Reading List 2025

This is the fourth year of me publishing my reading list for the year ...

An Equal Music - Vikram Seth

The Voyage Home - Pat Barker

The Cyclist who went out in the Cold - Tim Moore

The Dutch House - Ann Patchett 

Daddy-Long-Legs - Jean Webster

Gold - Chris Cleave

Belonging - John O Donohue

A gentle creature and other stories - Fyodor Dostoevsky

Hope for the innocent - Caroline Dunford

Birnam Wood - Eleanor Catton

The Book of Chameleons - Jose Edouardo Agualusa

Cloud Cuckoo Land - Anthony Doerr

The God Desire - David Baddiel

The Bookbinder of Jericho - Pip Williams 

Empireland: How imperialism has shaped modern Britain - Sathnam Sanghera

Small Bomb at Dimperley - Lissa Evans

Human Traces - Sebastian Faulks

There are Rivers in the Sky - Elif Shafak

James - Perivale Everett

Tidelands - Philippa Gregory

Sing but keep on walking (reflections for advent) - Jan Sutch Pickard

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!

Reading List 2023

Last year, I started keeping a list of the books I had read. The list continues:  

• No Friend but the Mountains - Behrouz Boochani
• Birmingham: It's not Shit: Fifty things that delight about Birmingham - Jon Bounds, Jon Hickman and Danny Smith
• Goodnight Mister Tom - Michelle Magorian
• Under the Almond Tree - Laura McVeigh
• The Finkler Question - Howard Jacobson
• The Forgotten Life of Arthur Pettinger - Suzanne Fortin 
• The Northern Monkey Survival Guide - Tim Collins
• The Mammoth Cheese - Sheri Holman
• Hidden Figures - Margot Lee Shetterly
• The Time Keeper- Mitch Albom
• Still Alice - Lisa Genova
• French Children Don't Throw Food - Pamela Druckerman 
• The Resurrectionist - James Bradley
• When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit - Judith Kerr
• Gironimo! Riding the Very Terrible 1914 Tour of Italy - Tim Moore
• Stand Up Ferran Burke - Steven Camden
• Gilead - Marilynne Robinson
• Attention All Shipping: A Journey Round the Shipping Forecast - Charlie Connelly
• Gangsta Rap - Benjamin Zephaniah 
• Demon Copperhead - Barbara Kingsolver
• The Island of Missing Trees - Elif Shafak
• Mrs Dalloway - Virginia Woolf
• Small Things Like These - Claire Keegan
• The Women of Troy - Pat Barker
• The Keeper of Stories - Sally Page
• The Last Family in England - Matt Haig
• The Silence of the Girls - Pat Barker
• The Possession of Mr Cave - Matt Haig
• The Chalet School Christmas Story Book - Ruth Jolly and Adrienne Fitzpatrick (Ed)
• Blood and Gold: A Journey of Shadows - Mara Menzies
• Double Vision - Pat Barker

There was also some poetry but you don't (or I don't) read a whole book of that, as such, so they didn't make the list; plus there were a number of children's picture books in the mix which I haven't listed, although Michael Rosen's The Sad Book is definitely worth a mention, as is all-time favourite The Night Before Christmas which I read as a bedtime story to the children staying over on Christmas Eve, definitely as much because I wanted to as because they did! 

Having just finished the last of the ones above, yesterday I started reading On Heroes and Tombs by Ernesto Sabato, but that one is really for next year's list. 

In The Shadow of the Trees

In June 2019, an ESOL class from St Chad's Sanctuary performed "Home", a performance that was the catalyst to the creation of Stories of Hope and Home. The interruption of a global pandemic as well as the evolution of other parts of the project meant it was July 2022 before we put on another major performance piece, "Refugee: What do you know about me?" at the REP in conjunction with Welsh National Opera. 

There was no three year wait for the next performance as we were back on stage this July. Again at the REP but this time with a mainly "in house" production. 

There was a little bit of external support with the script from Stephen Camden, the wonderful writer we worked with last year, a bit of support with the movement, and a lot of support with the tech from the incredible team at the REP, but without a doubt one of the best things about this year's performance was that it was very much the group's own creation. 

As "In the Shadow of the Trees" came together, it told the stories they wanted to tell, in the ways they wanted them told, structured around a format they wanted to use. Every idea it contained: the overarching themes and all the little details came from people within the group. Creative vision, writing and performance talent, collaboration and leadership skills emerged, sometimes in unexpected places. I was there throughout and honoured to be part of it. I held space, prompted and encouraged. I typed up scripts and turned up with requested props but overall there was very little of me in the performance, exactly as it should be. 

And it was beautiful!

There was deep joy in watching these people I care about flourish and grow. To see the confidence with which they communicated ideas and brought others along with them. To see their stories, so often sidelined, placed quite literally centre stage and treated with the respect they deserve.

Back in July, we shared the performance with hundreds of school children (and a motley collection of others) and now we can share it with you too. While it will not be the same as watching it live, we are delighted that the REP have shared the filmed performance online so we can reach an even wider audience with a performance which is, if I do say so myself, wonderful!

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

2022 Reading List

When I started reading my third book of the year, I decided it might be interesting to keep a record of what I had read: and whether or not it would eventually make it to publication, the drafts folder of my blog seemed like as good a place to keep it as any. And hey now it is written, it might as well be published. So this is what I have read this year ...

Two Lives - Vikram Seth

Girl with a Pearl Earring - Tracy Chevalier

A Long Petal of the Sea - Isabel Allende

A Change of Climate - Hilary Mantel

The Pier Falls - Mark Haddon

Little Brother - Ibrahima Balde and Amets Arzallus Antia

The Turbulent Term of Tyke Tyler - Gene Kemp

Senor Vivo and the Coca Lord - Louis de Bernieres

In the Full Light of the Sun - Clare Clark

The Salt Path - Raynor Winn

The Silent Boy - Andrew Taylor

Resistance: A Songwriter's Story of Hope, Change and Courage - Tori Amos

The Wreck - Meg Kenneally

The Little Coffee Shop of Kabul - Deborah Rodriguez

Those Who are Loved - Victoria Hislop

The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro 

The Vanishing Half - Brit Bennett

The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane - Lisa See

The Wall - John Lanchester

The Humans - Matt Haig

Resistance - Anita Shreve

My Name is Why? - Lemn Sissay

The History of Bees - Maja Lunde

Circle Song - Nawal El Saadawi (from God dies by the Nile and other Stories)

The Discomfort of Evening - Marieke Lucas Rijneveld

The Echo Chamber - John Boyne

The Dictionary of Lost Words - Pip Williams

Radio Silence - Alice Oseman

Klara and the Sun -  Kazuo Ishiguro

When God was a Rabbit - Sarah Winman

The Second City Trilogy - Steven Camden

Redemption Song and Other Stories - The Caine Prize for African Writing 2018

Spanish Steps - Tim Moore

Summer - Ali Smith

The Memory of Love - Aminatta Forna

Hope in the Dark - Rebecca Solnit

The Girl in the Picture - Denise Chong

Home - Salman Rushdie

The Girl on the Train - Paula Hawkins

The Kindness of Strangers - Edited by Don George

No Friend but the Mountains - Behrouz Boochani

I have also read far too many social media posts! I sometimes wonder just how many more good books I could read if I didn't waste quite so much time on twitter ... but there you have it, my reading list for the year

Thirty words (3)

This is the third and final instalment of my June challenge of writing thirty words every day. So here we are, thirty vignettes: inspired by the last month of my life, by conversations and encounters, and by my imagination.

Part 1 

Part 2

And these: 

21st June

The pain of separation. A deep ache of gnawing uncertainty enveloping the heart. Anxious, disorientated, numb. But fingers curl tight around a sliver of hope, determined not to let go.

22nd June

Disordered words scribbled across a tattered page. Disordered thoughts scattered in a distracted mind. How do we find order in this chaos? How much does it matter if we don’t?

23rd June

Sometimes every inch is an effort, sometimes miles fly past. Sometimes each day seems to last a lifetime, sometimes weeks flash past. But the wheels, and the earth keep turning. 

24th June

Sometimes, you just want to curl up under the covers for a while. That’s ok. Provided you remember the shape you make is always a comma, never a full stop.

25th June

The sun smiles down from bright, cloudless skies, and the earth heats up beneath it. But the best kind of warmth comes from inside, and we usually call it love.

26th June

How often we resist the pull and possibility of newness for fear of wasting what went before. But autumn leaves which fall from trees aren’t wasted, they are making way.

27th June

A simple air, hummed absent-mindedly; a catchy chorus sung out totally un-self-consciously, poetic words, infiltrating the soul. This is music, with the power and beauty to sustain and change us.

28th June

Ethereal early morning light bathing the earth. Cool freshness cradling the promise of heat. Foliage still gently caressed by dew drops. The precious quality of a new day just beginning. 

 

29th June

Lives carefully stitched together from those parts of ourselves lived out loud in vibrant colours, and the deeply hidden secrets traced in fragile silver we scarcely dare whisper to ourselves. 

30th June

The shadows shift, and at times it seems the light fades; but then the clouds crack open, pierced by a shaft of light which reminds us, all will be well.

And so, tomorrow, another month begins. 

Thirty Words (2)

For the month of June I set myself the challenge of writing thirty words a day. Only thirty. Exactly thirty. Part 1 appeared here, this is the second instalment.

11th June

We tell stories because we are made of stories. Snippets of stories, scribbled on crumpled scraps. Shards of stories with jagged edges, but which yet create a kaleidoscope of colour.

12th June

Poppies waver in the wind. There seems such contrast between their fragility and the firm solidity of those November ones. I wonder if, in this remembrance, we have, somehow, forgotten.

13th June

This is hope. Tiny seeds lie buried, hidden and seemingly inert. And yet, almost imperceptibly, in the dark of the dirt, something grows, bursting with the potential of new life.

14th June

Filled with foreboding, a storm approaches. Eerie light suffuses gathering clouds. Thunder rolls overhead. But the raindrops dance into puddles and a bridge of colour is splashed across the sky. 

15th June

Sparkling with life, shimmering with hope: imagination captures the light of new possibilities. Settling only for brief moments, she flickers just beyond our reach, urging us to follow her lead.

16th June

Sometimes, despite trying to listen, we struggle to hear. Sometimes, we can’t understand why the message seems to change. Sometimes we just have to trust there is a way forward.

17th June

However trapped we feel by mundane reality, imagination allows us to soar beyond it. Whether we imagine the impossible or what might somehow become: is this what makes us human?

18th June

Look up. Vivid blue interrupted by wisps of white. Granite-grey, heavy with unspent rain. Soaked in orange, tinged with pink as the sun rises and falls. Midnight-dark, scattered with stars. 

19th June

How can we tell when what we do, give and are is, in fact, enough? Who can we trust, when not ourselves, to tell us we are, in fact, worthy?

20th June

Doors. Ways in and ways out. Some flung wide open, others resolutely closed. Hardest, perhaps, those apparently open, which we approach, only to find ourselves banging heads against one-way glass.

I'm quite enjoying this process, so am already looking ahead to what I could set myself as a creative challenge during July. I'm open to suggestions for a new idea!

thirty words (1)

My creative output has been distinctly limited recently: best laid plans of writing more and painting more during lockdown have not really come to fruition. The creative spirit, it appears, cannot be forced.

But then, prompted by a conversation with a friend, I wondered whether, in fact, perhaps it can. Not be forced as such, but be worked at. That there is discipline, as well as inspiration. 

So having closed my gratitude diary on Pentecost Sunday, I started a new regular commitment: every day, for the thirty days of June I would write something that was exactly thirty words long. There was, I knew, no point aiming for something too ambitious and setting myself up for failure, but that felt like a manageable challenge. Perhaps some of them will spark ideas of something else later. Perhaps not.

You don't have to read them, but for the record, here are the first ten:

1st June

We call them weeds, dismiss them as unwanted, these flowers growing by the wayside. But these bright splashes of colour, these signs of life, brighten up the monotony of grey.

2nd June

Sometimes there are, in fact, no right words to say. And in that moment of painful silence, what does one offer when we cannot reach out and hold each other?

3rd June

Shoulders hunch against the clinging drizzle as clouds hang, grey and heavy, in the air. But beneath the rain there is a new freshness to the countless shades of green.

4th June

A tongue stumbles over unfamiliar sounds. And yet, those words, stuttered hesitantly, somehow create a connection. Here, in this space where communication makes community possible, a new family is formed.

5th June

When dark glowering skies are threatened, these fragile rays of sun, even if they lack the warmth of previous days, feel somehow precious; and each sliver of blue, a blessing.

6th June

Wherever children’s innocent, unfettered laughter sparkles with the colours of dreams; joy and hope join hands to twirl and dance beneath the rainbow, to the irrepressible tune of life’s harmony.

7th June

The sounds of water should be the stuff of poetry, except, which words truly capture the eternal beauty of roaring waves, gently lapping tides, babbling streams, a tumbling waterfall’s song?

8th June

Remaining on the palette are the unwanted splashes of colour that didn’t make the final canvas. But, weighed down under confused, overlapping layers of paint: perhaps this too is art.

9th June

Like others before us who have built bridges across vast chasms of the unknown: what bridges will we dare to build, and towards which future will we direct their course? 

10th June

We build bridges to open the way towards undiscovered connections and adventures. We build bridges to stretch beyond our limited horizons. We build bridges to bring the impossible within reach.

Stories of Hope and Home (2)

Scrolling through my blog feed, I realised it was a long time since I wrote anything here about Stories of Hope and Home... which is some what surprising, given that it has very quickly expanded to fill much of my time and even more of my head-space.

The last post on the subject was written way back in September, before it really even existed. Five months later, it is in a very different place.

Much has happened, and it has been (and I am sure will continue to be) a truly amazing privilege to help this fledgling project take flight. Somehow, though, it seems pretty hard to put into words, which is ironic, given it is a project entirely based around doing exactly that. It surely shouldn't be so difficult to tell the story of telling stories? And yet, somehow, there is no simple, coherent narrative to capture all that this project has very quickly become. Perhaps though, that is one of the many things we are learning together: that stories are not simple and ordered and complete. They are made up of seemingly throw-away comments which tell deep truths, and of tattered scraps of paper which reveal something of ourselves.

The Stories of Hope and Home group started meeting at the beginning of October. Since then, 30 different individuals have engaged with the project, from eighteen different nationalities. Men and women, of different ages, different cultures, different religions, different languages ... who have built a truly beautiful, supportive community which cradles both laughter and tears. The numbers only tell a tiny part of a story which is woven out of so many other stories being brought together and held in this space.

And for me, in the midst of it all, to be entrusted with so many snippets of so many stories feels like an immense privilege but also a significant responsibility. Back in the autumn, I asked one of the participants for permission to share a part of their story. She replied "you don't have to ask, because my story is also your story now" That, which encapsulated in words much of what I feel I have been given by those I am working with, felt like such an act of trust and such a very precious gift.

The other part of the project, to create opportunities for the project participants to share their stories with children and young people in schools also already feels like it is bearing fruit. A rough calculation suggests we have spoken to almost 300 school students, plus their staff, since we got started. But again, the numbers tell only a tiny snippet of the story. The real story lies in watching young people's faces change as they listen, in hearing them respond, in sensing their engagement; and in listening to conversations between participants about their own reflections on what and why they are sharing their stories with these young people.

There are still, for me, questions and challenges around this part of the project that whir around my brain. I really believe in the power and possibility of this: my own life has been significantly enriched and transformed by my own encounters with these stories and these people; I want to be part of offering something of that experience to others. I have also seen the value for individual participants of having space to share their stories, and having those stories really heard. But none of that has fully assuaged my nagging doubts and questions around the ethics of this work, and I am continuing to reflect on how to ensure I am respecting the integrity of those who are participating in the project and ensuring I do not abuse the trust they are placing in me. I hope I am getting the balance right. I hope I will be forgiven for the occasions I inevitably get it wrong.

NaNoWriMo

This is partly a post justifying why I haven't written a blog post for a while (which even if you noticed, you probably didn't mind!) but also a bit of a reflection of the writing-shaped-thing that took over the last month instead.

Several years ago I registered on the NaNoWriMo website. This year, for the first time, I actually attempted to complete this crazy challenge which consists of writing a novel (albeit a short one) in just one month.

The idea that I could possibly do this: to write 50,000 words in thirty days, without really giving up anything else or creating additional space in my already overloaded schedule was, frankly, bonkers.

Perhaps needless to say, I didn't manage it.

But, that said, I did commit to writing something, at least, every single day, for thirty days. Which I managed to stick to. In total, in November, I wrote 28,512 words. Which is quite a few.

By any normal standards, that feels like a phenomenal achievement.

So it is an interesting dynamic to still feel somewhat disappointed that I didn't "win" and write the full 50,000 words despite every little bit of my rational brain telling me that it really doesn't matter. I knew by about half way through the month I definitely wasn't going to hit the total. I tried to let go of the pressure of the word count and just enjoy the achievement of writing as much as I did. Mostly, I succeeded, but not entirely.

But if the word count was a pressure and a source of mild frustration or disappointment, it was also a motivation. I have often thought about wanting to do more creative writing, but the NaNoWriMo challenge encouraged me to make it a priority and, mostly, I genuinely enjoyed it. It will be interesting to see whether I manage to carve out time to continue.

A lot of it, unsurprisingly, isn't particularly good. Some of it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. There are plenty of badly written bits that don't scan and inconsistencies and general things that good writing doesn't have. But, in between, there are some bits that I think are perhaps reasonably well written. With a lot of editing some of it might, even, at some point, be something I'd be ready to share. No promises.

So yes, that was November.

Stories of Hope and Home

In this post, I spoke of new adventures ahead, nebulous ideas which I hoped would start to take shape through the autumn. I guess this is the update that follows the "watch this space" with which that ended.

It is all very exciting, but I admit, also slightly daunting. It is an act of faith: and while the parts about believing it's an amazing idea and that it will be a great project are easy; it also requires me to believe that I can make it happen, and that's a different type of confidence which I mostly have, but which sometimes wavers.

The exciting part is that the project now exists. Well, it has a website, a twitter feed, and a facebook page, so it certainly exists in the virtual world; there is probably a little more work to be done for it to become real in the real world. Even there, though, it is slowly starting to take shape, and I am beginning to believe it will happen.

New beginnings involve plenty of dreaming dreams; but mixed in with reflecting on possibilities ahead, there are plenty of mundane realities to put into place too: opening a bank account, looking into public liability insurance (talking to insurance brokers is definitely the most grown-up thing I've ever done), risk assessing, applying for grants and even starting to think about the dreaded GDPR. It is a probably a good indication of how passionate I feel about this undertaking that even these administrative tasks haven't felt overly burdensome, and even things like receiving a debit card in the post has been tinged with excitement (which may be even more the case when the bank balance goes above £00.00).

I know that, for all my enthusiasm, there will be plenty of challenges ahead. The thing I am currently finding most difficult is the bit that involves working out what I am worth, financially speaking, although it comes with all sorts of overtones of how we experience value.

Budgeting probably isn't the greatest strength which I bring to this anyway; but I have had no problem working out costs and asking for money for bus tickets, for tea bags, for paper and printing, for all that stuff which will make running the project possible. What is proving much less comfortable is writing in payment for my time. I am not naive. I know projects like this don't run themselves, that potentially it will take a huge amount of time, energy and commitment to make it a reality. And while I know that I have many failings and things which are not my strengths which I will have to seriously work on, I do think I am the person who has the gifts and skills and perhaps more importantly the passion, to make it happen. I know all that, I think, but it still doesn't sit easily or comfortably to turn that into monetary value. It is perhaps hard to explain why, but writing my working hours into a grant application feels somehow different to applying for a job with an advertised pay scale. I know it needs to be done though, but it has made me reflect on how we place value on ourselves and on our work; perhaps that, in and of itself, is not a bad thing.

There will, undoubtedly, be more updates to follow as I attempt to turn a vague idea into a concrete project.

The next adventure

I feel like this is a blog post title I have probably used before ... But it seems fitting once again, even if the 'next adventure(s)' to which it refers are not in this case some concrete plan but a collection of nebulous ideas, which may or may not find a way to leap from the world of my imagination into reality! Hopefully, somewhere, there will be a meeting point between passion and possibility in which something will take shape.

There have been lots of changes at St Chad's Sanctuary in recent months, and while change can be daunting it can also provide a healthy space for reflection and discernment. Healthy doesn't necessarily equate to comfortable or easy, of course, and the last months have certainly also had their challenges as I have struggled with the process of figuring out the 'what now?' There have been tears.

I realise I am in a very privileged position to have a huge amount of freedom to reflect on and seek to pursue my dreams. I have the support of good friends, and I am grateful to those who have journeyed with me through this process. In some mysterious way that I don't even pretend to entirely understand, I believe God has been an important part of the process too.

I have always loved teaching through poetry and story. It is a standing joke that if I cover a class at short notice, my go-to activities usually involve resorting to poetry. This year, perhaps more than ever before, I have seen the power of the story. Through the play "Home" and all that preceded and surrounded it, I have seen the power of individuals whose voices are not normally heard finding their voice, sharing their story and understanding that they have something to say that is well worth hearing.

I saw the impact it had on the students involved: on their confidence and character, on the way they interacted with each other and their world. Others too, who knew and met them, commented on the changes they saw in them. And I also saw the impact it had on those who encountered those stories, confidently shared, by real individuals. I saw the ways those telling their stories could reach out, and make people think and feel differently. I saw a way of sharing this space for human encounter which has changed and shaped me over recent years. I came to the end of that experience thinking, knowing, "we need more of this."

And so, for these reasons and others, after three years of much of my life being intricately intertwined with the life of St Chad's Sanctuary, I am branching out.

I am not moving on completely, and even if I were, St Chad's Sanctuary will always have an extremely special place in my heart. I will never be anything but grateful for the opportunities it has afforded me: for me, no less than for the asylum seekers and refugees it seeks to welcome, it has played a very important part in Birmingham becoming a place I call "Home".

The current incarnation of my plans for the autumn is that I will continue working at the Sanctuary, but only for a few hours a week, running the family learning activities. Many of my other activities and commitments will remain the same. And then, somewhere in the space that is created by stepping back from my ESOL co-ordinator role, I will try to get a project off the ground using story-telling, poetry and drama to help asylum seekers find their voice, share their stories and in so doing contribute to transforming the communities around them.

After much soul searching, I have emerged from a period of inner turmoil with a sense of peace. I am stepping out, again, in faith and hope.

I am not naive. I suspect the coming months will have many challenges. There will, undoubtedly, be times when I feel I have made some wrong decisions. I will need much grace.

When I came back to my previous post, it had been sitting, incomplete, in my drafts folder for over a year. Some parts were less apt than when I started it. But the essence: that I believe in vocation, in a sense of calling, not as a static reality but as a journey of discovery; remains as true now as it did then.

Onwards! The next adventure awaits. It remains to be seen exactly what said adventure may be. Watch this space ...

Home is where you feel you belong

This week has been Refugee Week, and with it came the culmination of a significant project I have been working on with my students, THE PLAY (and yes, I have been thinking of it in capital letters for quite sometime!) After a very low-key panto before Christmas, and some poetry writing based on memories earlier in the year; I decided to invite the students to pull together an auto-biographical play. And because they are amazing, and because they know I'm a bit bonkers but it'll probably be ok; they said yes probably without, really, having much idea what I was talking about!

From the humble beginnings of just something hopefully both fun and meaningful (oh, and educational) to do in class, it somehow grew into a major project. Deciding to perform during refugee week, putting out an invitation to schools and discovering how receptive they were, all added up to adding a layer of pressure for it to turn out well!

We spent weeks sharing and exploring our stories, building a picture of who we were and what we wanted to share with those around us. With performances scheduled for the 19th June, we finally pulled the script together less than three weeks before, and our first full, uninterrupted run through (with most but not all of the cast able to be present) was on the Monday before we performed to an audience on Wednesday. There were, I confess, a few sleepless nights. There may have been a few other responsibilities that haven't been fulfilled quite as they should have been.

And so we reached performance day. In the end, they performed three times, twice in the day time to a total of over 300 school children, and then an open performance for a hundred-ish in the evening. And it was a fantastic day! The cast were amazing, the confidence with which they spoke to an audience in their second (or third or fourth) language, the courage and grace they stood up and shared some deeply personal stories, the way they overcame their nerves and upped their game were truly inspiring. The audiences, in different ways and at different levels, were receptive and engaged.

The performances were wonderful, but there were highlights in between too. During the long break between the afternoon and evening performance, we could have dispersed, but decided to stay. We ate together (thanks to the students who brought food to share, delicious!), we laughed and we talked. But more than that, it turns out that, given lots of time, a large space, and access to a PA system, mostly what my student will do is dance! I think we covered pretty much every genre: from traditional Persian, Arabic and African dances, to Baby Shark, via La Macarena and YMCA. There was so much joy in that room that day. And this too, is how friends are made.

I think I did a fourteen and a half hour working day. I was very, very tired on Thursday. I have zero regrets. It was a truly beautiful thing. Given the chance, I would do it all again tomorrow.

At the end of the final performance, I was thanked. Once I'd recovered from the intense embarrassment, I know that what the students said was beautiful and deeply humbling. That they know I have offered them something is clear: I only wish they could at least partially understand just how much they have given to me.

Because I don't really have the words to explain what a privilege it has been to be a part of this project. There have been so many stories, so many words, so many conversations and so many cups of tea. There has been so much trust and honesty, so much love and compassion, so much genuine friendship. There has been so much new found confidence, so much discovered, or rediscovered, self-worth. We have all grown, individually and as a community, through the process. There has been so much lived and shared which can't be measured, and can't really be explained.

The title of the play was "Home"; the strapline, "Home is where you feel you belong". It is truly special to 'feel I belong' amongst this amazing group of people.

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JrsWdQ5iQyM&feature=emb_logo)

Seasonal Stories (1)

It may be a cultural stereotype, but it is true that there is, if you live in the UK, always plenty to be said (or written) about the weather! 

It was one of those days. Even now, at midday, the winter sun was struggling to make its presence felt through a thick blanket of monotonous grey. The dark mass was insufficiently distinguishable to merit the name clouds but didn’t quite justify being called fog either. It wasn’t raining as such, but the dampness in the air seeped through even the most waterproof of layers leaving him drenched without really knowing how. The bitter wind which whipped across his face stung a painful redness into his cheeks. It was one of those days ... and it perfectly matched his mood.

 *     *     *

There is nothing quite like a thunder storm on a summer evening. Most people hide inside when they see them coming: but she was not “most people”. And so it was that at the first crash, she ran outside, tipping back her face to catch the rain drops. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the scent of freshness. Smiling, she imagined the neighbours peering out from behind their floral curtains. She didn’t care. The sight, the sound, the smell, the touch, the taste of it: this, more than almost anything else, reminded her that she was still fully alive.

 *     *     *

When she stepped barefoot into it, the lawn was still wet with dew which sparkled and glistened beneath the rising sun; but the sky already held the promise of a balmy heat which would envelop the later part of the day. There was a near-silence at this hour, too, which would evaporate as quickly as the dew drops on the lush blades tickling her feet. Even the birds seemed to call to each other in more muted tones. She would be happy enough, later, to join in the garden’s endless social whirl. On balance, though, she preferred it like this.

 *     *     *

A blizzard had swirled constantly around their mountain home for the past three days making it impossible to so much as step out of the door. As soon as she woke this morning, though, she could sense something had changed. The air held a hushed stillness, pregnant with promise. She leaped out of bed, silently grateful to the inventor of under-floor heating, and ran to draw back the curtains. Through intricate frost patterns she gazed out at a magical Christmas card landscape. The sun had broken through the clouds at last, and the whole world sparkled and glittered beneath it. 

 *     *     *

Outside the window, the early morning frost sparkled on the bare branches. He would go out soon, making the most of these few precious hours of sunlight. Hanging low in the deep-blue sky, the autumn sun’s rays crept through the woodland canopy creating a dappled light beneath. Sheltered from the autumn rains, the rusty leaves here were brittle and offered a satisfying crunch beneath his feet. Later, he would curl up by an open fire with a slightly battered copy of a favourite book, hot buttered teacakes and a large mug of steaming tea. This was autumn at its best.

*     *     *

* If this post makes no sense, read this one for some context: http://stepsadventures.blogspot.co.uk/2017/07/a-story-project.html

Through a doorway (2)

The sweet scent of the flower meadow was already drifting through the open window when she was woken by the shaft of sunlight gliding through the gap in the dainty curtains. Barely a moment later, she was flinging wide the double doors and breathing in the fresh spring air. After the harsh grime of London, it was like a doorway to another world. Her ears, accustomed only to the constant buzz and roar of the city, tuned into the twittering dawn chorus. Stepping out, she skipped in unshod feet into the long grass and knew she would be happy here.

*        *        *

As he pulled the door closed behind him, for what he fully expected to be the final time, he wondered if he would miss this place. He found it hard to imagine he would ever be nostalgic for its dusty rooms or yearn for its echoey halls. He had spent most of his formative years here, but they had scarcely been joyful ones. And so he picked up the suitcase at his feet and walked away, without so much as a backward glance at the door which had held so much promise when he had first set eyes on it.

*        *        *

The door slammed shut with a force that made every corner of the tiny cell reverberate but she remained motionless. She stayed curled in on herself, pressed up against the furthest corner of the room. Further away she heard other doors open and slam and, from the midst of her terror, she wondered about who those other women might be. Did they too suffer aching nightmares of guilt and regret. This was not the golden dream that had been painted before she left her home and all her known world behind. This was not how it was meant to be.

*        *        *

There was always something exciting about the sound of the guard making his way along the train: past the hustle and bustle on the platform and the faces pressed up against the sooty glass (an action regretted later when they had to be scrubbed clean). This day had been long-awaited: dates studiously ticked-off on the kitchen calendar, bags packed and repacked to make space for crucial forgotten items, picnic lunches meticulously prepared. But for me, it was always this, the sound of the slamming of so many carriage doors, more than anything else, which signified the holidays had really begun.

*        *        *

The instructor’s voice echoed inside his head as he positioned himself in the open doorway, arching his body to meet the wind. Despite the thorough training, nothing had really prepared him for the sheer terror of looking down into the void beneath. Fingers clutching the metal, for an instant he wondered whether he could really go through with this. And then, almost without realising how it had happened, he was free-falling through the bright blue sky. Nothing had really prepared him for the sense of total exhilaration either. This, he decided, was what it felt like to be truly free.

*        *        *

Through a doorway (1)

She leant her full weight, such as it was, against the solid oak door, wondering if sheer willpower would be enough to shift it but despite a promising creaking sound, it remained resolutely closed. She scanned the rough wood for clues, running her fingers around the edges but picked up nothing but painful splinters. Turning her back to the unyielding door, she sank to the ground, laying her aching head on her knees. Completely drained, she lacked the energy even to cry. It seemed she had reached the end of the road and there was nowhere else left to go.

*        *        *

Whatever worries the real world held, he knew that as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, he need only bend his head down low and slip through the tiny door hidden beneath the yew tree hedge to disappear into a magical world of fairies and friendship. Here the twilight hours belonged to him, and here in this ephemeral dream world nothing could harm him. Here the world glitters and sparkles under a shimmering layer of elfish dust wrapping up the promise of happiness. Until, that is, a deep, velvety darkness falls and the dream fades into the oblivion of sleep.

*        *        *

The door, ajar when she arrived, slid silently open as she nudged it with the tip of her toes. She stepped inside, drawing it to a close behind her. Finding herself in a wide entrance hall, leading to a richly carpeted staircase, she seemed to have stepped into one of the story books she and her sister had poured over when they were children. She took a couple of tentative steps forward, her footsteps echoing on the marble floor. As she wondered how to draw attention to her presence, she heard a door bang and hurrying footsteps heading towards her.

*        *        *

This was a long awaited moment. She had known, of course, that there would be both deep grief and overwhelming joy in this reunion with the only place she had ever really called home. Nonetheless the sheer physicality of the barrage of emotions that bombarded her as she slowly turned the key and pushed open the front door shocked her. She rested on the threshold for a moment, hands clasping both sides of the once brightly painted now rough and peeling doorframe; before daring to step into a place that for all her years of absence remained intimately, unerringly familiar.

*        *        *

Up until now, it had all seemed so simple. A path laid out before him leading steadily onwards to an unknown but much longed-for destination. Doors had appeared, and doors had opened. This time it was different: ahead, a dead-end, but doors to both his left and his right. Each different, certainly, but nothing which marked one in particular as being right or wrong. A seemingly impossible decision. It was then that he seemed to hear a warm, loving voice whisper, ‘you are free, walk on through the door of your choice and know that I will go with you’.

A story project

And now for something completely different ...

This is the first of hopefully a number of blogposts inspired initially by a book I picked up called 365. It's a collection of stories, one written every day for a year, each exactly 365 words long. It occurred to me to try and do something similar but I know myself well enough to know there is no way on this earth I would keep that up. So then I wondered about trying to write 100 100word "stories" (not necessarily in 100 days ... there's no point setting myself up for that kind of failure before I even begin!) 

I've written quite a bit of poetry (although not very much recently) but while I've long fancied the idea of trying my hand at story writing it has never actually happened. I looked up the idea of 'national novel writing month' but I know my life is WAY too busy to contemplate writing a novel (ever, let alone in a month!) but 100 words, that should be doable, no? 

It was an idea that had been floating around my head with no concrete outcome for a little while until I led one of the drop-in classes at St Chad's Sanctuary and we talked about doors: we described doors and then told stories about what might happen when you stepped through them. That was the second dose of inspiration I needed to put pen to paper (cursor to screen) and I now have a collection of ten 100 word "stories" loosely about doorways. 

I'm hoping / assuming that at some point another few themes will suggest themselves to me, and that eventually I'll create my collection of 100... don't hold your breath. I'm open to suggestions but not making any promises!

It turns out 100 words is really not very many (anyone who knows me will know I rarely say something in 15 words if I can use 50!) I'm not sure whether what I've written constitutes 'stories', hence the inverted commas. Then again, I'm not sure a story is something particularly easy to define: but perhaps that's a discussion for another day. 

Anyway, for what they are worth, I'll publish them here to be read or ignored at will.

Stories to follow ...

The Reality of Fiction

As anyone who has been reading this for any length of time has probably figured that out by now; I like words a lot. I like books too. I know this, because I have just moved house and carried what feels like half a library up two flights of stairs. I'm definitely with Roald Dahl when he writes:

"so please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
go throw your TV set away,
and in its place you can install,
a lovely bookcase on the wall."

Given a choice, the bookshelf wins hands down, every time... Actually, make that bookshelves: it's definitely plural!

Over the last few months I have had the luxury of being able to spend a fair amount of time curled up with a selection of good books. I have read some excellent, heartening, terrifying non-fiction. But mostly I have read stories. I have read stories set in the past and the present. I have read stories from close to home and far away.

I have taken great pleasure in reading lots of stories. Many of the best books I have read, I can't exactly describe as enjoyable. They are books that have made me smile, certainly, but also reduced me to tears. They are books where I have come to care deeply, passionately about individuals dreamt up in the imagination of another.

But maybe this is not pure escapism into an imaginary world of fairy dust. For me the great power wielded by these authors of fantastic fiction, is not that they can make me care about what does not exist; but that they are able to draw me more deeply into a world that does exist. While their characters, scenarios and events may be fictional creations, they are also able to speak of a deep reality. The reality of humanity, the reality of life.

Like many people, I am always a little suspicious of statistics, and not just because I prefer words to numbers. Despite our post-enlightenment obsession with facts, we are deeply suspicious of those same facts which we tirelessly seek. But we do want to know. Really know.

I wonder whether, in the same way that facts can be used to hide a deeper fiction; perhaps it is through fiction that we are able to discover deeper truth. Sometimes, perhaps, this uncomfortable fiction may be more real than we want to imagine. Sometimes perhaps, we leave our fiction uplifted by the very real enduring tenacity of the human spirit.

This is already long enough, but I feel I can't really end without at least a couple of recommendations, so go and get hold of a copy of Burnt Shadows by Kamila Shamsie and Mornings in Jenin by Susan Abalhawa, . Read them, smile at them, cry over them, care about them. Then remember to care about the real life characters too.

Literacy and literature

I am a great lover of literacy and literacy teaching, so designing a literacy curriculum from scratch ought to be my dream job: and I am enjoying putting together an appropriate and adapted programme for our students. I am, because I am a bit of a grammar geek, enjoying organising the progression of skills and finding ways to explain at least some of the complexities and subtleties of the English language. But there is one thing that has made planning the curriculum here less fun than it might have been ... there are no books.

I have never taught literacy without books before, and, if I am honest, I wouldn't want to again. Being here has only served to reinforce in my mind (as if that were needed) that literacy and literature are and should be inseparably intertwined. I am sad enough to think that grammar can be fun and that playing with words is endlessly stimulating, but it is more fun in real books than in an abstract form. 

Part of the reason for the lack of books is financial, and my best laid plans of photocopying texts were also stymied by financial restrictions on paper, but the subject matter and expected outcomes also squeeze out the potential for literature in our literacy. The English curriculum here is teaching "functional literacy skills" - the English the students will need to survive in the workplace - so they can write an application letter, but we never write a story, they can read a set of instructions but not play with words in poetry. It is a sad reality that function has squeezed out fiction.

Don't get me wrong, I agree language should be functional. Its primary purpose is to enable communication and it is a great joy to me that, as an English speaker, language opens up a whole world of potential friendships, but I can't help feeling that language is also so much more. Yes, some would argue, linguistics is a science, but language itself is definitely an art: and like all the best art it should communicate something certainly, but also provoke questions and move you to new places, it should inspire thought and invoke emotions. It should be beautiful, which even the most well written CV, well, isn't.

There are interesting further reflections beyond our own educational circle. In the bookshops in Cebu the vast majority of the books are written in English, and the remaining small section is of Tagalog books: neither of which are the first language of our students and the population of Cebu. Cebuano exists primarily as an oral language, meaning you have to be relatively fluent in a second or third language before really being able to read at all. It makes for a culture much less literacy based and much less literature based than our own. Being able to read and having access to more books than I could get through in a lifetime, in my first language is yet another thing I take for granted.

So although I hope our students will speak and write English more fluently by the time we move on from here, and although I hope they will be in some way inspired to continue learning and exploring the language, I can't help feeling a little sad that in its functionality maybe we aren't doing justice to the beauty of language. 

So I encourage you to go, read a good book, a book that inspires, a book that is beautiful.

Telling Multiple Stories

Watching this video, in which Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie talks about the dangers of telling the "single story when any individual, community or country is invariably made up of multiple stories certainly gave me plenty of food for thought, and I am aware it is something to keep in mind as I write this blog.

We have not been here very long, and both from my own observations and from the conversations we have already had, some of the complexities of history, of culture, of economics, of environment, of daily life ... are already becoming visible. It is already pretty obvious that there are not just two sides to every coin, but that each situation, each reality is multi-faceted: made up both of obvious contrasts and innumerable more subtle differences.

And if I fail, as I undoubtedly will, to express the complexity of the Philippines, of Cebu, of the Salesians, of the people I work with, of my experience, please bear in mind that I am trying to tell this complex story as honestly as I can, but as an outsider, who knows only a very little bit, of only a very few of the stories there are to tell, and remember that whatever I have been able to express, the reality is undoubtedly far more complicated and there are far more stories left untold.