When the tide recedes

A colleague and friend died the week before last. I got the news while I was walking on the beach. It was cancer not coronavirus. Either way, her death might be considered just another statistic. But for those of us that knew her it certainly is not - it is real, she is gone, and we will miss her.

The more I have listened to the news in the last few months, the more angry I have felt about the statistics. Coronavirus is killing people not numbers - these are real individuals whose lives had real impact to those around them.

I have written the following poem for those left behind.

When the tide recedes
and we are left with echoes of what was
Look upon the ripples in the sand
Stop
See the salty pools of tears
the broken fragments left by
forty thousand
empty shells
Listen to the voices carried by the wind
angry cries
too little, too late
we never had the chance to say
Goodbye.
When the storm has passed
and the hope-filled rainbows have faded
Remember how this moment felt
Pause
And mould from this gritty clay
something of lasting worth
Sift the fragments
Find the pearl.

Moments of Now.

We're now in the sixth week of UK lockdown. In my crazy house, with my husband, 3 (almost) teenagers and 2 student lodgers, there have been some lovely moments and some really tough ones.

My mothering instinct has meant that I have wanted to make everything okay for everyone all the time, but that was never going to be possible. Everyone has different perceptions of this "space" we've been given and different ways of reacting to it. But more than that, we've needed to recognise that those perceptions and reactions vary for each one of us from day to day, and moment to moment. Trying to predict how we will feel tomorrow is impossible.

My eldest son and I have had many conversations about how different time feels now, and how we're both feeling about the different days and moments we find ourselves living in. This poem grew out of one of those conversations.

In this interlude
between what was and what will be
time takes on a different shape,
The linear progression of days halts
and we find ourselves here
living in the unpredictable moments of now.

Moments where time slows
to a leisurely amble in the sunshine
and we joyfully embrace this new rhythm,
Hear the music formed by the inclusion of the silent rest,
Wander in deserted spaces,
Blow dandelion clocks to check the time.
Our world is at a standstill,
and creation breathes.

But there are other moments
when there is no respite from the timelessness,
and our breathing space becomes a suffocating vacuum,
We strive to fill the hiatus with activity,
surround ourselves with a sea of distant faces,
familiar but barely connected.
Our world is unrecognisable
and creation weeps.

Pausing in the gap
between the breathing and the weeping
we glimpse the promise of tomorrow,
recognise that all moments pass
and we need not fear
accepting the unpredictable moments of now.

Daisy

Spring is my favourite time of year - buds appear on the trees and flowers start to bloom. My children think I am a little crazy, but I especially look foward to the daisies appearing in the grass. I find a lot of joy in making a daisy chain. It's a fleeting work of art, as the daisies wilt so quickly. But perhaps that's part of the joy - realising that nothing lasts for ever.

Today I made a daisy chain, and wrote a light-hearted little piece for your amusement.

Whatever you're thinking or feeling in the midst of this coronavirus pandemic, remember this: it won't last forever.

Daisy, Daisy, I weave a chain or two,

sitting in the sunshine

two metres away from you.

It won't be a normal springtime,

going out is now a crime.

But we’ll be safe,

if we have faith,

stay home, and wash our hands too!

In between

About six weeks ago I started to write a poem. The week had started with a couple of days where I had stayed at work late and found myself cycling home as dusk was falling. I remember noticing the amazing quality of the light and sound of birdsong around me... but it was cold, as February often is, and as the lights in the surrounding houses turned on one by one, I found myself choosing to rush home to my own electric brightness rather than stop and fully take in the natural light and birdsong.

However, on the Friday evening I found myself walking the dog at dusk around the lake in our local park, and I became aware of some bats that were flying from tree to tree. This time I stopped, and I watched the bats for some time. It was magical, and I began to think about the wealth of life that we overlook by rushing from one thing to another and not appreciating the in between spaces in our lives.

Ironically I didn't finish writing my poem in February as I was too busy rushing about from one thing to another.

But today, I found space and decided to finish writing the poem.

The world is a totally different place today compared to six weeks ago. The words I wrote back then seem to have a different meaning now, in the middle of the COVID19 lockdown. But I wonder if maybe they were always meant for now.

In between my waking and my sleeping
the day lies open
offering me everything or nothing;
a wealth of possibilities,
and a gaping void.

In between daylight and dark
dusk falls.
Through the gathering gloom
I journey homeward;
flickering lights
call me to safety.

But in the darkness
I pause.
And recognise the invitation
to step
into this unknown,
this in between space.

In between activity and stillness,
there is a different life.
In between the traffic roar and silence,
birds sing a twilight melody.
In between sight and blindness,
bats dance with freedom.

In between my waking and my sleeping
I pause,
recognise the invitation
to embrace
this different life,
this in between space.

You saw me

This week it feels appropriate to share a poem I wrote a while back...

Sometimes I feel like I am not really seen by the people around me. Sometimes I don't want to be seen. Sometimes I do, but then doubt that what might be seen will be accepted. Hiding is easier. Honest relationships are hard.

Sometimes I am glad that there is someone who always sees me. And is the truth.

You saw me
unformed in my mother’s womb,
a pure bundle of possibilities.

You saw me
lying naked and exposed
in a world beyond my understanding.

You saw me
run with faltering steps,
speeding unprepared into confusion’s abyss.

You saw me
standing tall while flailing inside,
drowning in the silent fear of failure.

You saw me
broken.
torn open.
until with dawning truth

I saw you
gently walk with unfailing clarity
to cover my misshapen perceptions
and re-form me.

Candlemas

Growing up a was aware of the church celebrations of Christmas and Epiphany, but after that there seemed to be a long period of dark winter nights of nothing until Lent. However, in recent years I have become aware of the celebration of Candlemas. February 2nd, 40 days after Christmas, 40 days from birth to the day when Mary was allowed to enter the temple, offer sacrifices and be cleansed from her impurities.

The account in Luke 2 vs 22 - 38 mentions Mary's encounters with Simeon and the prophet Anna. I have always wondered how Mary felt on this day. And in the days preceding it. In many ways she was an ordinary girl, to whom extraordinary things were happening. Encounters with angels, an unplanned unusual pregnancy, a birth miles away from the family and home. The bible tells us of her faith and humble acceptance. But I imagine that at times Mary just longed to be normal, longed for predictability. I imagine her coping with all the emotions that accompany dealing with a newborn infant - joy at new life, struggles with lack of sleep and feeding worries. And I imagine her approaching the temple that day feeling a little relief at being able to follow the normal jewish traditions... and then she is reminded again that the life she holds in her arms is far from normal. But this life has come to bring life -unpredictable, but abundant life for all.

Blessed beginnings
humbled by His holiness
I open my hands,
my heart,
my womb
to his will.
Called to journey
lonely road to stable bed
I trust in his plan,
his way,
his revealing
of his son.

But there are days of doubt,
of fearful darkness creeping in.
Days when I long for normality,
for things to be as they were.
But they will never be.
All has changed.

Presentation and purification
traditions observed for generations
I am renewed,
refreshed,
reminded
of his promises.
Waiting ancients
approach the holy child
I open my ears,
my eyes,
my arms
here is the Light of the World.

All will be well.

Epiphany

Yesterday we returned to "normal" life. I went back to work, the kids went back to school, and our Christmas decorations were packed away and returned to the attic for another year.

And, in doing so, I was reminded of a poem I wrote this time last year:

On the twelfth day of Christmas the wise men come to call,
And she lays the baby Jesus in bubble-wrap, crib and all,
Switching off the lights, she takes the bare tree down,
The wise men stand and watch, on their faces a frown;
Gifts are discarded and the tinsel is packed,
And she wonders why Christmas always ends with this final act.
Is this now our epiphany: that the Christ can be packed away,
Sealed in a box, hidden in the attic for another day?
After such a long journey, did the faithfully shining light,
Simply just vanish or get extinguished by the night?
As she looks to the future and ponders the past,
She finds herself longing for a hope that will last.
So on the twelfth day of Christmas the wise men come to show,
To all seeking a home, the safest way they know.

Dormant

At the start of 2019 a friend mentioned to me how she always selects a word at the beginning of each year that captures a sense of the year ahead, and she asked me what my word would be.

After some thought I felt that there were two words for me for the year ahead: Waiting and Change.

I commented at the time that they aren't words that I normally put together - change, for me, tends to be a more driven thing; I like to have a plan and know where things are going. But there was a sense that 2019 wasn't going to be about planning, it was going to be about waiting and seeing changes emerge around me, and from within me.

This weekend as I revisited my words, I was drawn to the image of seeds. Lying dormant, alive but not yet active. Waiting for a change that cannot be forced. We can plant seeds, and provide the correct growing conditions, but other than that we just have to wait and trust that eventually, once the seed has broken open, something beautiful will bloom.

Buried beneath the layers
laid down
through time and choice
we wait
for these seeds of hope
to bloom

Now is not the time for toil
nor striving
within this protective shell
we wait
alive with possibilities
yet dormant.

Time passes in silent moments
breaking open
the fragile dreams we hold
waiting
until with unforced change
we begin to flourish.

Barren Land

Last week I took a little trip to visit my parents. My route takes me over the edge of the Breacon Beacons - the small mountain range in South Wales. The scenery can be stunning - if the weather allows you to see it. However, low cloud is not unusual, especially in autumn, and on this trip the area was shrouded in a thick grey mist which only parted occassionally to reveal the empty brown hillside. It got me thinking about how mixed our reactions to autumn can be (especially in the UK). On a clear, crisp day the fall colours can be uplifting. But at other times the dark nights and cold, wet days can dampen our spirits.

Seasons are important. If we didn't have to weather the winter, would we fully experience the joy of spring? There is a passage in Ecclesiastes (chapter 3) that talks about there being a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the sun. As I pondered this current season, I wrote the following:

Now is the season of dying,
of fallen leaves
and barren landscapes.
Now is the season of uprooting,
of final harvest
and discarding dross.
Now is the season of giving up,
of tearing down
and throwing away.
The season of wandering through the wilderness
silently searching...
and finally recognising
that this is not a season of fruitlessness
but of fallow land
in quiet recovery
Patiently waiting for the new season
of sowing
and growing.

Reflections

It's been almost two months since I have posted anything. This silence hasn't exactly been deliberate, more the result of a busy few months that has included getting a new puppy and going on two road trips (one with a friend and one with family), but is strangely apt as I have been thinking about silence and stillness during this time.

My road trip with my friend took us to the West coast of Scotland. Our first stop was the Isle of Seil. Travelling the narrow roads on the way there we passed several lochs and, despite the fact that many were tidal and it was September (usually wet and windy), the water was as still as glass. Rarely have I seen such a clear reflection in such a large body of water. The photos I took failed to adequately capture the spectacle, but I was left with the impression on my heart, and a feeling that there was a message in it all.

I found myself pondering on how the reflected image was only possible because of the stillness. I am a very active person, often found busy doing things that I consider to be of worth, desiring to be of service to others and my God. But sometimes busyness is not what is needed. Sometimes what is needed is stillness.

Journeying through
ever changing landscapes,
you catch my eye,
stop me in my tracks
and
you still me.
Here beneath the infinite skies,
you lead me by the tranquil waters,
where lofty mountain heights
bow in silent reflection
of the depths
of your love,
Majesty
laid low in sacrifice.
Here I kneel
in quiet awe
for
you still me.
And I pause,
just long enough
to see,
with clarity,
reflected in the grandeur,
your face smiling at me,
for I, too, mirror you
as
you still me.