So here we are, 5th of January and one of my resolutions is to be realistic and only set a target of one blog entry a week. It is ok for that entry to be one sentence if it has to be.
The first Monday back at normal routine after any kind of holiday has to be among the most awful days of the year.
I realise there are a few things that make it better. Other friends who are also struggling. Drinking tea with these friends. Eating scrambeld egg. Going to a library and going for a walk. But most importantly of all...making a list! The secret to life's mysteries lies in The List.
Monday, 5 January 2009
Tuesday, 9 December 2008
Chapter Three
He is frail, crumpling, curled and greying, a fragile relic of parchment inside his tired stature. If he were in a scrum now his head would snap off. In his old age a game of rugger would leave him shaken out like a Russian doll. Inside and inside and inside again there would be a small foetus-like creation. There he would be, vulnerable without his skin. The effort to bring the tap into full song was the cause of his current exhaustion. Since his sculptural fingers showed no real enthusiasm in coaxing the torrent out of the drip he tried persuasion. She finds him crooning to the tap's silver neck. "A little water, a little water, sing to me the river's melody" he hums. No more rugby chants she thinks. "Wet my lips and sing like a stream" he mumbles and his voice rumbles like stones in a leather barrel.
"Benedict" she sings out, adding notes of music to her voice, joining in with the spirit of things. "Benedict".
He turns. He stares. It is the flat-eyed stare of the startled. There is fear in the brown flecks of his grey eyes. There is a hint of confused panic in his frown. There is the beginning of a smile. It grows wider on only one side of his mouth. The other fixed in a dreadful resentful grimace. She waits. She grows impatient for a word. She waits. She stands frozen on the flagstones. She cannot tell if she is giving herself away. He stares and She waits.
"Is you", paralysed speech.
"Is you", paralysed speech.
"It is", paralysed response.
"How di you kno where do find m-me?"
A paralysed answer.
The flagstones absorb the silence and the evening light is sheening everything up. The tap is in its best light and still isn't singing to his melody. Benedict turns his resentment away from her towards the tap. She is waiting now for a her own answers.
She moves away from the flagstone which seems as though it might lift suddenly and topple her over. She waltzes oddly to the tap. The anxiety is making her unsteady. Each step takes another two to sustain it. He watches. She turns with strong and dignified hands the cold metal grip. She is on the wrong side of his resentment now.
She drinks and he is thirsty. He waits and she stares. Her hand reaches out, the glass seems to glide across the air alone, the water is moving at its own pace. She tries to pull back the sustenance from his lips but it is done. He is drinking. She is shaking.
"Why?" Benedict speaks.
Her heart beats too many times. She can't sustain it, if it carries on beating so fast something will crack apart.
"Because" She breathes sharply upwards, shoulders lifting.
Monday, 8 December 2008
long time no write
Well it has been some time since I have been able to write and really I don't know which comes first the lack of time or the lack of inclination. I have had lots of encouragement recently, unexpected and very healing. I lost my nerve I'm afraid. There is so much I have to write about but I'm not sure where to start, so tomorrow, having dealt with the first step here tonight, I will start at the beginning again.
Saturday, 25 October 2008
Chapter Two (the chapters are tiny)
She creeps into the cottage in darkness as usual, savouring the anonymity of it, leaving off the light until the last possible moment. Keys are flung down, the fridge pours light onto the sheet metal worksurface and shimmers upwards onto the brickwork. The cat opens his mouth wide enough for his head to snap off and squeaks by mistake with the effort of it. "hello Audrey" she croons.
The morning had been fragmentary, piercing winter light, particles dancing like Parisian Spring. Everything had started to come apart, her mind disintegrating as she tried to concentrate. There was a tiny grave inside her mind on a hillside, lush green in another place, sea close, cottage nestling. The tiny stone had a name she couldn't read and it asked her not to forget it, to remember. There was something useful in this place she didn't know, this dead infant that wasn't hers and a tragedy she didn't own that was claiming her imagination for reasons she didn'tyet understand. The cottage near the grave was beamed and smoky with woodsmoke and there was a friendly presence, and elderly woman. She watched the scene with interest, surprised by its clarity. It was as familiar as that white Church on the hill she visited sometimes in her sleep. It had a particular feeling, nameless of course.
Audrey was yet another victim of an absent-minded vet and had been lumbered with a sexual identity crisis in his early kittenhood. He was quite 'Hepburn' in fact but he was in denial, like most cats, about his true identity. She had given him a diamante collar anyway. Perhaps he had regarded this as a final act of cruelty against his vulnerable psyche and had developed into an adolescent phase of sulking and stropping whenever his biscuits ran out. Crunchies are poured, diamante clicks against crockery, the purring begins. Legs are circled, marmalade hairs on black tights. She wonders why it all broke into her head today, the nameless stuff, but it had, and Audrey certainly couldn't care less.
The morning had been fragmentary, piercing winter light, particles dancing like Parisian Spring. Everything had started to come apart, her mind disintegrating as she tried to concentrate. There was a tiny grave inside her mind on a hillside, lush green in another place, sea close, cottage nestling. The tiny stone had a name she couldn't read and it asked her not to forget it, to remember. There was something useful in this place she didn't know, this dead infant that wasn't hers and a tragedy she didn't own that was claiming her imagination for reasons she didn'tyet understand. The cottage near the grave was beamed and smoky with woodsmoke and there was a friendly presence, and elderly woman. She watched the scene with interest, surprised by its clarity. It was as familiar as that white Church on the hill she visited sometimes in her sleep. It had a particular feeling, nameless of course.
Audrey was yet another victim of an absent-minded vet and had been lumbered with a sexual identity crisis in his early kittenhood. He was quite 'Hepburn' in fact but he was in denial, like most cats, about his true identity. She had given him a diamante collar anyway. Perhaps he had regarded this as a final act of cruelty against his vulnerable psyche and had developed into an adolescent phase of sulking and stropping whenever his biscuits ran out. Crunchies are poured, diamante clicks against crockery, the purring begins. Legs are circled, marmalade hairs on black tights. She wonders why it all broke into her head today, the nameless stuff, but it had, and Audrey certainly couldn't care less.
Chapter One of my new novel: Nameless
"Hurry up, they have come, they are coming in, hurry!"
Her mother's voice
She packs the strange grey textured suitcase, striped along the centre, small metal buckles, torn leather trim. She piles random patterned skirts, crumpled and ironed together. Squeezes the red Morrocan slippers, and still thrills at their glitter and pointed toes, even now, even here.
She scans the room, apricots, peaches, soft colours, floral patterns, ragged oatcake carpet, gentle flounces, swags, delicate fine cotton, valances. She calls out.
"Mum, Mum, I'm ready". She turns. She goes to speak. Opens her mouth to breathe, pushes the hollow door. Silence.
She finds herself standing on the edge of an open French sliding door, the metal cuts into her tender feet, the plump soles flushed with pain without her Morrocan slippers. She raises her eyes. No corridor, no bathroom, no spare room.
She is on the edge of a vast expanse of water, edgeless, mirrored in the glass door, permutating a million times the sheer gossamer surface. The wide and inky watery darkness merges with the wide and inky absent sky. Where one ends and the other begins she cannot tell. It is a lightless box, it could be glass, it could be frameless and infinite or mirrored and complex but limited. There is no one on the edge of the precipice but her in her tender naked feet clutching a battered suitcase full of ageing photographs.
It happens sometimes. The nameless stuff. She knows she is about to reject the idea of visiting a shrink for the millionth time. They won't share her creativity. They will try to explain it for her, but it isn't theirs to explain. It happened in childhood too. The nameless stuff.
She clinks the breakfast bowl onto the table, pours, scoops, crunches, grimaces, swallows reluctantly, winces, sips, stirs, sighs, yawns, wonders if there is time for another cup and goes in search of reality.
Her life along with the lives of everyone she knew had not turned out as she planned it, or as she imagined it. There is no name for that either, the way it all changes shape, all the ideas that weren't and the surprises that were. As children they were all 'going to be' when they grew up, as if 'being' was a thing for the future. How they had all ended up 'doing' instead had alluded her. What she was 'doing'with her life was trying to name things. But she didn't see it at the time that she started 'doing' it and now it was a habit.
To Be continued...
Her mother's voice
She packs the strange grey textured suitcase, striped along the centre, small metal buckles, torn leather trim. She piles random patterned skirts, crumpled and ironed together. Squeezes the red Morrocan slippers, and still thrills at their glitter and pointed toes, even now, even here.
She scans the room, apricots, peaches, soft colours, floral patterns, ragged oatcake carpet, gentle flounces, swags, delicate fine cotton, valances. She calls out.
"Mum, Mum, I'm ready". She turns. She goes to speak. Opens her mouth to breathe, pushes the hollow door. Silence.
She finds herself standing on the edge of an open French sliding door, the metal cuts into her tender feet, the plump soles flushed with pain without her Morrocan slippers. She raises her eyes. No corridor, no bathroom, no spare room.
She is on the edge of a vast expanse of water, edgeless, mirrored in the glass door, permutating a million times the sheer gossamer surface. The wide and inky watery darkness merges with the wide and inky absent sky. Where one ends and the other begins she cannot tell. It is a lightless box, it could be glass, it could be frameless and infinite or mirrored and complex but limited. There is no one on the edge of the precipice but her in her tender naked feet clutching a battered suitcase full of ageing photographs.
It happens sometimes. The nameless stuff. She knows she is about to reject the idea of visiting a shrink for the millionth time. They won't share her creativity. They will try to explain it for her, but it isn't theirs to explain. It happened in childhood too. The nameless stuff.
She clinks the breakfast bowl onto the table, pours, scoops, crunches, grimaces, swallows reluctantly, winces, sips, stirs, sighs, yawns, wonders if there is time for another cup and goes in search of reality.
Her life along with the lives of everyone she knew had not turned out as she planned it, or as she imagined it. There is no name for that either, the way it all changes shape, all the ideas that weren't and the surprises that were. As children they were all 'going to be' when they grew up, as if 'being' was a thing for the future. How they had all ended up 'doing' instead had alluded her. What she was 'doing'with her life was trying to name things. But she didn't see it at the time that she started 'doing' it and now it was a habit.
To Be continued...
Thursday, 16 October 2008
mr B
Mr B is, as I have doubtless whined before, HOPELESS at understanding insomnia. He doesn't get it. His 2am bathroom visit used to raise my hopes of him tending to my needs by warming my milk and renewing my hot water bottle. Years of experience have taught me to stay disillusioned. He will, he just did, emerge from the loo looking like a mole fresh out of hibernation, squeak an odd noise at me and then pat me on the back. He usually manages a brief mumbled random and useless jumble of words before sloping back off to bed and leaving his 'mouth guard' (which is supposed to stop him grinding) spat out on the bedside table.
married life is so romantic
married life is so romantic
Blogs are great
The wonderful thing about a Blog is you can bore your audience to the point of insanity and not end up in a divorce court for 'irreconcilable differences'...a Moose-hair flannel being a case in point. If I was a Moose I wouldn't want to end up as a flannel.
Sleep continues to elude me, crafty little creature that she is creeping away from me and hiding in a corner behind a tempting midnight feast, saying 'eat me and then I'll come back to your pillow'. She has even convinced me that if I write endless, inane monologues about The History of Moose-flannel manufacture in Alaska
she'll come back...but she won't...because she is
Out to Get me
Last night was another one of her little games. The 'just watch a little bit of Psychic for the Stars'...it surely can't do any harm' revelry. So I snuck downstairs and thought, Sleep is right when she says 'you can't go to bed now, you haven't 'wound down', a little Psychic for the Stars is what you need. I sat guiltily watching in disbelief morphing into convincement (yes it is a word,I borrowed it from the Quakers) listening to this nauseating bauble of a woman blowing bubbles of artificial sweetener into innocent fake-tanned faces. She was so atrociously awful and in the end I loved her for being so unashamedly appalling. Then, as sleep sat mocking me in the corner I started to believe her. Then all the spirits started creeping into the room.
Well, as spirits go they were a bit rubbish. The main one kept pretending he wasn't really pushing the door, it was just 'caught in a draft, honestly'. I wonder why these spirits have got nothing better to do than pretend to be drafts that slightly rattle doors at midnight. You'd think if you were a spirit you'd be in California on the beach not lingering around Linda Lusardi wittering on about David Seaman.
Spirits these days...
Sleep continues to elude me, crafty little creature that she is creeping away from me and hiding in a corner behind a tempting midnight feast, saying 'eat me and then I'll come back to your pillow'. She has even convinced me that if I write endless, inane monologues about The History of Moose-flannel manufacture in Alaska
she'll come back...but she won't...because she is
Out to Get me
Last night was another one of her little games. The 'just watch a little bit of Psychic for the Stars'...it surely can't do any harm' revelry. So I snuck downstairs and thought, Sleep is right when she says 'you can't go to bed now, you haven't 'wound down', a little Psychic for the Stars is what you need. I sat guiltily watching in disbelief morphing into convincement (yes it is a word,I borrowed it from the Quakers) listening to this nauseating bauble of a woman blowing bubbles of artificial sweetener into innocent fake-tanned faces. She was so atrociously awful and in the end I loved her for being so unashamedly appalling. Then, as sleep sat mocking me in the corner I started to believe her. Then all the spirits started creeping into the room.
Well, as spirits go they were a bit rubbish. The main one kept pretending he wasn't really pushing the door, it was just 'caught in a draft, honestly'. I wonder why these spirits have got nothing better to do than pretend to be drafts that slightly rattle doors at midnight. You'd think if you were a spirit you'd be in California on the beach not lingering around Linda Lusardi wittering on about David Seaman.
Spirits these days...
Back to life...Back to reality
And now I am chilled out no longer. Sooooo NOT Zen. Stillness and listening my arse!
Am totally unable to sleep or to stop beating myself up. My mind is in chaos and I'm convinced its a full moon but I can't see it because you can't see the sky in Birmingham.
Nothing works, if I go and make hot milk I'll get bad breath in the morning and if I make chocolate I will have to deal with the guilt on top of it all.
Its all hormones and hysteria round here. Why, pray tell, would the good Lord in all his wisdom pick me to be still, peaceful etc etc? I feel like I just stuck my finger in a socket
Total paranoia set in without warning about 12 hours ago and seems to be currently resident. This makes me behave like a strange, badly house-trained puppy scratching at the door to go out and then beggin to come back in.
I started feeling persecuted about church chairs this evening, you could make up the most random thing, select anything and i would turn it round to some kind of failure on my part. All the Moose in Alaska are catching foot and mouth (for example...and no, I had no idea...I thought I'd made it up). It isn't that I would blame myself for the plight of the Moose with immediate effect, I would just convince myself that you had a point and that I was partly responsible. I would somehow turn it around. I'm not sure how I do it in theory, but in practice it works. I might (for example)assume that you assumed that I had a Moose flannel with which to lather my Radox. I would argue that you had been shocked that I would use a Moose-fur flannel and should be ashamed of myself for lathering my Radox with it. Especially when that poor Moose had been battery-farmed in Alaska, the source of the outbreak of Moose disease. I would then be perfectly at ease explaining to the long-suffering Graham that I thought maybe you were right and that my flannel really was developed from Moose-hide in an appalling fashion resulting in a foot and Mouth outbreak in Alaska.
Furthermore...it would seem reasonable, until the next morning when I read my Blog and wondered what on earth was going on...in Alaska, with a Moose taking a shower with my flannel.
...I've lost it
Am totally unable to sleep or to stop beating myself up. My mind is in chaos and I'm convinced its a full moon but I can't see it because you can't see the sky in Birmingham.
Nothing works, if I go and make hot milk I'll get bad breath in the morning and if I make chocolate I will have to deal with the guilt on top of it all.
Its all hormones and hysteria round here. Why, pray tell, would the good Lord in all his wisdom pick me to be still, peaceful etc etc? I feel like I just stuck my finger in a socket
Total paranoia set in without warning about 12 hours ago and seems to be currently resident. This makes me behave like a strange, badly house-trained puppy scratching at the door to go out and then beggin to come back in.
I started feeling persecuted about church chairs this evening, you could make up the most random thing, select anything and i would turn it round to some kind of failure on my part. All the Moose in Alaska are catching foot and mouth (for example...and no, I had no idea...I thought I'd made it up). It isn't that I would blame myself for the plight of the Moose with immediate effect, I would just convince myself that you had a point and that I was partly responsible. I would somehow turn it around. I'm not sure how I do it in theory, but in practice it works. I might (for example)assume that you assumed that I had a Moose flannel with which to lather my Radox. I would argue that you had been shocked that I would use a Moose-fur flannel and should be ashamed of myself for lathering my Radox with it. Especially when that poor Moose had been battery-farmed in Alaska, the source of the outbreak of Moose disease. I would then be perfectly at ease explaining to the long-suffering Graham that I thought maybe you were right and that my flannel really was developed from Moose-hide in an appalling fashion resulting in a foot and Mouth outbreak in Alaska.
Furthermore...it would seem reasonable, until the next morning when I read my Blog and wondered what on earth was going on...in Alaska, with a Moose taking a shower with my flannel.
...I've lost it
Wednesday, 15 October 2008
Odanadi-uk.org
Last night we went to the official launch of the charity which my niece helped to set up. She is now a trustee. It was a fabulous occasion in London's Docklands/Canary wharf at the Docklands Museum which has been concerned to address the issues of Slavery in the past. It was particularly apt as this charity Odanadi-uk.org is specifically concerned with present day Slavery. Odanadi-uk is set up to fund-raise and awareness-raise for Odanadi-India who work with the results of Sex-trafficking, sexual exploitation and abuse in India. The charity works with women, girls and boys enslaved to the sex-industry, exploited and then subsequently destitute in Mysore, India. They house the children of women forced to become prostitutes.
The evening was very moving because it was intensely personal, we had a very positive and affirming photographic exhibition to look at. We were even given the names and stories of the women. We had a photographer's commentary of the experience of photographing some of the young girls in India. We watched a film of the place and heard more heart-wrenching stories. We were inspired by the founders of the charity in India, listened to a speech by Katherine Hamnett and all the time were reminded of the charity's name 'odanadi' which means 'soul-mate'. The charity has an ethos which is concerned with equality, it is not patronising, does not put any conditions on the money given and insists that people work in a voluntary capacity for the organisation. Therefore all the money goes directly to India without being wasted on admin costs. The venue was given free-of-charge, and everything was done at minimal cost.
What impressed me most was that the founders of Odanadi-India and Odanadi-UK all insisted that this kind of work is concerned with global-solidarity. Words like 'brotherhood', 'sisterhood', 'soul-mates' and other words concerned with intimacy and relationship were used frequently. The founders of Odanadi-India had flown over to speak to their UK fund-raisers, and there was a film made of the charity by a woman who had visited the area to witness for herself the work being done there.
At the end of the evening we were given some little bags made from re-cycled newspaper by the women in India and on each bag was a photo of the project. We were constantly reminded of our connections.
I was also particularly impressed by the aims of the Charity which are to rehabilitate not to encourage dependency and therefore further enslavement and inequality. The charity uses a lot of highly creative ideas, a photography project developed from our discarded cameras, an interactive theatre project, and funding to set up small businesses to encourage and enable the women's independence. The project is passionate about stopping the cycle of abuse which is developed when these people are exploited, working with the children and in training the people in counselling and support work. The families are supported as a whole where appropriate, the children are housed as far as the limited resources of the charity will allow. The consequences of sexual exploitation such as physical illness, mental health issues and the difficulties faced by these women when they wish to get married are all confronted and addressed. The charity is also working tirelessly to raise awareness of the all-pervasive culture of social stigma associated with sexual exploitation.
I left feeling a powerful need to 'do something' and hope to compile a list of contacts for Odanadi-uk so that they can develop links with the Asian community here in Birmingham. I am also going to pray for them daily and ask others to pray too. We have set up a standing order but cannot currently afford to give more. We are thinking of creative ways of supporting this charity.
The heartening thing about this charity and the location of its launch in the heart of our capitalist, finance centre in the middle of a credit crunch was that many of the women who had developed Odanadi-UK had reduced their working hours, taken pay-cuts to work in charity work, even a top clothes designer had designed a t-shirt for nothing. The launch was filled with young middle-class well-connected Londoners and they have a social conscience which many people of my generation are only just discovering.
They are absolutely determined to change the world. They are not religious or pious or pushing an agenda they are just so entirely human. The founders of the UK branch of Odanadi are all gutsy, strong women, feminists at their best determined to fight for their fellow women and bring justice. Idealism is not dead. Thank God
Please visit odanadi-uk.org and see what I mean
The evening was very moving because it was intensely personal, we had a very positive and affirming photographic exhibition to look at. We were even given the names and stories of the women. We had a photographer's commentary of the experience of photographing some of the young girls in India. We watched a film of the place and heard more heart-wrenching stories. We were inspired by the founders of the charity in India, listened to a speech by Katherine Hamnett and all the time were reminded of the charity's name 'odanadi' which means 'soul-mate'. The charity has an ethos which is concerned with equality, it is not patronising, does not put any conditions on the money given and insists that people work in a voluntary capacity for the organisation. Therefore all the money goes directly to India without being wasted on admin costs. The venue was given free-of-charge, and everything was done at minimal cost.
What impressed me most was that the founders of Odanadi-India and Odanadi-UK all insisted that this kind of work is concerned with global-solidarity. Words like 'brotherhood', 'sisterhood', 'soul-mates' and other words concerned with intimacy and relationship were used frequently. The founders of Odanadi-India had flown over to speak to their UK fund-raisers, and there was a film made of the charity by a woman who had visited the area to witness for herself the work being done there.
At the end of the evening we were given some little bags made from re-cycled newspaper by the women in India and on each bag was a photo of the project. We were constantly reminded of our connections.
I was also particularly impressed by the aims of the Charity which are to rehabilitate not to encourage dependency and therefore further enslavement and inequality. The charity uses a lot of highly creative ideas, a photography project developed from our discarded cameras, an interactive theatre project, and funding to set up small businesses to encourage and enable the women's independence. The project is passionate about stopping the cycle of abuse which is developed when these people are exploited, working with the children and in training the people in counselling and support work. The families are supported as a whole where appropriate, the children are housed as far as the limited resources of the charity will allow. The consequences of sexual exploitation such as physical illness, mental health issues and the difficulties faced by these women when they wish to get married are all confronted and addressed. The charity is also working tirelessly to raise awareness of the all-pervasive culture of social stigma associated with sexual exploitation.
I left feeling a powerful need to 'do something' and hope to compile a list of contacts for Odanadi-uk so that they can develop links with the Asian community here in Birmingham. I am also going to pray for them daily and ask others to pray too. We have set up a standing order but cannot currently afford to give more. We are thinking of creative ways of supporting this charity.
The heartening thing about this charity and the location of its launch in the heart of our capitalist, finance centre in the middle of a credit crunch was that many of the women who had developed Odanadi-UK had reduced their working hours, taken pay-cuts to work in charity work, even a top clothes designer had designed a t-shirt for nothing. The launch was filled with young middle-class well-connected Londoners and they have a social conscience which many people of my generation are only just discovering.
They are absolutely determined to change the world. They are not religious or pious or pushing an agenda they are just so entirely human. The founders of the UK branch of Odanadi are all gutsy, strong women, feminists at their best determined to fight for their fellow women and bring justice. Idealism is not dead. Thank God
Please visit odanadi-uk.org and see what I mean
my prayer before leaving
This is a prayer which I prayed before leaving the Retreat. I prayed it in front of a small ornamental lake and threw something into the water as a symbol of that comittment. It was, sadly, a stick...not an attractive rock, but it was all I could find and it made me laugh. I cried a lot as a I did this, it was a significant comittment and I knew what I was getting into, it was as if I was finally standing up and being counted, finally deciding to serve God and the Church graciously, without moaning about it or pretending I can't do it.
As the pitiful stick hit the water it caused ripples which extended out and touched he ripples of the other objects and rivulets spilling into the water. It was a glimpse of God in that it caused a movement on the water and represented to me the way in which all our different gifts ripple against each other to create a beautiful pattern.
This prayer is based on an exercise where we were asked to make sense of our journalling exercise from beginning to end. We were asked what God might be saying to us, where God might be leading. It became clear from my journal that I was called to a role of listening in many senses. I was called to being still and at peace, present to God and others and listening, but I was also called to laughter and prayer. Most of all I was called to listening in whatever sense I could to God. This was a revelation to me, but not to anyone else, mostly people sighed with relief when I told them. "At last, she finally 'gets it'"
It was news to me really, I think most people would have expected a more tangible idea with goals and objectives and purpose, but this is a strange role to be given and although I am already developing it and enjoying it it never seemed to me like a vocation in itself. I have never heard of such a thing! Anyway, here is the prayer:
God
You
Know
Me
I
Know
You
Use me to hold others in your embrace
To show them your smile
To trust you
To be unashamed
Bring me to accept
That I must be still
Be listening
Be present and at prayer
To claim my gifts with gratitude
And to use them with humility
To know that you will be present
To accept that I too must be present
and bring healing through your presence
With your people
I pray that I will trust that
What I have been given I have responsibility to share
and what you ask of me
I must do
Use all of me Loving God to your Glory
Amen
At the end of the retreat we sat together and shared. I made a gesture by laying down my journal in the centre of the room next to another woman's work. It was a form of gratitude, we had been pilgrim's on a journey together and we had changed each other, for that I am eternally grateful because they helped me to be fully myself and to start enjoying being Jess simply for who I am
As the pitiful stick hit the water it caused ripples which extended out and touched he ripples of the other objects and rivulets spilling into the water. It was a glimpse of God in that it caused a movement on the water and represented to me the way in which all our different gifts ripple against each other to create a beautiful pattern.
This prayer is based on an exercise where we were asked to make sense of our journalling exercise from beginning to end. We were asked what God might be saying to us, where God might be leading. It became clear from my journal that I was called to a role of listening in many senses. I was called to being still and at peace, present to God and others and listening, but I was also called to laughter and prayer. Most of all I was called to listening in whatever sense I could to God. This was a revelation to me, but not to anyone else, mostly people sighed with relief when I told them. "At last, she finally 'gets it'"
It was news to me really, I think most people would have expected a more tangible idea with goals and objectives and purpose, but this is a strange role to be given and although I am already developing it and enjoying it it never seemed to me like a vocation in itself. I have never heard of such a thing! Anyway, here is the prayer:
God
You
Know
Me
I
Know
You
Use me to hold others in your embrace
To show them your smile
To trust you
To be unashamed
Bring me to accept
That I must be still
Be listening
Be present and at prayer
To claim my gifts with gratitude
And to use them with humility
To know that you will be present
To accept that I too must be present
and bring healing through your presence
With your people
I pray that I will trust that
What I have been given I have responsibility to share
and what you ask of me
I must do
Use all of me Loving God to your Glory
Amen
At the end of the retreat we sat together and shared. I made a gesture by laying down my journal in the centre of the room next to another woman's work. It was a form of gratitude, we had been pilgrim's on a journey together and we had changed each other, for that I am eternally grateful because they helped me to be fully myself and to start enjoying being Jess simply for who I am
Thursday, 9 October 2008
A Prayer of Consolation
We are known
You, lover of our souls, know our resting places
Our rest is in the healing heart of God
The God who is our sleeping and waking
Our God of mercy and compassion
Whose nature is never to blame
Heal our broken hearts
it is your promise
And you will not let us go
Our wholeness is your embrace
You, lover of our souls, know our resting places
Our rest is in the healing heart of God
The God who is our sleeping and waking
Our God of mercy and compassion
Whose nature is never to blame
Heal our broken hearts
it is your promise
And you will not let us go
Our wholeness is your embrace
Penitence and Confession
I am sorry for nt wanting to enter the darkness
For being afraid to stay there
For forgetting that darkness is a shared space
That we must visit it so that no one goes there alone
For not wanting to accept that communal confession is concerned with healing
For not wanting to enter, to share that room full of brokeness
I am sorry, and I do repent with my whole heart
For not wanting to cry before others when the tears of others heal our own wounds
It is part of the running - this remorse
This fear of sharing more and more deeply
The mutual darkness
I confess to you, Loving God, God of Mercy
Compassion and Kindness
I have nt done what I ought to have done
I have not stayed with the darkness for long enough
Without the depth of it
I cannot be dazzled by your healing light
Forgive us; for we know not what we do
For being afraid to stay there
For forgetting that darkness is a shared space
That we must visit it so that no one goes there alone
For not wanting to accept that communal confession is concerned with healing
For not wanting to enter, to share that room full of brokeness
I am sorry, and I do repent with my whole heart
For not wanting to cry before others when the tears of others heal our own wounds
It is part of the running - this remorse
This fear of sharing more and more deeply
The mutual darkness
I confess to you, Loving God, God of Mercy
Compassion and Kindness
I have nt done what I ought to have done
I have not stayed with the darkness for long enough
Without the depth of it
I cannot be dazzled by your healing light
Forgive us; for we know not what we do
Lectio Divina
Quakers have borrowed from St Benedict's ideas about meditating on the Word of God
I took Psalm 139 and studied it out loud and in meditation.
I took one message from it, but it had a much deeper resonance than it would have if it had simply been said. I found it written, three simple words circled
You Know Me
I took Psalm 139 and studied it out loud and in meditation.
I took one message from it, but it had a much deeper resonance than it would have if it had simply been said. I found it written, three simple words circled
You Know Me
Intercessory Prayer: A prayer for my husband
29 September 2008
My prayers for you are always for your happiness
For your freedom, joy, fulfilment and fullness of life
I pray for you to have courage
For you to live
For you to stay, here, happy and with me
My prayers for you are always for your happiness
For your freedom, joy, fulfilment and fullness of life
I pray for you to have courage
For you to live
For you to stay, here, happy and with me
reflections on my thanksgiving
29 Sept 2008
I notice:
The absence and inadequacy of words
Reaching for non-verbal mediums
The extension of prayer into life and movement
The recurrence of healing
Is there a link between healing and gratitude
Is gratitude in itself 'healing?
I notice:
The absence and inadequacy of words
Reaching for non-verbal mediums
The extension of prayer into life and movement
The recurrence of healing
Is there a link between healing and gratitude
Is gratitude in itself 'healing?
A Prayer of Thanksgiving
29 September 2008
You astonish me God
This nameless shapeless enormous space
Filled with something like liquid
Gratitude is a luscious, moving expansive form of poetry
Thankfulness is a meaning which emerges
Slowly
Gently
In increments
And then suddenly swallows us whole
Thanksgiving doesn't welcome structure
It delights in surprises
Creates mischief
Leaps up and blocks our throats
Smarts our eyes
Shivers our spines
Feeling grateful is a movement with a life which cannot be accounted for
It will never stand up and be counted
Will not stand still and speak up
It isn't even eloquent
When I am thankful I am suddenly afflicted
I am brought closer to God and myself and those I love
Without warning, speechless, voiceless, amazed
Gratitude is an incarnation of love
It beats in our hearts, takes that beat to its wings, flies and carries us beyond a million thank yous into an unspoken sky
Perhaps laughter is a form of gratitude
It is a volume of celebration
A claim to life and vivacious spirit
and maybe song is also thanksgiving
and music
and other wordless offerings and words which reach beyond speech
giving something back in exchange for a gift
A clasped hand
An embrace
Tears of relief, of joy, of healing
A simple touch, a flat hand on a shoulder
A smile
Even memory
Even dance
You astonish me God
This nameless shapeless enormous space
Filled with something like liquid
Gratitude is a luscious, moving expansive form of poetry
Thankfulness is a meaning which emerges
Slowly
Gently
In increments
And then suddenly swallows us whole
Thanksgiving doesn't welcome structure
It delights in surprises
Creates mischief
Leaps up and blocks our throats
Smarts our eyes
Shivers our spines
Feeling grateful is a movement with a life which cannot be accounted for
It will never stand up and be counted
Will not stand still and speak up
It isn't even eloquent
When I am thankful I am suddenly afflicted
I am brought closer to God and myself and those I love
Without warning, speechless, voiceless, amazed
Gratitude is an incarnation of love
It beats in our hearts, takes that beat to its wings, flies and carries us beyond a million thank yous into an unspoken sky
Perhaps laughter is a form of gratitude
It is a volume of celebration
A claim to life and vivacious spirit
and maybe song is also thanksgiving
and music
and other wordless offerings and words which reach beyond speech
giving something back in exchange for a gift
A clasped hand
An embrace
Tears of relief, of joy, of healing
A simple touch, a flat hand on a shoulder
A smile
Even memory
Even dance
My Gratitude Journal
If you are not on the 'friends' list, please don't think I'm not grateful (and you are in no particular order, these were just the people for whom I was grateful at that particular moment)!
Areas of life...Home, Church, Friends, Writing, Health, Work
Home:
Graham
Graham's smile and soul, his laughter, joy and care
I am grateful for his constant un-relenting love and devotion
I am grateful that I married my soul mate
The cats and their comedy and simplicity
The beautiful home I live in
For having money for food, lighting, heating
For luxury and contentment
Church:
For...
Freedom
Healing
Beauty
Spiritual formation
People
Prayer
Candlelit Church
For constantly being humbled by astonishing people
Friends:
Graham !
Pauline
Rob
Mina
Myra
Camilla
Catherine
Steve
Ann
Anna
Crystal
Anne
Christian
Pamela
Rebecca
For shared sorrow and hilarity
For acceptance
For being cared for
Writing:
For release
For healing
For truthfulness
For Pam Lunn and this course
For poetry
For prayer
For creativity, imagination, pen, paper, computer and keyboard
For Blogs
For writers
For Freedom of Speech
Health:
Bliss, Bliss, Bliss
For my recovery from fits and despair
For my happiness
For my body
My teeth
For good dentistry and a fantastic GP and medicine and money
Work:
For my vocation
Areas of life...Home, Church, Friends, Writing, Health, Work
Home:
Graham
Graham's smile and soul, his laughter, joy and care
I am grateful for his constant un-relenting love and devotion
I am grateful that I married my soul mate
The cats and their comedy and simplicity
The beautiful home I live in
For having money for food, lighting, heating
For luxury and contentment
Church:
For...
Freedom
Healing
Beauty
Spiritual formation
People
Prayer
Candlelit Church
For constantly being humbled by astonishing people
Friends:
Graham !
Pauline
Rob
Mina
Myra
Camilla
Catherine
Steve
Ann
Anna
Crystal
Anne
Christian
Pamela
Rebecca
For shared sorrow and hilarity
For acceptance
For being cared for
Writing:
For release
For healing
For truthfulness
For Pam Lunn and this course
For poetry
For prayer
For creativity, imagination, pen, paper, computer and keyboard
For Blogs
For writers
For Freedom of Speech
Health:
Bliss, Bliss, Bliss
For my recovery from fits and despair
For my happiness
For my body
My teeth
For good dentistry and a fantastic GP and medicine and money
Work:
For my vocation
A prayer inhabited by Joe
Walk with me Joe
You have left me with a memory of a life lived in God's presence
Share my ministry Joe
I would be inhabited by Christ as you were
Would be genuine as you were
I share your intentions, I am continuing your work
You would understand how small that privilege makes me feel
Walk with me until my tiny-ness is God's greatness
Bring me laughter Joe
More of your joy
Something of God's smile
Listen with me Joe
Teach me more of compassion and kindness
Walk with me through this open door
Accompany me on my walk
Shepherd me as I shepherd others
You have left me with a memory of a life lived in God's presence
Share my ministry Joe
I would be inhabited by Christ as you were
Would be genuine as you were
I share your intentions, I am continuing your work
You would understand how small that privilege makes me feel
Walk with me until my tiny-ness is God's greatness
Bring me laughter Joe
More of your joy
Something of God's smile
Listen with me Joe
Teach me more of compassion and kindness
Walk with me through this open door
Accompany me on my walk
Shepherd me as I shepherd others
The Rule of St Benedict
Our retreat took shape around the Rule of St Benedict and the shape of life in monastic communities and so around each of these journalling sessions we spent hours in silence, alone and together. We also followed a liturgical form of prayer and so we worked with concepts such as gratitude and thanksgiving, penitence and offering.
As part of our response to the idea of gratitude we were encouraged to keep a daily journal of our gratitude on that day. Then we were asked to follow a process of thinking of someone to whom we have never expressed our gratitude in person. The person 'chose you' from our list of people, who might be dead or alive or just not the kind of person to whom you could write or speak in this way. We were encouraged to write a prayer and reflection around the person who jumped out of our list and demanded attention, however uncomfortable.
I was totally unprepared for the person who chose me. His name was Joe Foster and he was one of the first people in my life who made Church seem like a good idea. He worked for our Anglican Parish Church but I think he worked in a 'Lay'capacity i.e. like me. He worked with young people and established a youth group with my friend's Mum. I don't know how I had forgotten his influence, but he recently died and I was sad not to have been there at his funeral. As you will see he has been a great influence.
As part of our response to the idea of gratitude we were encouraged to keep a daily journal of our gratitude on that day. Then we were asked to follow a process of thinking of someone to whom we have never expressed our gratitude in person. The person 'chose you' from our list of people, who might be dead or alive or just not the kind of person to whom you could write or speak in this way. We were encouraged to write a prayer and reflection around the person who jumped out of our list and demanded attention, however uncomfortable.
I was totally unprepared for the person who chose me. His name was Joe Foster and he was one of the first people in my life who made Church seem like a good idea. He worked for our Anglican Parish Church but I think he worked in a 'Lay'capacity i.e. like me. He worked with young people and established a youth group with my friend's Mum. I don't know how I had forgotten his influence, but he recently died and I was sad not to have been there at his funeral. As you will see he has been a great influence.
Silence and Stillness
The silence and stillness needs to somehow encourage a pace of life where stillness, attentiveness, patient listening guides everything else
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