Snippets from a time away

I've recently come back from a few days away in the beautiful Derbyshire countryside and it probably says something about what a short break has done for my energy levels that I've been thinking about a number of disparate things that could potentially turn into blogposts. Rather than store them up and turn each into a full post I thought I'd share the snippets, just as they are, unrelated by anything other than the trip that inspired them. 

The needs for breaks and balance

Knowing that I wouldn't need to be at one of the hotels sorting out bus fares for school children on the Monday morning of half-term week, and that the REP wouldn't be available for our Stories session prompted me to think it would be a good opportunity to go away for a couple of days. The idea floated around for little while before, at fairly short notice, I booked something. I knew I was at the point of needing a break: I work hard and often push myself to my limits, but I think I have also got better over time at stepping back from the edge, whether that's by building in the balance of less busy days or weeks, or by taking time away. 

That said, I got to Friday evening half-wishing I wasn't going away the following day: there were too many things I wanted to fit in before I went away; and I questioned how I could possibly afford to 'give up' four days of valuable time. 

All of which was, to be fair, a sure and certain sign that my original decision to go away was the right one and I was right to stick to it and make sure I did in fact have a proper break. Sometimes, we, or at least I, need to remind ourselves that we are not indispensable and most things can in fact not get done, or can at least wait.  

Time off, intrusions accepted: on saying no, and sometimes saying yes

It was a concrete decision when I got on the train to put away my phone and read a book instead of scrolling through social media or "just finishing off" that email or two. It was the right transition into my brief time away and I found putting myself in a different physical space meant I was able to move into a different headspace too.

I didn't look at social media or for the most part my emails. I successfully ignored my diary and my to do list. I mostly only got my phone out of my pocket to take photos. I didn't set an alarm in the mornings. I went out for a couple of long walks, ate good food, finished a book and started another. I sat and drank cups of tea without feeling I should be doing something else at the same time.   

By and large, my "switching off" was successful.

Before I went away I had already decided that there was one work meeting that was important enough that I would attend it. I knew there was a temptation that would move me back into a different headspace: so it was an intentional and concerted effort that I snapped myself straight back out of work mode: my daysack was packed up before it started and I was out of the house for a long walk as soon as it finished. 

There were plenty of messages I didn't reply to or issues that I parked until I got home, but on one of the evenings, I was contacted by someone in a difficult situation which I decided I would do what I could to help with. A google search, a few suggestions, a phone call to someone else, a couple of messages to check back in, an issue resolved. It was, I believe, the right decision.  

Switching off and saying no is important. But sometimes so is saying yes. The challenge is discerning when each is the right call. I am sure I don't always get it right, but I am trying to.

The great outdoors and a trusty pair of trainers

Way back in 2020, a year which is mostly best forgotten, I started making a concerted effort to get outdoors everyday: cooped up indoors, I was determined to make the most of my permitted hour of daily exercise! It was something I stuck to throughout various incarnations of lockdown restrictions and for quite some time afterwards. When I was seeking out the positives in relation to that whole covid saga, I remember this was definitely one of mine and one I intended to take forward into whatever semblance of normality followed. But while there is still a reasonable amount of walking built in to my routine, it is definitely, perhaps inevitably, something I have allowed to drift in recent months. A lot of my walking more recently has been to get from A to B which, while not without value, is still different to walking for walking's sake. Likewise my bike, which had a long stretch of being my main form of transport, has definitely had fewer outings recently. 

The walks I went on during my few days a way were a little more than just a stroll along the canal though. On both of the full days I was there, I headed out for long walks which took up the best part of the day: I'm not sure on precise distance but my best estimate is about 12 to 15 miles each day, along footpaths and country roads, far away from the hustle and bustle which accompanies my normal life. I have written, often, about my love of living in Birmingham, and I find it hard, now, to imagine living somewhere without its vibrant diversity and busy-ness. Whatever may have been the case in the past, I no longer think I would like to live somewhere more rural, but I do enjoy spending time out in the countryside, and I do enjoy long walks, away from screens and all the other distractions of the everyday and the feeling of being the right kind of physically tired at the end of the day.

Short walks and long ones, finding green in the city and finding real green outside of it: all these things are important to me and I'm reminded to keep bumping them up my priority list.

Industrial past in a rural idyll

From Belper, where I was staying, one of my walks took me along the Derwent Valley Heritage Way to Matlock. It is a beautiful walk through quiet countryside. Rolling hills, a gently meandering river and trees silhouetted against the sky. The accompanying sound track was mostly birdsong. For long stretches of it, away from the population centres, I saw virtually no-one else. And yet at intervals, there were reminders of a busier, more industrial, past. 

The industrial revolution plays an important part in Birmingham's history too, but that is easily reconciled with the current landscape. It is much more difficult, now, to imagine this quiet countryside as the busy industrial heartland it once was. This was the home of major feats of engineering and significant industrial development. And yet now, that seems so far distant and even the relics of it: old mill buildings, chimneys, canals and disused railways seem at home in this rural idyll, belying their history. 

I'm sure there is something deep and meaningful to say about all that but I'll leave it as a simple observation.

Signs of spring, signs of hope

A number of the photos I took over the last few days reflect the fact that I find the intricate shapes and patterns of tree branches made visible by winter beautiful. But while most of the trees still had bare branches, my walks this past few days were surrounded by signs of spring: leaf buds on hedgerows, patches of snowdrops, crocuses and narcissi beginning to open, the sound of birdsong. I know I was, for February, probably exceptionally lucky with the weather, but I was bathed in blue skies and hints of warmth in the air. The clocks may not yet have changed, but I certainly appreciated the early evening light with the days definitely lengthening, and the sun setting noticeably later than those dark depths of December.

This isn't actually just an observations from the last few days: although more time outdoors, and more intentionally being present in the moment perhaps heightened my observations of it; but it is something I have been aware of, and tried to be deliberately attentive to in recent weeks. Even in inner city Birmingham, spring flowers are beginning to poke through. My regular routine now involves an early start on Monday mornings, and a forty minute (each way) walk, and while I haven't always been overly enamoured when the alarm goes off, I have seen some incredibly beautiful sunrises ... and there has also been something precious about watching the days get longer: I took particular note a couple of weeks back when for the first time it was already light as I set off. 

Spring is definitely on its way. 

Salt and Light, Earth and World

Despite being only a short text, Matthew 5: 13 - 16 gives us two powerful images. Hot on the heels of the beatitudes, it continues to explore the types of people Jesus’ followers are expected to be. I say expected to be, but one thing I noticed when reflecting on the text is that, at least in English, the conjugation that is attached to both these images of salt and light is “you are” … not you will be, or you should be, or you must be, or try to be... I wonder if that is significant?

I know the key part of these images is probably salt and light … but the next thing I found myself wondering about was earth and world: you are the salt of the earth, and the light of the world. I have checked, and they are different words in Greek too. Earth and world are not exactly synonyms, although in some contexts they work as such: they have overlapping but different meanings and I wonder whether it is significant that both are used here. To my mind, earth carries more of a sense of physical substance, the very stuff of the planet, whereas world has to do perhaps more with the people. My little bit of research bears out that this reflects the different meanings in Greek too. Earth is used to translate γῆς “ges”, derived from the world for soil and by extension the substance of the globe; world translates κόσμου “kosmou” which comes from a base word meaning “orderly arrangement" but by extension is used to refer to the moral order of the world.

For me, even though it is perhaps not the part of this text we usually focus on, I think it probably matters. I guess perhaps it struck me because I have been thinking quite a bit about what incarnation really means. It reaffirms the centrality of incarnation. We are called to a faith that is present in and of the earth and the world: our faith is to be something physical and embodied not just of the spiritual or moral realm.

The two images of salt and light also mirror this. Salt is very much a product of the physical world: a concrete noun as I would teach children in primary school: something that can be touched, held, felt. Light, meanwhile is ephemeral: something we can see and experience but can’t grasp hold of, something that literally slips through our fingers. What does to mean that our faith is made up of both of these aspects? Is it important?

There is one more thing I want to say about this pair of images. I think our, or at least my, first response to them is to think of the immediately positive associations with both salt and light: adding flavour, making visible colour and beauty… and I am certainly not questioning the validity of these aspects of what these images represent.

But they are both images that have a potentially more uncomfortable side too. Salt, rubbed in to wounds, as it would have been at the time, would be excruciatingly painful: which is not to deny it’s valid antiseptic properties … although I’m glad we have found better solutions! The use of bright or continuous light is a recognised form of torture but even without going to those extremes, we probably all have the experience of emerging into very bright light after being in darkness, which leaves us blinking and shielding our eyes.

I am convinced that being salt and light means adding colour and flavour and life and joy to those around us; but I am also convinced when there are times when being salt and light does not mean shying away from the discomfort they may bring.

I wonder how easy is it to simultaneously do and be both?

(https://faithjustice.org.uk/bible)