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.