The potters wheel

A few weeks ago I did a pottery wheel taster class at a small studio in the Jewellery Quarter. 

I learned quite a lot, including that using a pottery wheel is, I would say, harder than it looks (and I'm not sure it looks particularly easy anyway!)

My first attempt was fairly disastrous and by the end of the workshop, my finished bowl was very far from perfect.

But it really didn't matter. The end result wasn't the point.

I know that being creative is, for me, a really valuable way to relax and I enjoyed turning my hand to something different. I loved the feel of the clay between my fingers, and the process of creating something with my own hands.

I would definitely do it again.

I was recently able to pick up my bowl which, in the interim had been glazed and fired. And even if it was always more about the process than the product, I am, actually, really happy with how it has turned out!

Sometimes we belong

At the Northern Leg reunion, back in the autumn, the theme we agreed to explore through our liturgy this year was something to do with what it means to belong, or not belong, and the comfort, and challenge of how we feel about inclusion and exclusion, our own, and that of others.

In preparation for the week itself, throughout Lent, I have been sharing some reflections helping me (and hopefully others) consider what it means to belong (or not to) for ourselves and for those in the world around us. Whether or not any of the words I have written have spoken to anyone else, I have very much enjoyed the reflective and writing process. And for what it is worth, I am sharing them here too.

Week 1

I invite you to think about the communities / places where you "belong" and that sense of belonging is something you value; and the communities / places you "belong" but about which belonging you feel slightly uncomfortable.

Week 2

I invite you to think about the communities / places where you feel you "do not belong", whether that is by your choice, or by other people’s. I invite you to think about the times and places and ways which feels challenging, those that feel freeing, and those that uncomfortably straddle the two.

Week 3

Reflecting on our own experiences of inclusion / exclusion is important, but so is looking beyond our own experiences to those of others. I invite you to think about who our society excludes, perhaps digging a little deeper, beyond those who immediately spring to mind. I invite you, if you dare, to allow yourself to reflect honestly on who you personally, consciously or subconsciously, struggle to include.

Week 4

I invite you to reflect on how we can create communities of meaningful inclusion for those who are excluded, marginalised and on the edges, of our communities and societies. Is tolerance enough? Is integration to be encouraged? What does it mean to be truly inclusive? What does it take for everyone to be able to say "I belong"?

Week 5

You may have seen this poem before: it is the only one of this series not written specifically this Lent. I wrote it a few years ago and it has been posted on my blog previously as both a text and a spoken / video version, but it seemed fitting to share it as part of this series. 

I invited Northern Leg to reflect on the ways in which we feel we belong to this little community, and the role we each have to play in helping others feel they belong too: but I guess the same process of reflection could equally apply to any of the other communities to which we feel we belong. 

And that's it, because next Friday we will be wending our way to meet in person and the reflections and ponderings will move from the virtual world to the real one. 

There may be further reflections on the theme to follow here post-pilgrimage. Or then again, there may not. Watch this space. 

The end of a saga

This week I finally received a refund cheque from the company who supplied the energy to the flat where I lived prior to moving here.

It is fifteen months since I moved out. I have been waiting for it for longer than I lived there.

The irony is, that the previous property had a prepayment meter.

As a general rule, those on prepayment meters pay more for their energy, even though it is generally the poorest who are more likely to have to use them: it is one of many examples of the poor being penalised for their poverty (although I am certainly not saying that applies to me.) 

As far as I was concerned, I was paying for my energy up front and, when I moved out, there was nothing more to be done. But, it turns out, these prepayment meters work, at least partially, on estimates, and you are supposed to submit a final meter reading when you move on. I didn't, because it never occurred to me I'd have to. So they estimated my final reading. By this point new tenants had moved into the flat, and there was no way of knowing the actual final reading. Perhaps predictably, they estimated my final usage as higher than what I had paid for. I suspect the estimate was wrong ... I am a very cautious user of energy for both cost and environmental reasons. I was irritated, and argued, but ultimately accepted.

I made the payment by phone. The system glitched, and they thought the payment hadn't gone through so tried again, assuring me that if it was taken twice it would be automatically refunded. It wasn't, and there in began the saga of trying to get it back.

Maybe they assumed I wouldn't even notice the duplicate payment and make the first phone call to ask for it back. Maybe they then assumed I'd soon give up and go away. But I have a bloody-minded streak and I was not going to give up easily.

I didn't really fight this just on the basis of being stubborn though.

I fought it because on the basis of their environmental record and of their obscene profit margins I don't want to be giving energy companies a penny more than I have to.

I fought it because I knew that had it been the other way round and I had owed them money for over a year, they wouldn't have given up pursuing me: I'd possibly have had my power cut off and more than likely ended up with a court summons.

I fought it because although for me it wasn't a huge amount of money and given my level of income and privilege, living without it for the past year and a bit has been, frankly, neither here nor there; that wouldn't have been true if I was struggling to get by on a limited income, and therefore wouldn't be true for plenty of other people. 

I fought it because I can, and because I know that many people finding themselves in the same situation wouldn't be able to. My level of English and level of education gives me the skills and the confidence to know how to fight for what I am entitled to (and I can't deny a certain pleasure in writing a well-crafted complaint!). My level of privilege means I am not constantly living in survival mode so I had the capacity and mental energy to take them on.  

Obviously I'm not naive enough the think that me getting my money back means they're suddenly going to start checking their records and ensuring they refund everyone who is owed money. Maybe it won't help anyone else at all, but it became a point of principle. 

I know in the grand scheme of things, this was a tiny insignificant issue, but it is also indicative of how systems and institutions, and those with power and privilege, can so easily exploit and abuse those they see as beneath them. 

Today, finally, I have that cheque. I am lucky enough not to actually need it and will be donating it to a charity that helps people cope with fuel poverty so hopefully it can do a tiny amount of good for someone who needs it more.

No go areas

 Earlier this week, not for the first time, an MP said that there are "no-go areas" in Birmingham. He was, rightly, quickly condemned for the implicit racism in his comments.

But, coupled with another conversation I happened to have around the same time as my twitter feed was filled with that, I did start thinking a little more deeply.

I may not use the same language of "no go areas" but I am often having conversations with people about how we can open up access to spaces which can feel off-limits. I freely acknowledge there are spaces in Birmingham from which certain groups feel excluded. They are not the same places that Paul Scully is referring to, but for a lot of those I work with, there are all sorts of places which I can walk into and resources I can access that they almost certainly wouldn't. Places where work needs to be done if we are to reduce or remove the barriers which stop people crossing the thresholds. Some of those barriers are practical and financial, but there is more to it than that. It is about places where different people aren't sure whether they will feel safe, or feel welcome, where they don't know whether they really belong. A line which has always stuck with me since I first heard it (and I can't accredit because I don't know whose quote it is originally is: "You might say your door is open, but what does your door look like?" If we are truly going to build a city with no "no go areas" we need to look at our doors.

The Stories group have been made incredibly welcome by the REP Theatre in Birmingham who were relatively recently awarded Theatre of Sanctuary status. At the award giving, one of the Stories group participants spoke about her experience of how this was a place she never felt 'someone like her' would be welcome, that she would never have dared to walk through those somewhat imposing doors, but where she now felt welcomed and included. For her, this once "no go area" has become a place where she feels part of its story, but I am not naive: I know there are all sorts of cultural institutions and other spaces where she (and others like her) don't feel they belong. 

When I was a newly qualified teacher (Dewsbury, not Birmingham, but the point still stands) I remember having a conversation with a very bright seven year old and mentioning university. I still remember the jolt it gave me when he told me that university wasn't for people like him. Higher education was, at least at that point, a "no go area" for him. I don't know the rest of the story, but whether or not he chose to study at university, I hope that conversations and experiences in the interim taught him it was at least an option. 

If Paul Scully feels the same about certain parts of this city, that's very sad. I have far less sympathy for him: I think those of us with power and privilege bear more of the responsibility for making our own way out of our comfort zones, and the energy we put into removing barriers needs to focus on the most excluded and most vulnerable; but perhaps, being charitable, the same principle applies. 

It isn't the only piece in the jigsaw of how we create accessible spaces, but by far the most successful way I have found of helping people cross boundaries into "no go areas" is to go there with them. To hold their hand, literally or metaphorically, as we walk through doors they thought were closed to them. 

If somewhere feels scary or off-limits, the solution isn't just condemnation, or even just telling someone they can cross that boundary: it is to take people by the hand and enable them to walk across the street, across the postcode boundary, through the door, over the threshold. 

On the other side, they might just find they were welcome and safe after all.