On foot

I do quite a lot of walking.

Sometimes purely for pleasure. More often, it is simply my mode of transport to get from A to B.

During lockdown, with public transport off-limits and the desire to get beyond the city centre overcoming my apprehension on a bike I started cycling again. Throughout the covid restrictions, and for a decent stretch of time afterwards cycling became one of my main modes of transport but I have certainly fallen back out of that habit.

I'm back to using public transport without really thinking about it and spending a lot of time on buses (and at bus stops) but I also go a lot of places on foot. It takes a lot longer than cycling but despite (or in some ways because of) that generally, I've realised I prefer to walk. I don't wear / carry a step counter, but if I did, I suspect I would rack up a good number of steps over the course of a week.

On a purely practical level, when I lived in the city centre, almost everywhere in the city (and, frankly, beyond) was accessible by taking just one bus or train; making public transport almost invariably the quickest and easiest way to get pretty much anywhere, and I rarely gave hopping on a bus much thought. Where I live now, a combination of not always totally reliable bus routes and a fairly swift walking pace means it in't always quite so clear cut. There are various places I need to get to in the course of a day / week where going on foot contends for being as quick (and infinitely less frustrating) that the public transport alternatives. 

I could turn this into a post about the need for better, more reliable and more joined up public transport if we are to encourage people out of private vehicles, but that's not what I set out to write about so I won't. Because if practicality is a factor in why I go quite a lot of places on foot, it certainly isn't the only consideration. 

I love my work, am passionately committed to what I do and therefore generally work hard. It is probably no secret that I am not good at boundaries and my work and home life bleed into one another. Mostly that I see that as an incredibly positive thing: my life is immeasurably enriched by the people I share it with. I also really appreciate the flexibility of my employment which allows me to work my hours at the times that work best for me and for those I support, but it does mean I am not always brilliant at switching off from my responsibilities. I have forms of relaxation that work well for me, but I am frequently surrounded by the temptation to 'just do that one more thing'. 

My work is rich and varied but there are some overarching realities. My work is very people-centred and I spend lots of my time with other people: often in person, and also in between times via frequent digital communication. I also spend a lot of time in front of a computer or phone screen. On the bus, the temptation is to still use the time to catch up on emails or to scroll through social media. There are advantages to that, avoiding it from feeling like dead, wasted time. When I am walking, though, while I do occasionally reply to messages or speak on the phone, generally not so much. Time walking is, generally, time spent doing just that. 

Walking to get somewhere feels like a productive and valuable use of time; but at the same time provides important downtime and breathing space in my routine. It feels justifiable ... it is an easy way to give myself permission to stop, close the laptop, take a break, and yet comes with the combined benefits of fresh air and physical exercise as well as offering valuable headspace. Walking is my time to reflect and get my thoughts in order. Many a blogpost has been partially composed in my head in the streets around where I live! 

Mostly I walk alone and while I am very definitely an extrovert, I have learned to value and appreciate this personal space and the time out from my very peopled existence. It is, more often that not, my time for me. Having said that, recently I have also walked quite a bit with friends too and this is time I value and appreciate too. I believe the conversations we have when we are walking side by side with someone are, often, different to those we have when we sit downface-to-face. Alone or together, reflecting on my own thoughts or sharing thoughts with someone else, walking works for me. 

There are plenty of examples of how walking is built in to my routine but my standard Monday morning routine sums up some of what I'm talking about. While some people might have the personal motivation and commitment to get up and out just for the sheer pleasure of it, I am under no illusions that I probably wouldn't. But most Monday mornings I go to one of the hotels where I support families, and have to be there in time to give them bus ticket money before they set off for school. It is about a 40 minute walk (each way). The route takes me through a park and along a greenway as well as along bits of residential streets (and across some very badly designed road crossings). By 9am or not much after, I am usually back at home with a cup of tea in hand. I am fully awake and ready to face the week, I have already achieved something on a very practical level as well as having had the best part of an hour and a half of exercise. I don't always appreciate the early alarm, but I recognise it is a very positive way to start the week.

For these, and other reasons, I will keep walking.

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.)

The Labourers in the Vineyard

Ahead of our bible discussion yesterday, I had been reflecting on this Sunday's gospel reading, Matthew 20, verses 1 - 16. Like most parables it is a rich text open to various different interpretations and inviting us to reflect on various different themes. It can be explored through the theological lens of how it reflects the kingdom of God and what the generosity of God looks like and how we respond to it. It can be seen as a socio-economic commentary: on the ownership of land and wealth, on exploitative employment practices, on what privilege looks like and how we respond to it. 

But the main thrust of my thoughts this week has related to neither of these things. As well as the reflections themselves it was a reminder of how much our current reality and experiences effect how we read biblical (and probably other) texts and how they speak to us. If this text had come up in the lectionary a few months ago, my thinking would undoubtedly have gone in an entirely different direction. 

Imaginative contemplation is the act of putting oneself into a biblical story and allowing the text, and God, to speak. Like many texts, how we read this one, and what God might seem to be saying to us through it, very much depends on where we place ourselves in the story: and where we place ourselves (or perhaps even find ourselves) in the story very often relates to where we find ourselves in life at the point where we read it.

In the text, there are labourers who work the full day in the field, and others who join them at intervals, including the latest comers who are employed for just the final hour of the day. At the end of the day's work, they all receive the same pay: the standard daily wage. We hear how those who have worked the full day, despite having agreed to work for that wage, grumble expecting more, because the latecomers have received the same; but we do not hear how the latecomers, those who worked only a little, felt about and responded to receiving a full day's wages. 

Leaving aside the economic issues and arguments (I'm sure on another week I could use this same story to write about the value of a universal basic income or the iniquity of zero hours contracts...)

This is the part which has been playing on my mind this week ... How do we deal with reward or credit or praise which feels unearned, undeserved? It was something I was already wrestling with before this text came up in the lectionary, but this seemed to potentially be a frame for exploring it (although the text offers us no answers, except perhaps an acknowledgement of this reality). 

I know myself to be immensely privileged in all sorts of ways, much of it entirely unearned. I am aware I live an extremely comfortable life and most of what I offer to and share with others comes from a place of excess and requires very little sacrifice.  

All of my work, and many of my friendships are among those who have far, far less than me. 

And yet I have been welcomed into people's homes with incredible generosity, where hospitality and good food are offered without counting the cost by people who have to watch their budgets much more closely than I do. I have received gifts which, however small, I know have come from a place of genuine sacrifice. A couple of weeks ago one of the mums in the hotel came over and gave me a small bottle of juice. I could have bought something similar without a second thought. For her, it probably cost more than 10% of her weekly income but she wanted me to have it. I have an ever growing collection of pictures and notes from small children created and offered with deep affection. 

This is not just about those tangible things though.

All too often I find myself in situations where I feel like there is very little I can do to help, very little difference I can make. I find myself saying I'm sorry, no I can't far more often that I would like.  I watch people struggling and suffering and feel powerless to make any meaningful change to their realities. With the continual deterioration of the way in which people arriving in our country are treated, the ever-increasing cruelty and hostility they face and the detrimental effects it has on the people I try to stand alongside, this is more and more my reality. 

And yet overwhelmingly what I receive in return is praise and gratitude. Praise and gratitude which often feels spectacularly undeserved.

Specific situations sometimes shine a spotlight on a more global truth. Recently, I have had quite a lot of interaction with a family who are in an incredibly difficult situation. I have been able to do very little to help. I feel I have failed them in almost every way. I have not been able to give them even a tiny part of what they need. The times I have tried to make even a small difference feel like they have mostly been met by the brick walls of uncaring systems. At times, I confess, I have even ignored their calls because I can't face saying again I'm sorry, no progress, no news, nothing I can do. 

And yet every message I receive, every conversation I have with them is laced with their gratitude for my help.  

The powerlessness to make things better is, at times, very hard. The undeserved appreciation doesn't make it any easier.

There may be times and situations where I can identify with the grumbling servants who have worked all day and aren't impressed by the late comers receiving equal reward. I understand the importance of affirmation, of feeling appreciated for what we do. To feel like our efforts have gone unrecognised and unrewarded is not easy or comfortable. But right now, I find myself very much identifying with those who possibly feel they have received more than they deserve for the little they have done. That is not always easy or comfortable either.

Summer time

Although the summer weather seems to have only just arrived, this week, dominated by sorting out school uniform, school places and school bus tickets, has definitely seen a shift back to a term time rhythm. The sweltering heat might not feel autumnal but there are other signs that a new season is dawning, perhaps most noticeably that the long summer evenings are gone and the nights are drawing in noticeably earlier. Still very busy in its own way, the past six weeks have very definitely had a different feel to them and now seems like the right moment to look back over what the summer has offered. 

Every Thursday through the holidays, Birch ran a holiday summer play scheme for the families confined to living in two of the hotels we work with. While for some people, hotels are synonymous with holidays and an exciting place to spend a couple of summer weeks, when you live with your whole family in one room, with next to no money for treats or trips, they are (understatement alert) not a great environment. After starting with a day trip to the ThinkTank science museum, we then spent the subsequent weeks running sessions at a quaker meeting house. As well as stuff we organised ourselves, loads of different groups came along to run different activities for both the kids and parents. There was always paint and play. Always lunch and laughter. Always a friendly smile and a listening ear. In the grand scheme of things, we didn't solve any of the major problems faced by these families. But for a few hours a week at least, the parents could just switch off, relax and perhaps offload a little; and the children could just be children. Easy as it is to constantly feel we are not doing enough, the excitement every time I arrived at the hotel, the smiles, the warm words, the hugs always remind me that these things do really matter and make a difference.

There have been other events and activities to take the families along to as well, or to encourage them to participate in, including some lovely sessions for younger children at the library run by Birmingham REP and a fun day out at Birmingham Festival, the celebration of the anniversary of last year's Commonwealth Games. 

Stories of Hope and Home has also switched into a different rhythm over the summer. The lead up to the end of term had been exceptionally busy: in the last half term alone we had done 11 school visits, we were involved of lots of different activities in and around refugee week and of course there was the preparation for and then performance of In the Shadow of the Trees. 

So apart from needing to build in some much needed time to catch up on all the neglected admin tasks, we probably all needed a few weeks with a more relaxed feel. We were down to one session a week instead of two anyway due to venue availability, and in practice what that looked like was spending a few weeks giving over our Friday afternoons to a variety of creative activities. We turned our hands to painting, and collage, and needle felting, and beading, and friendship bracelets. There were, of course, as ever, many cups of tea and plenty of cake. And while our hands were occupied there was space, to be together, to deepen friendships, to chat about the significant and about the inconsequential. 

Towards the end of the summer we also headed off to Kintbury. It is the third time we've been there for a summer residential trip, each of which has been very special in its own way. As ever we were met with the warm welcome and generous hospitality of the centre team and for the third year in a row we were blessed with fabulous weather (well aware that our luck might run out some point on this one!). This year, in contrast to recent residentials it was just us; instead of another opportunity to share stories with others, we built in time to reflect on our own stories: what they are, and how, why and to whom we tell them. There were some structured reflective sessions, plenty of organised fun and lots of time to relax and enjoy the surroundings and one another's company. It was a truly wonderful three days. 

And now here we are, September. Ready for another year. Bring it on!

100 (with a mention of 10 thrown in)

Last week, Stories of Hope and Home welcomed its 100th sanctuary-seeking participant (not counting the numerous accompanying children, who can certainly feel like they are just as numerous on occasion!) since we started almost four years ago. While it is just another number, in some ways it feels like a significant milestone.

Some of those who were there at the very beginning are still actively involved. Many more have joined over that time and become active and committed members. Others have perhaps only come along once or twice or stayed for a time and then moved on or drifted away. Some have become people I count among my closest friends.  

They have come from all around the world and, they have, like me, made Birmingham their home. They have all added something to the rich tapestry that is the Stories project, and the rich tapestry that is my life. 

Together they, we, have created something beautiful which stands as witness to the possibility of loving, supportive, open, diverse and genuinely inclusive communities.  

Because although they are united by the common struggle of seeking sanctuary, they are also all very different to one another. Each brings their own culture and background; their own experiences, lives and stories. They bring their own interests and opinions and ideas. They bring their past, their present and their hopes and dreams for the future. They bring their own characters and personalities; their faults and failings as well as gifts and skills. They are a community of people who I love: but that doesn't mean they are by any means perfect, any more than I am. They are deeply, fully human. 

They are the individuals that our current government and media would generally prefer us never to think of as such; never to know in all their messy, beautiful humanity. So yes, I am taking note of passing this 100 mark: but I am doing so remembering that this is, that they are, so much more than just a number. They are a truly beautiful community of people I am very privileged to have met.

*          *          *

The other milestone I am marking around now, is that I moved to Birmingham in summer 2013, meaning this September it is ten years since I started volunteering at St Chad's Sanctuary. Little did I know when I first turned up with the vague idea that being a volunteer English teacher could be a suitable use of my time and skill set just how transformative an impact it would have on my sense of vocation, leading me so many amazing adventures, such incredible friendships and a life immeasurably enriched. It is right that I have moved on to express that vocation in different ways and places but I will be eternally thankful to the Sanctuary community, and above all to my students there, for inviting me to set out on this wonderful journey. 

It hasn't always been perfect, or by any means easy. I have seen things that have wracked me with sadness, anger, guilt and a sense of utter powerlessness in the face of human suffering and the cruelty some people are willing to inflicted on the most vulnerable. But I have also seen hope and resilience, dignity and grace, joy and generosity, compassion and mutual support, and the beauty of humanity. I have shared so much good food and so many cups of tea and conversations. I have laughed more than I have cried. I have the most amazing people I can call my friends. I have learned more about the world, about other people and about myself. I have understood more about what it means to be community and to be family. I have understood more about love. 

I am grateful to have been invited into this space. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

What I've been writing instead

I haven't written much on here for a while. 

This isn't exactly unusual. Any cursory glance back through my blog will very much show that, apart form the very first year of it, content always comes in fits and starts. So perhaps I shouldn't be surprised but, rightly or wrongly, I have had something of a sense recently that I *should* have things I want to write. Maybe I thought I would write more over the summer when a change of schedule would create spaces to reflect. Maybe I feel like I want to have the words to explain and explore current realities and experiences. Maybe I am yearning for more creative energy than I currently have.

Anyone who knows me knows I rarely run out of words and yet, somehow, at the moment, though I have plenty to say, I don't seem to quite have the right words to say it. It is a strange place for me, as a great lover of language, to find myself. 

Perhaps it's partly because quite a bit of my writing energy this summer has gone into writing other things. The Stories of Hope and Home annual report is well on its way to completion (watch this space in the next couple of months) and I've made a concerted effort on writing multiple funding bids which will, hopefully, if other people can see as much value in what we are doing as I can, help to put this little charity on a more sustainable footing. 

It will surprise nobody who knows me to hear that the admin parts of my job are not high on my list of favourite activities. It is testament to how much I believe in my work and want it to succeed that I do mostly more or less manage to keep on top of them. Having said that, while that is very much true of the daily grind of recording expenses or noting down attendance or replying to emails, actually, writing the annual report and funding bids does have its enjoyable side. 

They offer a chance to step back, to identify and celebrate all we have achieved so far. They make me pause to find the words and numbers that at least partially capture the impact of what we are doing. Of course, collating data can only ever tell a tiny part of our story. So much of what is of the greatest value is indefinable and cannot be contained in a quote or a statistic, so much of it is there in the little comments and conversations, in the almost imperceptible changes we observe. Nonetheless, this process does make all the record keeping feel worth while as those 'ticks in boxes' through the year add up to reminders of the reach and breadth of all we have done together. The evaluation forms and feedback, while they can't sum up the project in its entirety, stand as reminders of who we are and what we are doing and why it matters. And, if I do say so myself, so much of it is good!

They offer a chance to look ahead: to dream dreams and consider the potential for what might be possible in the future as this project born out of a play and a vision in 2019 becomes increasingly established. To consider direction and priorities, to make sure we feel like we are on the right track and that this project continues to meet fulfil a need.  

They offer a chance to remind myself, should I need it, and to share with other exactly why I believe this little project has such great value. And for that reason, whether or not any of them result in any money (which hopefully they will) they are words well spent.

Adding colour

My creative energy ebbs and flows, but even when I am not brimming over with ideas, and have to remind myself to pick up a pencil or paintbrush, I know that doing something creative always makes me feel better. Knowing the theory doesn't always translate to actually doing it, obviously.

And when it does, the creative output doesn't always look the same. 

Sometimes it looks like this.

Thunder and Rainbows from the Same Sky

The title for this post is borrowed from a beautiful Martyn Joseph song. which feels like it sums up much of what my life feels like at the moment (and I'm not just talking about the British summer weather): the darkness and the lights that shine through it, the dead ends and the long winding roads, the heartache and the hope. 

This isn't new. I've written before about the juxtaposition of joy and suffering in my life and work. Last week felt like it brought that reality into particularly sharp focus so I'm writing about it again. 

The week began with something of an adventure involving 43 people, three buses and some spectacular rainstorms: I joked with colleagues that if I ever write the sitcom of my life, that journey would definitely feature! But we made it ... and the rain had stopped by the time we turned the corner into a park. The kids were off, running and playing; and the grown-ups were no less excited: I wouldn't want to even begin to try and count how many selfies were taken! But then, in between the sound of shouts and giggles and kids calling out to me, I ended up in conversation with one of the parents, who told me how this little bit of woodland we were walking through reminded him of the thirty-something days he'd spent living in a forest on his journey to the UK. 

It reminded me of another trip a few weeks earlier when the little girl skipping along beside me had broken off from whatever incidental thing we were talking about to look out at the reservoir and tell me "we were in water like this when we came to England but then they rescued us" before, barely missing a beat, before I'd really had chance to catch my breath sufficiently to think of an appropriate way to respond, going straight back to chatting away about the kind of things 6-year-olds usually chatter about. 

The new 'illegal' migration bill is so hideously awful that I think somewhere in the midst of preparing for what it might mean, we were somehow clinging to a sliver of (admittedly probably misplaced) hope that at some point they'd realise and just call the whole thing off, but on Tuesday it was confirmed that the Lords had capitulated and it was indeed going to become law. The same morning, the barge / floating prison arrived in Portland harbour, another symbol of the hostile environment the current regime seem determined to create, and the antithesis of the welcome I want us to offer. It was not lost on me that Portland is a place of many happy childhood holiday memories and that I went there only last month. I walked in the sunshine, clambered over rocks and rode on an open-top bus: it was a wonderful, memorable day with some of my most precious friends: precious friends who the government would prefer me never to have had the privilege to meet. It was a fabulous place for a holiday: it is not a suitable place to accommodate 500 people seeking safety. 

A couple of days later, after a late evening counting out hundreds of sunflower seeds with a good friend for company, on Thursday I was at the Birmingham REP. Everybody: the creative learning team, box office and front of house staff, stage managers and tech teams put these people and their stories, my friends, who are so often pushed to the margins, centre stage, quite literally. We stood on this stage, no treated no differently to the professionals who grace it on other occasions. We looked out on an audience of hundreds of school children. The performers excelled themselves and, equally importantly had a lot of fun in the process. It wasn't lost on me that it was the same day the new law received royal assent ... but that was easier to put to one side on what was an incredible, exhilarating morning. Even the weather cooperated, allowing us to relax and enjoy ourselves afterwards at a post-show picnic in the sunshine.   

After the sheer joy of Thursday, almost exactly 24 hours later, on Friday morning, I broke down in tears in a meeting about hotel accommodation as we confronted the enormity of the detrimental impact of long periods of time in unsuitable accommodation on people's wellbeing, and my sense of utter powerlessness to make a meaningful difference. I accept that being rather tired was probably a factor in my struggle to maintain my usual equilibrium, but I think it was also a reflection of the reality of just how challenging working in this sector is at the moment and the weight, and the guilt, we are carrying with and for the friends we would like to be able to welcome better. I know I am not alone in this: conversations and WhatsApp exchanges with friends and colleagues and others suggest that relentlessness of the chaos and the cruelty is getting to us all.

By the same evening I was back at the REP for the kind of swanky event I don't often attend for the official opening of the Hub space and presentation of their theatre of Sanctuary Award. And the following morning I woke up to see one of the amazing schools we have had the privilege of working with were featured in the national press for taking on Robert Jenrick's heartless gesture of painting over the cartoons in the Kent Intake Centre and the reminder that these school visits really do make a difference. 

There is a lot of thunder at the moment.

There are, fortunately, however faint they seem, always rainbows too. 

The next generation

The end of the academic year is fast approaching. 

Over the last year Stories of Hope and Home have done 35 school visits to 28 different schools. We have performed pantomime and shared lunches and even done a little bit of sewing. Mostly, though, we have met children (and teachers) and shared stories with them. 

We have done so across Birmingham (and occasionally a little bit beyond). We have met children of all ages and abilities. We have met children who know from experience what it means to migrate, children who have been exploring this theme with their families or schools for quite some time and others for whom it is all very new. 

The incredible people I have the privilege of working with have stood up time and time again and courageously shared their reality, putting a human face to what it means to flee your home and seek sanctuary in the UK. I am in awe of their willingness to make themselves vulnerable and to share their stories with such dignity, grace and searing honesty. 

But however incredible they are, it takes two sides to make an encounter meaningful: and this post was always really meant to be not about them, but about the children.

Children from whom we encounter shocked faces and the occasional tricky question. Children from whom we unfailingly see warmth and compassion and generosity. Children from whom we witness incredible empathy and an inherent understanding of these human stories. 

Children who instantly recognise injustice and inhumanity. And who, in that recognition want to challenge and change it. Among the thousands of children and young people we have met, I don't think we have ever met a single one who has believed the current situation to be either fair or compassionate. And I don't think we have ever met a single one who has thought that the injustice and the hostility is either necessary or desirable. 

These children ... 

They get it. 

Every. Single. Time.

They get it and they want to do something about it. They want to make change and they believe that they can. They believe that something different is both preferrable and possible. 

It is a source of great hope. School visit days can be quite intense and exhausting. But despite that, I never leave a school feeling anything other than inspired and uplifted, encouraged and hopeful.

Perhaps it is simply the naivety of youth and they'll grow up to be no different. And yes, sure, some of their hopes and dreams and expectations are possibly unworkable and would need a few tweaks. 

But perhaps the next generation have also genuinely understood something those currently in power haven't. Perhaps they do and always will want something different to our current broken, hostile systems. Perhaps they really will, in fact create a better, fairer, more compassionate, more human society. 

I certainly hope so.

The Meaning of Life

I turned 42 last weekend and obviously, in a joke entirely lost on anyone unfamiliar with the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, that meant I had arrived at the point in life when I would have the answer to life, the universe and everything. Given how messed up the world seems to be right now, having all the answers definitely has a certain appeal! 

I had a bit of a cold and hadn't slept well on Saturday night. In some ways, what I wanted / needed on Sunday was a quiet day at home doing not very much: but it was also my birthday and obviously, much more than that, what I really wanted to do was surround myself with some of the many people I love and value and by whom I am loved and valued.

I had put out an invitation to a picnic in the park. Despite being organised at fairly short notice and the slightly menacing grey skies and cool edge to the air, over 50 people came along to share in a wonderful afternoon. I brought quiche and cake and picnic blankets and bin bags. Others brought contributions too. There was an amazing spread of food.  

The youngest person was about six weeks old, the oldest over seventy. There were people I've known my whole life, literally, and people I've known only a few weeks or months. There were, as someone else commented "the united nations of Birmingham", a gathering of friends from just round the corner and from all over the world.  

There were people from lots of different parts of my life. There were good friends spending time together, reunions of friends who hadn't seen each other for a good while, and people chatting to each other who had never met before and whose paths may never cross again. There were people who popped in briefly and people who stayed several hours. There were kids who had to be convinced to eventually go home.  

There were frisbees and bubbles and chalk pictures on the pavement. There was energy and life and colour. There was laughter and fun. There were some more serious conversations happening too.

There was food being shared and so much cake. There were very few leftovers. There were, just about, lighted candles sheltered from the wind. There was no rain.

And that was how I spent the day I turned 42. As I looked around the park, my heart was full. I could think of no better way to spend the day. I definitely don't have all the answers. But I do have some of them. 

I may not have found the meaning of life, the universe and everything, but I never really believed 42 would suddenly give me that anyway! 

On the other hand, I certainly think I have found a meaning for my life. It looks like this.

And, on balance, I think I'll settle for that.

Sun, sea, sand and smiles

I spent last week at the seaside.

Before setting off, as I tried to tick jobs off a list and avoid anything crucial getting missed, I did question the wisdom of taking a week off in what is one of the busiest months of my year. But much as I could have done with a bit more time to get things done, I probably also needed the mental break I got from my few days away. I have come back convinced that the next few weeks will be better for me and everyone else I encounter because I did.

My grandparents lived in Weymouth when I was growing up, and an aunt still lives in Dorchester. This is the place of many, many happy childhood holiday memories. It hasn't lost its appeal. 

I shared a caravan with two people I count among my very closest friends, and three small children I am blessed to have as part of my life. I saw my aunt who I hadn't seen since pre-pandemic, and my mum had arranged to be down visiting her at the same time too. As such I got to spend time with lots of people I would describe, in different ways, as being part of my family. It was very special to share this place that means a lot to me with these people who mean a lot to me, and to invite these other children to have fun and create memories here just as I did many years ago.

With the children's school having slightly different holidays to almost everywhere else, we could enjoy not only lower prices but also everywhere being considerably less busy than it probably was the week before. 

We had perfect weather to spend long days outdoors.  

Sandwiched between long train journeys either end, we squeezed a huge amount in to a few days. We got up early. We kept busy from morning to evening. We stayed up chatting late into the night. 

We swam every day. We walked in the countryside and by the seafront. We splashed in the sea and scrambled over rocks. We visited sandy beaches and pebbly ones. Beaches where the waves lapped gently and those where they crashed against the coast.

We visited Chesil Beach and Portland Bill and Dorchester and Durdle Door. We visited the Roman Town House and saw what the sandman had been building. We found several playparks. We played indoor games and outdoor games. We painted pictures and wrote diaries.

We ate fish and chips by the harbour and lots of other delicious food back at the caravan. There was plenty of ice cream and many cups of tea.

We rode on open top buses with the wind blowing in our hair. We took the ferry across the harbour, which costs considerably more now that the 20p I remember paying when I was little but a first ever boat ride was still just as exciting. 

We took hundreds of photos and made many precious memories.

We talked and smiled and laughed together.   

It was a wonderful week. I came home tired but also refreshed. Thank you Weymouth. See you soon.

HSBC: nothing to be proud of

Birmingham Pride took place last weekend. 

I have friends for whom Pride events are incredibly important. I recognise they are an important place of witnessing to the inclusion of and radical solidarity with a community that is so often forced into the margins. 

I understand the importance for everyone to feel seen, represented, celebrated; the more so for those who often aren't. I believe deeply in the importance of welcome and inclusion: for everyone but especially for those at the edges. I believe wholeheartedly in stretching wide the boundaries of who is included ... and then stretching them further until they snap altogether. 

I am also acutely aware, as a person of faith, it is perhaps even more important, given the damage continuing to be done by the churches (and other faith communities) to the LGBTQ+ community that I nail those colours to the mast on this specific issue of inclusion even more publicly. 

I hope I find ways to do so. 

Birmingham Pride is not one of them. Even in the years the Pride Parade passed my front door, and was a member of a church which was actively visible at Birmingham Pride, I made a conscious choice not to participate. I do not necessarily need to justify this, but I want to. 

You see Birmingham Pride is sponsored by HSBC, and for all its rainbow window displays and beautifully written slogans, HSBC is not a force for good in the world. It is not a bastion of the kind of world and welcome I believe in. 

Climate change, the greatest existential threat to the future of humanity and our planet, is exacerbated by HSBC (and others) continuing to bank roll the fossil fuel industry and other extractive, exploitative industries.

HSBC remain guilty of massively financing the arms trade that fuels global conflict and keeps despotic regimes in power, (including, lets be honest, regimes whose approach to sexuality and gender identity is the very antithesis of the values of Pride). 

Big banks and the culture they create, are at the heart of facilitating the destructive practices which keep the poorest in our society, and the poorest in the world, locked into cycles of debt and powerlessness: helping the rich get ever richer while those at the bottom continue to suffer. 

This is not a well researched post with all the facts and figures and details about their investments and practices, but it is something I know to be true. Selling out to big banks and big business has no place in the world of radical inclusion I believe in, and that Pride at its best promotes.

I think Pride is a good thing: any public protest against HSBC's sponsorship of it would be at risk of being misconstrued as an objection to Pride itself so clearly I was never going to do that. So perhaps this private act of objection benefits no-one, perhaps it just sounds like an excuse to not walk in solidarity with a community who need support. But sometimes we have to do what we believe to be right even if it makes no difference and goes entirely unnoticed. Perhaps that's why I am writing this, too.

So I'm sorry: to all those who needed last weekend, and at whose side I should perhaps have been standing. I wasn't there, and this is why. On behalf of a whole other group of excluded and vulnerable people who are victims of the corruption of power and money, I couldn't. 

The past month

The Heartbreak of Joy

It is no secret to anyone that I love my work.

My Birch Network job mostly centres around supporting families living in hotel accommodation. 

There is little I can do to alleviate the things they really need help with: what they most need is not to be living in hotel accommodation, not to be waiting endlessly for decisions on their cases, not to be stuck in a system that tells them they are not wanted here. I have watched helplessly as the vibrant hope I saw in people when they arrived many months ago has slowly drained away.  

But around the edges I have done what I can. I have helped with odd things: I have got children into school, provided school uniform, passed on information, answered questions, filled in forms. I have administered endless bus tickets. I have taken the families out on a couple of fairly low key trips. I have turned up with a smile on my face and offered a listening ear. I hope in some small ways I have shown people they are welcome.

Most recently, I have started running an "after school club". I turn up once a week for a couple of hours. I bring paper, pencils and some felt tip pens, sometimes a game, ideas for activities to do together, little else. 

There are children who follow every instruction, eager to please. There are children who push the boundaries just as far as they think they can get away with, complete with cheeky grins. There are children who bicker as siblings do, and children who help each other out with kindness and generosity. There are children watching out for me who stay at my side for the duration, and children who join in for a fleeting moment then drift away. There are children who barely speak and children who barely stop! 

There are smiles and laughter and mess and a fair amount of silliness: there are children just being children.

And it brings me great joy. It is an incredibly rewarding couple of hours full of life and energy and fun. It is always nice when people are pleased when I arrive and sad when I leave. I feel deeply appreciated and loved.  

But it also breaks my heart ... 

I do nothing that really warrants the level of gratitude and appreciation I experience. Nothing that really warrants the level of joy it brings. 

These tiny things really shouldn't mean so much. It says much about their lives that they do. 

The joy in these moments is genuine. 

So is the heartbreak. 

I will sit, walk and live with both and know my life is the richer for it.

The stories we hear, and those we don't

Several weeks ago, from an already uneasy peace, violence erupted in Sudan's capital Khartoum. Against a backdrop of negotiations and supposed ceasefires, violence has continued and spread to other parts of the country. And while military leaders vie for supremacy, the innocent population suffers.

All of this made a brief appearance on the front page of the BBC news website and in various media headlines.

For a little longer, you could consistently find it if you made the effort to go to the world news pages. Now, even there, it is mostly hidden away.

While my Sudanese friends scour the internet for news of the conflict, while they try to maintain contact with loved ones, while they wait anxiously to know if those they care about are ok, while, in some cases, they hear the news they dread... the conflict has all but disappeared from our news, and probably for many people, from our consciousness. 

One of the things somebody said to me when they witnessed the outpouring of compassion in response to the Ukraine crisis last year was words to the effect of "of course people here don't care as much about us, they don't even know about the war in my country" I had little to offer by way of comfort. I knew it to be true.

And here we are again.

There has been no extended family reunion offer, no homes for Sudan scheme, no fast-track way to refugee status for the Sudanese people languishing in the asylum system. No airlines or Eurostar offering free travel tickets and safe passage, no collection boxes in every corner, no flags flying, no social media awash with the colours of Sudan. 

And yes, there have been, there are, people calling for at least some semblance of equality between those fleeing this conflict as those fleeing another, but without the same mass outpouring from all corners of society that couldn't be ignored it seems little will happen. 

I am obviously not criticising that all those things happened when Russia invaded Ukraine: it was a beautiful show of solidarity and compassion. But maybe I am questioning why they aren't happening again now. 

Do we care less? Possibly. Do we know less? certainly. Is their conflict, their suffering less? Probably not. Are their lives somehow worth less? Absolutely not.

---

Two of my friends have told me about family members who have been killed. 

Another was telling me about his family moving away from Khartoum and while he is happy they are hopefully in a safer place, there is no internet or phone coverage where they have fled to, so he has lost contact and doesn't know when he will next have news of them. 

I have watched people struggle, trying not to be overwhelmed with fear and sadness, and the guilt of being safe and powerless to help.

---

Someone I used to teach contacted me recently. Her sister, trapped in Khartoum, has an ill child who, due to the hospitals being either closed, or overrun or not having supplies or all of the above can't get the medical care they need.

She wanted to know what form she should fill in to bring them over here so the child could continue their treatment. If she was Ukrainian it would be that simple. And rightly so. 

Because she is Sudanese, the reality is there is nothing she or I can do. She wants, even expects me to have an answer, to have something to suggest, some grain of hope. I have forwarded her a petition,  helped her write a letter to her MP: I suspect it won't help but I guess partly I don't want to be the person to take away the little hope that something might be done, to say that my country doesn't want to help.

If that child dies for want of the medication to keep them well, they will not officially be a victim of the war. They will not officially be a victim of fortress Europe and Britain's hostile environment. In reality they will be both. 

Hers is one untold story. There will be thousands more. 

What should I say to her the next time she calls?

Making the most

Yesterday was a beautiful spring day: the sun was shining, the sky was blue and it was even actually warm. Sandwiched between dull, damp days either side it felt even more precious and needed to be savoured.

Long before some other major event was scheduled for this weekend, it was the date set for the Birmingham half-marathon and 10k run: I was very glad, for their sake that it fell on the dry day ... for many people it looked quite painful enough without any rainstorms to negotiate! Matthew, who lives on the route, had invited a few of us over for a front garden barbecue to take advantage of the road closures. I wonder what our communities would look like if traffic noise and fumes didn't mostly prevent us from gathering in front of where we live? But I digress. It was my first barbecue of the season and good food and good company out in the sunshine made it a most enjoyable way to spend a few hours. 

The previous day I had been due to take some of the families I work with to the Coronation Celebrations in the city centre. This had been quite some dilemma for me in the run-up ... I will surprise no-one by saying I am no monarchist and not in favour of all this royal nonsense. But if I could park the cause behind it, it was going to be a family-friendly festival of live music and entertainment and it felt more wrong to stand on my principles to a point of depriving people far less privileged than me the chance to be part of something fun. But then rain stopped play because no-one bar hardcore royalists could have been tempted to an outdoor party in pouring rain! 

Having worked out the timings, I figured I could comfortably fit cheering on the runners and an early-lunchtime barbecue and still take the families down to the city centre in the late afternoon sunshine. I arrived to find some of the kids already dressed-up in their party clothes and from the handful waiting at the door for me to arrive I had gathered up over thirty people by the time we set off. I did, really, very little: simply coming together with them to an open, public space: but while one or two might have done, the majority wouldn't have had the confidence (or the bus money) to get there without being accompanied. I later joked with colleagues that spending an afternoon face-painting union flags possibly counts as my most serious act of commitment to any job ever! The gratitude expressed suggests it was absolutely the right call.  

I regularly remind myself that I really enjoy walking,  so partly prompted by road closures and tempted by the sunshine, I strung the whole day together by walking between the various locations. I was able to do so mostly along quiet backstreets and canal towpaths. I really enjoy walking and chatting with friends, but I also very much enjoy the quiet solitude of walking alone, consciously being present to the physical world around me. It meant getting up and going and out a bit earlier than I might have done otherwise, but it meant that rather than being dead time in between nice things the travel became very much a nice thing in and of itself. I think I'd covered just over ten miles by the time I got back home.

When I got home it was after seven but still bright and warm, something which, after the short dark days of the winter I am determined to always remember to appreciate! So I did a job I had been on my to do list for quite some time. I'd had a few pots of daffodil bulbs on my door step, from which the flowers had long since faded. Yesterday evening I planted the bulbs into the border under the hedge at the front of my house. It remains to be seen whether or not they'll come up next spring, but despite being well aware there's a very good chance they may not, whatever, there is something inherently positive about putting your hands in soil and there is something about planting things into the land which feels like a gesture of belonging, of (literally) putting down roots, here in this place. 

None of this is a judgement: on myself or anyone else for the times when "making the most" of a day looks like not setting an alarm and doing very little, or looks like sitting in front of a computer cracking on with admin, or something else. At different times, "making the most of it" looks very different. Yesterday, for me, it looked like this.

Little things ...

In case anyone was in any doubt, hotels are not suitable long-term accommodation for anybody, least of all for families. Being cramped together in one room, in often poor quality accommodation, with every aspect of life controlled by others with no freedom, flexibility or choice seriously impacts on people's wellbeing. This is true of all the hotels and hostels used for temporary accommodation: whether through the asylum process or in local council temporary accommodation. 

The hotel with which I have had the closest relationship over a long period of time, and which is, even compared to the other serco hotels, the worst one locally, is in the process of being emptied. Almost all the families have been there for many, many months. Despite everything that is wrong with their current accommodation, and the list is very long, they are now facing upheaval and uncertainty. There is no taking into account of the tentative roots they have put down here: they are being scattered across the region. They will have to find new support networks, new communities, new school places, and of course the indeterminate wait for the home office to make decisions on their cases continues. Despite the stress of all of this, there is excitement in the air too: their new accommodation probably won't be great, but it will offer some of the little things we take for granted like being able to cook the food they like on a schedule to suit themselves. It will be a place they can call home which a hotel can never really be.

We have built relationships with these families. Some, undoubtedly will keep in touch, but I have been doing this long enough to know that, whatever we say to each other now, many I may never see again, and that too has to be ok. The letting go doesn't invalidate that which mattered at a moment in time.  

Over the time we have known them, there is much we have not been able to do or change. So much is beyond our control and in the hands of those who don't care enough to make the changes that would make life more bearable. The campaigning and advocacy is essential but in the current climate, it ofttimes feels like the best it might do is to slightly slow the direction of travel which is heading the opposite way to where we would like it to. As the growing backlog of claims and a failure to provide suitable accommodation has meant more and more families have been accommodated in hotels our time and energies have been spread more thinly and we have felt pulled in different directions. It is very easy to be aware of all of this: of the stuff that makes life hard, the stuff that we can't do anything to improve; the times we have to say, sorry, no, I can't do that.

But as we said our goodbyes, that was not what the families remembered. 

The heartfelt thank yous and the fond farewells felt entirely genuine. I was deeply touched by the little notes and drawings some of the children gave me and the things some of the parents, struggling with their limited English, wanted to say as we said our goodbyes.  

I believe they remembered the listening ear and the checking in; the empathy and the shoulders to cry on; the little gifts; the welcome sessions, English lessons and lots and lots of cake; the days out and opportunities to relax; the smiles and the laughter and the hugs; the fleeting conversations and WhatsApp messages; the accessing of school places, the filling of forms, the explanations of things they hadn't understood; the advocacy and trying to improve their situation, even in the places where it felt like it made little difference; the care and concern. 

I believe they remembered the gestures that said someone cared about them and they hadn't been entirely forgotten as they waited in a faceless system. I believe they remembered the being there: not all the time, perhaps, not as much as we'd have liked, maybe, but nonetheless, they remembered the times when we were there. 

They remembered all the things that often seem so small. 

Sometimes I find this hard to remember but sometimes I very much know it to be true ... Sometimes the little things are actually the big things. And I have to keep believing that those little things, they really matter.

Five years

I've never been much good at keeping a diary. It still sometimes amazes me that I have managed to keep my blog going so consistently for so long.

And then five years ago I got a "one line a day" diary.

I wrote the first entry on 1st April 2018

So that's it, Northern Leg 2018 is over with all the exhaustion and emotion it entails. Missing half the week made it a very strange experience in many ways this year but maybe it helped me appreciate the value of this little community a bit more.

With each entry only allowing space for a couple of sentences, it felt like a manageable undertaking, although of course it means much is left unsaid. The limited space certainly doesn't lend itself to great long introspective reflections on the whys and wherefores of life so, in contrast to my blog, it is mostly much more a "this happened / I did that" factual record. That doesn't mean it is totally devoid of emotion: albeit briefly, it does express some of the joys and struggles of recent years. Another difference from my blog is that it is not intended to be public and there are certainly things contained in its pages which I wouldn't share here but which I hope, in years to come, I will be glad to have written down. 

With each dated page having space for a short entry for five consecutive years, as it has gradually filled up it automatically affords a look back and comparison to preceding years: scanning through past entries has been both a distraction and a motivation in helping me to stick at it.

There are a few missing entries, but not many. There are many, many more which have been back-filled after the event, often a week or more at a time. But it stands as a relatively comprehensive record of at least the headlines of much of what I have been up to since 2018.

It has captured some of the big things that have happened; but perhaps even more importantly it has captured some of the many little things that make up my full and richly blessed life. 

On 31st March 2023, I filled the final space.

It feels appropriate that the last entry is on the day I am setting off for NL given the first post was getting back from it. Managed to get a few things finished off including some tidying before setting off. Met C at New Street. Arrived at Keyworth in good time. Chatting, dinner, intros, liturgy, pub, whisky club. I am, I think, glad to be here.

Having managed to establish a habit, I have bought myself another edition. I wonder what the next five years will bring.

Re-prioritising prayer

For nine years, during my time at Carrs Lane and slightly beyond it, I was committed to a routine of public prayer; in person and later online. In fact, for much longer, because our time in the Philippines was certainly rhythmed around prayer, and to a lesser extent there was a culture of daily reflection time at Corrymeela. Further back, in the privacy of our own home, we had also tried to instil such a rhythm to shape our days. 

And every day, I showed up. Of course there were interruptions and odd occasions where I couldn't but generally, day after day, I showed up. I put myself intentionally in that space. I paused to be still. 

And I knew, as I have written about here more than once, it mattered. 

With varying degrees of success, I found a rhythm that worked towards the end of last year, but thus far in 2023, it is something I have failed to really re-establish. And while I couldn't pinpoint, on any given day, exactly how; over time, I think I am feeling the effects. I think it is a factor in feeling more drawn into and dragged down by the enormity of the world's problems. I think it is a factor in finding it harder to let go of the things I cannot do and in getting the right balance of those I can.  

And so I am reminding myself that waking up to prayer is infinitely better than waking up to a rather depressing twitter feed and an email inbox I never feel fully on top of! The importance of good company and of laughter I wrote about in my previous post are parts of the solution. This is the other bit.

Some people will have made Lenten commitments which are now drawing to an end. I didn't this year, but I am making an Easter one. I am away for the next week, walking Pilgrim Cross, which will be a valuable breathing space, and on my return I am reprioritising prayer. Not at the expense of anything else, quite the contrary. I believe it will help me reprioritise everything else as well. I believe it will help me be the best possible version of the person I am trying to be. 

Just the weekend I needed

I have always aspired for this blog to be a relatively honest reflection of life: not the sugar-coated version of reality that social media so often unhelpfully presents. So in that spirit I admit, last week had some tough moments where I felt distinctly disheartened about the state of the world (or more specifically, British politics around the issue of migration).

It probably didn't help that due to the Birmingham bus strikes, I spent more time at home than I usually would. I do like having my own space and generally quite enjoy my own company but I am definitely an extrovert and I probably had too many days with too little people time; and while I had plenty I should have been getting on with, that meant I had lots of time to read, watch and listen to analysis about the government's new anti-refugee plans. It feels important to keep abreast of these things and many of those whose analysis I was following shared my perspectives on the subject, but nonetheless, too much of it can get a little draining after a while. I know only too well the impact of these repeated, hostile announcements on people I care about very much. I am also well aware of the risk of the knock-on impact on me.   

I'm not always very good at accepting or acknowledging when I am finding things difficult, but I admit, parts of Thursday, particularly, were really quite hard. However, in the afternoon I went out for a walk in the sunshine and then a friend called round, both of which definitely helped perk me back up.

And then it was Friday. There were still no buses but I hadn't entirely put life on hold. While the meeting I was supposed to be going to ended up being a slightly abortive trip, a combination of limited transport options and deliberate choice meant it involved two decent length walks in fairly attractive parts of the city: mostly in bright spring sunshine and managing, fortunately, to completely avoid the worst downpours. I also met up with three different people for a cup of tea, delicious lunch, a walk and curry for dinner respectively, all of whom are people whose company I value, and I appreciated the chance to chat and catch-up. It was just what I needed. 

It had long been on the calendar that my mum was coming to visit at the weekend. Mutual friends also came round on Saturday afternoon and the house was full of conversation and noise and mess: exactly how I like it. In the evening we were at the Hippodrome for the live show of 'I'm Sorry I haven't a clue' which was exactly the sort of clever silliness anyone who knows the show would expect and I laughed all evening (and got a free kazoo, what's not to love!). It would have been hard to find a better tonic. It was a late-ish night followed be a lazy morning, and then out for lunch with my sister and her partner who were also in Brum for the weekend. By the time I got home mid-afternoon, apart from a few bus tickets to sort for another week of school, the laid back feel continued, and I even finished off a jigsaw puzzle. 

For three days, I mostly didn't scroll through twitter, I mostly talked about things other than politics (and when I did, those conversations were supportive and helpful), I mostly switched off. I spent time with people I value, who probably had no idea how much their company boosted my spirits. And thus it was that I was back ready to face another week. The news hasn't got any more upbeat; the struggles I watch some of my dearest friends experience haven't become any easier ... but it'll take more than a particularly evil Home Secretary to crush me.

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

Anger ... and the antidote

Not content with the dreadful anti-refugee laws they introduced last year, the government are at it again with their even more hideously awful Illegal Migration Bill, which they seem to be determined to rush through parliament without proper scrutiny despite widespread concerns about its legality (not to mention its morality).

I am not a lawyer, so I am not going to comment on the legality of it, instead I'd point anyone who wants a legal analysis to https://freemovement.org.uk/what-is-in-the-illegal-migration-bill/

Considerable discussion has revolved around the impracticality and unworkability of the proposals, but I am not going to comment on that, either, because for me at least that is a side issue to what is wrong with it.

Legality and workability aside, the new bill, and the rhetoric that surrounds it, heralds a dark day for the moral compass of our nation. 

Those who seek sanctuary on our shores are among the world's most desperate people. Those who entrust their lives to the hands of people smugglers wouldn't do so if they thought they had any other choice. Those who enter by "irregular means", who risk their lives on a small boat across the channel, who face the fear of hoping fake paperwork will get them over the border, would not be doing so if they felt they had any other option. 

They have suffered more than I will ever know or imagine. They have left behind an entire life to start again with nothing but their character and their resilience. They believe in a Britain which upholds human rights, dignity, safety and freedom: I wish I still did too. They make up in total approximately 0.6% of the people currently residing in the UK. They are, it seems, an easy target. 

The new bill strips almost all rights and protections from this tiny group of people. Anyone who arrives on our shores by a means deemed irregular as of last week faces a lifetime of perpetual limbo; couple with the threat of deportation to a country deemed "safe". The ever-lengthening processing times of asylum claims means I have see the destructive impact of prolonged uncertainty. The idea of that continuing indefinitely as we as a country refuse to assess the validity of someone's need for safety and commit to offering them the sanctuary they require is simply appalling.

Don't get me wrong... I too would like to stop the boats. I don't want anyone else to drown in the channel. I don't want anyone else to have their sleep disturbed by flashbacks full of fear. I don't want anyone else to say that even though to stay meant certain death, they wish they had never come. But this is not the way to do it. 

And so I am very angry, and deeply sad, and somewhat afraid about the direction the country I want to love seems to be headed. 

And yet, and yet ... 

The Monday before last, as Braverman and Sunak put the finishing touches to their speeches ahead of launching the bill in parliament the following day, I was in the community hub at the REP theatre, gathered around a long roll of paper, pulling together ideas for a play. We shared stories and we laughed a lot. We contributed suggestions and ironed out creative differences. I watched as people who I had known to be hesitant and hidden presented their ideas with such clarity and confidence. I revelled in knowing that this show, when it comes together, will be entirely their own ideas in their own voice. 

The Monday just gone, as the second reading was rushed through parliament this week, I was in the midst of three wonderful days away with some of the most incredible people I know. We brought together people who had never met who left three days later as friends. We played probably the most hilarious games of Uno I have ever experienced. We shared stories and experiences: the incidental and the profound. We sat down and ate together. We offered a safe space to hold tears and lots and lots of laughter. We wrote poetry. We learned from one another. We braved the rain and enjoyed the sunshine. We created "loving chaos like a family" (not my words).

I will keep being angry. 

But I will keep finding joy and hope too.

All of them are needed to play my part in building the world I believe in.