Encounters with Covid

Having somehow managed to escape the dreaded Covid-19 for more than two years (more by luck than judgement, although to be fair, I wasn't having parties, sorry, work meetings, during lockdown), I guess it was always going to get me in the end.

And while I would very much like to be out soaking up the atmosphere of the Commonwealth Games in Birmingham and catching up with friends visiting for that purpose, if it was going to get me this summer it was, on balance, probably the best timing I could have hoped for: I'd have been devastated if it had struck during refugee week or before the opera, and I should be well clear of infection before I am due to go away on holiday; and hey, I can lie on the sofa in my pyjamas watching wall-to-wall commonwealth games coverage without feeling as guilty about it as I would in other circumstances. All in all it definitely could have been worse.

Having woken at 5am feeling shivery and with a sore throat, on Thursday morning I knew I should do a test before heading out. Despite the fact that, at that point, I felt ok, the dreaded second red line didn't really surprise me. I figured that I'd have some commonwealth games watching, but also the opportunity to catch up on some long overdue admin as I sat out a few days of isolation. I exchanged messages with my colleague about arrangements for the day, and let a few people know I had finally succumbed.

It wasn't long before the middle-of-the-night paracetamol had worn off and I discovered that I was going to be in no fit state to do any admin or, in fact, anything much at all. By late morning I was back in bed and slept on and off all day. I woke up sufficiently to relocate to the sofa for the fabulous spectacle of the commonwealth games opening ceremony.

There followed two days of lying on the sofa in my pyjamas in front of whichever sports the BBC chose to throw at me because even selecting which stream I might most want to watch felt like a lot of effort. I don't think I have ever experienced exhaustion quite like it, where even the smallest of tasks feels like really hard work. I did manage to do some washing up on Friday evening but even just standing up for that long wiped me out and I genuinely needed to sit down and recover.

Today is day four and the fact that I feel up to writing this is an indication I am now well on the road to recovery. I'm not back to full strength but certainly have some energy back, about which I am both very glad and very relieved ... because I don't think I am very good at being ill. I have, fortunately, had very little practice. I guess the next trick is to not immediately overdo it and so give myself the chance to properly recover.

I still might get some of that overdue admin ticked off before isolation ends, and I am still optimistic that I will be out and about enjoying some of the Commonwealth Games atmosphere soon, but for today I'm going to appreciate walking to the kitchen to make a cup of tea not feeling like a massive effort.

A no-longer-blank canvas

Having not painted much at all for a while, why wouldn't I, for my next artistic project, take on "the big canvas"?

Back in early March 2020 as the prospect of an inevitable lockdown crept closer; some people stockpiled toilet rolls and pasta. I, meanwhile, was more concerned with how I was going to keep occupied and went to The Works to stock up on arts and crafts resources. One extra large canvas which I thought would be a new and novel challenge was one of my purchases.

As things turned out, due to both remaining busier than I anticipated or feared throughout the lockdowns, and to having less creative energy than I thought I might, it has sat unpainted, taking up space, ever since.

Until now.

I am still not entirely sure whether it is finished, but I'm done for the time being.

waking up to prayer

Yesterday was the first day of our summer break from the routine of public community prayer. Generally, our pattern of daily prayer has more or less followed the pattern of school holidays, with regular breaks in the rhythm. Last year, though, I opted out of the summer break (apart from a couple of days during the Stories of Hope and Home camping trip), and we have continued to pray, here in this space (and occasionally elsewhere because "have facebook will travel") throughout the year.

On 16th March 2020 we began livestreaming morning prayer. A small community gathered. Since then I reckon that's a total of 353 times of prayer of which I have missed only a handful due to commitments elsewhere.

So yesterday was the first weekday since last February when I could have had a lie-in (needless to say, didn't!); the first weekday, more or less, when I have not woken up to pray with others.

I love the rich variety in my life and the fact that no two days are exactly the same. I know that I would not be suited to a 9 - 5 lifestyle. But I do also appreciate the importance of routine; the points which hold everything else together, the frame on which the rest of life can hang. Maybe all, or at least many, of us need both of these things: structure and variety.

I have long valued our rhythm of prayer, for reasons I often find it difficult to articulate. This past year and a half, perhaps more than ever, I have been grateful for the constancy of it. When everything else had to be reinvented, multiple times, often at short notice, there was, always, prayer.

In the midst of the storm, this has been my anchoring point. 

I am very grateful for its existence and very grateful for those who have shared in it.

Adjusting to a new reality (again)

"Adjusting to a new reality" was the title of the blog post I wrote in early April last year, the first I had written since the Covid-19 pandemic had turned all our lives upside down. It is quite possibly, a title I could have used a fair few times in the interim as we have followed the twists of turns of life in a pandemic. It is, certainly, one it seems apt to use now. 

Because here we are again, adapting, adjusting, to another new reality which we don't fully understand: even if this one is at least superficially more similar to the normal we once knew. 

And a bit like in spring last year, when I initially struggled to put the experience into words but knew that I wanted to; now too it feels important to try and capture this experience in all its raw reality. I have returned to this post several times in the last couple of weeks without making much progress.

There is so much that is so good about having reached step 3 on the roadmap, with step 4 hovering on the horizon almost in view. For over a year this is that towards which our souls have yearned.

• We have had visitors to the flat again. We have even had visitors who were there when we went to bed and still there when we woke up in the morning!
• I have experienced the generous hospitality of others, in their homes. I have been able to plan to meet or visit people without having a proviso of "but not it it rains." 
• The Stories of Hope and Home group have not only been able to start meeting again, but have even, at last, been able to drink tea together.
• I have blown a million bubbles and seen the irrepressible smiles of the families finally welcomed back to the Birch drop-in. 
• I have welcomed back the junior church children and been reminded how much it is valued by both the children and their parents.
• I have travelled outside Birmingham, have breathed in the fresh air of the countryside, and watched the sunset over the sea.
• I have a diary filling up with things which are not just yet more zoom meeting, I am seeing glimmers of variety where there was only mundanity, and I am recapturing a new sense of busy-ness and purpose.
• I have started to dare to make plans more than just a few days ahead and to believe that they will be able to happen.
• I have hugged friends.
• I have, I hope, remembered to be immensely thankful and not to take any of this for granted.

I am genuinely very happy about all of this. This is much closer to the life I love and want to live.

And yet, somehow, it would be dishonest to paint this as a picture of perfection with no downsides because that wouldn't entirely reflect reality. Despite, or perhaps because of the waiting, not everything about following this roadmap has always been easy and without issue. Sometimes it feels like we are supposed to be in full celebratory mood seeing only the positives as we step out along this road, but I suspect I am not alone in thinking there also still needs to be space to admit to the parts which are still something of a struggle. 

• Things are not yet "back to normal" and the ways in which they are also shine a light revealing the ways in which they are not. I, we all, are still existing in a heightened state of vigilance, a constant weighing up of what is ok, what is safe, a constant balancing and rebalancing of risks and benefits and I think we would do well not to underestimate the impact that living with that constant tension, of never, really being able to fully relax, is having on us. 
• Seeing again, really seeing, with the possibility of deeper conversations and more personal encounters, some of those I care most deeply about has of course been wonderful, but it has also revealed more clearly the toll the last year has taken, both on on group dynamics which need to be rebuilt, and on many of those individuals.
• The city centre is busy again: and I love the bustle and colour and variety and life of it ... but after a year surrounded by closed shops, the reopening has also brought into stark relief the hideous excesses of consumerism. I like seeing people, but seeing people choosing to spend sunny days queuing in order to shop for things they probably don't need is frankly somewhat depressing.
• Those who know me will know I am not very good at map reading ... and perhaps roadmap reading is no different! I have spent so many hours reading and rereading government guidance, writing and rewriting risk assessments. 
• I am having to relearn to build a routine in which time works differently: that whereas before a zoom meeting, it takes mere minutes to switch from one activity to the next, that when the meeting is elsewhere getting ready time and travelling time need to be factored in. There are good things about this: the liminal space between things which I have somewhat lost over the last year is helpful and healthy, but there's a definite readjustment required. 
• I am definitely an extrovert and enjoy and draw life from the company of others, and yet even for me, I am finding I am having to relearn how to exist in all these different social contexts and for all the joy and life it brings, and don't get me wrong, it really does, I am also finding it quite exhausting. It's a different kind of tired to the lethargy I have experienced in the last year, a better kind of tired, really, I think. But still, I am definitely going to have to build up my stamina again! I shudder to think how my introvert friends are feeling and hope they are finding a route along this map which works for them.

I feel like my "not so perfect list" became longer than my celebratory one. That probably isn't a fair reflection of the balance of how I feel. Overall I am very, very glad to have reached this point. Overall I will definitely take the exhaustion as a price well worth paying for the excitement of encounters and reunions and possibilities and plans. Onwards! 

*      *      *

On another unrelated note: Blogger tells me that some point this month the current email subscription set-up will come to an end. I need to decide whether to look into setting up a different way of sharing my blog by email, or just relying on people clicking on it from time to time to see what's new. If you read this by email and would like to continue to get emails, could you maybe let me know. Thank you!

to be a (virtual) pilgrim

As some of you will know I have often in recent years spent Holy Week walking to Walsingham with Northern Leg of Student and Pilgrim Cross. 

It is an intense community experience which involves a whole lot of time spent intensely in the close proximity of others, a whole lot of walking across swathes of the country and a whole lot of accepting hospitality from pubs and churches along the way. Nothing about its usual format, really, is compatible with our current reality.

For the second year in a row it was, obviously, impossible for it to go ahead as normal. For the second year in a row, it took place online as a virtual pilgrimage.

Last year, I remember being very unsure how a pilgrimage based primarily around the very physical act of walking on the road, and the very physical building of community would work from behind our individual computer screens, in our own little zoom squares.  

I remember being very pleasantly surprised.

We committed to the pilgrimage and to each other. We spent a quite frankly ridiculous number of hours on zoom. We stayed up late. We chatted about the substantial and the inconsequential, the serious and the very, very silly. We sang and prayed and talked. We created a space which held fears and uncertainties, as well as lots of laughter.

But that was back in the days when lockdown was a very new thing. When we were finding our way. When we had few expectations. When zoom was new to almost everyone and zoom fatigue had yet to be discovered. When I, but I think probably we, were less tired of this whole reality.

For these, and other reasons, this year was always going to be different. I approached it, once again, unsure how it would be.

Both last year, and this, there were things I very much missed which are integral to what this pilgrimage usually is. I missed the all-consuming reality of it. I missed being outdoors all day on the road whatever the weather. I missed the deeply humbling warmth of the welcomes we receive along the way. I missed the physical exhaustion and the accompanying sense of satisfaction. I missed singing together. I missed those little one-to-one conversations which are so much more possible on the road than on zoom. I missed the hugs. 

All this is true. And yet, albeit imperfectly, I still felt held as part of this very precious community, held in a safe space which allows for both laughter and tears. 

I felt at least partly, transported to being in a different "space". I felt it helped set Holy Week apart from the mundane reality of every other week stretching back in time and on into the foreseeable future. I felt connected to a community of friends who really matter to me and felt able to get to know some new people (or those who were previously just remembered names from somebody else's stories). I felt able to share in the stories, and memories, and in-jokes that are part of our oral history and shared identity. I felt connected through the shared creation of and participation in creative prayer and liturgies and the reflections they engendered. I felt valued, supported and cared about, in the conversations, the messages, the small gestures of others. 

I felt, mostly, able to be honest to whom I am.

Thank you. 

A year in a pandemic

I write, you may have noticed, quite a lot of words. But as a whole year of global pandemic, restrictions and uncertainty rolls around I thought I'd try and tell the story another way. So, I have scrolled back through my phone memory and tried to pick out just a few photos, with no words, no explanation, which somehow capture each month. Even in a year where nothing much has happened, I found it quite tricky to narrow it down and choose those which feel like they best encapsulate the year. Originally it was going to be one per month. In the end, I settled for four.

They are, of course, mere snapshots. They do not tell the whole story, but maybe they do tell part of it.

When the post comes

We live in a building that doesn't have a letterbox. That means that each day, the postman has to ring the doorbell. 

Early on in the most strict version of lockdown, he was often the only other person outside our household I saw not through a computer screen for days on end. Collecting the post genuinely became one of the highlights which broke up the monotony of the day. The fact that most of the post was for the church not for us was irrelevant ... the postman was another human being!

I do, also, quite like receiving post. I am, like all of us, surrounded by digital communication, and while I like the ease of keeping in touch that the likes of WhatsApp offers, I confess that at times my email inbox feels more like a burden than a source of life! But there is something different about real post and I generally find receiving letters exciting. 

Several times in recent months, I have realised or been reminded that there are people for whom the post arriving evokes very different emotions.

* * * 

Way back in the first lockdown I remember facilitating a discussion with the Stories group about what the struggles of lockdown were, and what were the positives. Knowledge that in those strict early days, everything, including the Home Office had probably more or less ground to a halt led one member to say, and others to agree ... that the post arriving no longer left them feeling really anxious in case it brought bad news.

* * * 

Back in the summer, I sent some post out to the group members ... partly homework, partly just because I, at least, as stated above, like getting post and thought a bar of chocolate and a pen and a few other bits and bobs dropping through the door would be nice. I used, without giving it a second thought, brown A5 envelopes, because that's what I had. They were, all, I think, happy to receive them once they opened the envelopes ... but one or two did mention, next time we met, that they "thought / worried it was from the home office" when they saw it drop through the letterbox. 

* * *

Recently some of the group were speaking to some young adults. We have done a number of these virtual visits recently and they are always immensely powerful. Often, I find, it is not the big overarching experiences which are the most moving, but the small details, the snippets of stories which bring home the realities of seeking Sanctuary. One such moment recently was when an asylum seeker, speaking of the stress of living with constant uncertainty through the process, explained that every time the post comes, if you see it is a brown envelope you worry, will it be a letter from the home office, will they tell you you have to leave your house, will they say they are sending you back to your country where you are in danger.

* * *

I can't really begin to imagine living with that level of daily anxiety.

Knowing all this hasn't stopped me appreciating receiving post, hasn't stopped me enjoying opening letters, hasn't stopped me enjoying greeting the postman with his cheery smile each morning.

It has helped me appreciate that this too is a privilege.

Praying together (differently)

This week has been the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity, a time always marked in Birmingham by #pray24brum, an event I have been actively involved in organising for the last few years.

As various phases of pandemic and lockdowns have evolved, so had the plans, but by the back end of last year, in amongst everything else, it had certainly ended up very much on a back burner as we all dealt with, ya know, global crises and stuff! By early January, with it becoming clear that if it happened at all it would have to be entirely online, I at least, was questioning whether we had the time, energy and capacity to pull together something meaningful and prayerful which would add anything extra to the plethora of online stuff already out there. 

But a few conversations and emails later we made the decision to press ahead with a very different #pray24brum. I am, now, very glad we did.

Filling 24 hours of digital content, at a time when churches are already busy and trying to adapt to yet another new way of supporting their communities, was undoubtedly unrealistic: but the 24 lived on in an invitation to pray for 24 minutes at some point during the two days. Churches and groups were invited to prepare and lead 24 minutes of online prayer, but there was also an invitation for people to step away from their computer screen and commit the time to praying for 24 minutes in whatever way they wished, alone, in their household, but in some mysterious way connected to a community. The image of "a patchwork of prayer to cover the city" evolved.

In the end there were times of prayer led by 18 different groups. Something in the time, effort and prayer that all those different groups put into preparing their slots served as a reminder that there are others who really value this event too. Facebook insights and twitter analytics notwithstanding we have no idea how many people really engaged with the online content. We have even less idea how many people may have taken up the invitation to set aside their own 24 minutes of prayer. Perhaps none of that matters. Perhaps what matters is simply that it happened. 

And for me, personally? This event has always been a very important one. I love the constancy of our regular routine of prayer but #pray24brum has always been a boost, a little reminder as we start a new calendar year that we join with others, across different traditions and expressions, who are committed to and believe in the importance of prayer. 

And yes I have missed physically being with others, people I know, people I don't, people I see only once a year but who I have come to appreciate sharing in prayer with: almost a little like going on a retreat or something, although it is only as I write this that I've come to think of it as such. And yet, albeit through a computer screen, I did feel like I was once again connected to and praying with those people. 

I am pleased that I was able to set aside time to focus on the event, just as I would have done if we were meeting in person. I am not saying the rest of life entirely stopped for two days, it never does, but most of my diary was intentionally blocked out to spend two days ensuring all the content was posted and shared as it should be, and praying. It would perhaps have been easy this year to just "have it on in the background" and I appreciate that for some that may have been the right way to engage. For me, it was valuable to take the computer, stop (mostly) trying to do other things at the same time and just engage with the content and pray. It was valuable, in the breaks between social media, to go out for a couple of short walks still focused on the idea of praying for Birmingham, ... and it was valuable to watch the snow fall with a slight sense of relief that no contingency plans were required!

I am very glad that #pray24brum was able to happen this year, albeit differently. I am very glad to have been part of it.

(Most of the content from the two days, should you be interested, is available on the Birmingham Churches Together Facebook Page)

Everyday Goals

I am not really one for making new year's resolutions. This year, even more so.

Equally I think there is a place for looking back and looking forward: for thinking about what will help make the year ahead, despite its challenges, as full of life as possible.

This year I have written myself a list of "everyday goals" and posted it on my bedroom wall. 

• Write something
• Pray
• Go outdoors
• Do something creative
• Have intentional non-screen time
• Connect with friends or family
• Read something
• Complete a task
• Be thankful

I haven't written it to put myself under more pressure. I am not necessarily expecting or even intending to fulfil all of these everyday goals every day. That isn't the point. Nor is it an exhaustive list ... of course there are other things that bring me joy too.  

But they are the fruit of reflecting on what are the things that, when I consciously set aside time to slot them into my days, bring me satisfaction and joy. And they are all achievable, even during lockdown, and they are all within my control, not reliant on anything or anyone beyond myself. 

Posting them on my wall is a visual reminder to stop and make time for these things which I know bring me life, to try to hold them in balance with each other and the other things that I know I have to do.

So far, so good. (And yes, I know there's a lot of the year still to run, but I see no harm in celebrating small victories!)

The year that was 2020

On the last day of 2019 I went off on my own for a long walk along a very beautiful coast path in Cornwall before meeting back up with the group of friends with whom I was on holiday: a holiday that involved lots of good food and good conversation, some spectacular views, a fair amount of silliness and lots of laughter and signs of precious friendships. 

It was also, officially, my last contracted day at St Chad's Sanctuary, a place that had been interwoven with my story of living in Birmingham for the preceding six and a half years: a rupture that felt, and still feels, right, but which was nonetheless tinged with much sadness.

For reasons I both have and haven't written about, both public and personal; I knew, even then, that the year ahead would present some interesting challenges. But nowhere did I anticipate quite the ones it did!

It feels somehow strange, now, to look back on the first couple of months of the year: that "normal" time, with all the interactions and activities I completely took for granted before everything was turned on its head. January and February feel both so long ago because March to December lasted for approximately five thousand years, and yet somehow tantalisingly close because so little has happened in the meantime. Either way though, I struggle, now, to think of them as part of the same entity as the pandemic phase of the year. When I was asked, recently, about highlights of the year it definitely took a while to click that could in fact include things before these covid times! 

So here is my best attempt at a brief (not one of my strengths, bear with me!) month-by-month review of the year that was 2020.

January: Quite a lot happened ... but among other things I started my new job with Birch Network. The job hasn't entirely gone to plan since, (because ya know, pandemic and stuff,) but I remain very glad that I get to be part of this organisation for whom I have a great deal of respect and whose principles and values I share.

February: The highlight of the month was, most definitely, the Stories of Hope and Home residential to Wales which was a very intense but truly beautiful few days: the building of a family. With the benefit of hindsight I'm even more glad we didn't think 'oh lets just wait until Easter / summer when the weather will be better' and thus we made that truly special trip happen before all the shenanigans that followed. 

March: Started out as a largely "normal month" ... The Stories group continued to grow and welcome new members. The learn and play group which had folded when I left the Sanctuary restarted at Carrs Lane. All sorts of different people came and went in the flat. And then, overnight, everything changed and by the end of the month the city centre, and the flat, had largely fallen silent and all of life became suddenly very, very different. The desire to be able to get out of the city centre was strong enough to persuade me back on to my bike for the first time in a long time ... building my confidence and stamina as a cyclist is definitely one of my big positives of the year. 

April: My twin abiding memories of April are that the sun shone more or less continuously ... and that all of life moved online. Along with the rest of the world I discovered zoom (zoom fatigue would not come until later) Everything and everyone moved online: groups and classes; an entire pilgrimage which transferred to virtual space better that I could have imagined; quizzes, more quizzes ... And if there was a definite lack of real human contact, there were also, at least in those early days, in the realisation of our need for community and contact, many opportunities to pick up threads of relationships across time and space.  

May: With lockdown looking like a long haul, and new routines at least partly cemented in place, May was the month for undertaking various projects: I finally embarked upon the time-consuming but mostly very enjoyable process of editing all my blogposts to turn them into a book. There was a significant sound and video editing project for Stories of Hope and Home and one bathroom and one bedroom in the flat got painted. Although, thinking about it, some of those things definitely at least overlapped into June. It all sort of blurs doesn't it?!

June: And then just like that, we were allowed to see people again! I like to think I'll never again take for granted the possibility of going for a walk with friends, but I guess once this is all a distant memory, I probably will. There were some very impressive thunderstorms too (I can attest that there is a particular joy to dancing barefoot on the roof in torrential rain!)  

July: At the beginning of the month I met some of the Stories group, in person, for the first time since March: something that would continue, with various walks in different parks and green spaces throughout the summer and early autumn. Some other stuff happened, probably. Towards the end of the month we wound up both the school kids and mums and tots zoom groups, and evening prayer also closed down for a summer break.

August: With the restrictions eased, but the evidence all pointing to outdoors being far safer than in, August was flanked by two camping trips beginning and end ... the first in perfect sunshine, the latter a good inculturation experience for the stories group as we kept smiling through wind and rain. In between there was some other stuff, including a couple of days away with friends and a couple completely on my own, both of which helped recharge my batteries.

September: It was lovely to have Lydia back and to celebrate her turning 18 which, despite restrictions was a lovely evening with perhaps more cocktails than was really very wise! It was lovely to also welcome Orla back to live with us again. A bit more community as we headed towards autumn and the inevitable impending return of stricter restrictions felt like a very good thing.

October: With risk assessments written and rewritten, October was the month that the Stories group finally started meeting again at Carrs Lane (briefly, until the next lockdown interrupted three weeks later!) which was wonderful. Lydia and I also welcomed the junior church children back: there was noise, and paint, and a reminder that if everyone shared as much joy about church as these small people, churches would be in a much better place! Plus the online art course I joined was another October highlight. 

November: My memory tells me I spent most of November stuffing envelopes... which is not entirely true but I did put together advent packages with an activity a day for more than sixty children which amounts to enough envelopes for me to have got to the point where I was literally dreaming about them! Still I guess it made good use of lockdown 2.0. It was also the month in which the Stories group did our first school visits for a long time, albeit via an internet connection.  

December: By the final month of 2020 I was exhausted ... looking back from a better place on the other side of a Christmas break, I think I had reached the brink of burnout. But in the midst of the tiredness, December also had any number of little highlights thrown in: delightful junior church sessions, walks and cycle rides with friends including some I hadn't seen for months, random fun for no particular reason, the joyful photographic evidence that my advent parcels to families were definitely worth the effort, some lovely sessions with the stories group including welcoming our first new member for a long time, a few opportunities for some very cold paddling, a lovely Christmas day celebration, and a much needed break. 

It wasn't what any of us hoped for or expected, but looking back, it wasn't all bad either! 

Bring on 2021!

When I came in from the year

For Christmas I received Kate Clanchy's book "How to Grow your own Poem". I haven't read it all yet, in fact, I have barely dipped into the beginning of it. I guess it is not a book to be read at one sitting, or read only once. Already I can tell her ideas about writing poetry resonate closely with my own.

The basic premise of much of the book seems to be one I have used often as a teacher ... to take an existing poem as a model, and make it your own. So this, my first poem of a new year is inspired, at least in part, by her, and (very, very loosely) by Edip Cansever's poem "The Table" 

When I came in from the year

And took it off

I did try

To hang 2020 on its peg

As I should

The latest in a neat, long line

But

Somehow

It missed

And fell to lie

Crumpled on the floor

In a heap

And I found

I scarcely had the energy

Even

To lean down

And pick it up

And shake it out

And put it in its place

And yet if I had

Hung it 

As I should

Perhaps you would

Only ever see

The smooth

Drab

Outerside

But from

Its heap on the floor

We saw

Glimpses

Of its lining

And some

It is true

Is dull and grey and practical

And heavy

Very heavy

But

Someone, somehow, at some point

Had also stitched

An inner

Patchwork

Layer

Too

Multi-coloured

Many hued

And in that crumpled heap

That I

barely wanted to reach down and touch and shake out and hang up

That

Too

was visible

Each bright, mismatched remnant

Each vivid, tattered scrap

The course roughness

And the silken smooth

An unplanned jumble

With frayed edges

As patchwork

Perhaps was meant to be

Before it became

Some neatly crafted art

And each vibrant-coloured snippet of memory

Held together

By fine, silver threads

Which

For all their apparent fragility

Would not

Could not

Did not

Break

So when I do

In fact

Dig deep

Lean down

Pick up

The coat

I think

This time

This one

This year

I’ll hang it

Inside out

Happy New Year! 

Where there is doubt - Christmas Poem 2020

It strikes me that this year's Christmas poem turned out to be very much "of its time", a reflection of something of what 2020 has felt like ... to me, at least, and I suspect to many.

Perhaps it is appropriate that it draws in a line which almost made an appearance in a poem I wrote back on Easter Sunday. 

There is possibly some theological point to make here about resurrection and incarnation but I can't quite think what it might be. 

But that aside, it feels fitting and entirely understandable that words which resonated way back in April when we all (or many) of us still sort of believed (or wanted to) that this might all be over in the next couple of months continue to resonate now many months later when things are still, well, not where most of us would like. 

Enough preamble.

When our once solid ground feels like shifting sand 

When nothing, it seems, goes quite as planned 

When all that once seemed certain becomes filled with surprises 

Somehow we find that 

The world still turns and the sun still rises 

When we begin to wonder whether or not we can cope 

When we question what signs remind us there’s hope 

When we scan the night sky seeking flickers of light 

Somehow we find that 

Out in the darkness the stars still shine bright 

When too much of humanity seems guided by hate 

When too many are carrying too heavy a weight 

When we wonder or we weep at our human endeavour 

Somehow we find that 

The love of our God still endures forever

Merry Christmas!

Tired

Whilst there are, of course, plenty of things that I don't write about here (for a whole variety of reasons including the fact that no-one needs to be bored by the minutiae of my daily life!), I have always aspired for it to be a relatively honest and authentic glimpse into the life I am trying to live.

Right now, I think that means acknowledging that I am tired. Not the "I need a good night's sleep and I'll be fine in the morning" kind of tired. Something deeper than that.

This is not an easy thing for me to admit: even to myself. Perhaps saying it here in a public space is almost easier than admitting it in the hidden recesses of my own mind.

I like being able to keep going and keep busy. I have, I know, acquired something of a reputation for boundless, tigger-like energy. I have made no secret of the fact that, rightly or wrongly, purpose and productivity matter to me. 

And I'm not saying any of that has entirely deserted me. I am still saying yes to projects which excite me and inspire me and which have the potential to do good. I am still putting the same energy into singing and telling stories to little people with actions and silly voices as I ever have. I was still mad enough to paddle in a freezing stream at the weekend. I am still trying to be meaningfully present to the people who I care about.  

But I am tired. 

I recognise that some of things I am doing are costing me more energy than they usually would. I have temporarily lost at least some of my creative spark. I am, perhaps, not always being as patient as I have aspire to be. I definitely haven't replied to all the emails I should have done! 

I am not intending to use this space to analyse all the reasons or work out the solutions ... though I have been doing plenty of both in my own head. I am certainly not trying to compare whether I have it harder than anyone else: trust me, I know plenty of people who have it much, much worse than me, but I also know comparison isn't always helpful. I am not seeking sympathy or advice. 

I am just trying to be honest to how I feel right now because that in itself matters.

Happy New Year!

For me, as for many who work in academic cycles, September is synonymous with new beginnings. This, much more so than January, is when I mark the new year. 

Most of the significant changes: of jobs, of home, of projects, in my life have taken place over the summer. Not all summers, of course, have involved such major changes, but it has always been the time of stopping, taking stock, starting again. This time last year I had just left my role as ESOL co-ordinator, had significantly cut my hours at St Chad's Sanctuary, and was in the process of trying to set-up Stories of Hope and Home. That all feels a very long time ago! 

This year feels somewhat different, unlike any September that has preceded it, possibly ever. 

I've been trying to reflect a little on why. It's not like I had the whole of last summer off: I ran a series of slightly bonkers family days out which were wonderful but certainly involved no small amount of effort. I did lots of paperwork and rounding off tasks to hand over my role in the smoothest possible way (the colleagues I left behind should probably be the judges of how well that worked out) I wrote a constitution, opened a bank account, dreamed dreams about getting a new project off the ground. Its not how hard I am working that feels different this year.

And equally its not like I haven't had opportunities for fun activities over the summer this year: there may not have been any significant travel nor big group events, for obvious reasons, but that hasn't meant I couldn't do anything fun. I have been lucky enough to have several trips away, even if each has only been brief. Lockdown easing definitely allowed a shift from preceding months. Logically, I can point to plenty of things that marks the summer out from the rest of the year.  

And yet, somehow, it just doesn't feel like I've had the same shift in routine. I am aware some very deliberate choices have contributed to that. They are choices I stand by and about which I have no regrets. Every other year, we have taken a summer break from the routine of prayer, whereas this year morning prayer has continued throughout the summer: a reflection of the fact that it has felt an important anchoring point for me during these months, even more so than usual. In other circumstances, Stories of Hope and Home might have taken a summer break but both maintaining the online contact with that group of people, and taking advantage of the opportunity to actually meet each other felt hugely important and valuable (for me as well as them).  

And so, September has somewhat crept up on me. Normally, this is the time for formulating plans, dreaming dreams and making things happen. But the year ahead still feels so full of unknowns, so vague and completely "unplannable" Normally this is also the time for getting back into routines, getting back to normal, but while there are glimmers that some of that is beginning to happen, the idea of returning to "normality" any time soon seems rather unlikely. 

Of course, I can see plenty that will be able to keep me busy in the coming weeks and months: including both returning to routines and building on new possibilities. I can identify exciting potential even in this new strange reality we seem to be stuck with for the foreseeable future. I hope I will be able to grasp some of those opportunities. No doubt you'll hear about them here!

September is a time of new beginnings, and change is always unsettling. I guess I'm acknowledging that this year feels unsettled in very different ways to usual.

Time together and time alone

At some point, perhaps, I'll write a post that has nothing to do with covid-19, or lockdown, or the strangeness of 2020. But not yet. There is still too much to say on the subject, still too much to process and try and make sense of.

Over recent months our experience of human contact and interaction has, for the most part, been completely transformed. Normality, as we once knew it, has been turned on its head. Things we didn't perhaps even realise were part of who we are and how we relate to the world and one another have been stripped away or called into question. 

And in that space, perhaps, some of us, have learned something about what we want and need from ourselves and from those around us. As the months of lockdown have dragged on, I have found myself with contradictory cravings: for more time together and more time alone.

I am an extrovert. There is no question of this and I come out strongly as such on all sorts of personality tests. People who know me will not be surprised. 

I have been exploring and to varying degrees living community life for the last nine years. Our life at Carrs Lane is a highly peopled one with people coming and going and sometimes staying all the time. Almost 600 people have passed through the doors of the flat in the last seven years and, while some have been but fleeting visitors, with many we have built sustained relationships. 

I have always had people-orientated jobs which place human relationship at the very centre of their raison d'etre.

It is, perhaps, unsurprising that since March I have craved  more real human contact. And yet, despite my desire for human relationship I can identify a certain lethargy which has meant the reality of how well I have kept up contact with friends and family may not quite have lived up to my intentions. I am extremely grateful for the technology which has made maintaining relationships possible: but, like many of us I can also acknowledge its limitations. It is also a very long time since I have gone so long without encountering anyone new and while I value the existing relationships I have, this too feels like a gap. 

So yes, I was more than ready for the easing of lockdown which has gradually allowed more real human encounters to become possible. I am very grateful for the ways in which, through the summer, that has been the case. Opportunities to meet up with family and friends; re-establishing face-to-face meetings with the Stories of Hope and Home group: these have been very good things.

What has been, perhaps, more surprising, even to myself is that, in a strange way, through this lockdown time, I have also found myself craving time alone. It has taken more self-reflection to identify and acknowledge this to be the case and think about why. 

I suppose I have come to realise that while human contact has been extremely limited, that which has existed has had a certain intensity to it. Ours won't have been the only household thrown together much more intensely than we are used to. While the blurring of boundaries between work and not-work between home-space and work-space have long been blurred in my life, lockdown has intensified the challenges of delineating both time and space. 'Switching off' (perhaps literally!) and 'getting away' (not literally!) have felt more difficult when the same physical and virtual spaces are places of both work and relaxation. The prevalence of virtual gatherings has also brought an intensity to our human interactions which is very different to "real" face-to-face encounters, as 'host' in many of these spaces, that is perhaps especially so.

Whatever the reasons, I have discovered in myself a need for, and appreciation of time alone, even in the midst of my cravings to return to the days when I can surround myself with friends (and strangers). Through the summer I have also been grateful for opportunities to meet this need. I have recently returned (not quite as recently as when I started writing this post) from a wonderful two days in the peak district entirely on my own and if I didn't entirely manage to switch off from digital communication, I did better than I can usually manage at home.

I have no intention of universalising my experience, although at least one conversation with someone else has suggested I am not alone in living with the paradox of these contradictory feelings. I am sure we will each have experienced the challenges of this time differently, and as we emerge into the so-called "new normal" will be seeking different things in response to the challenges we have experienced and needs we have identified. Perhaps understanding and acknowledging our own needs and responses, and really listening as others do the same will help us all to be kind to one another, and ourselves, as we try to transition towards the months ahead.

Lockdown highlights

OK, I admit ... parts of the last few months have been pretty tough. I know the same is true for many people who have been dealing with both global and personal crises.  

Knowing that there are lots of other people who have it far worse has, at times, helped me to have a sense of perspective. But it isn't always helpful either ... because if you're having a bad day, feeling guilty about it because you "shouldn't be" does not, I can attest, make it any better.

A better strategy, for me at least, has been to focus on and recall the good stuff. The gratitude diary I kept in the early weeks of lockdown certainly helped. 

As we at least partially emerge form lock-down, I thought I'd look back and pick out a few of the positives of this strange and unsettling time we are living through, focusing specifically on those things which have not only been positive during lockdown but which (probably) wouldn't have happened without it. 

In no particular order, here are five which came to mind:

1) Cycling confidence 

I've owned a bike for years. It has cluttered up the hallway in the flat ever since we moved here, but been used very rarely. And then the city closed down around us. Public transport use was banned or at least strongly discouraged. And we were only allowed out for an hour a day. On foot, you can't get very far in that time, so if I wanted to get beyond the city centre I was going to have to get my bike out. That motivation, coupled with empty streets which definitely boosted how safe I felt, was what I needed to get back on my bike. I am so glad I have. I have really enjoyed getting out and about on my bike and, now that my confidence, and the habit, is established, my hope and intention is it is something I will continue with.

2) New ways of praying together

The routine of daily prayer I am committed to at Carrs Lane is of great value to me. I have tried, and often failed, to explain why and how many times. One of the things, though, which at times has been a struggle, is not being able to find ways to really share it with others. There is something very special about committing to a routine of prayer. There is also something very special about knowing you are praying with others. As the decision was made to lock the doors to the building, we needed to find new ways to continue this aspect, the being open to praying with others part which has always mattered to us. Cue live-streamed prayers on facebook and suddenly, a community of people praying together every day. Not being in the same physical space has not detracted from this sense that, in a way we have never known in all our time here, we have found a way to have a sustained community prayer with others. I deeply appreciate it, I hope the others who are part of it do too. 

3) Attentiveness to my locality

In the strict early days of lockdown, options for getting out were, as we know, very restrictive: but, for me at least, certain positives came even from this. Knowing my outdoor time was strictly limited made me prioritise enjoying it. In "normal" life, as was, I generally get out and about, with lots of walking built in to my normal routine: but it took lockdown limits for me to commit to ensuring I went out absolutely everyday, come rain or shine. Walking (and cycling) became less functional, more enjoyable. I learned (albeit imperfectly) to be more fully present in the moment, focused on the activity and the surroundings rather than my brain always whizzing ahead to the next thing. noticed things which I've undoubtedly passed many times without ever seeing. Repeating the same walks and cycle rides regularly meant I watched the seasons change before my eyes: I noticed different flowers bloom and fade along the canals; I saw buds and blossom come and then go, I watched families of ducklings grow up. At the same time, limitations on travel further afield has also meant I have explored parts of Birmingham I've never really visited in my time here. Perhaps none of this should have needed lockdown, but it did. Hopefully, however, they are lessons learned that won't be quickly forgotten.

4) The book of the blog 

It's true that, in theory at least, this project didn't need lockdown to come to fruition. But every other time I've thought about doing it, it has remained just that, a thought. Whereas this time I felt able to carve out the space to actually put the necessary time into the editing to make it happen. I am, as I wrote in a previous post, extremely pleased with the result.   

5) Flowers in the foyer

There is, something deeply satisfying about growing things. We have always had a few houseplants on our windowsills. Early on, we tried to grow things on the roof but the seagulls always had other ideas. But when lockdown arrived, and the building was closed to the public for the foreseeable future, we suddenly had lots more space to play with. The space behind the full-length glass windows in the foyer are, it turns out, perfect for growing things. Admittedly, I probably would have tried to get hold of dwarf sunflower seeds if I'd known just how tall the ones I found in a random packet were going to grow, but I have found it very pleasing to watch seeds germinate, poke up through the compost, and finally flower. I wonder whether, when the building reopens, I'll be allowed to continue my little gardening efforts ...

Life in Lockdown

A few weeks ago, I was interviewed by Nick, the URC synod evangelist, about life at Carrs Lane during lockdown.  In church circles, I guess we are fairly unusual, and because of that, some might even suggest, vaguely interesting. While many people have been discovering how to 'live church' away from their church buildings for perhaps the first time; we have spent even more time 'in church' than usual.

There was, of course, a specific agenda and audience in mind. The context was for it to form part of a series, sharing good news with and from churches about lockdown. A lot of what I said was fairly rambling and incoherent. When talking about the Stories project and the other ways in which I have tried to stand alongside asylum seekers and refugees through this period, I feel like I failed to properly communicate the great joys and benefits ... for them and for me. There is much that is left unsaid.

It is, I suppose I am saying, far from perfect as a reflection of the last few months. But it exists as a record of a conversation (albeit edited) at a particular moment in time and hey, if its out in the big wide world of the internet, I guess it makes sense for it to be shared here too.

The pictures of the words (1)

As I said, I quite enjoyed June's creative project of writing thirty words every day, so when that ended I wanted to come up with something equivalent for July. For my follow-up challenge I decided that each day this month I would produce a painting to represent the corresponding day's words. I'm being realistic, so they're quite small, who knows, like with the words, maybe some of them will spark something bigger at some point, maybe they won't.   

I think part of this setting of challenges is a bit of a quest to cling on to, or salvage, some creative energy from something of a sense of lethargy I can feel in myself and sense in others. Don't get me wrong: I am still keeping pretty busy, and as lockdown is gradually lifted I am revelling in the possibilities of real human contact it offers. But I am also aware that at times I am struggling to find the energy to do things which either I know need to be done, or know will give me pleasure if I make the effort to. I am sure I am not alone in this. 

Some of this is undoubtedly entirely natural. Behavioural sociologists warned from the start we would only be able to cope with lockdown for 12 weeks. Uncertainty is always tiring and whatever the recent relaxations of the rules, this is still not the normality we are used to. I am a natural extrovert, I draw my energy from being with other people and compared to the heavily peopled existence I am used to, this last few months have been very, very different. And then, this is, in the calendar in which my brain still operates, the end of the year. There is nothing new to me, or anyone else who has ever been involved in education, to a sense of exhaustion creeping in by mid-July. 

But normally, it feels like it makes more sense: though part of my brain is telling me it is fine to acknowledge this spring / summer has been just as tiring as any other, part of me still refuses to admit that sitting at home for four months can possibly be particularly draining. And normally, there's a natural process for overcoming it, a summer break, a shift in routines, ... this year, the exit strategy feels much less clear-cut.

I am not one for being inactive; the need to be busy and to have a sense of purpose is core to my very being ... but even I can sense the creeping risk. Recognising, acknowledging and at least to some extent accepting this has not been easy. I have every sympathy for those who speak of struggling to get up in the morning, for those who have drifted away from online communities even though they know the sort-of-human contact would probably ultimately help, for those who haven't been able to face leaving the house today or even this week. I have less sympathy for the elements of it I see in myself.   

Maintain a routine, getting outside each day even when it is raining, continuing to feel I have a role in offering support to others, keeping in contact with friends ... these are the things that are ensuring I don't spend even more time than I already do scrolling through meaningless social media posts! Forcing myself to pick up my paintbrushes each day this month will be another.

Originally this blog post was only really going to say what it says in the first paragraph. But maybe the rest needed to be said too. Anyway, here are the first ten painted pictures, matching these first ten word pictures: 

Stories of Hope and Home (3)

Once again a significant period of time has elapsed between posts on this subject. Admittedly, in the interim, there was this one I wrote on the project's blog, but while it is still 'me' it has a slightly different feel and nuance to writing here.

But this week is Refugee Week, so it feels like as good a time as any to reflect on where the project is now, not least because, although it officially came into existence last August, and really got underway in October; in many ways, refugee week last year was the beginning of the journey for what was to become Stories of Hope and Home. 

Exactly a year ago, my wonderful class from St Chad's Sanctuary performed a play, courageously sharing their stories with over 400 people. It was exhausting ... and truly, truly amazing. By the end of that day I knew, "more of this!" and Stories of Hope and Home was what came of that conviction. 

I don't think I could have predicted, a year ago, where it would be right now. I mean, to be fair, none of us predicted a global pandemic that would turn all of our lives upside down. None of my early descriptions of what I hoped the project would become included trying to sustain a community entirely online. 

But there are a whole lot of other things that I probably wouldn't have fully predicted either:

A series of successful grant applications which have not only made the project feel sustainable, but have offered external affirmation of the value that is to be found in this project and its aims.

The participation of thirty-five people from twenty-one different nationalities, and the building of a community which, in its diversity of culture, religion, language, age, gender... is a parable for how life can and should be. The building of a community who care deeply about each other but who have remained open and welcoming to newcomers, because they know what it means to be made welcome. 

Having spoken, despite the possibility to do so being cut short in March, to over 450 school students (and their staff) ranging in age from year one to year 13, and in settings including state schools and private ones, mainstream, special education and alternative provision, and to have witnessed some truly transformative conversations taking place.

Pulling off a genuinely wonderful residential trip.

To have produced some utterly beautiful creative writing, digging deep into the depths of the human experience. 

Of course, there are things I probably could have predicted too: I knew we would tell stories and share experiences. I knew that we would share lots of  good food. I knew there would be occasional tears, and lots and lots of laughter. I knew there would be friendship and care for one another. I knew there would be some teaching, but that I would learn more that I taught. I knew I would receive far more than I would give ... I knew the participants would struggle to understand how that is the case.  

Even putting aside global pandemics and other minor disruptions to our plans, the project probably looks quite different to my original disparate ideas of doing 'something' following on from the play. But while it may not look quite how I thought it might, I like what it looks like now.

In other circumstances, we'd almost certainly have been putting on a play this week. That was always a part of the plan. Needless to say, we're not. Does that matter? Does it mean we haven't achieved what we set out to do? No, I don't think it does. Because I really believe we are doing very good things. and, well, now we're here, there's always next year!