivation and commitment to get up and out just for the sheer pleasure of it, I am under no illusions that I probably wouldn't. But most Monday mornings I go to one of the hotels where I support families, and have to be there in time to give them bus ticket money before they set off for school. It is about a 40 minute walk (each way). The route takes me through a park and along a greenway as well as along bits of residential streets (and across some very badly designed road crossings). By 9am or not much after, I am usually back at home with a cup of tea in hand. I am fully awake and ready to face the week, I have already achieved something on a very practical level as well as having had the best part of an hour and a half of exercise. I don't always appreciate the early alarm, but I recognise it is a very positive way to start the week.

For these, and other reasons, I will keep walking.

Hope, the bird and the sewer rat

When people ask me how I am I generally, probably like most people, answer "I'm fine, thanks, you?". If I elaborate it tends to be with the many things that I've been keeping busy with and with all the little joys that keep me going. And it is true. I am fine. A lot of the time, I am much better than just fine. There is much about my life, a life enriched by beautiful experiences and incredible people, that I love very, very much.  

But (it was obvious, was it not, there was going to be a but) at least twice recently I have somewhat unexpectedly found myself in tears (I remain grateful that I have safe spaces in which that is ok). I know I have had days where my patience has frayed more quickly than it should. I know I have had days of being less motivated, more tired. 

I wrote a couple of weeks ago that it is ten years since I started volunteering, and later working, with people seeking sanctuary. The first blogpost I ever wrote about the subject talked about hope. There was always trauma and challenge and struggle, but hope was very much the word that summed up my experience of being among these amazing, resilient people. Their hope that their lives would get better, mine that I could be part of helping make it so.

It is no secret that the context has changed considerably in recent times ... and sadly, definitely not for the better. That vibrant hope with which people arrive is being drained from them by a system which seems purposely designed to destroy them. Watching traumatised people lose, quite literally in some cases, the will to live is very, very hard. And I watch, knowing they have survived so much and yet it is the British Immigration System which is tearing them apart, which is telling them they are less than human until a point where they start to believe it to be true. And I watch, knowing that there is little I can do to make it any better, knowing that this is already how things are even before the worse excesses of the latest legislation have been felt. 

The weight of that which I carry with those I love has certainly got heavier. Much of that is because of the worsening of their reality. Some of it is also because of the impact of the ways in which relationships have deepened over time and the ways in which I share in their stories and lives. It goes without saying that what I am experiencing clearly pales into insignificance compared to what those caught up in the system are going through; but while it is important not to overestimate it, I have learned that denying the vicarious consequences is also unhelpful. I, like everyone else in the sector, need to take seriously acknowledging the reality and looking after ourselves and one another as well as those we want to walk alongside.

***   

Without a doubt Emily Dickinson's most famous poem is "Hope is the thing with feathers". This was the hope I have often seen and experienced among people seeking sanctuary. The hope that sings in the storm. My life, and the lives of those around me, sang with that kind of hope.

There is another much less well known poem, written much later by Caitlin Seida in response to that one. "Hope is not a bird, Emily, It's a Sewer Rat." It is much less pretty than the original that inspires it. There is a darkness to it that doesn't necessarily make for easy reading. 

There is still plenty of birdsong in my life, but it doesn't always ring quite as loud as it sometimes has. This hope, then, the sewer rat kind of hope, feels more fitting to where I am right now. I am not giving up. I will keep finding hope, keep finding optimism, persistence, perseverance, and, yes, deep joy ... even in the sewers.

(Just to reassure anyone who might be concerned, I stand by the first paragraph: I am, absolutely genuinely, fine. I am, perhaps, having to work a little harder than sometimes to make sure that remains the case. Putting things into words here is one of my mechanisms for processing my reality and ensuring I stay that way.)

The Labourers in the Vineyard

Ahead of our bible discussion yesterday, I had been reflecting on this Sunday's gospel reading, Matthew 20, verses 1 - 16. Like most parables it is a rich text open to various different interpretations and inviting us to reflect on various different themes. It can be explored through the theological lens of how it reflects the kingdom of God and what the generosity of God looks like and how we respond to it. It can be seen as a socio-economic commentary: on the ownership of land and wealth, on exploitative employment practices, on what privilege looks like and how we respond to it. 

But the main thrust of my thoughts this week has related to neither of these things. As well as the reflections themselves it was a reminder of how much our current reality and experiences effect how we read biblical (and probably other) texts and how they speak to us. If this text had come up in the lectionary a few months ago, my thinking would undoubtedly have gone in an entirely different direction. 

Imaginative contemplation is the act of putting oneself into a biblical story and allowing the text, and God, to speak. Like many texts, how we read this one, and what God might seem to be saying to us through it, very much depends on where we place ourselves in the story: and where we place ourselves (or perhaps even find ourselves) in the story very often relates to where we find ourselves in life at the point where we read it.

In the text, there are labourers who work the full day in the field, and others who join them at intervals, including the latest comers who are employed for just the final hour of the day. At the end of the day's work, they all receive the same pay: the standard daily wage. We hear how those who have worked the full day, despite having agreed to work for that wage, grumble expecting more, because the latecomers have received the same; but we do not hear how the latecomers, those who worked only a little, felt about and responded to receiving a full day's wages. 

Leaving aside the economic issues and arguments (I'm sure on another week I could use this same story to write about the value of a universal basic income or the iniquity of zero hours contracts...)

This is the part which has been playing on my mind this week ... How do we deal with reward or credit or praise which feels unearned, undeserved? It was something I was already wrestling with before this text came up in the lectionary, but this seemed to potentially be a frame for exploring it (although the text offers us no answers, except perhaps an acknowledgement of this reality). 

I know myself to be immensely privileged in all sorts of ways, much of it entirely unearned. I am aware I live an extremely comfortable life and most of what I offer to and share with others comes from a place of excess and requires very little sacrifice.  

All of my work, and many of my friendships are among those who have far, far less than me. 

And yet I have been welcomed into people's homes with incredible generosity, where hospitality and good food are offered without counting the cost by people who have to watch their budgets much more closely than I do. I have received gifts which, however small, I know have come from a place of genuine sacrifice. A couple of weeks ago one of the mums in the hotel came over and gave me a small bottle of juice. I could have bought something similar without a second thought. For her, it probably cost more than 10% of her weekly income but she wanted me to have it. I have an ever growing collection of pictures and notes from small children created and offered with deep affection. 

This is not just about those tangible things though.

All too often I find myself in situations where I feel like there is very little I can do to help, very little difference I can make. I find myself saying I'm sorry, no I can't far more often that I would like.  I watch people struggling and suffering and feel powerless to make any meaningful change to their realities. With the continual deterioration of the way in which people arriving in our country are treated, the ever-increasing cruelty and hostility they face and the detrimental effects it has on the people I try to stand alongside, this is more and more my reality. 

And yet overwhelmingly what I receive in return is praise and gratitude. Praise and gratitude which often feels spectacularly undeserved.

Specific situations sometimes shine a spotlight on a more global truth. Recently, I have had quite a lot of interaction with a family who are in an incredibly difficult situation. I have been able to do very little to help. I feel I have failed them in almost every way. I have not been able to give them even a tiny part of what they need. The times I have tried to make even a small difference feel like they have mostly been met by the brick walls of uncaring systems. At times, I confess, I have even ignored their calls because I can't face saying again I'm sorry, no progress, no news, nothing I can do. 

And yet every message I receive, every conversation I have with them is laced with their gratitude for my help.  

The powerlessness to make things better is, at times, very hard. The undeserved appreciation doesn't make it any easier.

There may be times and situations where I can identify with the grumbling servants who have worked all day and aren't impressed by the late comers receiving equal reward. I understand the importance of affirmation, of feeling appreciated for what we do. To feel like our efforts have gone unrecognised and unrewarded is not easy or comfortable. But right now, I find myself very much identifying with those who possibly feel they have received more than they deserve for the little they have done. That is not always easy or comfortable either.

Summer time

Although the summer weather seems to have only just arrived, this week, dominated by sorting out school uniform, school places and school bus tickets, has definitely seen a shift back to a term time rhythm. The sweltering heat might not feel autumnal but there are other signs that a new season is dawning, perhaps most noticeably that the long summer evenings are gone and the nights are drawing in noticeably earlier. Still very busy in its own way, the past six weeks have very definitely had a different feel to them and now seems like the right moment to look back over what the summer has offered. 

Every Thursday through the holidays, Birch ran a holiday summer play scheme for the families confined to living in two of the hotels we work with. While for some people, hotels are synonymous with holidays and an exciting place to spend a couple of summer weeks, when you live with your whole family in one room, with next to no money for treats or trips, they are (understatement alert) not a great environment. After starting with a day trip to the ThinkTank science museum, we then spent the subsequent weeks running sessions at a quaker meeting house. As well as stuff we organised ourselves, loads of different groups came along to run different activities for both the kids and parents. There was always paint and play. Always lunch and laughter. Always a friendly smile and a listening ear. In the grand scheme of things, we didn't solve any of the major problems faced by these families. But for a few hours a week at least, the parents could just switch off, relax and perhaps offload a little; and the children could just be children. Easy as it is to constantly feel we are not doing enough, the excitement every time I arrived at the hotel, the smiles, the warm words, the hugs always remind me that these things do really matter and make a difference.

There have been other events and activities to take the families along to as well, or to encourage them to participate in, including some lovely sessions for younger children at the library run by Birmingham REP and a fun day out at Birmingham Festival, the celebration of the anniversary of last year's Commonwealth Games. 

Stories of Hope and Home has also switched into a different rhythm over the summer. The lead up to the end of term had been exceptionally busy: in the last half term alone we had done 11 school visits, we were involved of lots of different activities in and around refugee week and of course there was the preparation for and then performance of In the Shadow of the Trees. 

So apart from needing to build in some much needed time to catch up on all the neglected admin tasks, we probably all needed a few weeks with a more relaxed feel. We were down to one session a week instead of two anyway due to venue availability, and in practice what that looked like was spending a few weeks giving over our Friday afternoons to a variety of creative activities. We turned our hands to painting, and collage, and needle felting, and beading, and friendship bracelets. There were, of course, as ever, many cups of tea and plenty of cake. And while our hands were occupied there was space, to be together, to deepen friendships, to chat about the significant and about the inconsequential. 

Towards the end of the summer we also headed off to Kintbury. It is the third time we've been there for a summer residential trip, each of which has been very special in its own way. As ever we were met with the warm welcome and generous hospitality of the centre team and for the third year in a row we were blessed with fabulous weather (well aware that our luck might run out some point on this one!). This year, in contrast to recent residentials it was just us; instead of another opportunity to share stories with others, we built in time to reflect on our own stories: what they are, and how, why and to whom we tell them. There were some structured reflective sessions, plenty of organised fun and lots of time to relax and enjoy the surroundings and one another's company. It was a truly wonderful three days. 

And now here we are, September. Ready for another year. Bring it on!

100 (with a mention of 10 thrown in)

Last week, Stories of Hope and Home welcomed its 100th sanctuary-seeking participant (not counting the numerous accompanying children, who can certainly feel like they are just as numerous on occasion!) since we started almost four years ago. While it is just another number, in some ways it feels like a significant milestone.

Some of those who were there at the very beginning are still actively involved. Many more have joined over that time and become active and committed members. Others have perhaps only come along once or twice or stayed for a time and then moved on or drifted away. Some have become people I count among my closest friends.  

They have come from all around the world and, they have, like me, made Birmingham their home. They have all added something to the rich tapestry that is the Stories project, and the rich tapestry that is my life. 

Together they, we, have created something beautiful which stands as witness to the possibility of loving, supportive, open, diverse and genuinely inclusive communities.  

Because although they are united by the common struggle of seeking sanctuary, they are also all very different to one another. Each brings their own culture and background; their own experiences, lives and stories. They bring their own interests and opinions and ideas. They bring their past, their present and their hopes and dreams for the future. They bring their own characters and personalities; their faults and failings as well as gifts and skills. They are a community of people who I love: but that doesn't mean they are by any means perfect, any more than I am. They are deeply, fully human. 

They are the individuals that our current government and media would generally prefer us never to think of as such; never to know in all their messy, beautiful humanity. So yes, I am taking note of passing this 100 mark: but I am doing so remembering that this is, that they are, so much more than just a number. They are a truly beautiful community of people I am very privileged to have met.

*          *          *

The other milestone I am marking around now, is that I moved to Birmingham in summer 2013, meaning this September it is ten years since I started volunteering at St Chad's Sanctuary. Little did I know when I first turned up with the vague idea that being a volunteer English teacher could be a suitable use of my time and skill set just how transformative an impact it would have on my sense of vocation, leading me so many amazing adventures, such incredible friendships and a life immeasurably enriched. It is right that I have moved on to express that vocation in different ways and places but I will be eternally thankful to the Sanctuary community, and above all to my students there, for inviting me to set out on this wonderful journey. 

It hasn't always been perfect, or by any means easy. I have seen things that have wracked me with sadness, anger, guilt and a sense of utter powerlessness in the face of human suffering and the cruelty some people are willing to inflicted on the most vulnerable. But I have also seen hope and resilience, dignity and grace, joy and generosity, compassion and mutual support, and the beauty of humanity. I have shared so much good food and so many cups of tea and conversations. I have laughed more than I have cried. I have the most amazing people I can call my friends. I have learned more about the world, about other people and about myself. I have understood more about what it means to be community and to be family. I have understood more about love. 

I am grateful to have been invited into this space. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

What I've been writing instead

I haven't written much on here for a while. 

This isn't exactly unusual. Any cursory glance back through my blog will very much show that, apart form the very first year of it, content always comes in fits and starts. So perhaps I shouldn't be surprised but, rightly or wrongly, I have had something of a sense recently that I *should* have things I want to write. Maybe I thought I would write more over the summer when a change of schedule would create spaces to reflect. Maybe I feel like I want to have the words to explain and explore current realities and experiences. Maybe I am yearning for more creative energy than I currently have.

Anyone who knows me knows I rarely run out of words and yet, somehow, at the moment, though I have plenty to say, I don't seem to quite have the right words to say it. It is a strange place for me, as a great lover of language, to find myself. 

Perhaps it's partly because quite a bit of my writing energy this summer has gone into writing other things. The Stories of Hope and Home annual report is well on its way to completion (watch this space in the next couple of months) and I've made a concerted effort on writing multiple funding bids which will, hopefully, if other people can see as much value in what we are doing as I can, help to put this little charity on a more sustainable footing. 

It will surprise nobody who knows me to hear that the admin parts of my job are not high on my list of favourite activities. It is testament to how much I believe in my work and want it to succeed that I do mostly more or less manage to keep on top of them. Having said that, while that is very much true of the daily grind of recording expenses or noting down attendance or replying to emails, actually, writing the annual report and funding bids does have its enjoyable side. 

They offer a chance to step back, to identify and celebrate all we have achieved so far. They make me pause to find the words and numbers that at least partially capture the impact of what we are doing. Of course, collating data can only ever tell a tiny part of our story. So much of what is of the greatest value is indefinable and cannot be contained in a quote or a statistic, so much of it is there in the little comments and conversations, in the almost imperceptible changes we observe. Nonetheless, this process does make all the record keeping feel worth while as those 'ticks in boxes' through the year add up to reminders of the reach and breadth of all we have done together. The evaluation forms and feedback, while they can't sum up the project in its entirety, stand as reminders of who we are and what we are doing and why it matters. And, if I do say so myself, so much of it is good!

They offer a chance to look ahead: to dream dreams and consider the potential for what might be possible in the future as this project born out of a play and a vision in 2019 becomes increasingly established. To consider direction and priorities, to make sure we feel like we are on the right track and that this project continues to meet fulfil a need.  

They offer a chance to remind myself, should I need it, and to share with other exactly why I believe this little project has such great value. And for that reason, whether or not any of them result in any money (which hopefully they will) they are words well spent.

Adding colour

My creative energy ebbs and flows, but even when I am not brimming over with ideas, and have to remind myself to pick up a pencil or paintbrush, I know that doing something creative always makes me feel better. Knowing the theory doesn't always translate to actually doing it, obviously.

And when it does, the creative output doesn't always look the same. 

Sometimes it looks like this.

Thunder and Rainbows from the Same Sky

The title for this post is borrowed from a beautiful Martyn Joseph song. which feels like it sums up much of what my life feels like at the moment (and I'm not just talking about the British summer weather): the darkness and the lights that shine through it, the dead ends and the long winding roads, the heartache and the hope. 

This isn't new. I've written before about the juxtaposition of joy and suffering in my life and work. Last week felt like it brought that reality into particularly sharp focus so I'm writing about it again. 

The week began with something of an adventure involving 43 people, three buses and some spectacular rainstorms: I joked with colleagues that if I ever write the sitcom of my life, that journey would definitely feature! But we made it ... and the rain had stopped by the time we turned the corner into a park. The kids were off, running and playing; and the grown-ups were no less excited: I wouldn't want to even begin to try and count how many selfies were taken! But then, in between the sound of shouts and giggles and kids calling out to me, I ended up in conversation with one of the parents, who told me how this little bit of woodland we were walking through reminded him of the thirty-something days he'd spent living in a forest on his journey to the UK. 

It reminded me of another trip a few weeks earlier when the little girl skipping along beside me had broken off from whatever incidental thing we were talking about to look out at the reservoir and tell me "we were in water like this when we came to England but then they rescued us" before, barely missing a beat, before I'd really had chance to catch my breath sufficiently to think of an appropriate way to respond, going straight back to chatting away about the kind of things 6-year-olds usually chatter about. 

The new 'illegal' migration bill is so hideously awful that I think somewhere in the midst of preparing for what it might mean, we were somehow clinging to a sliver of (admittedly probably misplaced) hope that at some point they'd realise and just call the whole thing off, but on Tuesday it was confirmed that the Lords had capitulated and it was indeed going to become law. The same morning, the barge / floating prison arrived in Portland harbour, another symbol of the hostile environment the current regime seem determined to create, and the antithesis of the welcome I want us to offer. It was not lost on me that Portland is a place of many happy childhood holiday memories and that I went there only last month. I walked in the sunshine, clambered over rocks and rode on an open-top bus: it was a wonderful, memorable day with some of my most precious friends: precious friends who the government would prefer me never to have had the privilege to meet. It was a fabulous place for a holiday: it is not a suitable place to accommodate 500 people seeking safety. 

A couple of days later, after a late evening counting out hundreds of sunflower seeds with a good friend for company, on Thursday I was at the Birmingham REP. Everybody: the creative learning team, box office and front of house staff, stage managers and tech teams put these people and their stories, my friends, who are so often pushed to the margins, centre stage, quite literally. We stood on this stage, no treated no differently to the professionals who grace it on other occasions. We looked out on an audience of hundreds of school children. The performers excelled themselves and, equally importantly had a lot of fun in the process. It wasn't lost on me that it was the same day the new law received royal assent ... but that was easier to put to one side on what was an incredible, exhilarating morning. Even the weather cooperated, allowing us to relax and enjoy ourselves afterwards at a post-show picnic in the sunshine.   

After the sheer joy of Thursday, almost exactly 24 hours later, on Friday morning, I broke down in tears in a meeting about hotel accommodation as we confronted the enormity of the detrimental impact of long periods of time in unsuitable accommodation on people's wellbeing, and my sense of utter powerlessness to make a meaningful difference. I accept that being rather tired was probably a factor in my struggle to maintain my usual equilibrium, but I think it was also a reflection of the reality of just how challenging working in this sector is at the moment and the weight, and the guilt, we are carrying with and for the friends we would like to be able to welcome better. I know I am not alone in this: conversations and WhatsApp exchanges with friends and colleagues and others suggest that relentlessness of the chaos and the cruelty is getting to us all.

By the same evening I was back at the REP for the kind of swanky event I don't often attend for the official opening of the Hub space and presentation of their theatre of Sanctuary Award. And the following morning I woke up to see one of the amazing schools we have had the privilege of working with were featured in the national press for taking on Robert Jenrick's heartless gesture of painting over the cartoons in the Kent Intake Centre and the reminder that these school visits really do make a difference. 

There is a lot of thunder at the moment.

There are, fortunately, however faint they seem, always rainbows too. 

The next generation

The end of the academic year is fast approaching. 

Over the last year Stories of Hope and Home have done 35 school visits to 28 different schools. We have performed pantomime and shared lunches and even done a little bit of sewing. Mostly, though, we have met children (and teachers) and shared stories with them. 

We have done so across Birmingham (and occasionally a little bit beyond). We have met children of all ages and abilities. We have met children who know from experience what it means to migrate, children who have been exploring this theme with their families or schools for quite some time and others for whom it is all very new. 

The incredible people I have the privilege of working with have stood up time and time again and courageously shared their reality, putting a human face to what it means to flee your home and seek sanctuary in the UK. I am in awe of their willingness to make themselves vulnerable and to share their stories with such dignity, grace and searing honesty. 

But however incredible they are, it takes two sides to make an encounter meaningful: and this post was always really meant to be not about them, but about the children.

Children from whom we encounter shocked faces and the occasional tricky question. Children from whom we unfailingly see warmth and compassion and generosity. Children from whom we witness incredible empathy and an inherent understanding of these human stories. 

Children who instantly recognise injustice and inhumanity. And who, in that recognition want to challenge and change it. Among the thousands of children and young people we have met, I don't think we have ever met a single one who has believed the current situation to be either fair or compassionate. And I don't think we have ever met a single one who has thought that the injustice and the hostility is either necessary or desirable. 

These children ... 

They get it. 

Every. Single. Time.

They get it and they want to do something about it. They want to make change and they believe that they can. They believe that something different is both preferrable and possible. 

It is a source of great hope. School visit days can be quite intense and exhausting. But despite that, I never leave a school feeling anything other than inspired and uplifted, encouraged and hopeful.

Perhaps it is simply the naivety of youth and they'll grow up to be no different. And yes, sure, some of their hopes and dreams and expectations are possibly unworkable and would need a few tweaks. 

But perhaps the next generation have also genuinely understood something those currently in power haven't. Perhaps they do and always will want something different to our current broken, hostile systems. Perhaps they really will, in fact create a better, fairer, more compassionate, more human society. 

I certainly hope so.

The Meaning of Life

I turned 42 last weekend and obviously, in a joke entirely lost on anyone unfamiliar with the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, that meant I had arrived at the point in life when I would have the answer to life, the universe and everything. Given how messed up the world seems to be right now, having all the answers definitely has a certain appeal! 

I had a bit of a cold and hadn't slept well on Saturday night. In some ways, what I wanted / needed on Sunday was a quiet day at home doing not very much: but it was also my birthday and obviously, much more than that, what I really wanted to do was surround myself with some of the many people I love and value and by whom I am loved and valued.

I had put out an invitation to a picnic in the park. Despite being organised at fairly short notice and the slightly menacing grey skies and cool edge to the air, over 50 people came along to share in a wonderful afternoon. I brought quiche and cake and picnic blankets and bin bags. Others brought contributions too. There was an amazing spread of food.  

The youngest person was about six weeks old, the oldest over seventy. There were people I've known my whole life, literally, and people I've known only a few weeks or months. There were, as someone else commented "the united nations of Birmingham", a gathering of friends from just round the corner and from all over the world.  

There were people from lots of different parts of my life. There were good friends spending time together, reunions of friends who hadn't seen each other for a good while, and people chatting to each other who had never met before and whose paths may never cross again. There were people who popped in briefly and people who stayed several hours. There were kids who had to be convinced to eventually go home.  

There were frisbees and bubbles and chalk pictures on the pavement. There was energy and life and colour. There was laughter and fun. There were some more serious conversations happening too.

There was food being shared and so much cake. There were very few leftovers. There were, just about, lighted candles sheltered from the wind. There was no rain.

And that was how I spent the day I turned 42. As I looked around the park, my heart was full. I could think of no better way to spend the day. I definitely don't have all the answers. But I do have some of them. 

I may not have found the meaning of life, the universe and everything, but I never really believed 42 would suddenly give me that anyway! 

On the other hand, I certainly think I have found a meaning for my life. It looks like this.

And, on balance, I think I'll settle for that.

Sun, sea, sand and smiles

I spent last week at the seaside.

Before setting off, as I tried to tick jobs off a list and avoid anything crucial getting missed, I did question the wisdom of taking a week off in what is one of the busiest months of my year. But much as I could have done with a bit more time to get things done, I probably also needed the mental break I got from my few days away. I have come back convinced that the next few weeks will be better for me and everyone else I encounter because I did.

My grandparents lived in Weymouth when I was growing up, and an aunt still lives in Dorchester. This is the place of many, many happy childhood holiday memories. It hasn't lost its appeal. 

I shared a caravan with two people I count among my very closest friends, and three small children I am blessed to have as part of my life. I saw my aunt who I hadn't seen since pre-pandemic, and my mum had arranged to be down visiting her at the same time too. As such I got to spend time with lots of people I would describe, in different ways, as being part of my family. It was very special to share this place that means a lot to me with these people who mean a lot to me, and to invite these other children to have fun and create memories here just as I did many years ago.

With the children's school having slightly different holidays to almost everywhere else, we could enjoy not only lower prices but also everywhere being considerably less busy than it probably was the week before. 

We had perfect weather to spend long days outdoors.  

Sandwiched between long train journeys either end, we squeezed a huge amount in to a few days. We got up early. We kept busy from morning to evening. We stayed up chatting late into the night. 

We swam every day. We walked in the countryside and by the seafront. We splashed in the sea and scrambled over rocks. We visited sandy beaches and pebbly ones. Beaches where the waves lapped gently and those where they crashed against the coast.

We visited Chesil Beach and Portland Bill and Dorchester and Durdle Door. We visited the Roman Town House and saw what the sandman had been building. We found several playparks. We played indoor games and outdoor games. We painted pictures and wrote diaries.

We ate fish and chips by the harbour and lots of other delicious food back at the caravan. There was plenty of ice cream and many cups of tea.

We rode on open top buses with the wind blowing in our hair. We took the ferry across the harbour, which costs considerably more now that the 20p I remember paying when I was little but a first ever boat ride was still just as exciting. 

We took hundreds of photos and made many precious memories.

We talked and smiled and laughed together.   

It was a wonderful week. I came home tired but also refreshed. Thank you Weymouth. See you soon.

HSBC: nothing to be proud of

Birmingham Pride took place last weekend. 

I have friends for whom Pride events are incredibly important. I recognise they are an important place of witnessing to the inclusion of and radical solidarity with a community that is so often forced into the margins. 

I understand the importance for everyone to feel seen, represented, celebrated; the more so for those who often aren't. I believe deeply in the importance of welcome and inclusion: for everyone but especially for those at the edges. I believe wholeheartedly in stretching wide the boundaries of who is included ... and then stretching them further until they snap altogether. 

I am also acutely aware, as a person of faith, it is perhaps even more important, given the damage continuing to be done by the churches (and other faith communities) to the LGBTQ+ community that I nail those colours to the mast on this specific issue of inclusion even more publicly. 

I hope I find ways to do so. 

Birmingham Pride is not one of them. Even in the years the Pride Parade passed my front door, and was a member of a church which was actively visible at Birmingham Pride, I made a conscious choice not to participate. I do not necessarily need to justify this, but I want to. 

You see Birmingham Pride is sponsored by HSBC, and for all its rainbow window displays and beautifully written slogans, HSBC is not a force for good in the world. It is not a bastion of the kind of world and welcome I believe in. 

Climate change, the greatest existential threat to the future of humanity and our planet, is exacerbated by HSBC (and others) continuing to bank roll the fossil fuel industry and other extractive, exploitative industries.

HSBC remain guilty of massively financing the arms trade that fuels global conflict and keeps despotic regimes in power, (including, lets be honest, regimes whose approach to sexuality and gender identity is the very antithesis of the values of Pride). 

Big banks and the culture they create, are at the heart of facilitating the destructive practices which keep the poorest in our society, and the poorest in the world, locked into cycles of debt and powerlessness: helping the rich get ever richer while those at the bottom continue to suffer. 

This is not a well researched post with all the facts and figures and details about their investments and practices, but it is something I know to be true. Selling out to big banks and big business has no place in the world of radical inclusion I believe in, and that Pride at its best promotes.

I think Pride is a good thing: any public protest against HSBC's sponsorship of it would be at risk of being misconstrued as an objection to Pride itself so clearly I was never going to do that. So perhaps this private act of objection benefits no-one, perhaps it just sounds like an excuse to not walk in solidarity with a community who need support. But sometimes we have to do what we believe to be right even if it makes no difference and goes entirely unnoticed. Perhaps that's why I am writing this, too.

So I'm sorry: to all those who needed last weekend, and at whose side I should perhaps have been standing. I wasn't there, and this is why. On behalf of a whole other group of excluded and vulnerable people who are victims of the corruption of power and money, I couldn't.