Home is here, but it's also there

It is a couple of weeks since Stories of Hope and Home once again took to the stage at Birmingham REP theatre with their latest performance. We have done this enough times now that when, several weeks out, we have lots of ideas but no real form to the script, and when only a couple of weeks out, we still don't really know who the cast will be, I am more able to genuinely believe it'll all be alright, or more than alright, on the day. And as ever, of course, it was. 

For the past couple of years our starting point has been the theme given to us by the REP: after last year's "Love and Rebellion" I didn't think we could possibly be gifted such an appropriate theme again but as it turned out this year's theme "Home and Horizons" was also an excellent fit! Apart from that, we start, in about January, with an entirely blank canvas, with no preconceived ideas of structure or content. And then the conversations begin, the ideas emerge, and slowly but surely, something starts to take shape. It is a genuinely collaborative experience and a process I actively enjoy. The fact that each performance has been so very different in scope and style is testament to the many different people who have been involved in devising, writing and performing each piece: to who they are, individually and collectively, and to what they want to communicate.

One major difference this year from previous years was that we had all of the cast speaking live on stage, something we have never previously attempted. They were, or some at least were, palpably apprehensive, understandably so: but it worked, better even perhaps than they or I might have hoped.  The content was also quite different: while last year's piece focused exclusively on life in the UK asylum system, this year's also drew on the other places our participants call home, as we explored the shared experience of so many of the group of feeling partially at home in two (or more) places, but fully at home in neither. I told someone in advance that I thought it was also less overtly political than last year's piece, but after watching it, they questioned whether that was really true.   

For all the differences each year there are also significant similarities: each year I watch people support and encourage one another, achieving together something many of them didn't think they could do, each year I watch people grow in confidence and find their voice and new ways to express themselves, each year I watch an audience be educated and moved by the stories they hear, each year I watch people get a glimpse of just how amazing this group of people are, each year I am immensely proud of what this wonderful groups of people produce and perform. Above all, each year I watch people who are enjoying the process and having a whole lot of fun!   

"Home is Where we Belong" ended with the performers weaving together ribbons while reciting this poem, itself woven together from words and phrases from the group. It tries to capture much of what home means to them, what it feels like to always be stuck somewhere in the middle, as well as how, when our stories weave together, we can create something beautiful. 

Home is a meal and all those who share it,
Home is the flavours, home is the sounds,
Home is the joy, the dancing, the laughter
Home is the people by whom we've been found
Home is the love of all we call family
And the table we gather around

And home is there, but it's also here

A heart tossed and tugged and torn

And home is here but it's also there

A heart in two places at once

And home is this space in the middle

Where strangers can soon become friends

And home is this space in the middle

Where we each find a place to belong

Home is the cold I'll never get used to
And my skin warmed by African sun
Home is a language that sings in my ears
And one that still tangles my tongue
Home is a place of childhood nostalgia
The things that I've seen, the things that I've done

And home is there, but it's also here

A heart tossed and tugged and torn

And home is here but it's also there

A heart in two places at once

And home is this space in the middle

Where strangers can soon become friends

And home is this space in the middle

Where we each find a place to belong

Home is a place where all is familiar
But a place I was forced to flee
Home is a place that is still slightly strange
But a place where I feel safe and free
Home is traditions I've known forever
Home is where I can truly be me

And home is there, but it's also here

A heart tossed and tugged and torn

And home is here but it's also there

A heart in two places at once

And home is this space in the middle

Where strangers can soon become friends

And home is this space in the middle

Where we each find a place to belong

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.

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.

An advent poem

Winter definitely isn't my favourite meteorological season, but I think Advent possibly is my favourite liturgical season. Advent is filled with so much imagery which resonates with my sense of faith: images of light shining in dark places; images of a sense of anticipation and that there is so much more still to be revealed; images of trust, of promise and of hope.

While I love the one and am not a massive fan of the other, it does work for me that, here, Advent and winter coincide. My faith is not one which seeks to deny the darkness; it is one which recognises that God's promise comes into the midst of our messy reality. It is a faith of starlight, candle-light and fairy-lights: that while the dark is still there, fragile lights flicker and somehow manage to make everything more beautiful. My hope is not some naïve belief that everything will magically all turn out ok, but that in some mysterious way we will never fully understand, love does still triumph over hate. 

This poem attempts to capture something of those sentiments.

Shrouded in darkness
Winter comes
Weighing 

Damp and heavy on the earth

Huddled together
Exhaling clouds of breath

A whispered invitation

To tilt our faces

Look up

The dark is still dark
But as clouds part
Winter sun breaks through
Pale but promisingly present

The dark is still dark
But casting its warm glow
A candle flame flickers
And pierces the gloom

The dark is still dark
But twisted into branches
Colourful lights twinkle
To raise a smile

The dark is still dark
But reaching across time and space
Stars, bright and burning, shine
Pinpricks of light in the night sky

An intake of breath
The glimmer of a promise

Look up

The dark is still dark
But gestures of love stubbornly sparkle
An invitation to trust 
To cling to tentative hope

And so
with bated breath
we wait

together

in hushed silence

Dawn breaks
And the spring will come

Look up

My End of Summer Table

I first wrote and shared a poem inspired by Edip Cansaver's 'The Table' way back in early 2021. Since then I have used it more than once with Stories of Hope and Home as a vehicle for exploring life, identity, experiences and memories.

Most recently, we used it to look back over the summer, to reflect on the highs and lows of a season which for many of us included moments of community, great joys and lots of laughter, but also some significant challenges and sources of stress. Through conversation, writing and drama, we reflected on what the summer had meant for us, on what we were taking with us into the next season, and on what we hoped to leave behind. After several weeks of collaborative exploration, I invited individuals, using the original poem as a template, to write their own version. Despite following the same structure, they were each very different.

This is mine.

My end-of-summer Table

I, a friend, filled with sunshine
Came in from the summer
And put my pile of used bus tickets on the table
I put left-over cake and an unfinished cup of tea there
I put my sunhat as well as my raincoat on the table.
I put there the warmth of community
The sound of laughter and of a special song
The gentle pressure of another hand in mine
And new life I put there
On the table the friend put
Things that happened in my mind
A never endling list of things still to be done
I put that there.
Those I really wanted to understand and those I knew I never would
I put them on the table.
All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights
I put our shared humanity on the table.
I was next to a window, looking out on a sky within and beyond reach,
I reached out and placed silver-lined storm clouds on the table.
So many times I wanted to be able to make a difference
I put on the table my limitations
I placed there my energy and my exhaustion,
My memories of what was and my dreams of what might be
The state of the world and my tenacious hope for something different I placed there
I stood by the table and leant against it.
It sagged but did not break.
I turned, and walked into the colours of autumn and their promise of change.

Sometimes we belong

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

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

Week 1

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

Week 2

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

Week 3

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

Week 4

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

Week 5

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

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

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

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

Not a Christmas Poem

As I said in this post, I have written a Christmas poem every year for many, many years. And then there was this year, when I didn't. I made a conscious decision, relatively successfully, not to be frustrated by it, but that doesn't mean I haven't given any thought to the matter. .

The last poem I wrote (excluding those I have facilitated / collaborated on with Stories of Hope and Home) was the previous year's Christmas poem, published just a few days into 2023, so this is not a recent problem. The odd line or phrase or vague idea has flitted through my mind at intervals, but whether due to a lack of inspiration, or head / diary space, or discipline or all of the above, they went no further. Some made it on to scraps of paper (or the digital equivalent) others not even that.

There has also been very little art recently either, nor in fact most things that feel like they would have needed any degree of creativity. I signed up for a course of writing prompts through advent with the aim of trying to recapture some creative energy ... and failed to complete a single one. After a while, I stopped even opening the emails.

Some of this is about actual, objective, busy-ness. I do not regret the time and energy I pour into my work (although I do wish there weren't quite so many emails!). I put much of my energy into sustaining relationships that matter to me, however imperfectly. I have turned a house into a home. I have juggled many different balls: I have let some of them drop, caught some by the tips of my fingers, but kept many of them in the air.

But I am not naïve. I know this is not really, or not only, about objective busy-ness. If that was all, I could waste less time on social media and pick up a pen or paintbrush instead. I know this is also about the energy it takes to wrestle with the right ways to respond to a society and world that is on a collision course with destruction. I know it is also about watching people I care about struggle and suffer and choosing to use my energy to try and walk alongside them. I know it is also that there are no words or colours to easily capture much of what I see around me.

Beating myself up for not being creative isn't going to solve any of that, but I do believe that finding little spaces where I can find a creative spark is also part of the solution. So a couple of Sundays ago, I carved out some time. I attended a Writers HQ writing retreat, set myself a goal of "having something on a page" and spent the day doing just that. It was fairly self-indulgent, and weirdly tiring, but very satisfying.

There were glimmers of ideas, at least some of which might turn into something. Some might not, and that's ok. In the midst of the "something on a page" there was the beginnings of a poem, about there not being a poem. A couple of weeks on, it is ready to be shared.

There was no poem this Christmas

No rhymes

To neatly capture

The sentiments of the season

No words

To celebrate

The word made flesh

There was no poem this Christmas

No rhymes

To neatly capture

The suffering and the struggle

No words

To adequately witness

To other people’s pain

No rhymes

To break through

the overwhelming tide of tasks

No words

To somehow sum up

The chaos and the conflict,

The brokenness of our world

There were just empty pages

Resolutely blank

There was no poem this Christmas

No rhymes

To neatly capture

The families and the friendships

No words

To adequately witness

To the sparkling of the lights

No rhymes

To break through

The ebb and flow of conversation

No words

To somehow sum up

The chaos and the community

The rebuilding of our world

There were just empty pages

Resolutely blank

There was no poem this Christmas

No rhymes,

No words.

But the Word was present

And made flesh

As well as empty pages

There was God

Resolutely alive.

Christmas Poems, a brief history

I am not sure yet whether there will be a new poem for Christmas 2023. There isn't yet, but if it happens in the next few days, it wouldn't be the first time I've written one before the end of the Christmas season rather than before the start. I haven't been particularly inspired to be creative recently, so there's a very good chance it might not, and although there's a little part of me that will be slightly sad if I don't come up with something, I'm also not going to beat myself up about it.

I have been writing a poem every Christmas for a long time and several pre-date this blog. If for no other reason than this is a more reliable place to keep them for my own record than my hideously disorganised documents folder on my computer / hard drive, I decided I'd put them all in a post here. Their length was, at least partially, determined by the fact that most years I shared them in Christmas cards, until the busy-ness of life and the price of stamps put paid to that tradition!

I think, despite the recent lack of inspiration, I write better poetry now than some of these early examples, but what strikes me is how the themes still resonate. The very first one I wrote, it seems, was calling for peace in Palestine. Almost 20 years on, it could have been written today. Others, similarly, address social issues which have not gone away in the intervening years. My writing has developed, global "civilisation" it seems, not so much.

 

Christmas Poem 2005 – Dreams of Peace in Bethlehem

Bethlehem, holy city, where love came down,

Once surrounded by the angel throng;

Now trapped and stifled by a concrete wall

And bullets have silenced the angelic song.

Songs of joy and peace were once so near

Now the city lives in silent fear.

But there is still a whispered song of hope

Upon this green and troubled hill,

And this is still a holy city,

Where the suffering servant suffers still.

So this Christmas spare a thought for their pain,

And pray that peace may soon come to reign.

Christmas Poem 2006 – You do it unto me

Born into homelessness and poverty,

The first things you knew were darkness and danger.

Victim of violence in an occupied territory,

Forced to grow up, an outcast and a stranger.

Where are you now, oh Christmas Christ child?

In the sanitised stable of a nativity set

Pushed to one side where the gifts are piled,

Forgotten and ignored amidst the credit card debt.

But The Christmas Christ child is still with us here on earth:

He’s here in the poor, the abused, the refugee.

Is he welcome here among us as we celebrate his birth?

For “What you do to them” he said, “you do it unto me.”

Christmas Poem 2007 – A future of hope

In a sanitized stable with a warm orange glow

Well-dressed proud parents put a baby on show.

A nativity scene with saccharine smiles

Makes it easy to hide from the real-life trials

Of that first Christmas night in the cave of a stranger

When a baby was born into darkness and danger.

And what was the message that baby came to proclaim?

A future of peace and freedom from pain.

But around the world tonight it’s like the first Christmas still

As children grow up hungry while we eat our fill.

So tonight as we celebrate a refugee’s birth.

Let’s share his message with everyone on earth.

Stand up and be counted, let our voice be heard to say

That each child deserves a future, one which starts today.

A home to be safe in, enough food and an education

And let’s make this Christmas a real celebration.

Christmas Poem 2008 – A light to the world

A flame flickers faintly in the darkness

A fragile light alive in the night

Winds of change and news of the future:

A breath, shaping this light.

I can let the wind extinguish this flame

Deny my voice and give in to doubt

Close my eyes, turn my back and be silent

And so let the flame go out.

Or I can let the wind be a challenge:

Whatever the messages it may bring

Can fan the flames of inspiration

And let my hopeful soul sing.

A breath can turn sparks to powerful flames

Can let hopes and dreams be unfurled.

Stand up, speak out and burn brightly:

I will be a light to the world.

Christmas Poem 2009 – Peace that’s an advertiser’s dream

Peace on earth was the angel’s song

And to us all goodwill

And where do we search and where do we find

This peace that’s elusive still?

Inside the golden wrapper of a chocolate bar,

Curled up by a mock-Tudor hearth.

Hidden in the pages of a holiday brochure,

Or bottled up with luxury bubble bath.

Is this what was meant by the angelic voices?

Singing for a peace that’s an advertisers dream.

Or was their vision of something deeper?

Through which a glimmer of hope might gleam.

Where is the comfort in a holiday brochure

When you’re gazing on your bombed-out house?

Not much help from chocolate or bubble bath

When you’re grieving for your children or spouse.

So what of peace in far flung places?

What of peace in war-torn lands?

What hope of a peace that’s borne of justice?

Will we reach for a stranger’s outstretched hands?

Can we talk to each other? Can resources be shared?

Can the guns be laid down and the bombing cease?

Can the whisper grow louder than the advertisers jingle?

And can our Christmas carol be a real call for peace?

Christmas Poem 2010 – Do we really want Christ in Christmas?

To put Christ back into Christmas

In the media, is an oft heard cry

They want the cute, smiley baby,

And blond-haired angels in the sky

But do they know what it is they’re wanting?

Have they thought what they’re asking for?

Who is this Christ whose Mass it is?

And what would it cost to restore?

The Christ whose return they’re requesting

I’m not sure would quite fit their bill

He wouldn’t be dressed in a respectable suit

Or tut-tut that the area’s going downhill

The Christ who’s the true Christ of Christmas

Is the one who stretches out open hands

Who welcomes the foreigner, the stranger, the poor,

With society’s outcasts he stands

He mixes with those whose lives are messy

Who don’t fit in society’s neat plan

In the midst of the unlovely, unlovable, unloved

By his life saying, “yes, with love, you can”

So let us all make the same call as they do

For Christ to return to our world

But the media might get more than they bargain for

When the true kingdom of Christ is unfurled.

And then there's all the ones since the blog started which I decided I might as well gather up here too:
https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2011/12/gift-of-christmas.html
https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2011/12/why-should-we-celebrate-christmas.html
https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2012/12/glimmers-of-hope.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2013/12/a-song-of-prophets-and-angels.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2014/12/on-2nd-day-of-christmas.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2015/12/glimmers-of-christmas.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2016/12/this-is-joy.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2017/12/the-innkeepers-song.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2018/12/christmas-poem-2018.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2019/12/christmas-poem-2019.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2020/12/where-there-is-doubt-christmas-poem-2020.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2021/12/the-light-shines-christmas-poem-2021.html

https://stepsadventures.blogspot.com/2023/01/christmas-poem-2022.html

A Refuge is ...

The first Thursday in October is National Poetry Day. This year's theme was Refuge so obviously (with thanks to my mum who noticed and pointed it out well in advance), it was something I was keen to invite Stories of Hope and Home to explore. 

We produced a short film and wrote poetry reflecting on the question "What is Refuge?" Both were a collaborative effort between many members of the group, and we were really pleased with how they turned out. 

We shared them with local schools of sanctuary inviting them to engage in exploring the theme too, and it seems appropriate to share them here, as well. (If I'd been a bit more organised, I'd have done so on National Poetry Day. I'm not so I didn't.) 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JopdUpW2Urw

A Refuge is – A poem by Stories of Hope and Home

A refuge is

The sound of birds singing in the summertime

And the wind blowing through the trees in the limitless hills

It is raindrops and running water

It is the kettle boiling

It is family laughing, children playing, friends chatting

And my mother’s voice

It is the bustling sounds as I sit by the river in my city

And the gentle breathing of a loved one as I sit in quiet companionship

It is the sound of music

As well as the sound of silence

I found my refuge and it sounds like an echo of myself

The song of my dreams

A refuge is

The taste of warm milk late at night and buttery porridge in the morning

And milky hot chocolate, sipped while chatting with friends

It is sweet, silky honey,

And bread, freshly baked

It is the first sip of juice as we break the fast together

It is wiggly noodles slipping over my tongue

And my mum’s home-cooked food

It is meals shared with friends

It is sea salt on my lips

And the taste of my voice as I sing this victory song

I found my refuge, and it tastes like British cake

And a cup of tea

A refuge is

The sight of a colourful garden filled with beautiful flowers

And a blanket of snow making everything white and clean and silent

It is all the greens of nature

And it is the horizon over the sea

It is the sight of a good friend’s face after a long absence

It is stepping off a train to see a familiar place

It is watching the happy ending of a movie

It is everything I see in my dreams

And then seeing my dreams coming true

It is the sight of a bright future

I have found my refuge and it looks like the first ray of sunlight

Banishing the darkness of night.

A refuge is

The smell of a garden filled with lavender beneath the evening light

And of the first rain in the autumn falling on dry ground

It is freshly prepared coffee

And my dad’s mint tea

It is the smell of a Salvadorean Christmas

It is woodsmoke and incense

And a blue scented candle

It is steam rising from pots and pans

It is delicate flowers and sweet strawberries

And a perfume that fills me with memories

I have found my refuge and it smells like my mother’s kitchen

Where I am always welcome

A refuge is

The feel of comfortable feet in my favourite walking shoes

And of fresh water splashing on bare feet with the sand between my toes

It is hot sun on my skin and wind ruffling my hair

It is a warm bubble bath

And a baby’s cheek

It is the feel of being wrapped up in a snuggly blanket on a cold winter’s night

It is my soft cosy bed

And Fresh, clean pillows under my head

It is the feel of my tummy aching from real laughter

It is the feel of freedom

I have found my refuge and it feels like the hug of a loved one

Holding me safe enough to close my eyes

I have found my refuge

It is a place where I feel I belong.

Hope, the bird and the sewer rat

When people ask me how I am I generally, probably like most people, answer "I'm fine, thanks, you?". If I elaborate it tends to be with the many things that I've been keeping busy with and with all the little joys that keep me going. And it is true. I am fine. A lot of the time, I am much better than just fine. There is much about my life, a life enriched by beautiful experiences and incredible people, that I love very, very much.  

But (it was obvious, was it not, there was going to be a but) at least twice recently I have somewhat unexpectedly found myself in tears (I remain grateful that I have safe spaces in which that is ok). I know I have had days where my patience has frayed more quickly than it should. I know I have had days of being less motivated, more tired. 

I wrote a couple of weeks ago that it is ten years since I started volunteering, and later working, with people seeking sanctuary. The first blogpost I ever wrote about the subject talked about hope. There was always trauma and challenge and struggle, but hope was very much the word that summed up my experience of being among these amazing, resilient people. Their hope that their lives would get better, mine that I could be part of helping make it so.

It is no secret that the context has changed considerably in recent times ... and sadly, definitely not for the better. That vibrant hope with which people arrive is being drained from them by a system which seems purposely designed to destroy them. Watching traumatised people lose, quite literally in some cases, the will to live is very, very hard. And I watch, knowing they have survived so much and yet it is the British Immigration System which is tearing them apart, which is telling them they are less than human until a point where they start to believe it to be true. And I watch, knowing that there is little I can do to make it any better, knowing that this is already how things are even before the worse excesses of the latest legislation have been felt. 

The weight of that which I carry with those I love has certainly got heavier. Much of that is because of the worsening of their reality. Some of it is also because of the impact of the ways in which relationships have deepened over time and the ways in which I share in their stories and lives. It goes without saying that what I am experiencing clearly pales into insignificance compared to what those caught up in the system are going through; but while it is important not to overestimate it, I have learned that denying the vicarious consequences is also unhelpful. I, like everyone else in the sector, need to take seriously acknowledging the reality and looking after ourselves and one another as well as those we want to walk alongside.

***   

Without a doubt Emily Dickinson's most famous poem is "Hope is the thing with feathers". This was the hope I have often seen and experienced among people seeking sanctuary. The hope that sings in the storm. My life, and the lives of those around me, sang with that kind of hope.

There is another much less well known poem, written much later by Caitlin Seida in response to that one. "Hope is not a bird, Emily, It's a Sewer Rat." It is much less pretty than the original that inspires it. There is a darkness to it that doesn't necessarily make for easy reading. 

There is still plenty of birdsong in my life, but it doesn't always ring quite as loud as it sometimes has. This hope, then, the sewer rat kind of hope, feels more fitting to where I am right now. I am not giving up. I will keep finding hope, keep finding optimism, persistence, perseverance, and, yes, deep joy ... even in the sewers.

(Just to reassure anyone who might be concerned, I stand by the first paragraph: I am, absolutely genuinely, fine. I am, perhaps, having to work a little harder than sometimes to make sure that remains the case. Putting things into words here is one of my mechanisms for processing my reality and ensuring I stay that way.)

Hope is ...

During our residential last week we had a lot of fun, but we also shared and heard about difficult subjects and were reminded that the political climate can feel hostile, disheartening and overwhelming. We wanted people to go away inspired and full of ideas of how to speak out and to stand in solidarity with people seeking sanctuary. Doing so is important, but not always easy; and looking after ourselves and one another is crucial. Awareness of the struggles and challenges is essential: but so is holding on to the hope.

So instead of spending our final session considering campaign actions or writing to our MPs, we thought and shared about hope and wrote poetry together.

Most of the poetry I share on my blog is written by me but this isn't, or not mostly. It is written by teachers and chaplains and young retreat centre volunteers and by people seeking sanctuary from all over the world. It is written by people who love words, and people who struggle with them, people who are full of hope and people clinging to hope by their finger nails. 

Today is World Poetry Day, and the beginning of Spring. There could be no better day to share this piece, written collaboratively on that day.

Hope is…

Hope is a mix of colours

Hope is green like new growth and signs of life in springtime

Hope is baby-blue like the beautiful sky filled with clouds before the sun shines

Or after a storm when the dark clouds have finally passed

Hope is sky blue, bright and without limits

Hope is yellow, like a field filled with buttercups and sunshine

Like the daffodils that remind us winter is near its end

Hope is dazzling yellow like the first rays of sunshine at the end of a long dark night,

Like the sun that each day rises again, announcing the beginning of a new day

Hope is yellow and promises to return to everyone’s life

Hope is orange like beautiful summer flowers

And like the sun setting on the past and rising on the new tomorrow

Hope is orange because when you can see the sunshine you have hope

Hope shines bright like coming out of a tunnel and seeing the light,

Hope is white like a lamp glaring and bright like a spotlight that shines through the dark, guiding and encouraging

And sometimes hope is black like the night sky scattered with stars

Hope is golden and shimmery, elusive but oh so precious

Soft, bright light like the day between the darkness

Hope is a brightly shining rainbow, an array of different colours

Hope is like a mountain range, steeply gradiented, but level at the top

firm underfoot, offering support;

Like a journey, hope is many-sided,

It has its ups and downs and guides your path

Hope is round and bright like an unending roundabout leading us to forever happiness, destroy lingering fright

Hope is malleable and strong,

It is the ocean, inescapable and powerful, a true force of nature

It is like fresh waters that everyone surely needs

Hope is wide and hard like the sun battling through a thunderstorm

Hope is shimmering and infinite like the stars in a dark night sky

Hope is soft and smooth like the calming effect of stroking the feathers of pigeon

It is cushioning yet firm like that old teddy bear that is hard to the touch but brings comfort inside

It is soft, warm and all-encompassing like a gentle embrace, never letting go

Hope is soft and gentle like a hand leading and helping us carry on

Hope is heart-shaped, soft and tender like meeting ones family again with love

Warm and fuzzy like a family meal where everyone belongs together as one

Hope is star-shaped, hard with a soft centre like a chocolate-covered caramel

Or soft but with a steely-hard core like fluffy candyfloss around its wooden stick

Hope is flexible and static like 6 and 9 depending on the angle you are viewing it

Hope is intangible but noticeable,

It is large and has no limits,

Unshaped and uncoloured like freedom.

Hope is fragile yet strong depending on so many things beyond my control

Hope is the generator of emotions and the basis of the charm of life

Hope is the sunlight that you can find in the day

and the moonlight in the night

Hope is a lighthouse

A light in the darkness

Hope is believing, is having faith

Hope is expectation, desire, and trust

Trust in the process

Hope is optimism

Hope is a consistent motivation

Hope is powerful

Hope is strength

Hope is not letting go

Hope is the key of life

Hope is a thread

Hope is an outstretched hand, a guiding companion

Hope is beautiful

Hope is ours to be shared

The second greatest gift one person can give to another, and the greatest is love

Hope is the only thing that shines, a point of light in everyone’s mind, among all the bad things, all the darkness

Hope is life

And hope is a lifeline

Hope is a journey to the future

Hope is

Christmas Poem 2022

Generally, I love Christmas carols and am prepared to park my reservations about the frankly dubious theology in many of them, and sing along with more enthusiasm than talents which is, I understand, exactly how they are meant to be sung.

That doesn’t mean I am averse to picking apart the dodgy theology in between times though!

I have long taken issue with Away in a Manger: a carol doubtless loved and loathed in roughly equal measure depending on whether your general experience of children’s nativity plays gives you a warm fuzzy feeling or makes you cringe.

My own particular issue with it relates specifically to verse two, line two: “but little Lord Jesus no crying he makes”

I witnessed two babies being born this year; one cried at birth, the other didn’t. In the early days, that second baby's survival hung in the balance and he spent a number of weeks in neonatal intensive care. Thankfully he is now a healthy, happy baby … and he cries. While I am prepared to acknowledge the possibility, given the difficult circumstances of his birth, that Jesus was indeed a very poorly baby, I somehow don’t think that’s the point the carol writer was trying to make.

Aside from the very unhelpful implication that babies crying is somehow bad or sinful as opposed to just normal, healthy behaviour; my major issue with this line is it seems to want to mark Jesus out as different from expected human behaviour. Even here, in the season where we celebrate the incarnation, the docetic heresy, the one which denies the humanity of Jesus, rears its head.

I think, though it would of course be explicitly denied, in many subtle ways this ‘heresy’ is still very much present in much of our Christian thinking. While it is the idea that Jesus is “fully God” that perhaps most challenges the rational thinking parts of our brain, I wonder whether in many ways it is the idea that Jesus is “fully human” that we actually find more inherently challenging: if we mark Jesus out from babyhood as different and special, it gives us the excuse we need to shy away from his instruction to “go and do likewise”.

***

Small children played a significant part in my Christmas celebrations this year: and it was wonderful! There was lots of noise and mess and laughter. Perhaps inevitably, there was a little bit of crying at times too. It was all part of being fully human in the world.

***

All of which is a somewhat probably unnecessarily lengthy introduction to this year’s just-in-time Christmas poem:

***

The child cries

Because the child is human

And the child is hungry and wants to be fed

He cries to be nourished for the journey ahead

For the wine, and the fish and the broken bread

And the stars still look down

The child cries

Because the child is human

And the world is a confusing and scary place

He cries to seek the safety of a familiar face

From the depths of darkness, for the promise of grace

And the stars still look down

The child cries

Because the child is human

And the child wants to be noticed, and wants to be known

He cries to belong, to be wanted, to not be alone

For welcome to be offered, for love to be shown

And the stars still look down

And the child cries

Because the child is human

And the child is God.

Merry Christmas!

September Haikus

Apparently genuine Haiku, as well as the 17-syllable pattern, are supposed to have a “seasonal reference”. Well, September feels like a good time to try that out. Each of these attempts to be loosely inspired by something of my days this month, coupled with this idea of seasonal references.

I’m not very good at “short” so this proved to be quite a test with my main discovery being that Haiku definitely aren’t as easy as I thought.

Still, for what they’re worth, here they are…

1st
Some things stay the same
But so much is different now
A new year begins

2nd
Went out. Brought no coat
It starts to rain. But the sky
Is still beautiful.

3rd
It had been a while.
Perhaps that’s why I barely
Noticed the weather

4th
Children laugh and play
Together to celebrate
Dodging the raindrops

5th
Music, colour, light
Invite us to look up as
Day fades into night

6th
Waking to the sound
Of rain drumming on rooftops
And against windows

7th
Sometimes low rumbles
Of thunder instil more fear
Than a sudden CRASH

8th
Glowering skies spill rain
As the sun breaks through, I watch,
Waiting for rainbows

9th
Media subdued
And politics strangely calmed
But the world still turns

10th
Autumn approaches
But for now, most leaves are still
Different shades of green

11th
The sound of autumn
Leaves rustle on trees then fall
To crunch underfoot

12th
The sky was bright with
A sunrise glow, so the rain
Took me by surprise

13th
I wish it didn’t
Feel noteworthy, going out
Not bringing my phone

14th
Heart and mind, filled with
Memories of summertime
As the nights draw in

15th
The sun hangs low in
A deep’ning blue sky and the
Clouds are tinged with gold

16th
The sky is bright blue
But the chilled edge to the air
Says autumn is near

17th
The trees stand tall as
The sun sinks through the blue sky
Casting long shadows

18th
Far from home I see
Dark clouds gather, threat’ning rain
Somehow, it stayed dry

19th
Words can’t really catch
How many colours we mean
When we just say grey

20th
Walking in sunlight
In the midst of busy days
Grateful for this gift

21st
From tiny acorns
Mighty oak trees grow … unless
Squirrels get there first

22nd
Autumn equinox
The earth hangs, finely balanced
Between dark and light

23rd
There’s a special warmth
That’s found among friends in front
Of an open fire

24th
Green on the doorstep
In perfect walking weather
The best of autumn

25th
Friends and family
In these fleeting reunions
Together again

26th
Dark fades toward light
As hidden behind the clouds
The sun still rises

27th
Ah, English weather

Bright sun, cold rain, gusts of wind

Four seasons, each day

28th
I thought I might put
The heating on but went for
A jumper instead

29th
Nothing says autumn
Quite like shiny conkers hidden
Among crunchy leaves

30th

No cup of tea tastes
Better than one when you’ve just
Come in from the rain

Journeying through June

My theoretical "I want to write stuff" and my practical "sit down, show up, write stuff" seem to be rarely in sync with each other. And while I could use the "just too busy" excuse, I don't actually believe that myself, so I'm not going to try and convince anyone else of it. 

I recently saw this quote by Octavia Butler: "First, forget inspiration. Habit is more dependable. Habit will sustain you whether you're inspired or not ... habit is persistence in practice." Somewhere inside me, I know this to be true. Waiting for the inspiration will not make the inspiration appear. Sitting down in front of an open notebook, pen in hand, scribbling nonsense, just might.

So I'm back, trying to form a habit.

During June I decided I would write, every day. I knew well enough that just saying that to myself wasn't going to be enough. How? When? About what? So I set myself a challenge ... each day I would go on a journey: not some dramatic adventure, just the everyday wanderings that are part of normal life. Every day I would write about that. Something, anything. Without thinking too much or trying too hard. Words on paper. 

I sort of managed it. If I'm honest I didn't write something every single day, but I did write something about every single day and that still feels like quite an achievement. 

Later, I went back through everything I had written. I highlighted the sentences or phrases that I liked or that captured my attention. I chose one for each day. I strung them together, edited the odd bit, added a few words here and there, played with the sequence. And lo, poetry (of a sort!) 

Journeying through June

This is the story I should be telling:

Baby steps still move us forward
But sometimes we should pause
Intentionally
To appreciate early morning hints of warmth.

For long enough to get our breath back.

Even when sheltering from the rainstorm,
When wondering why someone is watering the flowers with their hood up,
When it is a day for staying indoors, padding barefoot down corridors,

Even when between the brightening, there is the threat of rain

There are always
Enough blue skies and shades of green to lift my spirits and restore my energies
And then comes
One of those days where, as soon as you step outside,
Warm sun permeates the whole of your being

So on those days
When I run out of energy whenever I am faced with an incline
When faced with randomly frustrating anomalies
When the day involves a lot of time on buses

I remember
The places that will be forever associated with joy
And a goodly dose of relief
The special texture to the blues and golden yellows of the evening
Wending through woodland, dappled light breaking through canopies gathered above
The controlled wildness which suits my tastes
A family of goslings, a pair of fluffy ducklings,
Unequivocal highlights
Unexpected delights

But also
The mere minutes of the everyday,
The strikingly unremarkable and familiar,
Little gestures of community to treasure
All because I paused and responded to a stranger
A slightly wonky front gate, the turning of a key,
One, two, three … jump… one two three …
Breathing free

Those little things that make your eyes smile

Isn’t it ironic that it takes a bamboo puppet to rehumanise real people?
Isn’t it funny the ways memories are created and association forged?
Isn’t it amazing how the human brain works?

So I set off on a journey
Made of more than fifty per cent faffing
And seamless changes of direction, noticed by no one but me
Which in the end will,

More by luck than judgement,
Be timed to perfection

Guided by the promise of a party
And laden down with cake
I dance until the very end.

I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Birth pangs and beauty

I know I use the word privilege a lot when I speak or write about my life and all the encounters and experiences it affords me. I do so because it is the one that genuinely sums up how I feel.

A few weeks ago, I was birthing partner for a very special friend and helped her welcome her child into the world. I sat by her side for hours in a hot, airless room witnessing pain and struggle and hope. I held out a hand and wished there was more I could offer. I cut the cord which had been literally the life blood of a child for the past nine months. I held a tiny child in my arms very soon after their entrance into the world.  

My insight into the miracle we call life has a new facet to it. The term "birth pangs" has taken on a much deeper meaning. 

Perhaps what struck me the most was the stark juxtaposition: of airlessness and the need to breathe deeply, of pain and of beauty, of fragility and of resilience: and how it stood as a reminder of the complications and contradictions that make up this messy, miraculous reality we call life. 

It was an immense privilege to be a tiny part of their story.

I thought at the time there was probably a poem in it. It has been fragments ever since. And now it has found a shape.  

Breathe in, breathe out

Reach out

Hold tight

Seek the light

And through the tears

And pains and fears

Amidst the mess

The sweat, the stress

A fragile hope

Of beauty

Bleeds

New life

Holds on

Holds tight

And this little, tiny life

So fragile, so frail

And yet so strong

Strives on

Towards the light

And as we watch

And as we wait

We bear witness

To

The resilience

Of vulnerability

And of faith

Trusting

The world is ready

To welcome

To offer a place

A sacred space

To simply be

Born

To simply be

  

Breathe in, breathe out

Reach out

Hold tight

Seek the light

And so we wait

Beneath bright

Artificial light

Whilst unheeded

Beyond the windows

The day fades gently towards night

The day fades

The sun sets

And life awakes

A final sigh

A baby's cry

And beauty breaks

Across the sky

And as

Eyes open

Heart beats

Cry breaks

Beyond the strain

Between the pain

Is born

This miracle of life

And a cord is cut

But as one

life-link

Severs

Thus begins

A whole world of

Trusting in

Depending on

Connecting with

One another

And so

Little one

Breathe in, breathe out

Reach out

Hold tight

Find the light.