The beauty and challenge of an ever-widening circle

One of the things that most enriches my life is the breadth and diversity of the communities of which I am privileged to be a part and the friendships I am privileged to enjoy. I love the fact that my life is such that I am constantly meeting new people, making new friends. I love the fact, too, that I still have friends in my life who have known me for many years. There are so many people who make my life infinitely better by their presence in it, whether they realise it or not: hopefully there are plenty who would say the same about my presence in theirs. It is, in large part, what has made Birmingham feel like home, although friends and family dispersed across the country remain important to me too. I have made no secret of this, and it is something that many a post here has celebrated. It remains true, and there is little I would change. 

But. There's always a but. So taking as read all the beautiful ways in which the many relationships I hold and am held by enrich my life, this post takes on that "but", which I have found myself wrestling with recently. 

With so many amazing different people in my life, so many relationships I deeply cherish, I feel like I am constantly juggling competing responsibilities, and at least recently, feeling like in many cases I am not quite getting it right. There are too many messages I have neglected to reply to for too long, too many conversations that have been squeezed and not given the time and energy they need or deserve, too many people I have failed to catch up or check in with as often as I would like, ... 

I know, of course, that not every relationship needs or expects the same level of commitment, and some are easier to maintain than others for a whole host of different reasons. I know that relationships shift and change over time, and that there are seasons in which different relationships, for different reasons, come to the fore. I know that when spending more time and energy with some people, it means doing less so with others is inevitable. I know that when you have as many people in your life as I do, a level of challenge as you hold them in balance is a price well worth paying. Knowing all that doesn't change my nagging sense that right now, things are not entirely as I would like them to be, and that there are too many people I feel like I have failed over recent months. 

No part of me wants to imply that these many relationships are costly in a negative way, or that I do not receive anything in return. They are not, and I very definitely do. But to make them work, and make them meaningful, relationships do demand something, do have a cost, from both / all sides. Acknowledging that relationships require effort isn't about implying they are a burden, on the contrary, it is an indication of their importance and value: most things that are worthwhile ask something of us. 

Relationships of all kinds need and deserve communication, time and energy: of all of which I, like everybody else, have finite, and variable, reserves. I am an extrovert. No-one who knows me could doubt how much I love, value and draw energy from time shared with others: but maintaining relationships is not, nor should it be, entirely effortless. 

Most of this sense that I am not quite getting things right is coming from within myself. And although it has been exacerbated by a few comments, some genuinely heartfelt, at least in the moment, others spoken in jest, I know these would not have effected me in the same way if they did not play into my existing internal narrative that somehow, currently, I am to a degree failing some of the people who really matter to me. 

The juggling analogy feels in many ways like an appropriate one. There is, or can be, a rhythm which allows you to maintain multiple balls in the air: when you are in the flow, it all just works (I've never personally actually got beyond three, but I gather it is possible to make it look effortless with many more). But the more balls you have, clearly, the greater the challenge of keeping them going. Even the most proficient jugglers need to put some, or all, of the balls down sometimes, just for a while, and to acknowledge that it is ok to do so. Even the most proficient jugglers drop balls sometimes, and probably shouldn't judge themselves too harshly for it.

Once you start to drop the odd ball here and there, you might be tempted to think that with fewer balls, everything will all seem a bit easier. On the contrary, I find, it sends you off balance and you can end up feeling at risk of dropping them all, especially when you bend down to try and scoop up the ones you've let go. And then there are the balls you don't drop, but only manage to catch by the tips of your fingers, reaching outwards or downwards to save them from crashing to the floor: the more often you have to do that, to break the regular flow to reach out and prevent a tumble, the more energy maintaining the whole thing costs. 

Right now I think some of my balls are very definitely scattered around me on the floor: hopefully they are sturdy enough that they haven't cracked too much on landing. Others I think I am keeping off the ground, but perhaps only just. I would quite like to get all my juggling balls back up and flying in a nice smooth rhythm where they can be caught effortlessly. I suspect, in reality, that never has been and never will be really possible. I suspect I will always be trying to balance competing demands on my time and my energy, trying to balance competing commitments to people and to tasks and to my own wellbeing. I continue to wholeheartedly believe it is well worth the effort!

I am very aware that how I am currently feeling is symptomatic of a wider sense of overwhelm. The fact that we haven't seen much sunshine for a while probably isn't helping either. I still think it is nonetheless a challenge worth reflecting on to ensure I am, in fact, giving the best of myself to all of those who matter to me, that I am doing what I can to ensure that I am sustaining relationships in ways that allow them to be the best they can be for myself and for others: because these many people do really, really matter to me and they are worth it.

Maybe I am writing this partly for anyone who might be reading this who feels I have neglected them, but not really. Primarily I am doing so simply to acknowledge and articulate how I am feeling; and to help me reflect on how I get back closer to where I aspire to be, or if that isn't realistic right now, to reflect on how I sit more comfortably with things as they are.

It's all a grey area

The RomCom "Saved!", set in an American evangelical Christian high school deals with a bunch of teenagers struggling with questions of faith and doubt, of sexuality and relationships, of image and self-worth, of (dis)ability. It is as light and fluffy as most RomComs are, but it deals with, or perhaps more accurately, touches on, some big subjects. 

In one interaction the headteacher says "this is not a grey area" to which his teenage son responds "Dad, it's all a grey area." That phrase "It's all a grey area" comes back to me so often in all sorts of very different contexts. To my mind, that teenager has grasped the essence of human existence and of Christian faith in a way his father has very much failed to, or chosen not to, understand. 

Time and time again, in my own experience, children and young people show a huge a capacity for empathy with those whose experiences differ from their own and an ability to grasp things which adults so often fail or refuse to understand. They are prepared to allow different ideas and perspectives to shift and shape their world view. They are willing to believe that the status quo doesn't have to be immutable. Don't get me wrong, I know young people are just as capable as those of other ages of being intransigent and difficult ... but I am reminded, frequently, by the children and teenagers I meet through my work, that the world would probably be a much better place if we had all managed to preserve a little youthful curiosity, humility and openness. 

In many ways, black and white of course feels much easier. I think it is probably human nature to be drawn towards clear cut lines, towards right and wrong answers, towards the creation of borders and boundaries and definitions. 

Easier but ultimately a lie.

Because the real world just doesn't fit neatly into straight-edged boxes. The real world isn't black and white, it is every shade of grey in between, and every shade of every colour on the spectrum. That is, ultimately, what makes it so beautiful. 

We are, I believe, collectively, at least marginally better than we have been at some points in our history at understanding the concept of spectrum, and paying lip service to it, whether or not we are able to fully embrace it. But we, each, all, individually, collectively, still have a very long way to go.

I started writing this post many months (maybe even a year?) ago, when the high court was asked to rule on the legal definition of gender and did so along purely biological lines. Often, I suppose, we want or need the law to deal in black and white ... but so much, even of issues covered by legality, doesn't sit neatly on that binary. The trans rights issue, which is what that court case was ultimately about, even if some other people who don't fit neatly into boxes were inadvertently effected too, is one such case ... but it is far from the only one. There are plenty of migration stories where the black and white lines of immigration law deny the complexities of individual human experiences, and while that is the area of which I have the closest experience, I am sure others could find similar stories from other domains. So even though the specific moment that prompted me starting this has passed (though the issue has of course not gone away, especially for those living with the daily pain of feeling their reality is not being recognised and valued), it still feels relevant to wrestle this post into shape.   

Whatever the law says or does, I believe our human experience doesn't or shouldn't be dictated by a black and white binary, by an expectation of experiences, situations, relationships or people fitting into neatly defined boxes. And, to my mind, our faith shouldn't either. Almost daily, I am reminded that so many aspects of my life, and I am sure I am not unique in this, don't really fall along binary lines: from what counts as work, to how I define the relationships with the many people who make up my communities, to simply answering the question "How are you?" ... 

It is often those things, experiences and people who don't fit neatly into black and white that give nuance, complexity and beauty to our experiences. But it is often these things, experiences and people that suffer most when we deny the in between spaces and try to put everything and everyone into confined columns. And so it is often those things, experiences and people we need to be attentive to trying to protect: not by squeezing them into an ill-fitting box, not even, I would argue, by creating new boxes, but by allowing and enabling them to exist outside the box altogether. In doing so we give not only "them", but all of "us" permission to exist outside of the boxes, and life will undoubtedly be the richer for it. None of us, I suspect, fit comfortably into boxes all of the time: our identities, our activities, our relationships are all, ultimately, way more complicated. Some more so than others, and some of us are undoubtedly better at (or more willing to put up with the discomfort of) the contortions required to squeeze ourselves into those we don't naturally fit. 

I do appreciate that there are times where boundaries can be useful, and where definitions can help us make sense of the world. But I think we need to hold them lightly, and be willing to acknowledge all the times when they can't hold the fullness of our experiences. 

And where does God, and faith, then, fit with all of this? For some, faith in God is about defining truth and in some cases much of this 'truth' is expressed in very definite black and white. For me, faith only really finds a place in the midst of doubts and grey areas: not as the answer that fills the gaps where human logic fails, but in the trusting that allows us to sit with the mystery. I don't actually believe these have to be mutually exclusive. I don't believe the pursuit of truth has to rule out the possibility of doubt. I don't believe the potential existence of absolute truth means there is not space for different routes towards it with all the seeming contradictions we find along the way. I don't believe that having a deeply held sense that I am right, means someone with a different view is automatically wrong. I don't believe that something being genuinely, fully and completely right for me, suggests there's a one-sized fits all that means that same thing is automatically fully right for anyone else.

There are of course, things which I believe, fundamentally, to the core of my being to be true, and to be of God. There are things, too, which I believe to be false or wrong. Some of these things have changed over time, and certainly the expression or articulation of them has, but there are fundamental aspects of my beliefs and behaviours systems which are pretty deeply engrained. Maybe that's also part of the spectrum: for a scale of grey to exist, perhaps there does have to also be black and white. It is a question for me, as much as one I pose for others, as to how we sit comfortably (or uncomfortably) with these hard edges and blurred boundaries. What happens when my blurred boundaries are someone else's hard edges, and vice versa? 

Partly, I believe, it comes down to the opportunity (and willingness) to engage with people and perspectives that are different from and that challenge our own, and to embrace them with empathy, humility and a spirit of openness. I absolutely don't agree that we should "never talk about religion or politics" (although there are certainly contexts where I would avoid doing so). On the contrary, I think we should learn to approach such conversations ready to share our own deeply held convictions but also to listen to those of others; not in order to convince each other, but recognising the possibility that we might all learn and grow: that fullness of truth is beyond any of us. 

Perhaps this then, is the "childlike faith" towards which we are called. Too often, childlike faith has been equated to blind obedience to texts or institutions, but anyone who has had much to do with children will know this doesn't entirely ring true. On the contrary, I wonder if childlike faith is about asking more questions, being curious, testing our own views against those we encounter, being open to the possibility of change and transformation, accepting that we don't have, or need to have, all the answers, being willing to admit that there are in fact a whole lot of grey areas, celebrating that they can, in fact, make life beautiful.