Where we are

These past two weeks I have been thinking about the word grace and what it means but it somehow seems at odds with the unfolding war in Ukraine. The weeping eye mural painted in Cardiff by the street-artist MyDogSighs says more to me than the numerous news reports I read each day. What words can express the pain and sorrow? And how in the light of this situation can I write about grace?

I set today aside as a writing day. I wandered around the beautiful valley. Then read the news. I started to write about Ukraine. And then I started to write about grace. Neither was quite right. And then a friend suggested I write about both together. It was a passing comment, but I needed to hear it. She has been thinking about Thomas Merton’s words: Humans have a responsibility to their own time… a responsibility to find themselves where they are, in their own proper time and place, in the history to which they belong and to which they must inevitably contribute either their response or their evasions, either truth and act, or mere slogan and gesture.

The following poem and images are my response to Where We Are.

Stay and rest a little
Weary wanderer
Eyes wet from weeping
Mute
Bombarded
Endless yet inadequate
Words penned by journalists
While two million flee
Run for refuge
Then wait
On this moss-cushioned seat
Look beyond the broken
And observe the beauty
See the signs of new life emerging
Rising from the dying lands
Ancient, storm-battered trees
Still reaching for the light
The river ever coursing its way through
Undeterred by obstacles
The gentle creatures
And faithful pairs
Standing together
Take a moment
Where you are
Open your eyes
To glimpses of grace

Charis

When I was a student (over two decades ago now) a good friend and I used to meet up with our exhaustive bible concordance to delve into some word or other – hope, faith, etc. We’d look at where it was used and what the original Hebrew or Greek was that was translated into whatever English word we were focusing on and look into how else those original words were translated, and the context of the various passages. It was a way of looking at something and following whatever thread seemed to emerge.

Today I decided my morning would be spent with my exhaustive concordance exploring the word Grace with an academic mind (so feel free to ignore this post if you were just seeking another nice poem).

My studies followed many threads, but there was one that I thought I’d share:

In the new testament of the bible the English word Grace is almost exclusively from the Greek word Charis. Only one occasion is another Greek word used – Charizomai, which is translated as “in grace gave” in Galatians 3 v 18. Elsewhere that word is usually translated as forgive or forgave. The passage references the law and the promise. It provides a contrast between the old covenant (with Israel) and the new (through Christ). Under the old covenant laws we always fail and fall short, and need God’s forgiveness and mercy. But the new covenant gives us a different starting point, we are loved unconditionally and receive God’s grace. The human condition hasn’t changed – we are still flawed and imperfect people. And God hasn’t changed. But our relationship to God has, because we’ve been adopted as children.

A few years back I became friends with a couple who had come to Swansea seeking asylum. Shortly after arriving they had a daughter. Initially I thought that they had given her the Welsh name Carys, but then they explained that it was spelt like charismatic. Charis.

Grace. 
Interestingly the Welsh name Carys means Loved one. 

Interwoven threads…

I thought of Charis this morning and pictured her held in her mother’s arms. And I concluded that (for today at least) Grace is not about being showered with abundant undeserved gifts, it’s about being loved unconditionally by father/mother God and held in his/her arms.

God’s
Reaching
And
Complete
Embrace.

Grace

Some years back I heard a friend of mine say that she usually has a word or a phrase for the year. I liked that idea, but don’t often have a clear sense of a word for each of my years. However, on the eve of 2022 I had a strong feeling that my word for this year is Grace.

I am trying to have a pattern of taking a day once a fortnight out of the busyness of my hectic life to just breathe and think and write. I hope, over the year, to look at different aspects of the word Grace and all it means to me… there maybe multiple poems and reflections... or it might just be this one. After all, grace comes with no conditions attached!

This is written in memory of my friend, Jennifer Crossley (5/9/68-5/12/21)

In this darkness
There is space for grace.
In the conflict
There is room for kindness,
The elegant act
Of a hand outstretched
Poised in friendship.
In the heartbreak
And confusion,
Undeserved,
Unrestrained,
Grace extends
A welcome embrace.
And lights a candle.

 

Joy

November was not the easiest of months for me, but I focused on the positives each day - finding breathing space and moments of joy. This week I managed to take a morning off work and chores to just sit, read and reflect. I opened up 'Benedictus - A book of Blessings' by John O'Donohue and read the blessing For Equilibrium:

As the wind loves to call things to dance,
May your gravity be lightened by grace...
May your prayer of listening deepen enough
To hear in the depths the laughter of God.

It reminded me of a moment last week when I was out walking my dog. It was a wet and very windy day but, despite the greyness, in the silence of nature I felt an unusual lightness in my spirit. I walked through a sheltered part of the park and watched the leaves falling from the trees. I was reminded of a similar day years ago when my children and neices and nephews were young and ran laughing and dancing around those very trees as their leaves fell. And I reconised the joy in letting go.

I wrote this poem this week.   And then I danced (because I was in a space where nobody was watching)!

Out in the wide open spaces
I want to dance
In the rain
Beneath the trees
Fling wide my arms
And welcome you
Welcome the change
The advancing seasons
The stages of growth
And death
The letting go
Of all that was
To welcome what’s to come
And I may look a fool
Spinning here
But here
The weighty things fall away
Unrestrained
And carried by the wind
I welcome joy
And dance

Anxiety

It's been a tough couple of weeks, I have struggled with anxiety, and I wasn't sure I would manage to sit and write anything today... but as I walked my dog alone in the stormy weather this morning, I started thinking about what it's like having GAD & OCD. The turmoil hidden beneath the organised exterior. Trying to put it into words has been quite therapeutic this afternoon.


This
is the overwhelming silence
of waiting
for the internal din
to fall mute,
and the scales oscillating
with probabilities
to stand stationary.
This
is the constant movement
of immobility
as the shifting ground
gives way,
and we free fall
motionless
into the uncontrollable vacuum.
This
is unfounded fear.

Thin Places

Last month I took a trip to the Scottish island of Iona. It is a historic place of pilgrimage and has been described many times as a “thin place where only tissue paper separates the material from the spiritual”. Stepping out of my busy life, I expected to find lots of space on my trip to think and reflect, but instead found other busyness took over for much of it. However, I did come away with memories of a couple of significant moments (like the night where my friend woke me at 3am just to drag me outside in the freezing cold darkness to look at the stars!), and a determination to make more time in my busy life for deliberate breathing space.

Today’s deliberate space started with an early morning walk around the local park and little lake with my dog, where I paused to take in the sights and sounds of the beautiful autumn day. And then I went to a friend’s valley to sit and write. Immediately after Iona I had started to pen a poem about thin places – picturing myself standing as still as I could on tiptoes, reaching up with outstretched fingertips, straining to touch the spiritual. Today I binned that picture. There is no vast gap for us to traverse with massive effort, but rather multitude of places (from remote Scottish islands to the little park in the centre of the city) where worlds may quietly touch.

 

Sat motionless in the middle of the cold night,
Gazing at a billion galaxies
brightly shining above me
I am enveloped in the silence
and the warmth of wonder.
Here are the thin places.
Pausing at the break of the bright new day,
Noticing the vastness of heaven
reflected in the depths
I welcome this mysterious border
at the boundary of my fragile life.
For here in the thin places
we meet.
Not a desperate reaching out or crossing over
from one realm to the next,
But a convergence of all that is
and all that shall be.
And moulding together the fragments of my divided self
you make me whole.
Here in this thin place.

Gaps

I have never written consistently - poetry, my journal, random posts on facebook or whatever - there have always been gaps. I have a friend who writes a blog post every day. I admire her, but I know I won't ever do that. For me life happens, and I fall silent for a bit.

Today I was walking my dog and pondering the gaps. Wondering if people notice the moments when I am not saying anything, and wondering what they read into that? Sometimes I fall silent because there is other positive stuff taking up my time and I am busy having fun with my family, but at other times it is less positive and I retreat because I am struggling with anxiety or depression. Often I have wished I could be rid of those less positive pauses in my life. However, my pondering today led me to recognise that to be fully me, I need all the gaps, irrespective of how they feel at the time. And I wrote the poem below in celebration of that.

In the spaces      between      my words,
And in the gaps
       between
              my lines,
You will find me.

--

In the paragraph I chose to skip,
And in the silent moments
as I tell my tale,
You will hear my story.

On the days I did not write,
Or had little to say,
On the days when efficient productivity
was superseded
by immobilising anxiety,
On those days,
You will find
I am still me.
Fully me.
In the gaps,
And in the silence.
For true music is formed
by the rests
between the sweet chords,
And harmony only created
by the inclusion
of the many differing notes.
So, take note of the pauses.
This is the symphony of my being.

Time for Beauty

The charity I work for runs a Foodbank. In addition to receiving public donations of dried and tinned foods that make up the basic food parcels we supply to those in need, on three evenings a week we pick up food from a local supermarket just after closing time. Food that has reached its sell-by date, had its packaging slightly damaged, or just been overstocked. Perfectly good food that can’t be sold but can be taken by us and offered freely to the hungry. 

Sometimes we are given other expiring items like bunches of flowers. 

Once, there was a plant. 

A few withered leaves and bare stalk. Considered worthless, it was thrown out. And possibly would have been thrown away if I had not seen it. For about 9 months it has sat on my windowsill. I have watered it and waited. Last month a bud appeared. Now the orchid is flowering. Every time I look at its delicate beauty it brings me joy. More joy than it would have done if I had just gone to the shop and bought it perfect condition. 

One of my fears for my children is that they are living in a world that moves so fast, with everyone expecting instant results, that they might miss out on knowing the deep joy that comes from waiting.

There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens.

In this high-speed world
of fast food
and instant messaging,
Child, do not be so eager
to avoid the wait,
do not confuse the dormant
with the dead,
nor overlook the potential
of the slow.

Know there is a greater joy
in the anticipation
of the blooming,
in the evidence
of hope not misplaced,
than in the hasty
grab and go,
split-second gratification
of the quick.

There is a time for everything,
and everything is made beautiful in its time.

The River

Continuing on the theme of beach wanderings, the other thing that often grabs my attention is a river that I regularly cross on my walks. The river is always there, but it is never exactly the same - we'd be surprised if it was, because we know that rivers flow and move and change course. Change is an expression of the life a river has. So I wonder why we sometimes are surprised or fearful when we encounter the same in our own lives?

We stand at this fragile border
watch the river cut its course.
See the shifting boundaries
and discarded debris,
as the once familiar landscape
silently transforms.
We have passed this way before,
but now we pause -
marvel at the motion,
watch the emerging patterns
briefly establish
and slip away,
acknowledge change
is a certainty
for things that move.

Exposed

It’s been a while since I wrote a poem. There have been a lot of half formed ideas and musings but nothing concrete that I wanted to share until this:

In my recent beach wanderings I have been fascinated by a couple of exposed old tree stumps; they are well worn and must have been there for years buried under the sand but only now, because the beach profile has undergone natural changes, can we see them. It made me think about the people I have known for years and how they have changed over time. This poem is for the people who I now truly see.

And you have weathered storms
that shifted sands
and rocked the boat.
Stood your ground
while certainties slipped away
beneath the waves
of change.
Remained here.
Forever dependable,
but not unaltered,
As the receding tides
expose your fragile layers
and reveal the beautiful truth
of who you have always been.