Space

Am away to the Barn later today where I usually write this. And it feels like a time to go offline, hence writing this now.

For the past couple of months I've been dividing my time between Hull and the Barn. The Barn being a converted granary mill by a river about 10 miles outside of Hull. Transformed by friends and now inhabited by them and a few others. A great place to be and to write.

When I first started going, I felt full of stories and ideas and thought words would pour out of me.  And being in such a quiet, beautiful place would be wonderfully conduicive for that. But it's not been like that at all. More of a slow release. And often, it's felt like hard graft. Albeit with a lovely view.

It's not been what I've expected anyway.

This weekend, however, I had a PING moment whilst talking with a friend. And suddenly things made sense.

This writing process, for now anyway, is about clearing space. Reclaiming ground. Digging deep. Uprooting things that are getting in the way and/or draining energy. And moving into a new season of life.

So as much as I can see it, I'm not there yet. I'm beyond it in some ways but still have a long way to go in fully letting go, fully falling.

What's hard especially is that it's revealing crap stuff that's been hanging around for years. Which for the past few weeks has felt like heavy shit. But, this morning, it's occurred to me that one man's shit is another man's manure. And there's no such thing as death to a gardener. As much as it stinks to me just now, it's rich fodder. And as much as I need to let go and let things die, nothing is wasted. It's all good in the grand scheme of things.

So, I'm off for a few days of space now. Away from the laptop, away from screens. A time to breathe and rest. And let my soul be shepherded for a while.

The Eternal is my shepherd, 

He cares for me always.

He provides me rest in rich, green fields

beside streams of refreshing water.

He soothes my fears;

He makes me whole again,

steering me off worn, hard paths

to roads where truth and righteousness 

echo His name.

Psalm 23:1-3 

(The Voice version)

Expectations

Here's something that's been coming up a lot lately. The idea of expectations and whether having them is a good thing or not. I've always liked to think it is. Being a generally hopeful, positive person. But how much do expectations weigh us down? And lead to unnecessary disappointment and sadness?

Just this week I found myself saying to a group of friends that to the 19 year old me, my life now would seem very disappointing. And I'd probably have thought I'd failed. Back then I was part of a Christian culture that was extemely visionary, prophetic and very very exciting. At least to that younger me. Who'd left home, at last, and was free to have adventures, at last, and Do Stuff for God.

At the time I loved it. Loved going on mission teams to what felt like extreme places - Burkina Faso, Tanzania, Morocco, inner city Belfast, Derry, Amsterdam. Loved the rough and tumble of living by faith, not knowing where the money would come from but it coming, nonetheless, usually at the last minute. Loved the sense of belonging and community and being among people of a similar ilk. Loved the opportunities to fly by the seat of my pants, leading worship when I could barely play guitar, leading teams I'd only just met. A lot of the time it was great. And I saw myself living that way for years to come. Like the couples in leadership I really looked up to. And the missionaries overseas I thought were amazing.

And I have done a lot, it's true. So many of those things I'd hoped to do, I've done. And yet that 19 year old me, when I think of her, is peeved. Peeved that I'm not fully living the dream. That I'm not doing some amazing work overseas still. That I'm not married to an amazing warrior-man. That I'm not completely together and outrageously bold. That I'm not a spiritual wonderwoman for goodness sake...

But now, when I remember that 19 year old, I just want to give her a hug. And let her know it's OK, whatever happens. That she's OK just as she is. That she's a gift to people around her, wherever. And that she's enough. More than enough.

But then, none of that would have made much sense back then. I had no idea of my limits or who I really was. Just who I wanted to be. What made sense then was that God was doing a work of transformation in me. And I needed to change. And the work I was involved in was as much about changing me as about changing the world around me. 

I'm not saying now that there's no truth in that. God does bring about change in us as we work with Him. But it's not about being inherently bad and Him making us good. It's about us becoming more of who we really are by being loved enough to want to change. And let go of things that hurt us and those around us.

So as much as I feel sad when I think of that 19 year old and all the pressure she put herself under, then and in years to come, I don't feel annoyed with her. If she hadn't been a zealous evangelical she'd have been a full-on something-else. And that might not have gone well for her at all. 

What I feel mostly these days is relief. Relief not to be living in that hotbed of extreme expectation anymore. Not to be carrying that heavy weight of trying to be more than I am. Relief to have had enough mishaps to know that life can still be good. And God, still loving. And relief to still be here, still breathing. Happy to be a falling woman. Learning to rest in the mystery. Yet with eyes still on the horizon. Hopeful for things to come.

Campervan

A while ago, a friend told me about a dream she'd had. About a campervan full of books. A campervan so full of books that it was weighed down, struggling to move and using up loads of petrol in the process. And then she told me she felt the dream was for me. And to make of it what I will.

Since then I've thought about it, off and on. And drawn a few conclusions. But this one's resonated with me most: 

I'm a campervan

Full of books.

The nearest thing I could find on google images...

Full of words

Unexpressed.

A campervan

That's been moving

And accumulating

For a long long time.

With the petrol gauge

Near empty

It's time now to pull over,

Put on the handbrake
And stop.

Time to settle enough

To unpack them

And lighten the load.

27/06/16, Hull

Interesting that I wrote those lines nearly a year ago. That it's taken me that long to settle enough to begin to unpack the books. And start writing their stories.

I think that's got something to do with transitioning. And all the changes and decision-making that goes on in that time. An exhausting process and not something to under-estimate I've discovered. I think, probably, the writer in me's been keeping a low profile whilst all that's been going on. Glad to keep out of it and have a kip.

Thankfully things are falling into place now and there's a sense of shape and rhythm to life. And finally I feel ordered enough to start tackling the inner campervan books. And come out of hibernation.

So I guess the writing process has a lot to do with kindness. And trust. Not about nagging or forcing the words out. But trusting that they will come, in their time. Because like the books in the campervan, they're already there. An accumulation of thoughts and experiences just waiting to be unpacked. 

Rising

"Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I rise."

from: And Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

I had hoped to write this post last week. As part of the last one. But I was flagging. And couldn't get the words out. So I opted for coffee and some comedy on iplayer instead. A natural break, it felt, after an afternoon of re-visiting a tricky and tumultuous time.

It's interesting now I'm in a flow with this blog, that even with all the thoughts and ideas I have for it, I can't seem to force the words. It's like they're coming in their own time. At their own pace. A lesson in itself in the unforced rhythms of grace.

So, today. Rising. Part two of last week's saga. Where I left off at the end of the proverbial shipwreck. And the surreal time just after.

It's funny to think that out of that chaotic and upsetting time there came a gradual sense of order and peace. And rest. I hadn't a lot to do once everything had dissapated and, left to my own devices, I knew I could easily sink. So I thought I'd give myself some sort of structure. And what seemed to work was a 40 day plan. Which took me exactly from the day of that decision to the day a friend was arriving from the UK. A weird seredipity it seemed.

So I planned in times to write, reflect, pray, go out, see friends and maybe find other projects to get involved with. Also a time in my favourite place in the hills, Mondlkiri, where I would go and stay in a wooden hut and soak up the green, the fresh air and the peace. A v welcome change from the WAAAA and smog of Phnom Penh.

By the time my friend arrived, I was definitely on the up. The 40 days had held me, giving me space enough to rest and shape enough to focus and do things . What was especially encouraging was the way I found my natural community. Or rather, the way it found me.

For the four years I'd been in Cambodia til then, I'd worked with a guy called Sophorn on a project called the Good Touch Bad Touch Puppets Flipchart Project (oh for a shorter title!). Together we'd delivered training days across the country and been to Nepal and Bangladesh plus been part of the same team with the NGO that had pulled out of Phnom Penh a couple of months previously. Sophorn and his wife, Nary, also lived in the same street so we knew each other pretty well.

Although by this time, Sophorn was out of a job, Nary's ministry reaching out to garment factory workers was flourishing. And some of the girls she was helping were staying in the flat above, having left factory work to go back to school and to run a small business selling snacks on the street to support themselves.

I can't remember what happened exactly but not long after those 40 days and after my friend had left, I was pretty much part of the flow of things with Nary, Sophorn and the girls. Going round for meals, helping with Bible studies, having them over to my flat for get-togethers with other friends, visiting the factories and generally being part of something that felt very natural and real.

What was most humbling and heartening was that it was Cambodians who looked out for me in the end. Mostly Cambodians anyway. They just got the thing about community and not just doing stuff together but being together. Eating, praying, sharing our struggles, having a laugh. So when I came back to the UK for that visit and said I was rising, much of that was because of them.

A page from "Psalms from the Penh"

In the end, when I returned to Cambodia for what was to be my last 6 months, things just seemed to click. The 40 day rhythm helped keep me focussed again, as did the community around me. And I was able to do more than I'd thought or hoped for, including the "Psalms from the Penh" book which still amazes me when I look at it.

Since returning to the UK I've kept to the 40 day rhythm. And it's helped me again not to flounder. Each 40 days has had its own theme, which has either been obvious from the start or has become obvious. And I've had a strong sense of being led, slowly and carefully, during this time of transition.

With any time away, we come back different and changed in some way. As cliched as that sounds. For me, Cambodia undid me but it gave me loads back in return. Not least this thing of rising. And of rhythm. Being among some of the most resilient people I know and learning from them. And the treasure of being loved by them. Not for what I could do for them. Which didn't feel like much in the end anyway. But just for being me. One of the gang. Shoulder to shoulder. Rising together.

Rhythm

“Gradually within and beyond the banalities of routine, the rhythm of Tuin established itself. Sun, moon and tide wielded an implacable baton conducting our every move, dictating to us when it was time to fish, time to labour and time to rest. And yet within the metronomic structures of heat and night and day, we were free to flounder or to flourish. To survive one must conform. When the pattern of conformity is set, then you can see where your freedoms lie.”
from Castaway by Lucy Irvine

Conformity has never been a word that's sat well with me. It makes me wriggle inside and cringe. And yet, when I'm out and about, cycling in the city or walking by a river, I'm glad, without realising, of the comforts of conformity and the safety it brings. Like Lucy Irvine on her desert island, I'm being held by forces beyond me. And if I choose to go against them, I will suffer. And those around me will suffer. And the world around me will suffer too.

It seems to me, then, there's two types of conformity. A conformity that's imposed by cultural standards. Which either suits people or not. And a conformity that's inherent and more about flow than fitting in. About respect for the natural rythms of life and learning to work with them.

When I stopped Running Up Waterfalls in Cambodia a few years ago, I went through a time of flailing about. Things that had been holding me began to fall away. I got sick and had to go back to the UK for medical treatment. It shocked me that the strong body I was used to wasn't proving so reliable. Thankfully things got sorted fairly quickly and I was able to return after a few months, albeit with much less energy and a weakened capacity for stress.

Not long after, the US-based NGO I was working with suddenly pulled out of the country, leaving the team of Cambodians and ex-pats I was part of, reeling. We hadn't seen it coming, although our boss had been under increasing pressure for months for not conforming to what head office was telling him. He preferred to work to the rhythms of the Cambodians and listen to what they wanted. But that didn't go down well with the funders and in the end, KABOOOSH, we were sunk.

I remember the shock of it all. And the outrage. Especially given the lack of notice (less than a month), the fact that two team members, both Cambodians, had babies on the way and suddenly no financial security, and that little thought had been given to the people benefitting from the projects run by the NGO which all had to close.

I remember the week when the ship finally went down. A bleak bleak week. Personally I was already done in and then I got the news that a friend in Wales had died of cancer. And that my fab and very supportive vicar and his wife on the Isle of Wight were leaving and moving to a new parish in Ibiza. And that the friend and team-mate I'd been closest to in the whole debacle was leaving Cambodia and returning to the UK imminently. So yep, a bleak, bleak week.

It occured to me then that there'd come a time when I'd be left floating, like in the film, Titanic, and everyone I'd been through the trauma with would have gone their separate ways. And then there'd come a time of silence. After all the noise and the weird excitement of it all, silence.

And it came. A few weeks later, it came.

I stayed in my flat for a week or so when it did. Trying to paint. But nothing coming. Trying to write but nothing flowing. Properly beyond it. And just clinging to Jesus, the one fixed point in it all.

Months later, when I was back visiting in the UK, I remember a friend, who knew the extent of what had happened, asking me how I was doing. And I found myself saying: "I'm rising." And it felt like the perfect phrase.


Because what had been happening since that locked-down week was, and still is, amazing to me. A quiet resurrection. Where all I did was give in. And start falling. And in that falling, begin to discover a rhythm I've been learning to conform to, and be held up by, ever since.

More of that in later posts though. My brain's flagging and I've been writing and deleting paragraphs for the past hour or so trying to explain what happened during the rising. So best if I give in to what feels like a very natural coffee break and say t'ra for now.

SELAH

Community lostness

Yesterday I went out walking with friends, Vicky and Janet. And we got lost.

We did have a map. Printed off google. But after a while it made less and less sense.

The bluebell wood bit was fine. And the fieldy bit beyond it. But once we'd got into our stride and gone further afield, it all went a bit weird.

First off, we ran out of fixed points. Nothing on the horizon was familiar anymore. And secondly, we just couldn't work out where we were on the map. It might have well been a map of Brazil.

So we laughed a lot and cajoled ourselves. Sat down for some chocolate and a think. Set off again with great enthusiasm. And soon became even more bewildered than before.

Thankfully Vicky had an epiphany. And reminded me of the map app on my phone. Which could give us directions to where we'd parked from the postcode on the google map. So in the end it did have a purpose. And eventually, we found our way back, with much rejoicing.


As far as experiences of lostness go, this was a pretty good one. I'm not a stranger to getting lost at all. It happens often. Either because I've switched off on my way somewhere or been over-confident and decided I don't need any directions or just been plain curious and decided to deliberatley go off piste.

Usually it happens when I'm on my own though. And not having to worry about anybody else. Which is good and bad. Good that I've not  got anybody else's stress. But bad that I've not got any help. Or a different pair of ears and eyes to get me through.

So yesterday was a revelation. A heartening lesson in community lostness. For a start we didn't fall out but worked together to find our way back. We chatted loads and shared stuff that perhaps we wouldn't have had things gone to plan. We pulled our supplies together and kept each other fueled with chai tea, chick pea crisps, M&Ms and dried mango slices. And we had some really good belly laughs along the way. So all in all, a great day.

I can't say that my memories of solo lostness are quite as vibrant. Or as funny. Or as tasty. Although there have been times when I've been travelling in places like India, Morocco and Samoa that have been so brilliantly bonkers they're pretty unforgettable. But they're the exception. On the whole it's shared memories that stay with me most.

So it's good to be in a season generally where I'm sharing the journey with others. Where I'm having to ask for help with some of the things I'm wanting to do. Where I'm helping others with some of the things they're wanting to do. Where I'm living and sharing space with friends, old and new. And where there's a sense of support and solidarity.

Hopefully we'll all keep each other on track. Or at least have a laugh in moments of community lostness.


So thanks Vicky and Janet for the inspiration. This one's for you........





     

Vulnerability

Vulnerability's a funny thing. I love it when I see it in others. When it's obvious they're not faking anything or trying to be more than they are. When they're just dead honest. And unapologetic for it. Probably the people I'm fondest of or have been most affected by are those who live, or who have lived, in this humble unashamed way.

One of them is Ron. Or was Ron. A friend from Cambodia days who sadly passed away last month. Something I'm still getting used to having last seen him in fine fettle cycling the streets of Phnom Penh. Here he is in his art studio where he spent most of his time:

Ron was 80 when he died. Of a stroke and subsequent complications. So a good age. When I've said that it's like it should dim the grief somehow. Like saying he had a good innings and is in a good place now and he lived well etc etc But I don't think missing someone's got much to do with age. Ron had an impact not just on me but loads of others, especially Cambodians. And especially the group of students he tutored over the years who called him "Daddy" on Facebook when he'd gone.

Not surprisingly, his funeral was made up mostly of Cambodians with just a few ex-pats. As a friend wrote in tribute on Facebook:  

He is the Hero of Faith for Khmer People The funeral this morning was awesome. He gave us the example of  finishing the race. Ordinary man makes extraordinary life-changing to kids/young Cambodia..! 👍

Dina, Ponleu, Ron, Seoung and Bunsom

So what was it about Ron that affected us so much? A lot of the time he was difficult. He moaned a lot and could be a grumpy sod. Whether in the company of many or just one. He never tried to hide his frustrations. Or his sense of futility and despair. Having lived and worked in Cambodia for twenty years or so he'd hoped for a lot. Hoped for young Cambodians especially to flourish creatively and thrive as artists. But he hadn't seen the changes he'd longed for. Not in the numbers he'd hoped for anyway. Of all the students who've passed through his studio only a handful continue to paint seriously and only two have become professional artists. One based in Australia (Bunsom) and the other in Phnom Penh (Dina). Both doing amazing things and Dina's work being recognised all over Cambodia as well as exhibited in Europe, China and beyond (see http://artistdina.com/).

So if success was his thing, he hadn't done too bad. At least in my book. Those students who are still painting are really good artists. They just  haven't been able to go for it completely because of family and financial pressures. A huge thing in Cambodia. And Dina, one of the rare exceptions, has worked incredibly hard to achieve all she has and it's great to see the impact her work is having on her peers, her country and now, her own students. So yep, much to celebrate there. 

But with Ron, his success really was more to do with who he was than what he did. More than what he taught and what he saw as his calling. It was just Ron being Ron. Ron deliberately choosing to live simply when he could have claimed a pretty fat pension from the US. Ron spending hours patiently going over drawing techniques with children from the local deaf school. Ron losing his rag when a student drew yet another version of Angkor Wat or an elephant or a pagoda: "Where's your imagination??!" Ron's eyes sparkling over a spontaneous studio picnic of rice, noodles and fish. Ron quietly musing over his latest theological tome. Ron listening and just getting it when I was struggling. Ron laughing raucously when Cambodians were around. Ron just being Daddy. Being Ron. Being real. Because he was incapable of being anything else.

Through Ron's vulnerability I saw incredible strength and grace. And freedom. And a solidarity with Cambodians that was beautifully unaffected. And unforgettable. He was beyond it in so many ways. And had been falling for a very long time. And from him I take great courage. 

So huge thanks to you, Ron, for your example and inspiration. For your legacy of vulnerability. That funny old thing that's probably more of a struggle to fight than to give into. And I've had enough of the fight. It's time to give in and just enjoy falling homeward. At least this side of heaven.

Song of Songs (glimpses of glory) by Ron Rieman

Mapless

Writing this feels like launching into open sea. Like a lot of creative things, I find. A mixture of excitement at the possibilities. And a lurking dread of being overwhelmed. And getting lost along the way.

So this morning I'm taking heart from the mad journeys of Celtic monks from way back who took off in coracles, not really knowing where they were going but trusting God's Spirit/the Wild Goose to lead them and bring them safely to an unknown shore.

I'd like to think my coracle is like this. Emptied of clutter and free to ride the waves....

But in reality, it's more like this,.....

...full of stuff and a wildness of its own.   

So as I head off,  I'm aware of stuff going on, within and without. Love it that there's a house in this picture and a ladder leading up to who knows where. Speaks to me of being at home in the now whilst longing for things to come. Love the trees and garden too. Things not to hack away and de-clutter in order to sail more smoothly. But to tend and nurture and enjoy their fruit along the way.

In fact I love this soul-holding coracle!!! Changed my mind now about the other one. This'll do me.

So here we go. Mapless and looking to the Wild Goose. And glad of the wisdom of St Brendan the Navigator, the knarly and undaunted, original coracler.

Falling

My Grandma was once a fallen woman. She used to giggle about it and invite her fallen friends round to swap notes. A gaggle of Octogenarians showing off their cuts and bruises from recent trips, bemoaning dodgy hips and osteoporosis. The plight of getting older and easily, and unelegantly, falling over.

That wasn't quite what I had in mind with this falling woman thing. Though I miss the mirth of Grandma (who'd be nearly 110 now, had she not gone way beyond it back in '98). And am smiling as I write this, thinking of her.

Here's more of what I'm thinking....

So a letting go. And falling upwards. Trusting the process. Not trying to hold it together but learning instead to be held. In what increasingly feels like uncertain and unknown spaces. The older I get and the more travelled I've become, weirdly.

Which all sounds a bit Out There I guess. A bit unrooted and nebulous. Hence this blog and just wanting to ground things in words and pictures. Seeing this whole falling thing as an adventure into the unknown. And making notes as I go.

A huge inspiration so far has been Richard Rohr's book "Falling Upward". All about embracing the second half of life in all its spiritual richness. Thanks to Grandma who got to 91, only now, in my mid 40s, am I facing the fact that I'm in the second half of life. A shock and a relief in equal measure.

So this book. Worth a read.....

"Richard Rohr has given us a perfect guide to what he calls the 'further journey,' a voyage into the mystery and beauty of healthy spiritual maturity."
-Mehmet Oz, M.D., host of The Dr. Oz Show

Mystery. Beauty. Healthy. Maturity. Lovely words. Tricky to work with. Trickier to live out. But here goes anyway...... 

Hull

When I last blogged I was "Running Up Waterfalls" in Cambodia. Now, three years later, I'm in Hull. Where there's lots of water but not so much of the falling kind. More of the flat. And muddy.

Which is a relief if I'm honest. A relief to be in a flat place. Where there's massive skies and space. Where it's not about running and going against the flow but more about just being and going slow. Feeling the mud in my toes. Loving the views. Breathing deeply. Turning up. Joining in. Gently enjoying a new/old belonging.

Now feels like a gathering, grounding time. A time to gather and ground thoughts especially. In writing, painting, films maybe. See what happens. I'm just glad to have got this blog going, finally. And have somewhere to put things, as and when they come. Wahoooo.

The past few years have been quite a time. With things coming to an end in Cambodia (Dec 2015) and transitioning to life back in the UK. First off on the Isle of Wight and now in Hull. Both safe harbours. Familiar and friendly. Places to rest and reflect and look out to sea. Where it's OK to feel beyond it. And where there's beauty enough to see beyond it. And begin to dream again.

Not that things ended badly in Cambodia. As endings go it was pretty good. One of the best. A very natural, obvious, it's-time-to-go-now end. When the work I'd been involved with was being done, better than I ever could or would, by Cambodians. When friendships were good and community, real. When the arts centre I'd wondered about would happen, in its time, through the ministry of a fellow creative and friend. And when people got me enough to help me put a book together:

So a very good ending. Joyful, big-hearted and productive. And lots of great memories. With a few bad endings under my belt, or at least not quite as seamless, I've appreciated the peace it's brought to this new season. There's been a huge feeling of fondness for Cambodia but not a longing to be back there. I've been able to be here and not there more fully than in past transitions. For which I'm proper thankful. 

Am sure there's posts to come with Cambodian tales to tell. It was a rich and wonderful time. But for now, Hull! The title of this post. I'm in Hull now! City of Culture 2017. Whodathought. 

I've been coming to this place since I was 16. Since meeting up with a crowd of Hullites at Greenbelt and coming up to stay. Since the days of "Spiders", pints of Pink Pugslies and Tarantualas, Mousefolk at the Adelphi, Captain Sensible in East Park - the thrill of catching his beret when he threw it into the crowd.

Thirty (!!) years later - hello, again, Hull! 

Hello again since the last time I lived here - 2000-08 - and the times I visited before - 1987, 88 and 89. Hello again since the times I dropped in during my South-East Asian sojourn these past few years. Hello hello hello. I. Am. Here. In Hull. And it's time to get writing. Hallelu.