a telling place

breathe with unconditional breath

2012-02-03T17:39:00.001Z

Sometimes, no matter how inspiring the lecturer, how interesting the topic, how good the company, time out of a lecture hall and away from words becomes necessary. Yesterday morning the sun broke through the heavy winter clouds which had been hovering over St Andrews all week, and the world came alive. I couldn't resist. I skipped my class and went for a long, slow walk on the beach instead.

the tenderness of space

2012-02-02T21:58:00.000Z

The light shouts in your tree-top, and the face
of all things becomes radiant and vain;
only at dusk do they find you again.
The twilight hour, the tenderness of space,
lays on a thousand heads a thousand hands,
and strangeness grows devout where they have lain.

With this gentlest of gestures you would hold

the world, thus only and not otherwise.

You lean from out its skies to capture earth,

and feel it underneath your mantle's folds.

You have so mild a way of being.

They

who name you loudly when they come to pray

forget your nearness. From your hands that tower

above us, mountainously, lo, there soars,

to give the law whereby our senses live,

dark-browed, your wordless power.

Poem: Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Book of Hours
Photos: taken as the sun was falling behind the hills at St Mary's Monastery, Kinnoull

the writing life

2012-01-25T01:23:00.000Z

I feel like I moan a lot about writing essays. During term time, the rhythm of my life seems to be dictated by essay deadlines. As the due date begins to loom, the guilt starts to creep in. I catch myself thinking that I should be writing instead of doing whatever else it is that I'm doing. I read status updates by fellow students on Facebook about how they've already finished, days before the essay is due, and I start to panic.

But every time, it's the same. Every time, I can't do anything but sit and wait. Every time, I can't force it. Yes, there's probably an unhealthy mix of procrastination, lack of confidence and laziness which contributes to my always working to right up to the deadline.

But the truth is (and I am only now accepting this after 10 years of university and postgrad level study), this is how I work. I try to get up early. I sit. I angst. I wait. And make endless cups of tea and coffee. And angst. And wait. And the day passes. And then, just when the despair starts to sink in, just as I am ready to give up, a thought flutters past. Words begin to appear in my mind. They begin to form random sentences. And they grab hold of me and won't let me go. The time finally comes when I have to write.

And then it is often a huge cathartic rush. From somewhere beyond me, the ideas dance and play and then order themselves on the page. When I go back and read what I have written, I rarely recognise my own words. I don't see myself in it at all. I don't know where the words or the knowledge come from. And often I don't know what I think about something until I've written about it.

I only occasionally edit, other than tidying up a few sentences. I don't do drafts. There's never time anyway. But it works.

It's a strange experience, writing. Deep down, I think I love it. Sometimes, usually when the essay is handed in - nearly always when I've received a good mark on it - I even might admit to enjoying it.

wasting time

2012-01-19T17:08:00.000Z

For a real absolute waste of time you have to go to prayer. I reckon that more than 80 percent of our reluctance to pray consists precisely in our dim recognition of this and our neurotic fear of wasting time, of spending part of our life in something which in the end gets you nowhere, something that is not merely non-productive, non-money making, but is even non-creative. It doesn't even have the justification of art and poetry. It is an absolute waste of time, it is a sharing into the waste of time which is the interior life of the Godhead. God is not in himself productive or creative. Sure he takes time to throw off creation, to make something, to achieve something. But the real interior life is not in creation, it is in the life of love which is in the Trinity, the procession of the Son from Father and of the Spirit from this exchange. God is not first of all our maker or any kind of creator. He is love, and his life is not like the life of the worker or artist but of lovers wasting time with each other uselessly. It is into this worthless activity that we enter in prayer. This, in the end is what makes sense of it.

- Herbert McCabe, God Still Matters

This is probably favourite quote about prayer ever, and it's been floating through my mind at random times quite a lot recently for some reason.

The thing is, the next few months before I'm ordained feel like a vast open space, a great green field of freedom. I have the odd TISEC weekend and occasional meeting, but other than that, I have no real commitments outside of my part-time course at St Andrews, which I truly love. I may moan about the painfulness of essay writing, but I feel challenged by the questions and energised by the reading, and I can see connections between what I do there and my future ministry. It's good. It's very very good.

And after the intensity of New College and TISEC and placements and sermons and meetings and daily bus journeys back and forth between Edinburgh and the Borders and the non-stop thinking, reading, writing, reflecting (and reflecting and reflecting and then reflecting some more until I felt I was suffocating...), I feel as though I am at last breathing in huge gulps of fresh air.

This time feels so precious, I don't want to just fritter it away. And yet, in many ways, that is just what I feel I want to do: to waste time, but in the sense that Herbert McCabe writes about it. I love that I have time to linger over the Daily Office, to sit in long, deep silences, to stare out the window, to go for walks, to read slowly, to be attentive to the movements of my thoughts, my heart, my body, the world around me.

I have hopes that it will also be a creative time. I hope that my writing (and maybe blogging) will begin to return. I plan (my only plan) to keep a photo journal. But I have no real expectations. I have no strong desire to do anything other than simply waste time.

holidays, handbags and . . . cancer?

2012-01-14T13:07:00.000Z

I have found myself increasingly fed up with those Facebook breast cancer awareness memes which seem to by flying around more and more frequently these days. First there were the random postings about the colour of one's bra. Then those rather suggestive posts about where one hangs one's handbag. Then the fake pregnancy updates. And now mysterious trips abroad.

A lot of my friends have participated, and they're good, smart, compassionate, well-meaning people, so this isn't a direct criticism of them. But I just don't get it. Because what these memes seem to say to me is that breast cancer should be kept a secret, should be only talked about amongst women, and that it's just a bit of a game anyway. Am I missing the point somewhere? And if I, a reasonably intelligent woman, am not getting it, does that not mean that the marketing plan has failed miserably?

The way I see it, there is nothing secretive about cancer. There is no shame in it. And if women do feel shame or embarrassment, should we not also be addressing that rather than reinforcing it? Those who have cancer - or any scary illness - need the love and support and prayers of the people around them. Not secrets and gossip or strange nonsensical allusions to the illness.

And this myth that breast cancer only affects women? Not only does it also affect men, but surely it makes sense that men should be educated about it in case they are the ones to discover a lump in their wife or partner's breast?

In the past couple of weeks, I've had two high school friends announce they've been diagnosed with breast cancer, and a friend of my parents has just had a double mastectomy. My limited experience on the oncology ward at the Sick Kids hospital drove home the severity of cancer treatment. A dear, dear friend of mine is a cancer survivor. So maybe I'm feeling particularly sensitive about it, though I also know my experiences are hardly unique, and that makes me sad too, that so many are affected by this. But I suppose that's often where mere awareness turns to action. When something disturbs our world, shakes the foundations we thought were solid, when the scary reality hits a little too close to home and affects those we love.

Maybe the Facebook memes seem harmless enough. (Though the fake pregnancy one seemed remarkably insensitive, given that infertility can be one of the effects of cancer treatment.) But the truth is that breast cancer is not harmless. It's real. And it's frightening. And it needs a cure.

how to knit a poem

2011-12-22T00:01:00.000Z

Hypnosis Knitting

A day of wordless misery,
Thorns in the heart.

This pattern wants only rhythm from me:
No judging, no knowing,
Just moving on
Into a future.

My grandmother's craftwork,
I suddenly see,
Was self-medication.

I'm working three
Axes. First, a new personality
Made from patience.

Second, a scarf
Composed in calm,
A respite from my usual self-harm.

The third's my finest.
Look! I've unpicked
Myself from worry, a delicate stitch

Into the present. No one can see
This last. Mindfulness charges the air ,
Arrays me in intricate gossamer.

- Gweneth Lewis, from Sparrow Tree

blue christmas

2011-12-21T20:31:00.000Z

Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem

Whatever bug it was that made me so ill finally admitted defeat after a round of antibiotics and a fortnight of lots of rest. TISEC has now passed, with the worship successfully planned and led and the sermon preached. By the grace of God and sheer stubbornness, my St Andrews essay was submitted on time. The Christmas shopping is done, though there are some presents which still need to be posted.

I was longing for this space of quiet, this time to knit, relax, watch tv, drink mulled wine. I really couldn't wait.

And yet now that it's here, now that the frantic activity of the past few weeks has calmed down, I notice the discomfort settling around me, growing in intensity. Every year it's the same. Every year, just when I think I'm ok, when I think I've made it past the Annunciation, the Visitation, the sermons about miraculous conception and newborns and peace and joy and wonder, then it hits.

The sadness.

The sadness, which threatens to crush me under its weight. The sadness, into whose shadow Christ is born into my life, into our world, year after year. The sadness, of a house which feels too empty. The sadness, of having family so far away. The sadness, which I see reflected back at me as I wander the bustling streets of Edinburgh, as I look carefully into the faces of people in shops, as I hear neighbours shouting at one another, as I think of the families I met on my placement at the Sick Kids hospital who will be spending Christmas in hospital, or parents who will spend their first Christmas without their child.

Today it felt almost too much. It was too much. I sat in the cold, dark church, a single light lit behind me. I looked up Isaiah 61, desperate to remind myself of the words:

he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed,
   to bind up the broken-hearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,
   and release to the prisoners;
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour,
   and the day of vengeance of our God;
   to comfort all who mourn;
to provide for those who mourn in Zion—
   to give them a garland instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
   the mantle of praise instead of a heavy spirit.

The way the light fell over the page, the brim of my hat cast a dark shadow over these words, so dark that I could barely make them out. They blurred as I tried to read them through my tears.

And I thought of how I long for the words to be clear and true, seen and known and realised in full light and not in darkness. I long for the coming of Christ that Christmas promises. I long for the freedom from grief that I feel every year at this time. I long for renewal and transformation and restoration and wholeness - for myself and those around me and for the whole world.

My longing is simple. I long to believe.

advent woes

2011-12-01T21:55:00.001Z

I always want to love Advent. I want to love all that it is about - the waiting, the preparation, the anticipation. I want to savour it. I tell myself each November that this will be the year when I slow down. This will be the year when Christmas busyness won't overwhelm me. This will be the year when I pay attention to all that the liturgical calendar is trying to teach me. And now that I have finished my BD, now that I'm only studying part-time, I really hoped this year would be different.

Sadly it's not.

TISEC and St Andrews have managed to collide in the worst possible way, with me preaching on 11th December at the next TISEC weekend and a 4000 word essay due on Monday the 12th. My plan was to write my essay this week and focus on all things TISEC next, with various other church commitments, TISEC placement things and general life stuff also needing attention in between.

That was my plan. Before I managed to come down with some kind of cold-flu-miserable-awfulness which I stupidly tried to work through over the weekend. Now three boxes of tissues, half a bottle of whisky (strictly medicinal), a box each of ibuprophen, night nurse and beechams (none of which was taken with the whisky, I hasten to add!) later, my voice is going, my lungs ache from coughing, my head still feels full of cotton wool, and any activity more strenuous than lifting a remote control leaves me exhausted.

I am unbelievably behind on university work. I really couldn't care less about TISEC worship or my sermon. I want to cancel everything I have to do in the next 10 days. And curl and up sleep.

And beyond the horridness of TISEC and essay writing? Dare I think that far in advance? Yet again, I fear, Christmas baking will be but a dream. Dear godchildren and nieces will receive Epiphany gifts rather than Christmas ones (perhaps they should just come to expect this every year). Relatives will be offended because I have not sent Christmas cards.

I want to love Advent. I want to be one of those bloggers blogging serenely about the season. But this year, even more than years past, I feel like I'm going to be hobbling towards Christmas, seeking only with tired eagerness the joy, comfort and hope which it promises.

the way of the desert

2011-11-25T17:04:00.001Z

During a study break this afternoon, I was flipping through theissue of The Tablet which had arrived earlier today. In it was anarticle about one woman's experience of retreat in the Sinai desert.It sounds amazing, and I had the half-mad idea that maybe (if I startsaving for it now) I could go for my pre-ordinationretreat.

When Justin and I were in Israel in August, we took a day trip toQumran and Masada. As the bus descended from Jerusalem and I caughtmy first glimpse of the Dead Sea, my breath was taken away, and Ifelt tears prick my eyes. It was beautiful, stark, hypnotic.

We were the only ones on the bus stopping at Qumran, and when wewalked up the hill to the site, there were few people around. Even at10am, the heat was intense, but far drier and more bearable than thestifling humidity I remember from my summers in the Southern States.

For about half an hour, we were the only ones on thearchaeological site, and I sat on a bench gazing down at the Dead Seaand out over the Jordanian hills, allowing the silence around me to deepen. Itwas no time at all really, half an hour, but those 30 minutes werethe most significant of the entire trip for me.

As I felt the sun's heat and watched the blue haze settling overthe sea and hills, I thought of the desert monks, of Jesus' fortydays, of John the Baptist. I thought of how many times I have heardthe Desert Fathers and Mothers quoted on quiet day retreats incold, wet, green Scotland and the total disconnect. I thought of my ownmisconceptions of what the desert would have been like for Jesus (andyet how well Jim Crace portrays it in Quarantine). I thoughtabout how students in my New College History of Christianity classlaughed at Antony of Egypt's visions of demons. I thought about howmuch we have romanticised the desert and tamed its spirituality.

I wanted to walk up to the caves, to sit there for the day, toprolong the experience, just to see what it might be like, even therein that tourist site with food and water and Dead Sea beauty productsa few hundred meters away. The God I encountered there was inexplicably huge, wild, unpredictable - even dangerous. God's presence was as intense, oppressive and consuming as the heat. I was utterly unsettled and enraptured.

I promised myself never to let go of that feeling. And yet I have, of course. And today, looking at The Tablet article, I realised just how much I long to go back.

study break

2011-11-12T17:14:00.001Z

k1, p1, k2tog . . .

2011-10-29T14:37:00.000+01:00

Now that autumn is well and truly upon us, I've been getting back into my knitting. For a while, it felt like all I was making were baby blankets for the new wee ones of friends and family. Blankets are lovely and easy but very time consuming and repetitive, so I kept getting bored with them. I decided my next project would be for myself.

After a couple of hours of browsing patterns on the internet (when I really should have been reading for uni or writing a sermon), I chose these gorgeous fingerless mittens. I knew they would be challenging, especially since I have no experience of knitting on double pointed needles or doing cable stitches, and the mittens require both. However, with a bit of help from YouTube, I figured I'd be ok.

Last night I had to pull out 11 rows which had taken an agonisingly long time to knit. Turns out I was somehow knitting backwards. How I managed that, I have no idea. I knew it wasn't feeling right, and it definitely wasn't looking right, but I couldn't work out what I was doing wrong. Once I went back to the beginning and figured out what I needed to do, it started to go more quickly and it's going to be really pretty.

And that's the beautiful thing about knitting. It's so easy to go back and correct mistakes. I think that's why I like it so much; it suits my perfectionism. If it's looking sloppy, I can go back and tidy it up. If I've dropped a stitch, I know how to pick it up again. If I've really messed up, I can start at the beginning again. And it's ok. The yarn forgives my idiocy. Every time.

I love the rhythm of knitting, the challenge of learning a new pattern, the feeling of accomplishment when I've finished a project. But I think I'm also enjoying it so much at the moment because it's the one thing that I can really take time with and try to do well. There's no pressure of a deadline. There's no sense that I have to get by with 'just good enough'. I set my standards high - impossibly high - in all that I do, and so often, with essays and sermons, I see what's wrong: I see the sloppy thinking I want to tidy up, the ideas I've dropped and want to pick up again, the messiness which should really just be scrapped, but I rarely have time to go back and fix it.

It's a great flaw, my perfectionism. More often than not, it leads to tears and complete lack of confidence.

But sometimes, as in knitting, it can also be a source of great joy. The perfectionism then becomes not so much about simply doing a task well, but about the care which goes into crafting an object which is both beautiful and useful. It is about stepping back from the work I have done, knowing the mistakes I have made, and still being able say with confidence, 'It is good'.

quotidian mysteries

2011-10-21T01:22:00.000+01:00

A number of years ago, I read Kathleen Norris's The Quotidian Mysteries and loved it. I lent it to a friend and never saw it again. I recently bought another copy, and now that my first assignment for St Andrews is submitted, I've been rereading it. I remember very little about it except her description of the ablutions after the Eucharist which utterly transformed my understanding of what is happening up at the altar during mass:

I found it remarkable -- and still find it remarkable -- that in that big, fancy church, after all of the dress-up and the formalities of the wedding mass, homage was being paid to the lowly truth that we human beings must wash the dishes after we eat and drink. The chalice, which had held the very blood of Christ, was no exception. And I found it enormously comforting to see the priest as a kind of daft housewife, overdressed for the kitchen, in bulky robes, puttering about the altar, washing up after having served so great a meal to so many people. It brought the mass home to me and gave it meaning. It welcomed me, a stranger, someone who did not know the responses of the mass, or even the words of the sanctus. After the experience of a liturgy that had left me feeling disoriented, eating and drinking were something I could understand. That and the housework. This was my first image of the mass, my door in, as it were, and it has served me well for years.

Though I read it long before I began to discern a call to ordained ministry, I returned to Norris's image of the 'washing up' over and over again when I was going through selection. Every time priesthood felt too holy, too unattainable, too beyond my capabilities, that image of the priest washing the dishes would come into my mind. I may not always be able to articulate a theology of the Eucharist as clearly as I would like. I might not have answers to questions of theodicy. I might get my Greek verbs muddled and my church fathers confused. But I can lay the table. And I can do the washing up. In the midst of the confusing and painful and joyful complexities of being human and being with humans, in the insecurities and questions and frustrations of ministry training, it's these simple domestic tasks, a necessary part of our holiest of rituals, which reassure me and give me strength.

It seems to me that they are truly liminal moments - the setting up and the clearing away. They are the quiet, almost hidden moments - the laying of the table in anticipation before the intimacy of the meal, the washing up while remembering with gratitude the time of fellowship. They are the moments which I - in daily life and in church - too often don't recognise as holy. But as I have been deaconing more regularly, I have begun to take more care in the simple, mundane tasks, and to remember that there too, the sacred resides.

life's one true constant

2011-10-07T23:27:00.000+01:00

Coleridge, the real star of the blog, continues to live a life of transcendent happiness in sublime luxury.

resurrection

2011-10-07T16:33:00.003+01:00

I find it amusing, more than a year on, to revisit this place and see that last post. The truth is, after writing it, I spent most of the last year feeling not at all at home: not at home in myself, not at home at home, not at home at uni, not at home at church, not at home in training, and - at times - not really even at home with God. That's not to say there weren't moments of respite and peace and comfort - there were, but for the most part, for all kinds of reasons, I mostly felt fragmented and frustrated. And I figured that fragmented and frustrated don't really make good reading. I also figured that since I didn't know how to write about the fragmentation and frustration - and what was causing it - in a way which was constructive, silence was probably best.

But now, I have graduated from New College (and had my hard work and angst and fragmentation and frustration rewarded with a first class honours BD) and started a part-time MLitt in the Bible and the Contemporary World at St Andrews. I have just begun my third year of TISEC. Discussions about my curacy are taking place, and ordination is no longer feeling like some abstract thing which might happen at some indeterminate time in some vague future.

And somehow, as I return to my studies and training after the summer, I am feeling all the scattered pieces of myself being put back together in a new way. I sat in the lecture hall in St Andrews a couple of weeks ago weeping tears of delight at lectures which touched my soul. At the recent TISEC weekend, I recognised just how much the past two years have shaped me. I have spent the last two days in the lounge surrounded by papers, reading essays and books and the bible, playing with ideas, feeling stupidly fortunate to have this opportunity to continue my studies.

After last year, which (in my many moments of being a drama queen) often felt like a descent into hell, I feel as though new life has been breathed into me.

And so, perhaps the time has come to resurrect the blog.

home

2010-08-19T18:38:00.003+01:00

I have always known Scotland as my ancestral home.

There are times when the leaden grey skies hover for weeks without respite. When the near-constant rain threatens to overwhelm me with despair.

And then there are times like tonight.

When the sharp crepuscular light of the late summer sun bathes the hills in grace.

When the sound of bagpipes playing Highland Cathedral drifts in and out on the cool breeze.

When I can almost hear the soft footsteps of countless pilgrims walking towards an ancient shrine, seeking refuge, searching for a tangible encounter with an ancient-but-still-present God.

When the words of poets remind me that sacraments reside in the quotidian.

There are days when I hear the siren song of the bald, mist-covered highland hills.

There are days when I long to return to America.

But on evenings like this, I know that I am where I am meant to be.

I know, in that rare moment of peace, that I am home.

collared

2010-08-06T21:24:00.006+01:00

I tried it on as a bit of a joke. I was wearing a black shirt. The little white stripe wouldn't make that much difference, would it? Surely not. I should just try it to see how I feel wearing it.

But in that glimpse of myself in the mirror, in that split second before I turned away, I saw something more. I saw myself as God sees me, the true self God is calling into being; I heard my true name being spoken with absolute clarity. I felt in that moment the privilege and the heartbreak, the joy and frustration, the gift and the sacrifice of what I am being called to.

I trembled at the intimacy, at God's overwhelming, enveloping presence and deep knowledge of and desire for me, and the tears came - deep, gulping sobs which I couldn't control but simply surrendered to.

He desired me so I came close.

No one can near God unless He has
prepared a bed for
you.

A thousand souls hear His call every second,
but most every one then looks into their life's mirror and
says, 'I am not worthy to leave this
sadness.'

When I first heard His courting song, I too
looked at all I had done in my life
and said,

'How can I gaze into His omnipresent eyes?'
I spoke those words with all
my heart,

but then He sang again, a song even sweeter,
and when I tried to shame myself once more from His presence
God showed me His compassion and spoke a divine truth,

'I made you, dear, and all I make is perfect.
Please come close, for I
desire
you.'

-St Teresa of Avila
from Love Poems from God

bleh

2010-07-29T22:31:00.005+01:00

I had a blog post composed in my head and was going to type it up today. It was going to be about how good the past week or so has been, how I've done things I enjoy, things like knitting, hillwalking, seeing friends, reading books for fun and drinking wine in the garden in the evenings. I was going to say that I can feel myself recharging and drawing a deep breath and relaxing at last.

But then our kitchen sink clogged this morning. And I spent the morning trying to fix it before finally calling a plumber. Who took ages to get here. And still didn't fix the problem.

So today has felt like a total waste, and I am exhausted.

There are days when I don't want to be an adult anymore. Today is definitely one of those days.

a picture speaks . . .

2010-07-13T15:31:00.006+01:00

Today I've been writing a kind of self-appraisal reflection thingy for my ministry training appraisal conference next month. It's hopelessly overdue, and while I am trying to appreciate that this is a necessary part of the process, that the powers that be need some kind of criteria or framework for evaluation, I still find this kind of thing deadly dull.

So I did what I always do when I'm struggling to stay interested in a writing project: Wordle it. But instead of Wordling my reflection, I decided instead to Wordle the competency framework to which I'm responding. The results were quite revealing, I must say. Last night when I was having an extended moan to Justin about it, I said that it feels like it was written by a human resources department using management-speak, and I can't help but ask with despair: where is God in this?! Well, judging by the Wordle picture . . . ummm . . . nowhere, it would seem:

affirmation

2010-07-11T15:07:00.004+01:00

When I left for the TISEC summer school last Sunday, I was dreading the week. I was angry at God for demanding so much of me. I was pissed off at the constant assessment of New College and TISEC. My heart was heavy with the hurt, fear and anger of friends going through tough times. The last thing I wanted to do was to sit in a classroom for eight hours a day listening to more words. I didn't want to have to be around people all day, every day for a week. I felt totally and utterly drained.

For most of the week, tears were never far away. By Tuesday, my inner hedgehog was tightly curled and feeling more prickly than I thought possible. After sung compline that evening, I sat in the silence of the chapel and cried out to God, letting the tears flow.

By Wednesday afternoon, if I had had the car with me, I would have packed up my things, told God that there must have been some misunderstanding and I'm not meant to be a priest, quit training altogether and gone home.

Thursday evening, at the end of evening prayer, Barber's Adagio was played. A few of us stayed to listen to the whole piece. I wept as I marvelled at how pain, violence and injustice could be made so beautiful. That night, we watched a clip from the opera Doctor Atomic, in which the Donne poem I quoted in the last post was put to music. I was left speechless at how it echoed the feelings of my heart and what the week - and the experience of my calling and my training - has meant for me. I prayed with it as I walked up the hill afterwards and stood in the peace of the sun setting over the town and river below, and I took solace in the strength of the distant mountains.

Something shifted on Friday, though I can't quite articulate it. I have often felt as though pain and praise are opposites, that one cancels out the other, that it is not possible to experience both at the same time, or that to praise is to somehow betray those who are suffering. I have oscillated between the giftedness and costs of a call to ordained ministry, but until now, have never been able to hold them together. But during the eucharist on Friday, I felt a deep gratefulness for what I am being called to. I felt a joy which was not shallow happiness - it did not negate or ignore the difficulties of the past few weeks, the injustices in the world, the dark times we all experience - but was instead a deeper joy which encompassed them, a joy which spoke of promise and presence even in the midst of doubts and uncertainty.

When mass was finished, one of the people sitting next to me whispered with all the emotion I was experiencing, 'Thank you, Jesus'. The tears rose again, but this time from a different place. As the chapel emptied, two friends came and sat on either side of me, letting me cry, allowing me to try to make sense of what had happened, simply being present.

At times, the process of training for ordination has felt less like being moulded by a potter and more like being chiseled away at by a sculptor. I have felt battered, broken, blown and burned by God and the training programme. But, despite the busyness of the summer school, all the words, the lack of space and quiet, I sensed God was also mending me, making me new . . . even ravishing me.

formation

2010-07-08T23:15:00.002+01:00

If I had to choose a poem to describe the past week at TISEC summer school - and probably the past year of ministry training - this would probably be it. I was re-introduced to it tonight at one of our sessions.

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town to'another due,
Labor to'admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly'I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me,'untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you'enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

- John Donne

happy 4th of july!

2010-07-04T09:06:00.003+01:00

I'm off to Perth for TISEC summer school for the next week. I may blog. I may not. Looking at the week's packed schedule, I'm guessing that the latter is probably most likely.

here be monsters

2010-06-30T11:00:00.007+01:00

I have a friend who is very sick. I spoke to her on the phone yesterday, and when she told me about the treatment she's been through, I had no words to respond. She has been to hell and back in the last week. And all I could do was cry, silently, for her, for all that she's going through. I felt helpless. I grasped for words which didn't sound hollow, platitudinous. I couldn't find a way to express how much I care, how much I value her friendship, how much I hate that she's going through this.

I look back on the past year and think of the times that she has phoned, needing to talk, or asked me to meet for a cup of tea, or to stay the night - the times when I was too busy or tired because of university and TISEC and my placement. I was too absorbed in my studies of atonement theories, sacramental socialism and practical theology to be the friend that she needed. I think I had hoped that my studies would make me a better priest, help me answer the difficult questions people ask, give me some greater insight into the workings of God that would make it easier to face the dark times. Naive, I know.

I still have no words. No insights. God's ways are just as unfathomable now as when I started studying.

I was at a friend's ordination on Sunday, and several people there commented that it was similar to a wedding. I was thinking on the drive home how true that is. When we say our marriage vows, we have no real sense of what we're saying; we don't know what we will face in the years ahead - the temptations, the illnesses, the disappointments which are inevitable alongside the companionship, love and support. In the same way, is it ever possible to really know what ordained ministry is like before being ordained? Do we know what the vows will demand of us? Would we still say those vows - marriage or ordination - if we did know?

I know - and people who know me well will also recognise - that I have a tendency towards melancholy and melodrama, and I say the following with that awareness fully in mind. But when I look back on the past year and then look ahead towards the future, I think of those old maps which, in the uncharted waters have dragons drawn in, with the warning, 'Here be monsters'. That's where I feel I'm headed.

There's so much I feel I still don't understand. And I wonder if I ever will. I wonder if, when looking into another person's fear and pain, I will ever find words of comfort. I wonder how long it will take for the academic theology I'm learning now to shape how I respond practically. I don't expect God to ever make sense, but I wonder if I will ever be more open to or aware of God's work in the confusion and messiness of life.

I read pieces of Open to Judgment by Rowan Williams on retreat, and the quote below stood out for me.

If we take seriously the idea that God is faithful and doesn't change, we need to think of him speaking over and over again the same word to us - our true name, our real identity - and making us be, over and over again, in that speech of his, in his Word.

All I feel I can do sometimes is continue to pray that in the noise and discomfort and questions and doubts, I will hear God's true name for me being spoken over and over, and that I will trust that - while it might not be comfortable and easy - it is right and true.

empty well

2010-06-25T11:45:00.002+01:00

My words seem to have disappeared.

I handed in my last TISEC assignment of this year earlier this week. I told Justin later that it felt like I was trying to draw water from a well. Each time I have had an assignment to submit or an exam to take, I've had to lower the bucket a little bit further to find water. By the time I got to this final essay, I lowered the bucket as far as it would go, felt it hit solid ground, and all it brought up was dry, dusty, sandy soil.

I had not realised until I went on retreat how word-based the past year has been. I had not realised until now how much it has drained me.

I have TISEC summer school in another week. I should probably get started on my honours dissertation. And I'll need to sit my Greek exam sometime in August.

But all I want to do is rebel against the words and intellectual response. I want to knit. Garden. Take photographs. Play with coloured paper. Read poetry. Remember, once again, who I am. And remember that there are valid ways of praying and 'doing theology' which don't rely solely on words.

queen of the hedgehogs

2010-06-13T19:04:00.004+01:00

I came across this poem recently and had to laugh - kind of sadly - at how accurately it describes the term-time me. It's a bit scary actually.

I imagine her, all spit and spines,
brewing her own brand of vitriol
in a glass alembic. Alchemist
of the intellect, her recipe rests
upon precision, upon particulars:
proposition and refutation;
the steady accumulation of facts.

Of course, this sharpness is part
of a planned assault on knowledge,
books her ladder to esoteric heights.
But can't she dance a little,
the Queen of the Hedgehogs,
spines laid flat by moonlight,
good grog and the simple love of life?

- by Jane McKie, When the Sun Turns Green

Now that it's summer, perhaps the time has come to indulge in the moonlight, good grog and dancing. . .

splendor

2010-06-06T08:43:00.004+01:00

surrender. . .

2010-06-05T08:27:00.002+01:00

stillness. . .

2010-06-04T22:12:00.004+01:00

into great silence. . .

2010-06-04T21:03:00.005+01:00

healing

2010-05-28T19:27:00.011+01:00

I don't often write about our childlessness anymore.

It's not that I've stopped thinking about it. I haven't. It's not that it's stopped hurting. It's not. There are few days that go by that I don't wonder what our children might have been like. And there are times that the pain is just as raw as it's ever been.

When I was going through the selection process, I felt I needed to be careful about what I wrote on here. I didn't want to give anyone the impression that I was somehow trying to replace motherhood with priesthood, or that my 'decision' to train for the ministry was a rebound reaction to learning we can't have children. I was open about our struggles in my application, and I spoke freely about it during the interviews. It's not something I hide. But still. I wanted to tread carefully.

Once I was accepted for training, I found myself wondering what to do with this blog. I still wonder sometimes. How honest should I be about the broken parts of myself? How do I live authentically but without sharing too much? To what extent is openness an 'American thing' which is not so acceptable here? I probably over-think all this, and my uncertainty has led to silence. But trying to establish the boundaries now rather than later feels important.

Two weeks ago, Justin and I were asked to be godparents of a beautiful baby girl. Her parents are friends from our church. Her mom is an American too. This friendship has grown slowly, out of shared circumstances, and at times, out of shared pain. They have been good friends, loyal friends, friends who are sensitive to our feelings but not afraid to ask for help when they need it. As with any friendship, I wasn't sure how it was going to change when the baby was born.

I was not expecting grace.

During the past several years, I have never prayed that I would get pregnant. Maybe because I was afraid. Maybe because I was without hope in the face of dire statistics. Maybe because I sensed - but didn't want to admit it - that I was being called to something different. But I did pray that God would somehow heal my broken heart. It's not healed completely. Now I pray that it will never be totally healed. I pray that I will never forget the deep hurt in myself which has led me to be more sensitive, more compassionate, more open to the needs of others.

But there is a part of my heart which had grown cold, hard, closed, a place I was scared to go. Today, cradling my goddaughter, I felt my heart begin to soften and I looked into that cold, dark place. The loss was still there. But the anger had gone. I sat in quiet awe at the beauty of new life, at the dependency of a tiny baby, at the generosity of a friend, at the way such a small, fleeting moment had the power to transform years of hurt. And I gave thanks.

formation

2010-05-22T23:40:00.006+01:00

From a book review in this week's Church Times:

My favourite model of formation in [Spirituality in Ministerial Formation by Andrew D Mayes] comes from the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, in which, having been instructed on a particular doctrinal or hagiographical theme, the candidate is given the task of writing a poem about it, to be set to an appropriate musical form, which is then offered in the liturgy by an experienced priest or singer, and assessed according to the quality of its interpretation.

- The Revd Dr Edward Dowler

How wonderful!! Terrifying in practice, no doubt. But wonderful nonetheless. Something for TISEC to consider, perhaps?

learning to pray

2010-05-16T09:10:00.003+01:00

Exams are over.

My dad's visiting from the States.

One of the lovely things about having him here is that he's very good at DIY projects. When he visits, I come up with a list of things I'd like done around the house. And then we do them together. I have moments when I can be practical, but I often lack the confidence or motivation to tackle a new project alone. Dad's done so much work on the houses we've lived in and has volunteered with Habitat for Humanity so many years, that he's pretty much seen and done it all. Though having me work alongside him probably slows him down, he's a patient teacher.

After this academic year, after living nearly exclusively in my head, it feels good to be doing physical work. It's work which requires concentration but isn't demanding. Laying tile after tile in the bathroom, gradually finding a rhythm to it, I could feel my thoughts slow and my body relax. It became almost meditative.

I admire people who finding reading theology a kind of prayer. I have had moments studying Greek where I have felt on holy ground, when, because I was having to read so carefully, I entered into the text in a different way and, in the midst of academic work, met God there. I enjoy studying theology, but during term time, in simply trying to keep up with assignments, I lose sight of what I'm doing, and why I'm doing it. Prayer becomes something completely separate from my university work, and it becomes difficult as it takes more and more effort to reconnect with my heart, and my body.

I have written in the past about the importance of engaging the body in worship, and recognising the places our words alone cannot take us. But it's also a crucial part of personal prayer, yet one I too often ignore. I knitted, sketched, walked and gardened my way through the Ignatian Exercises a few years ago, and the greatest gift my spiritual director gave me was permission - and encouragement - to pray in these ways.

During term time, I forget how freeing and life-giving these activities are, and I find myself having to learn how to be an embodied person over and over again.

the wisdom of cats

2010-05-05T22:27:00.005+01:00

Me (to Coleridge who's sitting in my lap as I'm revising):.. Coleridge, what do you think of the role of aesthetics in the establishment of new scientific theories?

Coleridge:.. *yawns widely*

Me:...Yes. Quite.

Perhaps it's time to put away the books and go to bed.

return

2010-05-02T19:35:00.008+01:00

Well, we're back. And have been for a week now. And to be honest, it's been a rough week.

The transition back to Scotland is never easy: I feel conflicted about about leaving America and my family and friends there, and I feel torn between two homes. Some visits, I can see the two sides of myself fitting together neatly; others - this one included - it feels like two magnets repelling one another. In the quieter days after our flights were delayed, when Justin and I had my parents' house to ourselves, I realised just how much has happened since I was last in America. Since then, I have started my BD, gone through the selection process and started training for ordained ministry, and Justin and I seriously talked about and then shelved the idea of starting the adoption process. A lot has changed since my family and I were together. I've changed. And I'm still accepting that that's ok. It's a good thing. But the relationship adjustments which come with it are difficult.

Instead of coming back to 10 days deliberately kept free of meetings and commitments, in which I would have had time to recover from jetlag, to write a TISEC assignment and revise for exams, I came back right into the midst of due dates, imminent exams and the aftermath of cancelled meetings. Everyone has been supportive and understanding, but I hate the feeling of being behind, of only being able to react, rather than creatively respond.

But this week has held more than all this, which alone would have been enough to have to face. I came home to some difficult news and a situation which has raised deep questions, touched a wounded part of me which I thought had mostly healed, and yet demanded emotional openness and support for someone I love. I haven't known how to balance it or how to protect myself and in my tired and reactive state, I have perhaps allowed it to throw me more than I should have. I have found myself in Old St Paul's several times this past week, letting the tears, the anger, the confusion and the doubt surface but have still found little comfort and few answers. It is a week when I have wondered at the deep pain in our world, the burdens that so many people carry quietly, and I wonder how I can keep from getting lost in it, both now, as a friend, and in the future, as a priest.

It's been a week when I've been more grateful than usual for the eucharist. It's been a week when I have wanted to keep God behind a closed door, a door which I have slammed - hard - and through which I am shouting. I found, however, that it's not possible to keep the door shut and still take communion, at least not if I truly mean what I am saying and doing there. After hearing the eucharistic prayer for reconciliation at a service earlier this week, during the epiclesis (the calling down of the Holy Spirit upon the people and the bread and wine, that each may be transformed), I could almost feel the flutter of wings by my shoulder, and the gentle cool breeze against my cheek. The anger, confusion and doubt did not disappear. But in that moment, I was assured that they could be my offering that day as I approached the altar.

Some days, some weeks, it is a struggle to remember that God also resides in the messiness of our lives, 'unceasingly at work, from chaos bringing order and filling emptiness with life' (SEC 1982 liturgy, Eucharistic Prayer IV). I'm often amazed at how many times I must be reminded of this.

still stranded

2010-04-21T21:01:00.003+01:00

We're still in Tennessee. And will be here until next Tuesday unless we can somehow find an earlier flight back to the UK.

It has been frustrating, and the underlying anxiety has been exhausting. I know we're lucky because we have a free place to stay, and it has been wonderful to spend more time with my parents and to see friends I hadn't originally had time to see. But still. I'm now going to miss my first exam and will be way behind on revision for the others. I have had to cancel or send apologies for several meetings. My TISEC assignments will be late. More importantly, from a financial angle, Justin can only do a limited amount of work while we're here. We'll be feeling the effects of this for some time, even after we finally get back.

I have read and heard some interesting reflections on the fragility of our world economy, the dangers of globalization, our reliance on fast travel, and the way our lives might be improved if we all slowed down a bit. And I largely agree with what's said. Maybe, when I'm sitting comfortably in my own lounge in my own house, I'll be able to look back on this experience and reflect in such a way, but now I've just had enough. I want to go home. ASAP.

adventures in travel

2010-04-16T14:18:00.003+01:00

Justin and I should be back in Scotland now. In fact, this is just about the time we would be getting home.

Instead, we're still enjoying the sun at my parents' house in Tennessee and won't be home until sometime late Wednesday (hopefully).

Compared to a lot of people, we're fortunate. We have a place to stay, food to eat, a comfortable bed to sleep in. The cattery has space for Coleridge to stay until we get back. My exams don't start until the 26th and I brought some work with me. Dad's managed to borrow a Greek grammar and lexicon from a colleague of his, and I can always go into the library at his college if I need to get more books. A trip which felt frantic and crammed in between an insanely busy semester and the start of exams has now taken on a more leisurely pace. The weather has been beautiful, and there are worse places to study Greek than my parents' sunny porch. And while Justin is limited in what he can do for clients, he has managed to do a bit of work to keep things ticking over and is enjoying catching up on some geeky online articles.

There are a lot of people who aren't so lucky. My heart goes out to those stuck in airports, unable to find a flight home or a place to stay. I can't imagine traveling with small children or being stranded alone. I spent all day yesterday on the phone trying to get through to Air France and when I finally (after being on hold/in the queue for over an hour) was able to speak to someone, she sounded exhausted and harassed. When she told me the earliest flight she had was for Tuesday and involved a 12 hour layover in Paris, she was hesitant and apologetic, as though she expected me to get angry. When I replied that would be fine and we would happily take it (although laughed and acknowledged that the layover sounded truly miserable after an overnight flight) she sounded relieved. I can only imagine the anger and abuse she'd had to put up with yesterday. I don't envy the airline staff their jobs when things like this happen.

And, of course, there are those people in Iceland, evacuated from their homes, their livelihoods at risk.

It simply doesn't feel right to be annoyed at the mild inconvenience this has caused us when there are many, many more people out there for whom the situation is far more devastating.

natural habitat

2010-04-12T15:50:00.003+01:00

Enjoying the southern (US) sun and doing what I do best.

(Normal blogging to resume soon)

he is risen

2010-04-04T06:40:00.000+01:00

Emmaus

First the sun, then the shadow,
so that I screw my eyes to see
my friend's face, and its lines seem
different, and the voice shakes in the hot air.
Out of the rising white dust, feet
treat a shape, and, out of step,
another flat sound, stamped between voice
and ears, dancing in the gaps, and dodging
where words and feet do not fall.

When our eyes meet, I see bewilderment
(like mine); we cannot learn
the rhythm we are asked to walk,
and what we hear is not each other.
Between us is filled up, the silence
is filled up, lines of our hands
and faces pushed into shape
by the solid stranger, and the static
breaks up our waves like dropped stones.

So it is necessary to carry him with us,
cupped between hands and profiles,
so that the table is filled up, and as
the food is set and the first wind splashes,
a solid thumb and finger tear the thunderous
grey bread. Now it is cold, even indoors,
and the light falls sharply on our bones;
the rain breathes out hard, dust blackens,
and our released voices shine with water.

- Rowan Williams, from Headwaters

good saturday

2010-04-03T07:08:00.004+01:00

My friend is a stranger, someone I do not know.
A stranger far, far away.
For his sake my heart is full of disquiet
because he is not with me.
Because, perhaps, after all he does not exist?

Who are you who so fill my heart with your absence?
Who fill the entire world with your absence?

- Par Lagerkvist, from Evening Land

the killing

2010-04-02T06:59:00.002+01:00

That was the day they killed the Son of God
On a squat hill-top by Jerusalem.
Zion was bare, her children from their maze
Sucked by the dream of curiosity
Clean through the gates. The very halt and blind
Had somehow got themselves up to the hill.
After the ceremonial preparation,
The scourging, nailing, nailing against the wood,
Erection of the main-trees with their burden,
While from the hill rose an orchestral wailing,
They were there at last, high up in the soft spring day.
We watched the writhings, heard the moanings, saw
The three heads turning on their separate axles
Like broken wheels left spinning. Round his head
Was loosely bound a crown of plaited thorn
That hurt at random, stinging temple and brow
As the pain swung into its envious circle.
In front the wreath was gathered in a knot
That as he gazed looked like the last stump left
Of a death-wounded deer's great antlers. Some
Who came to stare grew silent as they looked,
Indignant or sorry. But the hardened old
And the hard-hearted young, although at odds
From the first morning, cursed him with one curse,
Having prayed for a Rabbi or an armed Messiah
And found the Son of God. What use to them
Was a God or a Son of God? Of what avail
For purposes such as theirs? Beside the cross-foot,
Alone, four women stood and did not move
All day. The sun revolved, the shadows wheeled,
The evening fell. His head lay on his breast,
But in his breast they watched his heart move on
By itself alone, accomplishing its journey.
Their taunts grew louder, sharpened by the knowledge
That he was walking in the park of death,
Far from their rage. Yet all grew stale at last,
Spite, curiosity, envy, hate itself.
They waited only for death and death was slow
And came so quietly they scarce could mark it.
They were angry then with death and death's deceit.

I was a stranger, could not read these people
Or this outlandish deity. Did a God
Indeed in dying cross my life that day
By chance, he on his road and I on mine?

- Edwin Muir

denial

2010-04-01T07:00:00.001+01:00

'Lord, since long, long ago, innumerable times I have thought of your face. Especially since coming to this country have I done so tens of times. When I was in hiding in the mountains of Tomogi; when I crossed over in the little ship; when I wandered in the mountains; when I lay in prison at night. . . Whenever I prayed your face appeared before me; when I was alone I thought of your face imparting a blessing; when I was captured your face as it appeared when you carried your cross gave me life. This face is deeply ingrained in my soul - the most beautiful, the most precious thing in the world has been living in my heart. And now with this foot I am going to trample on it.'

The first rays of the dawn appear. The light shines on his long neck stretched out like a chicken and upon the bony shoulders. The priest grasps the fumie with both hands bringing it close to his eyes. He would like to press to his own face that face trampled on by so many feet. With saddened glance he stares intently at the man in the centre of the fumie, worn down and hollow with the constant trampling. A tear is about to fall from his eye. 'Ah,' he says trembling, 'the pain!'

. . . The priest raises his foot. In it he feels a dull, heavy pain. This is no mere formality. He will now trample on what he has considered the most beautiful thing in his life, on what he has believed most pure, on what is filled with the ideals and dreams of man. How his foot aches! And then the Christ in bronze speaks to the priest: 'Trample! Trample! I more than anyone know of the pain in your foot. Trample! It was to be trampled on by men that I was born into this world. It was to share men's pain that I carried my cross.'

The priest placed his foot on the fumie. Dawn broke. And far in the distance the cock crew.

- Shusaku Endo, Silence

shadows

2010-03-31T06:39:00.000+01:00

I close my eyes.
The darkness implies your presence,
the shadow of your steep mind
on my world. I shiver in it.
It is not your light that
can blind us; it is the splendour
of your darkness.
..............................And so I listen
instead and hear the language
of silence, the sentence
without an end. Is it I, then,
who am being addressed? A God's words
are for their own sake; we hear
at our peril. Many of us have gone
mad in the mastering
of your medium.
.............................I will open
my eyes on a world where the problems
remain but our doctrines
protect us. The shadow of the bent cross
is warmer than yours. I see how the sinners
of history run in and out
at its dark doors and are not confounded.

- R.S. Thomas

out in the open

2010-03-30T06:35:00.002+01:00

The sun is scorching. The plane comes in low,
throwing a shadow in the shape of a giant cross, rushing over
........the ground.
A man crouches over something in the field.
The shadow reaches him.
For a split-second he is in the middle of the cross.

I have seen the cross that hangs from cool church arches.
Sometimes it seems like a snapshot
of frenzy.

- Tomas Transtromer, from The Deleted World (versions by Robin Robertson)

draw me to you

2010-03-29T07:04:00.002+01:00

You know my soul. You know all that needs to be done there. Do it in Your own way. Draw me to You, O my God. Fill me with Pure Love of You alone. Make me never go aside from the way of Your Love. Show me clearly that way and never let me depart from it: that will be enough. I leave everything in Your hands. You will guide me without error and without danger and I will love You all the way. I will belong to You. I will not be afraid of anything for I shall remain in Your hands and never leave You.

- Thomas Merton, from Dialogues with Silence

the poet thinks about the donkey

2010-03-27T06:56:00.000Z

On the outskirts of Jerusalem
the donkey waited.
Not especially brave, or filled with understanding,
he stood and waited.

How horses, turned out into the meadow,
..... leap with delight!
How doves, released from their cages,
..... clatter away, splashed with sunlight!

But the donkey, tied to a tree as usual, waited.
Then he let himself be led away.
Then he let the stranger mount.

Never had he seen such crowds!
And I wonder if he at all imagined what was to happen.
Still, he was what he had always been: small, dark, obedient.

I hope, finally, he felt brave.
I hope, finally, he loved the man who rode so lightly upon him,
as he lifted one dusty hoof and stepped, as he had to, forward.

- Mary Oliver, from Thirst

holy wisdom

2010-03-26T06:52:00.005Z

Ah (you say), this is Holy Wisdom,
Santa Sophia, the SS of the Sanctus Spiritus,

so by facile reasoning, logically
the incarnate symbol of the Holy Ghost;

your Holy Ghost was an apple-tree
smouldering - or rather now bourgeoning

with flowers; the fruit of the Tree?
this is the new Eve who comes

clearly to return, to retrieve
what she lost the race,

given over to sin, to death;
she brings the Book of Life, obviously.

- HD, from 'Tribute to the Angels', Trilogy

wisdom as creator

2010-03-25T06:55:00.002Z

Yahweh created me, first-fruits of his fashioning,
before the oldest of his works.
From everlasting, I was firmly set,
from the beginning, before the earth came into being.
The deep was not, when I was born,
nor were the springs with their abounding waters.
Before the mountains were settled,
before the hills, I came to birth;
before he had made the earth, the countryside,
and the first elements of the world.
When he fixed the heavens firm, I was there,
when he drew a circle on the surface of the deep,
when he thickened the clouds above,
when the sources of the deep began to swell,
when he assigned the sea its boundaries
- and the waters will not encroach on the shore -
when he traced the foundations of the earth,
I was beside the master craftsman,
delighting him day after day,
ever at play in his presence,
at play everywhere on his earth,
delighting to be with the children of men.

- Proverbs 8.22-31

eulogy of wisdom

2010-03-24T07:01:00.002Z

For within her is a spirit intelligent, holy,
unique, manifold, subtle,
mobile, incisive, unsullied,
lucid, invulnerable, benevolent, shrewd,
irresistible, beneficent, friendly to human beings,
steadfast, dependable, unperturbed,
almighty, all-surveying,
penetrating all intelligent, pure and most subtle spirits.
For Wisdom is quicker to move than any motion;
she is so pure, she pervades and permeates all things.
She is a breath of the power of God,
pure emanation of the glory of the Almighty;
so nothing impure can find its way into her.
For she is a reflection of the eternal light,
untarnished mirror of God's active power,
and image of his goodness.

Although she is alone, she can do everything;
herself unchanging, she renews the world,
and, generation after generation, passing into holy souls,
she makes them into God's friends and prophets;
for God loves only those who dwell with Wisdom.
She is indeed more splendid than the sun,
she outshines the constellations;
compared with light, she takes first place,
for light must yield to night,
but against Wisdom evil cannot prevail.
Strongly she reaches from one end of the world to the other
and she governs the whole world for its good.

- The Book of Wisdom 7.22-8.1

plainsong

2010-03-23T06:46:00.002Z

Stop. Along this path, in phrases of light,
trees sing their leaves. No Midas touch
has turned the wood to gold, late in the year
when you pass by, suddenly sad, straining
to remember something you're sure you knew.

Listening. The words you have for things die
in your heart, but grasses are plainsong,
patiently chanting the circles you cannot repeat
or understand. This is your homeland,
Lost One, Stranger who speaks with tears.

It is almost impossible to be here and yet
you kneel, no one's child, absolved by late sun
through the branches of a wood, distantly
the evening bell reminding you, Home, Home,
Home, and the stone in your palm telling the time.

- Carol Anne Duffy, in Modern Women Poets

the nature of prayer

2010-03-22T07:08:00.000Z

A debt to Van Gogh’s Crooked Church

Maybe a mad fit made you set it there
Askew, bent to the wind, the blue-print gone
Awry, or did it? Isn’t every prayer
We say oblique, unsure, seldom a simple one,
Shaken as your stone tightening in the air?

Decorum smiles a little. Columns, domes,
Are sights, are aspirations. We can’t dwell
For long among such loftiness. Our homes
Of prayer are shaky and, yes, parts of Hell
Fragment the depths from which the great cry comes.

- Elizabeth Jennings

the night

2010-03-20T06:45:00.002Z

.Through that pure virgin shrine,
That sacred veil drawn o’er Thy glorious noon,
That men might look and live, as glowworms shine,
.........And face the moon,
....Wise Nicodemus saw such light
....As made him know his God by night.

......Most blest believer he!
Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes
Thy long-expected healing wings could see,
........When Thou didst rise! ....And, what can never more be done,
....Did at midnight speak with the Sun!

......O who will tell me where
He found Thee at that dead and silent hour?
What hallowed solitary ground did bear
.........So rare a flower,
....Within whose sacred leaves did lie
....The fulness of the Deity?

......No mercy-seat of gold,
No dead and dusty cherub, nor carved stone,
But His own living works did my Lord hold
.........And lodge alone;
....Where trees and herbs did watch and peep
....And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.

......Dear night! this world’s defeat;
The stop to busy fools; care’s check and curb;
The day of spirits; my soul’s calm retreat
.........Which none disturb!
....Christ’s progress, and His prayer time;
....The hours to which high heaven doth chime;

......God’s silent, searching flight;
When my Lord’s head is filled with dew, and all
His locks are wet with the clear drops of night;
.........His still, soft call;
....His knocking time; the soul’s dumb watch,
....When spirits their fair kindred catch.

......Were all my loud, evil days
Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent,
Whose peace but by some angel’s wing or voice
.........Is seldom rent,
....Then I in heaven all the long year
....Would keep, and never wander here.

......But living where the sun
Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire
Themselves and others, I consent and run
.........To every mire,
....And by this world’s ill-guiding light,
....Err more than I can do by night.

......There is in God, some say,
A deep but dazzling darkness, as men here
Say it is late and dusky, because they
.........See not all clear.
....O for that night! where I in Him
....Might live invisible and dim!

- Henry Vaughan

matins

2010-03-19T07:00:00.001Z

A candle held beside an open Bible
made her small kitchen a chapel.
Shadows grew alert and tall, ascended
walls to veil her head as she read
like a seasoned nun praying matins.
The low drone of her psalms ebbed more
than flowed from that vault. Axiomatic:
a simple wisdom. In the soft light
preceding dawn her breath washed the house
in easy measure - hushed as the heartbeat
of her flame. It was her hour to peer
at use-wrinkled pages - suppliant.
She churned familiar words. Was all ear,
as one sensing the ocean's nearing.

- Jennifer Rahim, from Approaching Sabbaths

prayer

2010-03-18T06:57:00.000Z

O God,
By whose command the order of time runs its course,
Forgive we pray the impatience of our hearts;
Make strong that which is lacking in our faith;
And while we tarry the fulfillment of thy promises,
Grant us to have a good hope because of thy Word.

- Gregory Nazianzus

a different poem

2010-03-17T07:05:00.000Z

I had meant to write a different poem,
But, pausing for a moment in my unweeded garden,
Noticed, all at once, paradise descending in the morning sun
Filtered through leaves,
Enlightening the meagre London ground, touching with green
Transparency the cells of life.
The blackbird hopped down, robin and sparrow came,
And the thrush, whose nest is hidden
Somewhere, it must be, among invading buildings
Whose walls close in,
But for the garden birds inexhaustible living waters
Fill a stone basin from a garden hose.

I think, it will soon be time
To return to the house, to the day's occupation,
But here, time neither comes nor goes.
The birds do not hurry away, their day
Neither begins nor ends.
Why can I not stay? Why leave
Here, where it is always,
And time leads only away
From this hidden ever-present simple place.

- Kathleen Raine, from The Presence

psalm

2010-03-16T07:01:00.003Z

The waters saw you, O God;
the waters saw you and trembled;
the very depths were shaken.

The clouds poured out water;
the skies thundered;
your arrows flashed to and fro;

The sound of your thunder was in the whirlwind;
your lightnings lit up the world;
the earth trembled and shook.

Your way was in the sea,
and your paths in the great waters,
yet your footsteps were not seen.

- Psalm 77:16-19

god my god

2010-03-15T06:52:00.001Z

God my God, why have you deserted me?
Why do I lie awake pleading,
when there is no one to hear me?

For my loneliness is more than I can bear,
my loneliness is like a yawning pit,
and my hunger is not filled.

For I said, I will seek my God and know her,
and she will answer me, and I shall be satisfied.

Behold, your word was before me and I sought you,
you opened my heart, so that I could not refuse your touch.
You reached your hand into the depths and drew me;
and my body flowed out with love.
I was given to you, body and soul;
I tendered my spirit and I held nothing back.

But you have seduced me O God, and I was seduced.
When I reached out to touch you,
my hands grasped emptiness;
I stretched out my arms and my heart,
and there was nothing to hold.

Why have I trusted in your word, O God?
Your word has become and agony to me,
and I cannot put it aside;
my mind searches it continually, but I find no rest.

But how can I say, I will forget her compassion;
and how can I return to my self,
as if her love had never been?
For the floods have passed through me,
and I have been changed;
the channels and gulleys remember the waters,
and they mourn;
the narrow places of my soul do not cease to hope for rain.

So I will remember my God, though she is far from me;
and though there is no one to hold me,
yet will I hold my heart open.

- Janet Morley, All Desires Known

children of the poor

2010-03-13T06:49:00.008Z

What shall I give my children? who are poor,
Who are adjudged the leastwise of the land,
Who are my sweetest lepers, who demand
No velvet and no velvety velour;
But who have begged me for a brisk contour,
Crying that they are quasi, contraband
Because unfinished, graven by a hand
Less than angelic, admirable or sure.
My hand is stuffed with mode, design, device.
But I lack access to my proper stone.
And plenitude of plan shall not suffice
Nor grief nor love shall be enough alone
To ratify my little halves who bear
Across an autumn freezing everywhere.

- From 'children of the poor' by Gwendolyn Brooks in Selected Poems

The poem above is in anticipation of Mothering Sunday tomorrow.
While we give thanks for those who mothered us and for the gift of motherhood, let us also keep in our hearts those for whom the day is a painful one.

for the children

2010-03-12T07:12:00.000Z

The rising hills, the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us.
the steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.

In the next century
or the one beyond that,
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.

To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:

stay together
learn the flowers
go light

- Gary Snyder

common prayer

2010-03-11T06:59:00.003Z

Because even though he be stronger than the entire world,
he nevertheless is not stronger than himself.
- Kierkegaard

Streamers of willow
sough -
..............grave, elastic -
in today's long-drawn-out Westerly;
this oceanic roar
blowing since the start of something
...............................................................far off,

carrying language you hear
but can't grasp,
...........................struggle
and give;
the revelation of scale
as it moves through the local.

Wind in the dead grasses of the paddock
a trace
......... ..of the global, rim
of the driven planet:
contested, wrought.

...................................Screen-iron of sanctuary
and communion rail, in a dark church;
a hassock rasping bare knees.
Struggle. Prayer as continuing failure.
The self
..............mounting by questions
to collapse -

.....................God
was in His own unbridgeable
distance.
Your fingers palpated your eyelids,
starring the red,
.............................a firmament of gold.

A pine coffin-cradle
rocked and murmured -
no wood is ever dead -
as you floated
in waters of sound.

.................................That voice
testing the palate of the void
..................................................was yours;

alone among the congregation
echoing each other,
..................................cut off from you,
from each other

as dark thickened the glass
of coloured windows.

It's not about belonging. You don't belong.
It's about the landscape
as confessor.

........................In the light-box of this pane
the white-branched willow moves to and fro,

spirit
.........brushing the lens
of yellow-and-blue April,
............................................its petalled fall
of what can never be concluded.

Impossible to emulate
the unaccountable give of growth.

But think of the Church as, say -
this umbrella.
Canvas stretches over its parts
like the silk of skin on ribs
..............................................that lift, shudder
and fall

in deep sleep:
........................the cute octagon of coloured nylon
suddenly at work,
all strain and counterbalance,
when the haft shoots up the handle
firing its butterfly wing at rain.

Afloat,
it tugs your arm higher,
..........................................a suggestion of levitation.

You are the arm. As you're the ribs,
fine graphite forced in a descending curve
by your own weight.

Rain streaks fugitive air.
A rainbow opens, so high
its near foot
seems vertical.
..........................If such brightness
walked the earth -

it's this monumental upright
..................................................the gale implies
with danger and buffeting;
not a father's
never-believed-in return

but the sought-for bridegroom
privately alight
...........................with recognition
in the garden.

Feral, generous -
maybe a shudder of wings -
keeping you company
while you remain awake,
moment by moment,
watching shadows of willow-twig
on a wooden wall:
............................... play
you never catch hold of -

the sift of branches
in April sun.

- Fiona Sampson, from Common Prayer

a hundred freedoms

2010-03-10T07:14:00.000Z

Lou hoped scandalously to live her own life. A subnormal calling, since civilization means cities and cities mean social norms. She wanted only to hear herself think. She admired Diogenes who shaved half his head so he would stay home to think. How else might she hear any original note, any stray subject-and-verb in the head, however faint, should one come?

. . . . She took pains to keep outside the world's acceleration. An Athens marketplace amazed Diogenes with 'How many things there are in the world of which Diogenes hath no need!' . . . [Lou] ignored whatever did not interest her. With those blows she opened her days like a pinata. A hundred freedoms fell on her. She hitched free years to her life like a kite tail. Everyone envied her the time she had, not noticing that they had equal time.

- Annie Dillard, The Maytrees

winter light

2010-03-09T06:56:00.000Z

I have learned the litany of my life,
the pattern of repetitions orders
and impressions.

...I have learned more than I ever
wanted to know, dream
..............back into innocence,
life clean of regret and the sky
...not darkened

......yet today reels me in and what remains,
a crumb on a platter.........a snow-
covered roof.....pale winter light
is cause for celebration.

Even my bitter mouth
.....cannot ask for more than this
my heart beating.....in its cage
.....my hands unclenching.

- Maria Mazziotti Gillan

a blessing

2010-03-08T07:10:00.000Z

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

- James Wright

grace gratuitous

2010-03-06T07:17:00.000Z

The wonder is - given the errant nature of freedom and the burgeoning of texture in time - the wonder is that all forms are not monsters, that there is beauty at all, grace gratuitous, pennies found, like mockingbird's free fall. Beauty is the fruit of the creator's exuberance that grew such a tangle, and the grotesques and horrors bloom from that same free growth, that intricate scramble and twine up and down the conditions of time.

This, then, is the extravagant landscape of the world, given, given with pizzazz, given in good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over.

- Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

lead

2010-03-05T07:11:00.000Z

Here is a story
to break your heart.
Are you willing?
This winter
the loons came to our harbor
and died, one by one,
of nothing we could see.
A friend told me
of one on the shore
that lifted its head and opened
the elegant beak and cried out
in the long, sweet savoring of its life
which, if you have heard it,
you know is a sacred thing,
and for which, if you have not heard it,
you had better hurry to where
they still sing.
And, believe me, tell no one
just where that is.
The next morning
this loon, speckled
and iridescent and with a plan
to fly home
to some hidden lake,
was dead on the shore.
I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.

-Mary Oliver, in Weavings journal

in the wilderness

2010-03-04T07:04:00.000Z

As it turned out, the edge of the map was not all that far from the center. It was not as if I or anyone else had to take a mule train for three weeks to find ourselves in the wilderness. All we had to do was step outside the Church and walk to where the lights from the sanctuary did not pierce the darkness anymore. All we had to do was lay down the books we could no longer read and listen to the howling that our favorite hymns so often covered up. There were no slate roofs or signs to the restroom out there, no printed programs or friendly ushers. There was just the unscripted encounter with the undomesticated God whose name was unpronouncable - that, and a bunch of flimsy tents lit up by lanterns inside, pitched by those who were either seeking such an encounter or huddling in their sleeping bags while they recovered from one. These people at the edge kept the map from becoming redundant.

- Barbara Brown Taylor, Leaving Church

en vinternatt

2010-03-03T07:02:00.000Z

A Winter Night

The storm puts its mouth to the house
and blows to get a tone.
I toss and turn, my closed eyes
reading the storm's text.

The child's eyes grow wide in the dark
and the storm howls for him.
Both love the swinging lamps;
both are halfway towards speech.

The storm has the hands and wings of a child.
Far away, travellers run for cover.
The house feels its own constellation of nails
holding the walls together.

The night is calm in our rooms,
where the echoes of all footsteps rest
like sunken leaves in a pond,
but the night outside is wild.

A darker storm stands over the world.
It puts its mouth to our soul
and blows to get a tone. We are afraid
the storm will blow us empty.

- Tomas Transtromer, from The Deleted World (versions by Robin Robertson)

a winter night

2010-03-02T06:49:00.001Z

So tenuous and diffuse,
I no longer know myself
But through the momentary sense
Of what is present as I write -
Shadows of shadows, night, a candle-flame,
Closed shutters, and outside, the dark,
Lightning and rain.

Not arbitrary this or any here and now:
What is, product and due
Of a life lived hitherto,
Sum or minus of my days.
All means, is meaning,
Could I decipher what is given:
This the threshold where I stand
Without the key to enter the place I am.

I have much theoretical knowledge, can
Switch on or off some circuit of the brain,
Have written books on others' books of life,
But, deprived of words, am in the dark.
Tonight's lightning has put out
Our artificial light. A candle serves,
If not to read by, clear enough to pray.

I hear and fear
The destroyers of the storm,
Assailants of human houses,
Yet know their thunderous soundings
The music of the universe, immortal voices,
The choiring of the stars.
Hidden by storm and darkness the garden,
The sacred fountains.
I hear the waters running in their courses:
Flood-waters tell of cold, drowning, dissolving, flux,
Undoing, unbecoming,
Perhaps of freeing, though not
Of, but from, what I am.

- Kathleen Raine, from The Presence

a severer listening

2010-03-01T07:16:00.000Z

But there come times - perhaps this is one of them -
when we have to take ourselves more seriously or die;
when we have to pull back from the incantations,
rhythms we've moved to thoughtlessly,
and disenthrall ourselves, bestow
ourselves to silence, or a severer listening, cleansed
of oratory, formulas, choruses, laments, static
crowding the wires. We cut the wires,
find ourselves in free-fall, as if
our true home were the undimensional
solitudes, the rift
in the Great Nebula.
No one who survives to speak
new language, has avoided this:
the cutting-away of an old force that held her
rooted to an old ground
the pitch of utter loneliness
where she herself and all creation
seem equally dispersed, weightless, her being a cry
to which no echo comes or can ever come.

But in fact we were always like this,
rootless, dismembered: knowing it makes the difference.
Birth stripped our birthright from us,
tore us from a woman, from women, from ourselves
so early on
and the whole chorus throbbing at our ears
like midges, told us nothing, nothing
of origins, nothing that we needed
to know, nothing that could re-member us.

- from 'Transcendental Etude' by Adrienne Rich in The Dream of a Common Language

only in silence the word

2010-02-27T07:02:00.000Z

Ged lifted his face and gazed at that remote bright crescent in the west.

He gazed for a long time, and then he stood up erect, holding his staff in his two hands as a warrior holds his long sword. He looked about at the sky, the sea, the brown swelling sail above him, his friend's face.

'Esterriol,' he said, 'look, it is done. It is over.' He laughed. ' The wound is healed,' he said, 'I am whole, I am free.' Then he bent over and hid his face in his arms, weeping like a boy.

Until that moment, Vetch had watched him with an anxious dread, for he was not sure what had happened there in the dark land. He did not know if this was Ged in the boat with him, and his hand had been for hours ready to the anchor, to stave in the boat's planking and sink her there in midsea, rather than carry back to the harbour of Earthsea the evil thing that he feared might have taken Ged's look and form. Now when he saw his friend and heard him speak, his doubt vanished. And he began to see the truth, that Ged had neither lost nor won but, naming the shadow of his death with his own name, had made himself whole: a man: who, knowing his whole true self, cannot be used or possessed by any power other than himself, and whose life therefore is lived for life's sake and never in the service of ruin, or pain, or hatred, or the dark. In the Creation of Ea which is the oldest song, it is said, 'Only in silence the word, only in dark the light, only in dying life: bright the hawk's flight on the empty sky.' That song Vetch sang aloud now as he held the boat westward, going before the cold wind of the winter night that blew at their backs from the vastness of the Open Sea.

- Ursula Le Guin, The Wizard of Earthsea

how to be a poet

2010-02-26T07:16:00.000Z

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill - more of each
than you have - inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your work,
doubt their judgment.

Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

- Wendell Barry, from Given

in church

2010-02-25T07:02:00.000Z

Often I try
To analyse the quality
Of its silences. Is this where God hides
From my searching? I have stopped to listen.
After the few people have gone,
To the air recomposing itself
For vigil. It has waited like this
Since the stones grouped themselves about it.
These are the hard ribs
Of a body that our prayers have failed
To animate. Shadows advance
From their corners to take possession
Of places the light held
For an hour. The bats resume
Their business. The uneasiness of the pews
Ceases. There is no other sound
In the darkness but the sound of a man
Breathing, testing his faith
On emptiness, nailing his questions
One by one to an untenanted cross.

- RS Thomas, from Collected Poems, 1945-1990

mockingbird's free fall

2010-02-24T06:49:00.000Z

The mockingbird took a single step into the air and dropped. His wings were still folded against his sides as though he were singing from a limb and not falling, accelerating thirty-two feet per second, through empty air. Just a breath before he would have been dashed to the ground, he unfurled his wings with exact, deliberate care, revealing the broad bars of white, spread his elegant, white-banded tail, and so floated onto the grass. I had just rounded a corner when his insouciant step caught my eye; there was no one else in sight. The fact of his free fall was like the old philosophical conundrum about the tree that falls in the forest. The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will see them. The least we can do is try to be there.

- Annie Dillard, The Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

suspended

2010-02-23T07:09:00.000Z

I had grasped God's garment in the void
but my hand slipped
on the rich silk of it.
The 'everlasting arms' my sister loved to remember
must have upheld my leaden weight
from falling, even so,
for though I claw at empty air and feel
nothing, no embrace,
I have not plummeted.

- Denise Levertov, from Selected Poems

oh god my dark

2010-02-22T07:12:00.000Z

Oh God my dark my silence
whose love enfolded me
before I breathed alone
whose hands caressed me
while I was still unformed
to whom I have been given
before my heart remembers
who knew me speechless
whose touch unmakes me
whose stillness finds me
for ever unprepared

- Janet Morley, All Desires Known

something is here

2010-02-20T07:17:00.000Z

Listen, something quickens here,
pristine as what matters always is,
will call us back to ourselves

as mothers do on evenings,
calling play-wild children in
to a simple house pregnant

with the scents of love,
ordinary as the glow of a stove
pulses low as a hand stirs.

Something is here, alive as breath
always reminds us of ourselves
while we labour and build,

growing too large for the castle
of ourselves, forgetful of ourselves,
it approaches as a pirogue

laden with the ocean targets
the distant shore, the anchorage
that completes each voyage.

Something eternal turns in worlds
fishermen net on a beach where sea
washes us without bias or cost,

nourishing beyond measure.

- from 'Chatham' by Jennifer Rahim in Approaching Sabbaths

this is my body

2010-02-19T07:00:00.000Z

This is what I am: watching the spider
rebuild - "patiently", they say,

but I recognize in her
impatience - my own -

the passion to make and make again
where such unmaking reigns

the refusal to be a victim
we have lived with violence so long

Am I to go on saying
for myself, for her

This is my body,
take and destroy it?

- from 'Natural Resources' by Adrienne Rich in The Dream of a Common Language

nowhere without the no

2010-02-18T07:47:00.000Z

Even for a single day, we do not have
that pure space before us into which flowers
endlessly bloom. We face always World
and never Nowhere without the No:
that unsurveyed purity we might breathe
and know without limit and not desire.
In such stillness, a child may lose itself
but then is shaken from it. Or someone
dies and becomes it. So close to death
we do not see death as much, but look out
perhaps with the greater animal gaze.
Lovers - were it not for their loved ones
obstructing their view - they come near it
and are amazed . . . As if by some mistake,
it opens to them, there, beyond the other . . .
But neither can slip past the beloved
and World rushes back before them.
Forever turned to the created, we see
in it only reflections of the free realm
we darken with our very presence.

- From the Eighth Elegy in Duino Elegies by Rainer Maria Rilke, trans Martyn Crucefix

ash wednesday

2010-02-17T07:41:00.002Z

Lent

A train steams into
the long tunnel. Windows up and latched,
doors checked against the rush,
the nightfall of soft smuts.

Dark, soot, smoke -
this is our luggage to carry under the single fading lightbulb,
pale ash on the tongue, sacking
over the fuel (flesh and soul)

A hard tunnel, narrow
for our crowding lusts, but there is nothing
for the soul's fingers to lay hold of
unless all is let go.

Out we shoot now
into a white expanse, lighting faces that have forgotten
hope. Westwards, the horizon colours:
over the hills' cranium, a red Christ sinking.

Three days's silence, dark,
the jolting seats, every hour endless.
So what shall we say, amazed, when the dead
turns inside out for morning?

- from the Welsh of D. Gwenallt Jones, translated by Rowan Williams in Headwaters

giving thanks

2010-02-12T15:10:00.002Z

It's that time of the semester, that time when my initial enthusiasm about my courses has waned and is replaced by anxiety over rapidly-approaching essay deadlines. So, to keep my sense of perspective and fight the temptation to be overwhelmingly cranky and gloomy, I'm taking a friend's advice and thinking of life's blessings.

the easy company of good friends

an understanding, supportive and endlessly patient husband

midday eucharist at Old St Paul's, and the healing silence of the Lady Chapel afterwards

a gentle pink sunrise over the snow-covered Pentlands

an attentive and wise spiritual director

snowdrops and longer days

whisky, chocolate and coffee (not necessarily all together, but in quantities which are undoubtedly unhealthy)

a difficult day

2010-02-07T22:32:00.004Z

I wanted to know
but was only allowed to ask.
I wanted light
but was only allowed to burn.
I demanded the ineffable
but was only allowed to live.

I complained,
but nobody understood what I meant.

- Par Lagerkvist, Evening Land

dazzling darkness

2010-02-01T17:00:00.004Z

This past weekend I was away on the third TISEC training weekend of this academic year. The weekends are incredibly busy and intense with not much down time, and I always come back absolutely exhausted. But each time, I have also found that I have returned deeply refreshed. There are eight acts of worship throughout the weekend, and we are all assigned to groups which are responsible for the services during one weekend (I was on the December worship team). This weekend's group did a wonderful job and offered a variety of styles, each in its own way reflecting the preferences and strengths of the person leading.

As you know, I have been on placement for about a month now. The style of worship will never be my preferred style, and I walk out of each service with a thumping headache. But it is raising important questions for me about language, imagery, symbolism, use of liturgy, use of space, and the theology underpinning all of these. While I have had prayerful, worshipful moments within the services (some of which have been very powerful), the placement has been mostly an intellectual activity.

At the best of times - not only in this placement - I find it difficult to turn off the voice of criticism running through my head; if it's not criticising in a negative sense, it's analysing what's happening. I have to work quite hard to ignore it and instead seek God in the worship. In some ways, I feel like this placement is encouraging this more intellectual engagement, and I have enjoyed it on that level. And the energy I am getting from all the questions I have and the way it's challenging me to think more deeply about my own theology and love of liturgy could be said to be a different kind of prayer and encounter with God.

But in another way, I haven't felt deeply spiritually fed. I feel lost without the lectionary and the rhythm of the liturgical year. For all its flaws, I miss the liturgy of the Scottish Episcopal Church. I miss the weekly communion. I had not realised until they were no longer there how much these things ground me.

Before I started the placement, I had a strange experience when I was deaconing at Holy Trinity on Epiphany. Just as I was preparing to walk out into the aisle to read the gospel, I felt as though a candle had been blown out and my soul was left in empty darkness. The words I was about to read, the images I was surrounded by, the prayers I was about to pray were left meaningless. Initially, it felt like God's absence, or - even more unsettlingly - non-existence. As I have reflected on it over the following weeks, I have became aware that instead it was a deeply felt realisation of the inadequacy of our words for and images of God.

Maybe it was no coincidence that this happened the week before I went on placement to a church which does not meet in a church building and which uses few Christian images in its worship. But the overwhelming sense that I have had since then is of the hugeness of God, of God's ability to encompass (and delight in) such a diversity of expressions of worship, however inadequate they might be. More than that, though, I have spent much of the past month living in (to steal from Henry Vaughn) the 'dazzling darkness' of God.

And yet, in communal worship, that hasn't been expressed. Until this past weekend. The variety of worship provided many different ways to approach and experience God. But the truly shocking part was the Sunday eucharist. The sermon, given by one of the ordinands was beautiful and personal and heartfelt, and (amongst other things) spoke of the unease of theological study, of the letting go of comfortable and comforting images of God which often comes with it. The liturgy we were using was the 1929 liturgy (sorry to those outside the SEC to whom that means nothing), which I usually find difficult, full of talk of our sinfulness and depravity and unworthiness. And yet, somehow, yesterday it worked for me. Somehow, though it is steeped in language and theology which I find problematic, it captured something of the elusive closeness and transforming transcendence of our God.

I walked away from the service - and the weekend - feeling as though something important had been acknowledged. As though something I had been grasping for had been expressed, not in the words or the actions or the space or even in the emotions evoked, but simply in a deep, dazzling darkness of overshadowing presence.

time management

2010-01-26T21:15:00.006Z

is something I'm rubbish at.

Saying no is something else I'm no good at.

I fail miserably at ruthless pragmatism, choosing instead needless perfectionism every time.

I am sure that there are valuable formational lessons to be learned about these things.

But I've come to the conclusion that what I really need is Hermione's time-winder thingy. Anyone know where I can get one?

congratulations

2010-01-19T07:55:00.003Z

I am rather late chiming in here, but I want to join my fellow SEC bloggers (and many across the SEC) in congratulating the Very Rev Dr Gregor Duncan, the newly elected Bishop of Glasgow and Galloway. Gregor, you absolutely terrified me at my Scottish Selection Panel, but I wish you every blessing.

My thoughts and prayers are also with the two candidates not chosen, the Venerable Dr John Applegate, and especially the Rev Canon Dr Alison Peden, who has been the focus of considerable media attention (for being the first woman shortlisted for bishop in Britain).

perfect combination

2010-01-14T19:12:00.005Z

After a couple of days which have been draining and unsettling for several reasons, I have made the accidental - and rather startling - discovery that lighting a candle, drinking a good single malt and translating New Testament Greek with Coleridge on my lap and Oliver Schroer's Camino in the cd player have gone a long way towards soothing my anxiety, calming my heart and clearing my head.

first impressions

2010-01-10T18:30:00.007Z

The temperature here made it up to a balmy 5 degrees Celsius today, so Justin and I managed to make it to the church where I'm doing my placement for their main 10.30 service.

It was a particularly useful Sunday to be starting the placement because the congregation was having its Vision Sunday and Annual General Meeting, so I got a good sense straightaway of where the church sees itself going, as well as seeing the abbreviated financial report. The sermon/reflection was about looking ahead, setting priorities and introducing concrete ways of becoming a missional church, so it will be interesting to see how this is developed over the next few months.

To be honest, I'm not sure how much I will be writing about my placement experience on here. I am expected to keep a journal throughout my time there, so many of my reflections will be written in that. As I mentioned in my last post, I also expect it to be a challenging placement in a lot of ways, many of which will be deeply personal, subjective, and possibly painful, so I'm not sure I will be able to write constructively, fairly, or helpfully about my responses to things said and done there. Those raw thoughts and emotions are for now best saved for meetings with my supervisor, current rector and spiritual director as I try to discern what I fundamentally disagree with and what is simply a matter of taste. I know this is meant to be a formational experience, and I've learned that formation is rarely pain-free.

Saying that, however, I do hope to share some of my thoughts here.

Even this first visit to a non-typical service has raised a number of questions for me about the way I worship. Over the past couple of years especially, I have become more aware of the space in which I worship and the ways I engage my body during the service. I go to church in a 19th century building which was created specifically for worship. It has stained glass windows, a pulpit, an altar, pews facing the altar, a cross centred behind the altar. Everything about its layout says something about how we relate to each other as fellow worshippers, how we speak of God, how we understand the actions which take place within the service. The objects point beyond themselves. Our motions - kneeling, genuflecting - are not directed at the objects themselves (the cross, the altar, the bread and wine) but at what they represent, at the sacramental presence of Christ. When we stand, when we sit, when we kneel can say something about how we understand God's presence and our corporate worship. Worship there is full of signs and symbols.

At my placement church, we meet in a high school concourse. At the centre of the space is a stage and above it are screens onto which are projected images of the band, the rector or words to the songs. There is no cross. There is no altar. There are no stained glass windows to tell the story of Christ's life or express the theology of the church in pictures. There is nothing to signify that this is a sacred place, to speak of the presence of God, to set it aside from the everyday. What then becomes the focus for worship? The praise band? The rector? Well, they certainly aren't the focus of worship (or at least I hope not!). I wonder then, if this is why people look up (not just at the screens, but higher) when they're singing, why they raise their hands, acknowledging in a different way, the presence of God, but God beyond us, above us.

There's a lot that I want to think about during this placement concerning the immanence and transcendence of God and the way that is expressed in our buildings and the way we use our bodies in worship. There is something about beautiful buildings and beautiful music which speaks to the transcendence of God, and yet in my experience, the immanence of God is recognised in the way we use our bodies. While in the church that I went to today, the immanence seemed to be recognised in the everydayness of the space while transcendence was expressed in the gestures.

Of course, along with this come questions of how those new to the church understand what is happening. Is a space and service which is full of signs and symbols more inaccessible to a visitor? Or without understanding exactly what everything stands for, will they get a sense of beauty, mystery, transformation, love through the actions (I would say performance, but that's perhaps one for another blog post) of the eucharist? Is there a deeper symbolism in the kind of contemporary evangelical service I went to today which I'm missing? Or is it created to be more accessible for those who are new to the church, to be culturally relevant? Is there room to grow in each approach? To deepen our understanding and awareness of God and the way God acts in our world? Aesthetics are important in both churches, but it's a very different type of aesthetic which is emphasised.

Those who know me will have noticed that I have somewhat miraculously and diplomatically dodged the language issue - what words and images we use to speak of God (and at times ourselves) - completely here. I am trying to use this experience to ask difficult questions of myself and my worship preferences, so I want to think about the theology of our liturgy as a whole - that which incorporates not just words but actions and images and use of space.

But today was only the first day, after all. And it has left me with far more questions than answers.

the calm before the storm

2010-01-08T17:12:00.004Z

The snow from my last post is still here. Only it's about a foot deeper now. Walking in the fields is impossible because the snow is knee-deep and falls into my wellies and I wind up with snowy socks. Walking on the roads is impossible because they're covered with slush and ice. And, well, the pavements have just been covered with all the snow from the roads, so they're pretty useless too. Given the choice, I tend to suck it up and go for snowy socks. The view from the hills behind our house is worth it every time.

I have thoroughly enjoyed having the opportunity to walk more during this break. It's something I miss during term time and something I really should try to do more of. It helps to clear my head, work off some of my anxious energy, and a bit of fresh air and exercise after hours spent hunched over computer and books is never a bad thing. But for some reason, I tend to think of it as a luxury rather than a necessity when I'm busy.

I start my placement for TISEC on Sunday (weather permitting). It will be at a large evangelical charismatic church on the outskirts of Edinburgh. I had asked to go there because its style of worship is well outside my comfort zone, and they have an incredible range of activities and groups for kids. I think it will be a challenging placement in a lot of ways, but I hope there will also be parts which will be inspiring and energising. My main concern is that I often find the loud praise services draining, and I will miss the weekly eucharist. I suspect that I will have to stroll down the hill to Old St Paul's between classes for a moment of quiet and will become a regular at their mid-week eucharist.

The new semester starts on Monday (again, weather permitting). My course load is slightly heavier than last semester with some difficult - but interesting - classes (Modern Christology, Science and Theology, Greek 3 and Social Christianity in the North Atlantic World). I am anxious about how the work, along with my placement, is going to get done, and a lot of that anxiety has hovered throughout the break. I've tried to get a bit of reading for next term done, but haven't accomplished nearly as much as I had hoped, mostly because I've just needed a rest. But I haven't rested properly because I've felt like I've needed to study.

And so the walks. They've been good at helping me gain perspective, get enough exercise that I can sleep resonably well at night, and get rid of some nervous energy. It's only now at the end of the break that I feel somewhat more like myself, which I suppose is better late than never. But I still wish I had about another week to recover completely before the chaos starts again.

Who knows, though. If this weather continues, I just might.

afternoon walk

2009-12-28T17:08:00.003Z

annunciation

2009-12-21T14:26:00.006Z

I tend to moan a lot about church - not so much on here anymore - but elsewhere, I spend too much time talking about the things (or people) that annoy or frustrate me.

So it's time to say something nice.

Over Advent, our congregation has been thinking about the way we worship, about the gifts we each bring to the church, and what that looks like as a whole. While keeping the structure of the services familiar, we've tried to use poetry, music and silence in new ways. Those whose gifts haven't been recognised in the past or whose voices aren't often heard have been invited to take part. Some of the changes have been well received. Others haven't. Sometimes the concept has been good, but the execution of it has needed work.

When a small group of us was planning this several months back, we decided it would be useful to have a visual representation of the process. Sixteen people - deliberately chosen for their lack of artistic experience - were asked to paint individual canvases which, when put together, would create a larger image. They had no idea what the final painting would look like, and the only guide they had was a square piece of a smaller version of the painting. They then had to translate this to a larger canvas without knowing where or how their canvas would fit into the larger painting.

It was unveiled to the whole congregation during the main service yesterday, and the result, below, was really quite amazing. I had seen the original print, so had some idea of what to expect, but it still took my breath away. I can't imagine what it must have felt like to have participated in the creation of it and then to see it as a whole for the first time, but it was a joy to see the look on the faces of those who had worked on it.

I think it serves as a wonderful analogy for corporate worship at its best: trusting each other; stepping out of our comfort zones; offering our gifts; recognising the necessity of each member's contribution; seeing beauty in imperfections; re-imaging old stories - and maybe finding ourselves in them; making ourselves vulnerable; and being left breathless by what is handed back to us in return.

(The original painting is The Annunciation by Chinese artist He Qi
and the photograph is stolen from the Holy Trinity website)

our lady of wedale

2009-12-10T14:53:00.005Z

We've had beautiful weather today, clear and crisp and sunny after far too many days of oppressive grey skies and endless rain. I decided this afternoon that I had spent enough time in my pyjamas, hunched over my computer and books revising for my exams tomorrow and that I needed to enjoy the sun, get some fresh air and exercise and clear my head.

I pulled on my wellies and headed along the river to Our Lady's Well. A couple of the lesser-known facts about Stow are that its parish, once marked by a cross at either end of the village, used to be a place of sanctuary for felons and refugees, and it also used to be a place of pilgrimage. Legend has it that King Arthur had a vision before fighting a battle in the valley that Mary would bring him victory. He won, and in remembrance and gratitude, he brought a fragment of the cross and a statue of Mary from Cappadocia to the site and built a church. An imprint of Mary's foot was also reportedly found on a stone near the well, but no longer exists because the stone was resourcefully ground up and used in the paving of the A7.

The church no longer stands, but the well itself was restored by local churches a few years ago, and a pilgrimage service takes place there annually.

I don't often walk out that way. In winter the field is swampy and muddy and in spring and summer it's usually full of sheep protective of their lambs. But at times, I feel myself drawn to it. I find it a deeply peaceful place and it holds special memories after I visited it during a very difficult time a couple of years ago when I wasn't quite ready to give up on God but church felt lonely and too full of noise. Peace and prayer are built into the stones, and grace and forgiveness seem to rise from unseen depths below the water. It is a place where I feel held by a God as solid and real as the ground I stand on when I pray there.

I had forgotten how much I love it. It has the power that all thin places have to still and centre me almost instantly, regardless of what's going on in my life. I wasn't aware until I got there how much I needed that stillness and silence or how much internal noise had been distracting me. And I thought of this poem by Denise Levertov:

Flickering Mind

Lord, not you,
it is I who am absent.
At first,
belief was a joy I kept in secret,
stealing alone
into sacred places:
a quick glance, and away - and back,
circling.
I have long since uttered your name
but now
I elude your presence.
I stop to think about you, and my mind
at once
like a minnow darts away,
darts
into the shadows, into gleams that fret
unceasingly over
the river's purling and passing.
Not for one second
will my self hold still, but wanders
anywhere,
everywhere it can turn. Not you,
it is I who am absent.
You are the stream, the fish, the light,
the pulsing shadow,
you the unchanging presence, in whom all
moves and changes.
How can I focus my flickering, perceive
at the fountain's heart
the sapphire I know is there?

- from Selected Poems

contentment

2009-12-10T12:25:00.001Z

procrastination

2009-12-08T20:44:00.002Z

Somehow, when I have two exams on Friday which I really quite desperately need to revise for, looking up every song I've heard in the past 20 years on Spotify seems like an important way to spend my time.

It has been productive, however. I've discovered that Regina Spektor's new album is really good.

But probably not good enough to help me write about the Gospel of Peter or the dynamics of reconciliation.

homesick for myself

2009-12-02T09:15:00.004Z

Now that the semester is over and there are only exams to worry about (and a TISEC training weekend this weekend, for which I really must do some reading today), I can feel myself gradually returning. In one of Adrienne Rich's poems, there's a phrase, 'homesick for myself', which seems to run through my head during the busiest parts of the semester. I don't like the level of stress and especially the moodiness and loss of perspective which comes with it, but I don't know how to avoid it either. I just reassure myself that it won't last forever.

This autumn I have managed to maintain a fairly consistent rhythm of prayer and quiet time each day, and even though it has meant dragging myself out of bed earlier than feels natural, it has become a precious space. Saying morning prayer from the Scottish Episcopal Church's daily office has helped me feel a part of a wider community, even though I say it alone. And there is something magical, liminal, about early mornings, when the house is dark and quiet. My thoughts come slowly, the stresses of the day ahead haven't yet presented themselves, and what emerges through the prayer has often been surprising.

Having that quiet time has helped. But I have still felt overwhelmed and then just exhausted by the amount of work that I've needed to do. Simply completing the assignments is about all I can manage at times. Taking the extra step to connect what I am learning with the practice of ordained ministry often feels like too much. I can see a few fine threads, but my brain feels too fuzzy to follow them. (I sometimes worry about my low energy levels, but then I look around at some of the other students and particularly the ministry candidates at New College whose non-academic commitments are similar to mine and see that the exhaustion on their faces mirrors my own.)

This is where I get frustrated. It's not just that I want to do well at university and learn as much as I can. I love studying theology. I have thoroughly enjoyed my classes this semester. I just wish I had that extra bit of energy/motivation to reflect on the integration of the academic theology with practical theology. When I have time (make time?) to think about it, this is when I get excited and remember why I'm studying in the first place. I remember who I am and who I am called to be.

Monday evening, I was at a meeting at the diocesan office. Throughout the year, a small group of ordinands meet with the training coordinator and the bishop to talk about various aspects of ministry and ministerial training. One of the things we were talking about was the connection between academic and practical theology, and during that two hours, I felt like so much fell into place. Theories and issues which - particularly last year - had felt completely disconnected and at odds with one other suddenly made sense. I hadn't realised until the meeting that I was still struggling with some of it, that I still wanted to find a way to de-compartmentalise the academic and the pastoral. To have the space to talk about it, be challenged, and listen to others was invaluable.

On the drive home, I felt energised, excited, reaffirmed. It's a relief to have that sense of perspective again, to be able to see the bigger picture and the purpose of all this busyness. Clarity, however fleeting, can only be a good thing.

the dream of the monstrance

2009-12-01T14:39:00.003Z

Imagine a line, straining out
of dimming earth. Its vertical's
the unassuageable cry
desire utters when doubt,

always its double, conquers it:
like street lights, staining a spacious sky
invisible.
............... Now - angle
your gaze along this, till you meet

whatever travels the other way;
some glint or catch, a give in night's
impassiveness - the whicker-flight
of geese. Promising you may

be lifted up; as by a Will
which comprehends your urgent call.

- Fiona Sampson, from Common Prayer

anticipation

2009-11-17T16:39:00.004Z

I have hit that point in the semester where I. Just. Don't. Care. All I want to do is curl up on the couch, wearing comfy flannel pajamas, wrapped in a warm blanket, cup of tea in hand, and watch mindless television.

And I plan to do just that. All day Saturday.

My last major assignment is due on Friday, and I am struggling to work up the motivation to do it. It will get done, but not gracefully. And probably not particularly well.

I haven't had a full day away from studying since the first weekend of term, and I really feel it now. It's sad that even the prospect of a complete day off fills me with such excitement that I want to go out and buy lovely new pajamas to celebrate the occasion (of course, this desire might also be somewhat related to today's visit to Marks and Spencer where they currently have a rather wonderful range of sleepwear), and although it's only Tuesday, I'm already making up a list of all the rubbish I want to watch (The Hills, Sex and the City, Friends, schmaltzy chick flicks....).

I really can't wait.

love blooms bright

2009-11-08T22:26:00.002Z

For the past couple of years, Kimberly has generously organised love blooms bright, a blog of daily meditations, stories, poems and photographs for Advent. She is now looking for possible contributors for this year. If you are interested in taking part, head over to her blog and leave her a comment to let her know (you do not have to be Scottish or Piskie to contribute). If you don't feel able to commit to it but have found it in the past to be a gift of quiet space in the midst of a busy season, leave her a comment to let her know that you have appreciated it and think it's something worth continuing.

silly season

2009-11-06T21:12:00.006Z

It's that time of year when I'm writing essays and disappear under piles of books and articles, and Justin is swamped with requests from clients desperate to have projects finished before Christmas. We tend to go a bit crazy and distract ourselves with silliness. And so I share with you some of our nonsense:

Coleridge has resumed his tweeting and has just recently declared himself an Arian.
Atheists promise to take care of the pets you leave behind at the Rapture (sadly a service only available in the States at the moment).
The theology of NASCAR.
A reinterpretation of a classic children's story.
How not to preach (this guy's understanding of Greek philosophy about 2.45minutes in is particularly profound).

Enjoy!

decisions

2009-10-29T11:55:00.006Z

It's that time of the semester when essays deadlines are quickly approaching and it's just about all I can do to stay on top of the weekly assignments and reading. However, I do feel like I'm back on track after the selection conference and TISEC weekend earlier in the semester. Simply knowing what the shape of the next couple of years is going to be is a huge help, even if I know the pace is going to be somewhat frantic.

While it's busy, this semester isn't as crazy as last year. I still have four classes, but the teaching hours are fewer, and aside from weekly (unassessed) translations, I don't have any major assignments due for Greek. I also only have two essays. There's one more TISEC weekend, which unfortunately falls the weekend before exams start, but my exam schedule is such that this isn't the catastrophe it could have been.

Next semester, on the other hand, I'll have four essays and an extra hour of Greek each week, with more research work due for it. My classes are also more awkwardly placed throughout the week. There's a TISEC weekend relatively early in the semester which should be fine, but the second one falls during the time when most essays are due. The third one is during exams (but with a longer revision period second semester, it should be ok).

One of the TISEC requirements is a placement, traditionally done from Epiphany to Easter, and now is the time for me to be making some decisions about this - about where I want to go and when I want to do it. There is enough flexibility that I could potentially do it over the summer instead. I know that it's arranged so that there are about 4 contact hours a week, which honestly isn't much, but I am also aware that these 4 hours do not include preparation time (and I am also aware of how long it takes me to write a sermon, or even prayers). Right now I look ahead to next year and know that with the arrangement of New College courses and TISEC weekends, it's going to be busy. I'm not sure how I feel about adding a placement on top of it. I worry that I won't get as much out of it as I would if I were doing it during a time when I have less going on. The additional travel time into Edinburgh (because I'd almost certainly go to a church up there) is also an issue.

I appreciate that the period between Epiphany and Easter is very rich liturgically and it would be good to get a feel for what that is like to be more involved during that period. I know that if I go to a church in Edinburgh with a large student population or with lots of families, there will be a number of different activities I could get involved in. And I'm aware that if I do a placement in the summer, it will be quieter. But that might be good too, right?

I'm really torn on this, so I am opening it up to you, dear readers - particularly those of you who have experienced my madness during term time, those of you who know New College and those of you who have been through TISEC. What would your advice be?

literati

2009-10-16T23:20:00.005+01:00

We haven't had a picture of Coleridge recently, and Justin and I have been amused by his latest choice of place-from-which-to-view-the-world, so here - Coleridge proves he has fabulous taste in fiction by choosing a shelf which is home to Jack Kerouac, Laurie King, Milan Kundera, Cormac McCarthy, Carson McCullers, Ian McEwan and Orhan Pamuk:

(apologies for the terrible quality of the picture - it was taken far too early this morning just as I was leaving for uni when it was still dark, and no amount of photoshopping will improve it)

whirlwind

2009-10-11T21:25:00.003+01:00

As you know, on Monday I found out by phone that I had managed to successfully negotiate the final hurdle before beginning training for ordination. Tuesday I got the letter which confirmed it. Friday, I headed up to Perth straight after class for the first Theological Institute of the Scottish Episcopal Church (TISEC) residential weekend.

I was already feeling behind in my classes having missed the first two days of term to be down at the selection conference in Ely. I still hadn't fully made the transition back into the academic year. And I noticed that this weekend I struggled to make the shift into TISEC stuff - partly because I hadn't let myself think too much about it before I heard the result of the selection panel and partly because I was coming straight into the training weekend from a busy and exhausting week.

Because the weekend's schedule was packed with very little free time, I am now looking at all that needs to be accomplished for this next week (and a fair chunk for tomorrow) and want to wail in despair.

I am tired. I like having time to do things properly and reflect on them. I like having space for myself. I like to have a bit of time off of thinking and reading and engaging with new ideas (hence the total 'Gossip Girl' addiction). I forced myself to do nothing the weekend after the selection panel, to allow myself to rest and reflect and do whatever I needed to do to be attentive to what had happened there, to provide some kind of closure and transition and to come down from the stress of it. But I did it knowing that it would put me further behind academically. Now I feel hopelessly behind. And too tired to catch up (despite knowing that the busiest part of the semester is yet to come). But I am also in desperate need of space and time to come down from the busyness of the week and the weekend and the overall journey to this point, and I know myself well enough to know that if I'm not careful, my body will demand the rest, and I will get sick, and I really can't afford that.

I am realising that certain expectations I had of myself might have to be relaxed. Hopes of a first class degree are quickly disappearing. And I can nearly accept that. Nearly. What I don't like is the feeling that I'm scraping by, doing only what needs to be done, not absorbing any of it, memorising and not learning.

I need to somehow find more hours in the day (perhaps by not blogging when I should be studying .... or sleeping).

news at last

2009-10-05T16:00:00.005+01:00

The information I received yesterday regarding the Very Important Letter was incorrect. A quick phone call to the diocesan office this afternoon revealed that the report from the selection conference only arrived this morning; the letter to me will arrive tomorrow (all being well).

However the letter will (hopefully) only confirm the news that I have been recommended for training for ordained ministry in the Scottish Episcopal Church!

unfathomable

2009-10-04T22:09:00.002+01:00

Question 1: How is it that a letter - a Very Important Letter, I add - posted from Edinburgh on Wednesday still has not arrived? I could have walked to Edinburgh, picked up the letter myself, and walked home in the amount of time it's taken.

Question 2: I know this letter is Very Important, but in this time of postal strikes and dodgy delivery times, might not email (in addition to the posted hard copy) be an efficient - not to mention compassionate - alternative?