An examen of the moment

As a student at university I was introduced to St Ignatius of Loyola's 'examen' prayer. It is an exercise which invites you to reflect on things that have brought you 'consolation' and 'desolation' and use both to try and understand what God might be trying to say to you. It is an exercise we shared sometimes at chaplaincy morning prayer, and I often used to struggle to have anything at all to put in the 'desolation' column. I was young and naively idealistic, but it was true: even in things that weren't perfect, I could see enough light, life, learning to hesitate to describe them as 'desolation'.

I would still describe myself as an incorrigible optimist, but I have long since ceased struggling with this. As for this summer, there have been times when the balance has felt very different. Don't get me wrong, I still consistently have plenty to put in the consolation column. But there have been days when the desolation side has weighed far heavier.

I find this hard to admit, to myself or out loud, and I think there are a number of distinct but interrelated reasons why...

By almost every set of criteria, I am incredibly privileged. I am, I like to think, deeply conscious of my privilege, and I aspire for that to drive me to use it well, but that doesn't change the fact of it. I am white, British, well-educated, neurotypical, cis-gendered, middle-class. I have never experienced any significant trauma. I have had amazing opportunities to travel and to learn and to have many beautiful different experiences. I have a comfortable home, am financially stable and get paid to do what I love. I have good physical and mental health. I have a supportive family and an incredible community of friends around me.

The same cannot be said for many, perhaps even the majority, of those I share my life with, many have whom have experienced, and continue to experience, multiple forms of disadvantage. 

Over the summer I have been deeply affected by the hostility towards people seeking asylum and other people who have migration as part of their story. But I have also carried a nagging sense of guilt that I *shouldn't* be finding it so hard. I am not the target of any of this hostility in the way that many of my friends are. I am not being targeted by the flag-waving or the hate-filled rants which mis-represent entire communities, nor will I be personally impacted by the endless stream of hostile policies being spewed out of Westminster. When all of this leaves me feeling, to stick to the theme, 'desolate', a voice in my head nags me that, from my position of privilege, I have no right to feel less motivated, to have less energy, to want to just curl up in a corner. That instead I have more responsibility than ever to be a source of light and hope and support for others. And while the guilt may be unhelpful, it also carries truth within it: in many of the situations and relationships in which I exist, I do have a greater capacity and therefore greater responsibility to be the carrier rather than the carried. If I lack the energy, or motivation to do the thing, whatever the thing may be, that almost invariably impacts on someone in a far more difficult situation than I am. 

I guess this links to my other main about this, which is my realisation of just how much my role and my very identity feels tied up in my boundless positivity. As I said further up, I describe myself as an incorrigible optimist and I think that is how most other people think of me too: as someone who is full of joy and recklessly hopeful. I picked up the nickname Tigger at university and the image of irrepressible energy, if not the nickname, have followed me ever since. A fellow English teacher at St Chad's Sanctuary once used me as an illustration / definition to explain the word 'enthusiastic' to language learners. This is who I am, and it is who I want to be. I am, for the most part, honoured that it is what others see in me ... but there is a certain pressure here too. If this is who I am, then what is my role or my identity or even my worth in the moments when those things desert me? Of course I do know, rationally, that my inherent value is not tied up in this, but what we know rationally and what we experience don't always correlate!   

Plus let's face it there's probably just some plain old pride and ego mixed in there too. Maybe none of us like to admit to the things we perceive as weakness or failure.

But while I may not like the fact, and may not like admitting the fact, the reality is my desolation column is overflowing at the moment. I have had days when it has been much harder than usual to identify signs of hope. I have had days when I have felt sapped of energy. I have had days when I have cried. Being as I'm in my forties, I could probably blame it all on hormones and the perimenopause, but frankly, objectively, I think it is all an entirely rational response to the state of the world. I don't think this is the place to go into why (I have another partially written post dealing with that which may or may not see the light of day some point soon if I can wrestle it into some sort of coherent text from the swirl of random snippets of words it is currently!). This is simply about acknowledging the struggle and accepting the vulnerability implicit in doing so. 

I could end there. 

But the wisdom of the examen is that there are always two columns. In a way that I perhaps didn't in the naivety of my youth, I do now understand the value in identifying and naming the desolation. But that certainly hasn't replaced seeking out the consolation. It might take a bit more effort right now, but it is still there, so much of it is still there (a more upbeat post outlining some of this will come soon too, I promise!). 

The general principle of the examen is to aim to do less of the stuff that brings desolation, and more of that which brings consolation, because God wants us to find our joy and to have fullness of life. That isn't always possible. We, I, can't always avoid the stuff which is causing desolation; nor is doing more of anything, even that which brings consolation, always quite the right answer either. But there is definitely a place for making space to intentionally recognise and appreciate more the signs of love and light and life and for cultivating hope and gratitude wherever I can. 

I have recently started using the Carrs Lane Community morning prayer book again. For many years it was the anchor of my days and I am grateful to still be able to return to it periodically. The opening prayer each day is borrowed / stolen from Br Roger of Taize. A couple of mornings ago it started with words which felt very apt:   

God of consolation, even when we feel nothing of your presence, still you are here. Your presence is invisible but your Holy Spirit is always within us. Amen

There is always consolation. I will keep seeking it out. May you be able to do the same.

School's out for summer!

I have written a couple of posts recently, but prior to that, once again, more than a month, in fact almost two, had slipped by without any blogposts making their way on to the page / screen. In fact in general, my blogpost output this year has been significantly reduced: it looks very likely that 2025 will be the year with the fewest published post since I began this whole endeavour all those years ago. There have been a number of different contributory factors, but over the past couple of months, sheer busy-ness has probably been the main one.

With Refugee Week falling in the middle of it, June has long been one of my busiest months of the year. July, which includes our now annual REP performance and Kintbury residential, is often not far behind. This year was no exception. 

Knowing what was coming, and aware that the early part of the year had taken quite a heavy emotional toll, when May seemed to be shaping up to be a little calmer than some months I managed to be quite intentional about keeping it that way meaning that, perhaps more so than in some years, I faced my busiest season feeling very much ready to go. 

I hit the beginning of June looking at a couple of months in which my diary was certainly very full: with both regular commitments and all the extra things to fit in around them. Already full with things planned well in advance, I also knew there still needed to be space for things which inevitably needed to be squeezed in last minute. 

Refugee Week was filled with activities and celebrations: there was poetry and paint, there was dialogue and dancing, there was laughter and love. This year's theme: Community is a Superpower was a fitting reminder that we are enriched by one another when we create a culture of togetherness rather than isolation. Summer generally makes other trips, activities and outings more possible and more appealing and I had a number of fun days out with different groups of people enjoying fresh air and sunshine and a break from the stresses and strains of their everyday. The REP performance, Home is Where We Belong, already has its own blogpost. The Festival of Encounter would also probably need one to do it justice too.

The number of invitations for school visits always ramps up in the summer term, but this year even more so. We ended the academic year having done a rather satisfying total of 52 visits. For comparison, the previous year's total was 34, so suffice it to say this part of my work has become an increasingly significant time commitment. These visits can, of course, be emotionally heavy but they are also a source of great hope. In a society where the hostile rhetoric around migration sometimes seems to be winning, they feel more important than ever.

In between times, my regular commitments continued: running regular sessions for both Birch and Stories and offering support around the edges to lots of different individuals. The days when my hotel sessions felt like light relief of 'just doing some fun stuff with kids' are long gone: over time they have become increasingly complex and involved, and while often characterised more by what I can't do than what I can, I continue to believe that friendly presence and a listening ear are a valuable contribution to a sense of welcome and wellbeing. As for the Stories group, as well as building towards the REP performance, we've been working on a writing project the outcomes of which I think are going to be incredibly powerful and which I am looking forward to sharing in due course.

I should possibly add that it wasn't all about work: there were plenty of other non-work things, including chances to host visitors and catch up with friends, that also contributed to my over-flowing diary ... not that there is always a clear boundary between work and play in the way I live my life, nor do I want there to be. 

And so here we are in August and despite the fact that June and July were, by any objective standards, a bit bonkers, I reached the slight lull of summer admittedly rather behind on admin, and conscious of big questions to reflect on about capacity going forward from here, but generally feeling like I am in a good place. That's partly because despite the weight of the stories and the state of the world, much of what I have spent my time doing over the past couple of months is, without wanting to underestimate the cost, stuff that gives me life and energy and hope. 

The school summer holidays always mark, for me, a shift in rhythm and routine as well as the ending and beginning of a new year. There is plenty to look back at (and catch up on!), as well as plenty to look forward to. A new diary is waiting to be filled. I am ready. 

What's in a name

As of a couple of weeks ago, I am formally divorced. This is a story only snippets of which have been told here, for a number of reasons, not least that it is only partly my story to tell. But it is certainly true to say that, just as my marriage shaped my life over many years, my recent history has been impacted and shaped by its ending. The final order, confirming we are divorced was, in many ways, a mere final formality, but it nonetheless marks a line in the sand. An ending, and as with all endings, a beginning.

But that's not really what this post is about. 

Since we separated, I have been asked by various people whether I will be keeping my surname: so for those who are interested, the answer is yes, I am. I can, of course, understand that for many people, a different decision feels right and appropriate, but for me, for now, this is the right choice. For my own benefit, as much as anyone else's, I decided to try to explain my reasoning.

On a purely practical level, I don't think I can face the administrative hassle of changing everything! But while the sinking sense of dread at the idea of all that paperwork might be a factor, that's not really the reason because of course I could do so if it felt right to. My decision to stick to the surname I have used for the past twenty years actually feels like a much more positive and intentional one than that. 

Having married straight out of university, I have had my current surname for the whole of my adult life. The vast majority of people who know me, whether personally or professionally, have never known me by any other name. And even for those who have, it was a very long time ago. While it may have started out as me adopting "his" name, twenty years on this name is definitely also "mine" in my own right. For me, and for everyone around me, it is my current name which is instantly recognisable, which trips off the tongue. I don't think our names define us, but I do think they are part of our identity. For myself, and for almost everyone I interact with regularly, this, with the name I have, is who I am. 

I tend to think it is significant that our names are, primarily, gifted to us: an acknowledgement that our communities contribute to our identity. (I say this not, of course, to cast judgement on anyone who, for different reasons and in different circumstances, chooses their own name) In a sense, of course, it was a choice to change my name when I got married although it was, to be honest, one to which I gave very little thought. Even twenty years ago, I think there was much more of an assumption (from me as much as anyone else) that I would change my name. I suspect, if I was marrying now (spoiler alert, no, its not something I'm considering!) it would be something I would give more consideration to: But on balance, I don't look back and wish I'd done so at the time. 

In a statement that comes as a surprise to absolutely nobody, I have quite a community orientated view of life. In getting married, I joined not just a husband, but his family: and I was welcomed into a new family with open arms and open hearts. My surname is also a connection to them. There are a myriad of both jokes and horror stories about in-laws but I have said from day 1 (though maybe not out loud often enough) that I am incredibly lucky with mine. The changes and turbulence of recent years have proved it even more so. I know that connection is not created by, and would not be broken by, a name. There are plenty of people I consider part of my family with whom I never have and never will share a name, but I think it is appropriate to acknowledge that my continued sense of belonging is a factor in why my name still feels like a good fit. I know I will always have a place in my biological family, I am lucky enough that I am confident I will always have a place in this family too. I guess, strictly speaking, that final order bit of paper means in "law" is no longer strictly true, but those who know me, will know I am not one to think that either biology or the law gets to have the final word in who we are allowed to call family.

The people who gifted me my childhood names helped shape who I have become. Those who gifted me my married one, no less so. I am not in a place where I want to in anyway deny how significant my married life has been in shaping the person I am today. I realise it is a privilege that I can still say this. While there are of course unbroken threads running through, I know I am not the same person as the 23-year-old me who first signed a new name. A multitude of different experiences have contributed to that, not all of them directly related to being married, but all of them lived out with the name I have now. Reverting to my maiden name just doesn't doesn't seem the right fit for who I have become as a result of all that I have lived in between. Simply put, that name just doesn't really feel mine, any more, in the way my current one does. 

All of this might make it seem like I gave a huge amount of thought to deciding whether to keep my current name: which is not strictly speaking true. As with changing my name at the beginning of my marriage, keeping my name at the end of it came down to the fact that it instinctively just felt right. This is just me subsequently musing and working out why. 

An island of strangers, and of friends

In announcing the latest "let's see which party can do the best job of blaming migrants for all the issues of late-stage consumer capitalism" measures, Keir Starmer made a speech in which he stated that we risk "becoming an island of strangers." 

On one level, he's not wrong. 

We do risk becoming an island of strangers.

But it isn't because of migration.

We risk becoming an island of strangers because, with our heads down and noses buried in devices we don't see the people around us. We risk becoming an island of strangers because we are allowing algorithms to choose what we hear and who we interact with. We risk becoming an island of strangers because we are surrounded by messages telling us to focus solely on ourselves and trying to convince us that it is consumption rather than community which will make us happy. We risk becoming an island of strangers because we are constantly being told to be afraid of anyone who is in anyway different to ourselves or to a perceived norm. 

I am not denying there is a problem here. The impacts of rampant individualism and of so many individuals drowning in isolation are significant for individual health and wellbeing, for the fabric of society and for the very future of our planet. 

But it isn't because of migration. 

On the contrary, if we let it, I'd argue that migration has the potential to be far more a cure than a cause of this isolation. My own experience tells me so.

We do not become strangers because our neighbours are from different countries or cultures: we become strangers because we lock our doors and do not ask their names. And when we dare to unlock our doors and speak to each other? ... We find ourselves living instead on an island of friends.

Of all the places I have ever lived, (and there have been quite a few!) Birmingham is the place I feel most at home. Initially, that took me by surprise: excited as I was by the opportunity that brought us here, one of my hesitations was that I wasn't at all sure how much I'd enjoy living in Birmingham. Those doubts have long since been dispelled. I have now lived here for longer than I've lived anywhere else and find it hard to imagine ever moving away. I describe myself, confidently, as an adopted Brummie.

The map on my living room wall shows the countries of origin of everyone who has visited my home 

If my itchy feet have more-or-less stopped itching, and I have reached a point of being content to put down at least some kind of roots, it wasn't because I lost interest in learning about other cultures and meeting new people: it wasn't because I was ready to retreat to an "island". It was because I came to rest in a place where staying put continued to allow me to feel connected to the world, for my story to be interwoven with and enriched by the stories of so many others whose lives look different to mine. 

Birmingham's diversity, and the communities I am privileged to be a part of which are made up of friends and chosen family from across the globe are definitely a core part of why this place is home. I am deeply grateful for the colour and culture and conversation these friendships have brought into my life. Oh and food, did I mention all the good food?! Far from making me feel like a stranger, migration has played a huge role in me finding a place where my life feels vibrant and fulfilled, a place where I feel I belong. 

I know I am, against all the odds, an incorrigible optimist ... but I am not naïve. 

I know there are people from every wave of migration who have, for a wide variety of reasons found integration incredibly challenging and have turned inwards into segregated groups, and that this does need to be addressed. I know resources are stretched thin and public services have been stripped bare by the systematic concentration of wealth into fewer and fewer hands, which places pressures on communities for which we need to find genuine solutions. I know there are issues around community cohesion that need to be faced head on. 

But I also know that more and more restrictive migration policies, and a rhetoric around migration that presents it as problem rather than gift is not the solution.  

I know this both intellectually and emotionally. I know it to the very core of my being. 

I know it, because I live on an island of friends. 

Reflections on Hope

Sometimes I have found a way to do Lent well; other years, not so much. I was short on inspiration this year, so as it approached I asked various people for suggestions about how I might mark the season. One of the responses was "write a poem every day". After quite a difficult start to the year, I was by that point, in a better place but I knew that I certainly still wasn't in a space where I was going to have the energy or creative spark to write a poem each day. It did, though, prompt what I actually decided to do which was to write, about hope, for three minutes, everyday. 

The three minute timer made it feel manageable: and I kept it up, almost every single day. The odd days I missed I caught up on the day after; at least until I went away for Holy Week when it fell by the wayside entirely.   

Sometimes ideas teemed and I could have filled three minutes several times over, other days I felt like I was forcing words onto blank white pages. Some days, I guess you might have called what I wrote poetry, of a sort. Other days, not so much. Some of the thoughts or words or phrases might turn in to something else at a later date. Others almost certainly won't. 

Here are a few snippets: 

• "In the painting over my dining room table, hope is depicted with a candle and a signpost. A light, albeit a flickering one, and a sense of direction. In the background is the image of an anchor. The holding firm, the holding still. Can hope be both the things that hodls us still and steady as well as the thing that points us forward, urges us on, shows they way?"
• "Hope is the voice that still sings, even as the tears fall unexpectedly, it is the voice that reaches for the tune even when it struggles to catch its breath, hope finds its way, even when it can't find the words"
• "Birthpangs. Miracles. Struggle. And Hope."
• "I was given flowers today: a bunch of tightly closed daffodils, bursting with potential and possibility, but at the moment looking like, well, not a lot really.... but we look at them and know. There is colour to come. This is hope."
• "There is no doubt in my mind that if hope was a person, it would be a small child ... a child who reminds us that when the pressures of life and societal expectation are stripped away, people are, at bottom, good. We are born capable of great compassion, empathy, love." 
• "Sometimes I find my hope in dreaming big dreams, making plans, creating a vision. But not always. Sometimes hope is found in an organised jobs list, in making manageable chunks, in jobs ticked off. In the little things."
• "Hope can seem soft and fluffy, as substance-less as the clouds ... that slips through fingers, turns to nothing when you try to grab hold of it. But I'm not so sure. I think there is something hard and strong at its centre"
• "There is something about waiting for the fun to start. A sense of anticiation. The quiet cup of tea. the calm before the chaos. Tinged with hope"
• Hope is in many ways the heart of my work, of my faith, of my life."
• "Sometimes hope comes in the form of a phone call"
• "Hope is green, like the fresh shoots of spring. Hope is glittering and golden like stars in the night sky. Hope is bright white, a pinprick of light at the end of a tunnel" 
• "Sometimes hope is found among friends. And sometimes, hope is a friend in its own right. A friend that shares in our joys, that looks towards the future, that cheers us on. A friend who sits by our side in the darkness, holds our hand and whispers, don't give up."
• "Sometimes hope is in the fresh-faced new beginnings. The fierce belief you can make a difference. Perhaps this hope is naive at times. Perhaps its exuberance feels misplaced. Maybe it talks too much, treads on the toes of the careworn. But all of us would do well to hold on to this, even overlaid with doubt and cynacism. And just as importantly, how can we nurture it, or at least not crush it, in one another."
• "Sometimes the right choice is to take off your shoes and socks and paddle in the sea at sunset"
• "I am pleased I planted so many spring bulbs because spring flowers bring me so much joy. There are signs of new life and new growth everywhere. And yes, some of those are nettles and tangled weeds. And yes, there is probably work to be done ... But such is life."
• "I wonder how much even a tentative and uncertain hope in the 'after' impacts how we live in the 'before'?"
• "On days like this, when the sun shines, when the birds sing, when there is community and friendship and love and laughter, and spontaneous trips into green spaces, and trees to climb, and conversations ... on days like this hope feels closer, easier to grasp, more tangibly present. It can be sought at other times too, of course, but I am grateful for days like these

It was a helpful discipline and I am glad I did it.

Aunty Mary

In a previous post, I mentioned that I had started the year with two bereavements. It was a privilege to be invited to give the eulogy / tribute at my Aunty Mary's funeral last month. Whether or not it is of interest to anyone else, my blog is also the place I keep a record of many of my thoughts and reflections so it feels appropriate to share it here: 

Mary Carmel, or Aunty Mary as I knew her, was born in 1942. Of course, I didn’t know her at all for the first half of her life and have only fairly hazy memories for a good few years after that. I have also never lived close at hand. Others among you probably, in many ways, knew her better. But I’m not going to try and speak about all the bits I don’t know, I’m simply going to share something of the aunty Mary I knew and loved. We hope that, in the course of the day, you will have the chance to share your own memories and stories of the Mary you knew too. Fundamentally, though, I suspect the Mary we all knew was very much one and the same.

Perhaps the thing I most associate with Aunty Mary is her consistent generosity. When we were kids, and came down to Dorset on holiday, she would decamp to Grandma and Grandad’s, leaving her flat for us to stay in. As a small child, I entirely took this for granted as just what happened. Now, as an adult with a home of my own, I can appreciate the incredible generosity of something she did seemingly without a second thought. On one of my very last visits here, I came with very dear friends of mine: people that Mary didn’t know and had never met. Her generosity, instantly, unquestioningly, extended to and included them too. It was clear that it had never occurred to her that it wouldn’t. I could, but you’ll be pleased to hear won’t, give many, many other examples.

She was fervently committed to her faith and to the church, which played a huge role in what she did, who she knew, who she was. My living out of my Christian faith looks very different to how Mary lived hers, but throughout my life she has been a witness to what it means to have an unwavering commitment to God, and to living out your faith with and for others.

Mary was an extrovert in the true sense of the word: she loved to be around people and, ideally, at the very centre of things. Not in a “look at me” kind of way, but in an “I don’t want to miss out on anything” kind of way. I suspect, know even, that in later years she was sometimes frustrated by things her health and mobility forced her to forego. And more than once, in my recent experience, she overdid it probably more than was good for her. I guess she figured exhaustion was better than the FOMO and if there was any way she could be there, in the midst of it all, she was going to make sure that she was.

She loved people, and put effort into building and maintaining friendships and relationships across time and distance. She was appreciative of any time or contact we gave in return. Even when I hadn’t seen her or been in touch for a while, there was never a hint of complaint or disappointment: I always felt she was genuinely pleased to see me or hear from me. She loved us, her nephews and nieces. She loved me, I never doubted it.

Over the years, she was genuinely interested in and reliably supportive of my many different adventures and projects.

Growing up, she was one of the few people I knew who had been to all sorts of interesting and exotic places: perhaps, subconsciously, that fed into my own love of discovering the world. When I was on my gap year at 18, she came to visit me in Belgium. I suspect that had she been younger and fitter she might later have flown out during my year in the Philippines too.

More recently she has been consistently supportive of the projects, causes, and charities I have worked with and believed in. She cared about the things I cared about, partly, I’m sure, because she genuinely did, but also, and perhaps more so, because she cared about me.

Obviously, I will remember Mary for smaller, more incidental things too: her love of word puzzles and of cheap cola. Her collection of pigs. Quite a lot of poorly-framed photos with people’s heads cut off. Helping her to fix some bit of technology … again. Eating fish and chips. It is wholly appropriate that one of the last photos I have with aunty Mary is of us eating fish and chips on the harbour wall in Weymouth. It is one of many such pictures taken over the years.

There’s a line that says something like “everyone has an aunty Mary”. I am very lucky that I had mine.

Death is something, after all

There is a very famous poem by Henry Scott Holland which begins with the words "Death is nothing at all". I understand both the intention and the sentiment. I am sure there are many who have found it a great comfort and, of course, I do not intend to cast judgement on anyone who has found solace in it. There are lines within the poem that I like and with which I don't disagree.

But it isn't, in fact, true. And for me personally, it doesn't really feel comforting either.

Because death is not nothing at all. Generally, I think it is probably healthy and helpful to acknowledge that death is, in fact, very much something. When someone dies, even the language we use so often dances around the reality. How often do we hear people speak of loss, of passing away, ...? But refusing to name death doesn't make it go away. Shying away from acknowledging the enormity of it doesn't make it disappear or make it easier. Having had some involvement in such things recently, I can confirm that even on a purely practical level, death is certainly not nothing at all; on a social and emotional level, even more so.

Death is not nothing at all, because life is not nothing at all either. And our relationships with those around us are one of the things by which our lives are most enriched. Whatever our beliefs about what happens after death, however much confidence we have in eternal life and whether and how we might meet again those from whom we have been separated by death, to suggests that death is "nothing at all" feels like it denies just how much our relationships matter in life. It should be ok to acknowledge that death is painful, confusing, strange. That in their dying, as in their living, our relationships, with all their beauty and their messy complexity: with the light and the laughter, with the relief and the regret, with the poignancy and the pain: are most definitely not nothing.

Recently I have experienced the deaths of two people I knew and loved.

One of those deaths was sudden, and shocking. A friend who it had definitely not crossed my mind, the last time I saw him, that we would never meet again. He was one of those people who you'd not even realised you'd assumed would just always still be there ... until they aren't. He has left a gaping hole in a community which will probably never be entirely filled. A community which is still reeling. Whatever his death was, it was certainly not "nothing at all".

My aunt, meanwhile, had what can only really be described as a good death, at the end of a good life. She died after a short illness, well looked after and with family at her side. I have described her death to several people as sad, but not tragic. But it was not "nothing at all" either.

Over the past couple of years I have watched several other people I know struggle with the grief of the deaths of people they loved too: in some cases at the end of a long life, in others much too young, much to soon. None of these deaths were "nothing at all" either.

So in a similar vein to Caitlin Seida's response to Emily Dickinson's "Hope is a thing with Feathers", here is my response to Henry Scott Holland's poem:

Death is something after all, Henry.

Death is something, after all,
And while there may be times 

When it seems 

You have only slipped away to the next room

With a sharp jolt

Or a gentle whisper

We remember

You won't, in fact, 

Pop your head around the door frame

To interject

To take up where you left off

And if we call you by your old familiar name

Putting no difference in our tone
It hangs in the air

Unanswered

There is an echo to this emptiness

And silence does not fill the space

As the stories once did

We will, indeed,

Play, smile, think of you. Pray for you.

And I promise we will 

Laugh as we always laughed

But we will also

Cry

And sometimes 

We will laugh through tears

Or cry through our laughter

For there will be light

But there will also be traces 

Of the shadows it casts

And

Your absence will change us

Just as your presence did

For this is love

There is absolute unbroken continuity

But things are not the same

So you see 

Death is something, after all, Henry,

Because so is life

But you are also right...

That all will be well.

Resolutions

I am not a great believer in making new year's resolutions. I think all too often they can risk being just another pressure we put on ourselves to perform or achieve. Having said that, there are certainly times when I have found it helpful to reflect on those things that I know I want as part of my life that I have been neglecting and want to make a point of reprioritising. January is as good a time to do that as any. 

2024 was filled with many, many beautiful moments, shared with lots of very special people ... but it also threw a good many challenges my way, and more than once I only just stepped back from the brink of burnout. 2025 will undoubtedly have its own challenges. It will also be filled with many, many beautiful moments: but for that to be the case, I need to make sure I put in place the things I need to live it well. I know they include, among other things, time with others and time alone, spending time outdoors and away from a screen, a routine of prayer.

I also know that, when I make the time, space and energy for it, I value doing various creative activities. So I set myself not so much a resolution, as a challenge to put a bit more creativity back in my life. I decided that, for the whole of January at least, I would try to do something creative, however small, each day. I am not setting myself the target of keeping that up for the whole year. My hope is that, by cementing it into my routine at the beginning of the year, it will become sufficiently embedded into my life again.

I've discovered digital colour by numbers as a much better activity than doom-scrolling to keep me occupied on the bus; done the odd bit of painting; drawn, coloured and doodled. Some days I have set aside proper time, but more than once it has been a quick little scribble last thing at night. I have not produced any amazing works of art ... but that was never the point. 

So far, so good. For the rest, let's wait and see.  

Joseph is Missing - Christmas poem 2024

The Stories group Christmas party was a magical afternoon: Christmas dinner for 40 people, home-made cake and traditional Eritrean coffee, hilarious and highly-competitive games of pass the parcel, a visit from mother Christmas, music and conversation and laughter. There was a lot of noise and a lot of mess and at times utter chaos: but there were also plenty of people who by the end had helped restore some level of order. There was a whole lot of joy and a palpable sense of being community. 

At some point during it, Joseph went missing from the nativity scene.

A couple of days earlier, I'd had a smaller (all things being relative) gathering of ten for Christmas eve / day which had been also filled with so many beautiful moments, and during which the nativity scene had been augmented by home made shepherds and sheep and a wide variety of other toy animals. 

Another few days later we had another party ... one of the group had told me she had never had a birthday party or birthday cake so we were determined to give her a celebration to remember: another houseful (though only 33 this time!), more good food, more silly games, more music and dancing and karaoke and disco lights. Joseph did not reappear. The angel has now disappeared too.

In between times there were other lovely smaller gatherings with friends and family, and quiet days to myself with lots of preparing, sorting and tidying to do, but also space for the gathering of thoughts and space to rest and relax. 

I have often (last year being an exception) written a poem for Christmas and if I was going to write something this year, I really wanted it to capture the beauty of these Christmas celebrations with all these wonderful different people who I have in my life. I wanted it to capture the chaos and the joy, and perhaps a little of the in between downtime too. I wanted it to capture that this, for me, was a most fitting celebration of the incarnation and the kind of celebration Jesus would approve of and want to be in the midst of. 

The thought that "Joseph is missing" was a starting point which might capture some of that began to flicker around in my head. That, gradually became this, and as I am fully embracing the idea that the Christmas season lasts until Candelmas, I don't think it is too late to call it a Christmas poem.

Joseph is Missing

Joseph is missing
And the elephant, 

Yes, the one from the nativity scene,
Has lost a leg

He might turn up

But he wasn't under the table
With the widely-scattered popcorn

With the biscuit crumbs and sprinkles

Nor, seemingly, on the draining board

Or in a kitchen drawer

Put away 

Helpfully, unhelpfully, 

In the wrong place.

It's unlikely he's been eaten
But you never know

There was so much food

Which I'm sure tasted better 

Than a wooden Joseph
But nestled in the branches of the Christmas tree
A half-eaten bauble, 

Souvenir of another party,
Suggests others have different taste

He might turn up

Tucked amongst the tinsel, perhaps, 

Or at the bottom of a box

With the toy cars and the lego bricks

With the pencils, the pompoms and the plasticine

Or down the back of the sofa 

The one where Santa sat 

And inner children were embraced

He might turn up

But there's a pretty high chance
That as the music played

And the chaos reigned

He was bundled up, 

Helpfully, unhelpfully,

With the pass the parcel paper
And thrown away.

The elephant has, 

Definitely, 

Been thrown away
Sharp edges didn't pass the risk assessment to stay
But the zebras are still here
Worshipping the Christ-child
With the cows

And some time later
When the chaos has calmed
Fairy lights still twinkling like stars
The magi also arrive

And Joseph is still missing

But I can't help thinking
That looking out 

From this unconventional nativity scene

Jesus is smiling.

Reading List 2024

Having done it in 2022 and 2023, I guess it is now tradition that I collate my reading list for the year here on my blog. 

This year's again includes some books which I have really appreciated and enjoyed, but it is noticeably shorter than the previous two. This doesn't in the least bit surprise me, given how this year has been, but is perhaps something to deliberately work on for next year!

• On Heroes and Tombs - Ernesto Sabato
• Memphis - Tara M Stringfellow
• Absolutely and Forever - Rose Tremain
• The Forty Rules of Love - Elif Shafak
• Songbirds - Christi Lefteri
• The House of Doors - Tan Twa Eng
• The Bread the Devil Knead - Lisa Allen Agostini
• Wed Wabbit - Lissa Evans
• We are all completely beside ourselves - Karen Joy Fowler
• My Father's House - Joseph O'Connor
• An Unquiet Mind - Kay Redfield Jamison
• Brotherless Night - VV Ganeshananthan
• An Artist of the Floating World - Kazuo Ishiguro
• The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher - Hilary Mantel
• Why I'm no longer talking to white people about Race - Reni Eddo-Lodge
• The Life and Times of Michael K - J.M. Coetzee
• Welcome to the Hyunam-Dong Bookshop - Hwang Bo-Reum
• Mothers Boy - Patrick Gale
• A history of the world in 10 1/2 chapters - Julian Barnes

I have just started "An Equal Music" by Vikram Seth, which will start off next year's list, but I am very much open to recommendations as to what else to add!

The adventures of a hat

This is a story which I suspect may be of no interest to anybody else. But I write my blog as much for myself as for whoever reads it, and it is one I wish to preserve and remember.

Given my propensity for losing scarves, hats and the like, it is perhaps surprising that I had managed to hold on to this hat for a remarkably long time, having been given it when we were in Corrymeela, way back in 2012. (It makes its first blog appearance here!)

I remember being very touched at the time. The hat was a gift from one of the groups we had supported. It was notable because while they bought hats for both of us, the two volunteers who worked with them, we were quite different in character and the two different hats were a very good match for each of us. It showed, I thought, an attentiveness to our different identities and a thoughtfulness to the choice. 

Plus, I just really liked it! It had certainly had a lot of wear, and has been a good many places in the ten years that followed. 

Until I lost it, back in February 2023. I thought I knew when, and figured I had left it on a bus or train that day. I was kind of sad, but resigned to not seeing it again.

I accepted it was time to get a new hat, but as winter was, hopefully, reaching its end, decided there was no immediate rush to do so.

Several months later, in June, I was back at a meeting with those I had been with that day, and was greeted with someone telling me they had my hat, but despite the best of intentions, had forgotten to bring it with them. Turns out I had not left it on the train, but at the meeting and someone had picked it up, recognised it as mine, and held on to it until they saw me again. These are not people I meet often or know well, and I was again touched that someone had identified it as mine, and intentionally kept it for me. 

I didn't mind that I wasn't to be reunited that day, it was, apart form anything else, definitely not bobble hat season, but I confess to a little spark of joy that it was not, in fact, after all, lost for good. 

She said she would post it. More months passed before we met again, some time in autumn / winter 2023 but online this time, and a few messages exchanged in the chat revealed she had indeed posted it, but that it had never arrived. Lost in the post. She felt guilty, I told her not to. It was a shame, especially after I'd had my hopes of seeing it again raised, but really not that big a deal. It seems I wasn't meant to be reunited with my hat after all.

I accepted, again, it was time to get a new hat. 

Jump forward a whole year to this week and the hat saga's happy ending. 

Earlier in the week a colleague had let me know of a parcel addressed to me that had arrived, which she offered to bring along to our meeting. I had really no idea what it could be, having come to an address we no longer use, and I was certainly intrigued. 

And there it was my long-lost hat, plus two others, with a note explaining the rest of the story. 

After the original hat going missing, she had, very generously, bought me a replacement (well two actually) but then in the interim, my 'lost in the post' hat had eventually found its way back to her, and she had posted all three on to me, and this time they made it. Almost two years after losing it, my hat and I are together again.

Just in time for winter. 

Having had to accept, twice, that my hat was lost for ever, it brought a broad smile to my face to be reunited with it after all this time.

I will be trying to take good care of it from now on and will do my best not to leave it behind anywhere else! 

Five years

Last month marked 5 years since Stories of Hope and Home became a reality. In some ways, it doesn't feel anywhere near that long, but in other ways it has already far surpassed what I dreamed it might become. 

Our exact start date is somewhat disputed... wass it the moment the vague idea was voiced aloud, the writing of the first version of our constitution, the day we opened the bank account, designed the logo, set up our social media accounts, got our first grant, or held our first meeting...? One way or another, in autumn 2019, Stories of Hope and Home came to be and by March the following year we had welcomed over 30 different participants, visited multiple schools, had several trips and parties and our first slightly bonkers residential in Wales. The tone had been set, a family was being created. 

I have said many times since that if anyone is thinking of starting an organisation focused on building community which relies on spending time together over coffee and cake, then starting six months before a pandemic may not be the ideal time ... but then again, we are still here and still going strong, so maybe it was. 

As 2020 turned the world we knew upside down, our little community supported one another through some difficult days and survived to tell the tale of the zoom era. And then with risk assessments endlessly written and rewritten, as restrictions allowed we came back together: first outdoors, then 2 metres apart, and finally with hugs allowed once more. We have never looked back.

We have shared anger and frustration as we have watched a hostile system get ever harder to face, we have created safe space that has held many tears. But we have also laughed loud and laughed often. We have danced together and built beautiful friendships. We have shared hope and joy. We have welcomed many newcomers into our fold. We have engaged with thousands of children and young people, educators and others and gently (and at times less gently) challenged perceptions and misconceptions. I am convinced we have played a part in creating change. We have become a charity, published a book, performed on stage. We have eaten so much good food and drunk an uncountable number of cups of tea. Together we have done many incredible things, and touched many lives. Of all of it, I think the greatest achievement is that we have created a community that such a diverse group of people describe as their family. 

In early September, well over a hundred people turned out to celebrate together. I looked around a room filled with good food and friendship, filled with noise and mess and a fair degree of chaos, filled with joy and laughter and a palpable sense of community, filled with people from all over the world who I know face unimaginable struggles and yet who get up and keep going, people who have the courage to speak out and make a difference, people who look out for and care about one another, people who have allowed me to be part of the most incredible family.

Among the things I did in preparation for the celebration event, was spend time looking back over the preceding years. Whether or not it was the best use of time, I spent many happy moments scrolling back through old photos and adding up past statistics. 

Statistics are only ever going to tell a tiny part of what has been, and continues to be a beautiful story, which is mainly told through snippets of shared experience, but nonetheless...

(Almost all of these numbers are already out of date!)

I think it is ok that I am more than a little bit proud of what that germ of an idea has turned into. 

My heart is full. 

And there is so much more still to come.

Getting back on track

It has been a good while since my last blogpost: September came and went without me writing anything here. A quick scroll back told me that April 2017 was the last time I didn't publish anything for a whole calendar month so it is certainly high time to polish off this one which has been a work in progress for a good while.

Needless to say, I have been busy (there is at least one other, also half-written post, to follow about some of that): but not exceptionally so by my standards, so that only offers a partial explanation for not putting pen to paper (or cursor to screen). I do know, more or less, what the explanation is, so we'll see whether this attempt to express it succeeds where my previous attempts to force the words to coalesce into something coherent have spectacularly failed.

Summer 2024 was a complicated mix. It was filled with loads of wonderful, joyful activities, with trips and visits and parties, with good food and lots of dancing. It was also marked by both good and bad news for people I care about, by hard conversations as well as jokes and laughter, and significantly, by the eruption of far-right, anti-migrant violence which rocked the country and deeply affected the communities I love.

In the midst of all that, in mid-August, I had a really lovely week in France staying with very dear friends. I was in need of a break, and I switched off, far more successfully than I had though I might manage. We did a few sort-of-touristy activities, but mostly I read good books, ate good food, and chatted endlessly about both silly and serious subjects, spending time with people I love very much. 

And then I came back.

I came back to an overflowing jobs list, populated with the things I expected to have to do, the inevitably unexpected additions, but also the things I had promised myself I would get ticked off before I went away but hadn't because everything had been put on a back-burner to deal with the fall out and impact of the riots.  

What I needed was a burst of productivity to get back on top of things, but instead I found myself feeling paralysed and overwhelmed, and lacking my usual motivation. Not to say I achieved nothing, but I definitely didn't feel like I was doing what I needed or wanted to achieve. As a person with a universal reputation for boundless energy, that hasn't been an easy thing to admit, even to myself. And while rationally I could tell myself this was not, perhaps, surprising, given how heavy the year had been; part of me definitely also felt like I was failing, not able to do what I "should".

To some extent, the life I have chosen means this is a reality I will always have to live with: I will never be able to do all that needs to be done, meet all the needs I would like to meet, solve all the problems I would like to be able to solve. Generally this is something I have made my peace with and a tension I manage relatively well: but for a few weeks in late August / September, I really struggled. There were tears in both a Birch staff meeting and my Stories supervision, as well as more than once on my sofa. I read up (again) on burnout and vicarious trauma, recognising elements of both in how I was feeling. The absence of blogposts was another symptoms of the space I was in: writing is often one of my ways of processing thoughts and emotions but my attempts to put this or anything else into words in the midst of it came to nothing. 

It was a tough few weeks: something I knew at the time but perhaps recognise even better now, from the other side. Because now? Now I am very much back on track, and I am grateful for the many things that have helped, including:

• I thrive on variety and would hate for every week to look exactly the same, but even I had perhaps hit a point where at least some semblance of return to routine, with a few fixed points has been beneficial. 
• I forced myself, at the point when I least felt like it, to re-establish, again, my routine of fairly regular morning prayer, something which always helps my equilibrium, in ways I can never explain. 
• At least some of the jobs in my jobs list, including some of those that I don't particularly enjoy have been successfully ticked off. There are still too many jobs to do, some of which I am inevitably still putting off, but it is back to feeling within the realms of achievable.
• I have also made conscious choices to take time off: ignoring the call of the jobs list and reminding myself not to feel guilty for making space for doing things I enjoy. 
• Stories of Hope and Home celebrated its fifth birthday with an incredible party and in the midst of the running around, I was able to pause and appreciate all this little project has achieved.
• A few weeks into the new academic year, every school age child in the hotel where I offer support to families is now in school: offering a sliver of normality for both them and their families.  
• Most of all, perhaps, I am surrounded by an incredible, supportive community around me who, knowingly or unknowingly, have played an important part in keeping me going and restoring my spirits.  

Onwards!

20 years

20 years (and a few days) ago, I graduated from Lancaster University and got married. It marked the end, and then the beginning of hugely significant parts of my life. 

Although my degree officially took four years, if you take out the year in France and work out the maths on just how short university terms are, I actually only spent a total of 99 weeks at Lancaster University, the equivalent of less than two years ... and yet it very definitely changed who I was. I learned quite a bit about English and French, a fair amount of which I have since forgotten, but also a whole lot about life. I found my tribe, found my joy and found myself. 

I graduated and got married two days apart (because why wouldn't you do all the dressing up in one go?) My memories of graduation day are fairly hazy: of the two, the wedding was by far the more significant and memorable event. It was, if I do say so myself, a very good wedding and an incredibly special day. I am still proud of the ceremony and party we created, of the things we prioritised and included, of the parts of ourselves we put into the day. I also remain very grateful for the community of people it brought together around us. 

The photo of the 300+ people who helped us celebrate, which includes many, possibly even most, of those who formed our communities at the time, is still on my wall, and still brings a smile to my face. There are quite a number of people in the picture who remain hugely important to me, as well as many from whom I have drifted apart and some who are no longer with us. In many ways, it still seems strange to think just how many of those I now count among my community don't feature in it: although I suppose it should be no surprise that in twenty years so many more people have come to be part of the many overlapping circles in which I mix. I am still adapting to a much newer reality that we both now have people who are really significant to us who are complete strangers, unknown to the other.

The day itself holds a special place in my heart, but, of course, it was always about much more than just that. For many of the years between then and now, my marriage shaped the places I (we) went, the things I (we) did, the adventures I (we) had, the causes I (we) fought for, the families I (we) are part of, the friendships I (we) built, the communities I (we) created, the lives I (we) lived ... the person I have become. There were challenges too, for sure, but there are very few regrets. I stand by my belief that my marriage enriched my life in immeasurable ways, something for which I will always remain grateful. 

Life has moved on, in all sorts of ways, since 2004. I am not the person I was then, although firm foundations for who I would become had certainly already been laid. Probably 20 years into the future, I will be just as different from who I am today. Society has long since left behind the days when people's lives might have mostly looked very similar twenty years on: with the same 'job for life', in the same locality, amidst the same friendships and community. I, and many of those I know, have lived in different places (including different countries), I have had multiple jobs, I have lost contact with people who mattered to me, just because our lives have drifted in different directions, I have been welcomed into or helped create new communities around me. I've attended different churches, been part of different social groups, explored different interests, developed different skills. 

Almost every aspect of the life I live looks different: and for the most part that is widely accepted and even celebrated. The 'what comes next' doesn't devalue the 'what came before'. I love Birmingham, but I am glad I have had opportunities to live in Paris and the Philippines and on the stunning coast of Northern Ireland before landing up here (for now). I describe my current work as a vocation, but see / saw teaching as a vocation too. My new friendships don't detract from the previous ones. These aren't necessarily things I walked away from easily or painlessly, but I accepted life was taking me in new directions. It has taken me time to accept that it is ok to see changes in relationships, even married ones with binding vows, in the same way too. 

Even though I am now well settled into another new phase of life, and even though a few short paragraphs could never hope to sum up everything my marriage gave me over many years, it feels appropriate to note and mark the passing of such a significant anniversary.

Resilience and rest

Following on from my two previous posts, I knew I wanted to write something about, in the midst of all of the stuff, how we, or at least I, strive to look after myself too. 

My refrain to others around me the last few weeks has been "marathon, not sprint": I have been repeating it as much for myself as anyone else. I know I need to still be standing tomorrow, and next week, and next year. I know I have more to do, give, be that I can't if I get broken at this stage. And yes, of course I have my moments of feeling utterly overwhelmed and there are occasional tears: I don't ever want to get to the stage where I can remain entirely impassive and unaffected; but on balance, I'm doing ok. Even if it doesn't always seem like it from the outside, I think I am in fact reasonably good at looking after and out for myself. I live life to the full and often stretch myself to my limits: but I do also know where those limits lie and generally don't cross them more often than I can cope with. 

I wrote in my previous post of the many things community looks like, and the many beautiful expressions of it I have seen and been part of in recent weeks. On a personal level it has also looked like a whole lot of people looking out for me too: people who have checked in, people who I know care and worry about me. People who have been there with supportive messages and conversations, with cups of tea and glasses of wine, with invitations to relax and have fun and with hugs on demand. I am very grateful to them / you all.  

So I was all set to write a post, about how, individually and collectively, resilience and rest matter, and the different ways in which I try to build them into my life and create rhythms and realities that work for me but what I planned to say has now been slightly derailed / reconfigured. 

This week, we re-enter ordinary time in the church, the coming Sunday's gospel reading is Mark 2:23 - 3:6 and it has fallen as my turn to prepare something to say for our Tuesday bible discussion group. It has proved to be a reminder, should I need one, that the lenses through which we read these texts are so often strongly influenced by our current context and experience.

In the story, the disciples pick and eat corn from the fields as they walk and then Jesus heals a man's withered hand. Both take place on the sabbath, and Jesus uses them to challenge the rules of what is and isn't allowed. I am sure there have been, and will be, times when I would read this text as a comfortably reassuring reminder that we are not called to a blind following of restrictive rules and that faith is something mor active and dynamic than that. 

That is not, at least initially how I read it this week. I'm never afraid to sound mildly heretical, and on first reading this time around I was, frankly, a bit irritated with Jesus. In the story he asks the question, what is lawful to do on the sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to kill?"

 

I aspire for my life and my work to be about doing good and bringing life. I am not pretending I do so perfectly or consistently, but I am trying to do my little bit. In many ways, these things are the very hardest from which to 'take a sabbath', to recognise the need for rest and recuperation. I have had to learn that it is ok to stop, even when the stopping means that good and important thing may not get done. I have had to learn to switch off, even while acknowledging it is a luxury those I support don't have. These have been hard learned lessons, and continue to be something which takes conscious discipline. I definitely do not need Jesus to tell me that I can give up my sabbath as long as it is to do good. I need to hear that it is ok to stop doing good, too. Fortunately, my inner voice, which may or may not be of God, continues to say exactly that, even if it is a whisper I have to consciously make space to hear.

And no, I don't want a strict set of rules: either external or self-imposed, by which to live the sabbath, but I do also recognise the value of doing sabbath well; and while Jesus may have had a point, in our current context and culture, I wonder if he'd have been trying to convey a different message to his audience. 

We (I) live in a society that has made a virtue of being constantly busy: where having something else on is considered a valid reason to not accept another commitment but just wanting time off isn't. We may have made a joke of the idea of turning down invites because "I'm washing my hair" but it does play into a deeper reality that just stopping and doing nothing isn't considered reason enough. While there have been certain positive steps in recent years, with looking after ones own wellbeing being increasingly recognised as valid, there is still a deeply embedded culture of 'busier is best'. I have no doubt that this culture contributes to my own struggle with building in 'sabbath time'. But it is not the only thing. 

My life, like many peoples, is made up of many, many blurred boundaries: of space and time and people. In many, even most, ways this suits me exceptionally well. I know I would hate (and know I would be spectacularly unproductive) in an office job with set hours. I like being able to choose what I do, and when I do it, but it mans there are no hard and fast lines drawn around what counts as work time. Technology, and the communication it facilitates, is both blessing and curse. The people I work with are also my community: they are the people I socialise and celebrate with. I enjoy their company and some have become people I count among my closest friends; but in many of these relationships I still fulfil a role of offering support where it is needed. I would not change any of this: but I acknowledge that it means working harder to identify the best ways to find sabbath in its midst.

And then there is this question, straight out of the gospel "is it lawful to do good, or to do evil?" One doesn't have to look far to find the suggestion that, where evil exists, and when we look around us it is ever-present, that to fail to do good is already to do evil. So wherein lies our right to pause and look after ourselves too? A couple of weeks ago I found myself responding to a friend who said "I should have been there" by trying to reassure her that no, she shouldn't. It was ok, right even, that she had not been there, even if that meant the situation didn't have as satisfactory a resolution as it might have done if she had been. On another day, those words, said out loud to someone else, could just have easily been the ones I told myself. When it comes to mundane admin tasks or replying to emails, anyone who has ever had to chase me will know very well that I don't find it so difficult to stop and not get them done! But when it comes to those things which feel like they will genuinely effect other people's lives and with which they need help, the things where I ask myself, 'yes, but if I don't ...': those are definitely the times it is harder to switch off. The resilience part of the blogpost title at least partly relates to this: the gradual learning to find ways to manage doing what I can, while also dealing healthily with what I can't or don't. The learning to know that other people can and will pick up the pieces too, and that even if they can't or won't or don't ... that I am still not called to do it all. 

Despite these challenges, I have learned to build sabbath time into my life in lots of different ways. My frequently lapsed and frequently reinstituted routine of prayer; days out and weekends away; time spent with friends and time spent alone; creative interludes, cooking nice food, and sitting on the sofa doing very little at all; not (or not always) feeling I have to explain or justify why something might have taken longer to complete or reply to than it 'should'; days, including work days, where I make a decision not to set an alarm, ... the list goes on. 

My version of sabbath probably looks very different to anyone else's, as well as looking different to what mine has looked like in the past, or will in the future. And that is ok. Maybe, now that I am past my mild irritation at what I read as Jesus' slightly unhelpful intervention, that's the point he too was trying to make. He does go on to say that the sabbath was made for us, not we for the sabbath ... he does not actually question the reality or value of the existence or principle of it. Maybe the point is that we can be the "Lord of our own sabbath" too. I am doing my best to find ways to do exactly that.

And so here we are. Bank holiday Monday. And I refuse to feel guilty that I am sitting in my pyjamas as I write. 

All the stuff. And all the other stuff.

It is hardly news to say that I have thrown myself whole heartedly into the good, the bad and the ugly of the migration sector and, specifically within it, the reality faced by those seeking sanctuary.

It is a reality which I will, fortunately, hopefully, never be able to fully understand, but I have walked alongside people enough to know it is a reality which is very, very hard and one which is constantly getting harder. On both a macro scale and a micro one, there is always, invariably, just one more thing. One more challenge, one more trauma, one more barrier placed in the way. 

In a different way to that which is the case for people living within the reality of its impact on their own lives, walking alongside people seeking sanctuary absorbs much of my time and energy. There are days that are full of joy and hope, and days which are much harder, but certainly my days are very full. All of this a choice I have made, and a choice I do not in anyway regret. It is challenging, frustrating and utterly heart-breaking. But it is also life-giving and utterly beautiful.  

Even within this narrow area of activity I am frequently aware of how much I still don't know or understand, and how much needs to be done that I am unable to do.

But this post isn't really about that stuff, its about all the other stuff.

It is about the fact that every time I look up and look around, I am constantly reminded that there are a million other issues too. And all too often, I am reminded that I am not doing anything about them at all. 

Some of them are issues I have engaged with more actively in the past. Others not so much. 

As a student, my first real awakening into social justice issues was through the trade justice movement, and I know unfair trade continues to destroy lives and livelihoods across the majority world. Trips abroad educated me further about global inequalities and their impacts. 

Later, I was involved in campaigning within the peace movement: against nuclear weapons and against the arms trade as a driver of conflict and destruction. Now a genocide is being committed in Palestine and other conflicts continue to proliferate, many of which aren't even considered newsworthy enough to make the headlines, despite the daily death tolls.

Living in Birmingham City Centre for several years I was daily confronted with the issue of the number of people experiencing homelessness. And the impacts of the housing crisis extend far beyond just those actually sleeping on the streets to all those living in precarious, temporary, exploitative accommodation. 

The area I now live in is best known as the home to Birmingham's prison: I am well aware that the justice system is deeply flawed and prison systems hideously broken.

Minority communities continue to face exclusion and abuse and if, in certain areas, there have been positive advances that do need to be recognised, many still experience daily micro-aggressions and others, such as the trans community, are watching hard-won rights being eroded and abuses increase. 

Birmingham City Council's declaration of bankruptcy has been followed by the announcement of devastating cuts to public services which will inevitably have the greatest impact on the poorest and most vulnerable residents. 

We are on a collision course towards catastrophic climate climate change and total environmental collapse which may well end civilisation as we currently know it and is already wreaking havoc in many parts of the world. . 

And that's just some of the ones that immediately spring to mind. There are many others.

I am not doing anything about any of these things. 

I know that they all matter. I am grateful to those for whom any of these, and other issues, are where they place their passion and energy.

A lot of the time, caught up in the things that fill my days, I admit to giving limited thought to how I could / should respond to or engage with all these other issues. When I do find myself thinking about it, mostly, I feel able to justify the value in what I am doing and make peace with the reality of all the stuff I can't do. I also understand that none of these issues stand in isolation and that often, our attitudes and actions in one area do, indirectly, impact on others. 

But of course it isn't always so simple. There is, at times, guilt, and self-doubt, and questioning whether I have my priorities right: whether there is more, or different, stuff I could or should be doing. There are not easy right and wrong answers to such questions. Saying this, or writing it down, isn't about beating myself up for the stuff I am not engaged with; on the contrary, being able to acknowledge what I am doing, and what I am not, what I can do, and what I can't, matters. Acknowledging and letting go feels far healthier than trying to pretend none of this stuff, or none of the internal questions about it, exist. 

Because that making peace isn't necessarily automatic. It doesn't just happen. It involves a certain amount of reflection and even, at times, conscious discipline. It continues to be something I wrestle with. I do not do it perfectly all of the time, but generally, I think I am doing it ok. 

This blogpost has been an unfinished draft for a very long time. It still feels fairly unfinished in some ways, but perhaps that's quite appropriate given the subject matter it is attempting to communicate.

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!

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.