feminine feminist

Extras

2012-01-11T22:10:00.001Z

I have had the priviledge of delivering three short lines and featuring in the background of three scenes in what will be an amazing feature film: The Good Man. The whole thing was like entering a mini universe with different characters and languages. Instead of a bus driver, bank teller, lollipop man, there are runners, ADs, a boom guy, make-up artists and delightful chap from the Continuity department who existed solely to fill my pint every time I took a sip during a 'take'.

I had to do more than just sit there. I had to bring a party vibe. I had to flirt (it was DIFFICULT, I was just doing what I was TOLD), I had to ruffle the hair of a rather famous actor, and I had to deliver lines with nonchalant confidence pretending I knew what the hell I was doing. I was acutely aware of hierarchy - I was a lowly extra for goodness sake - but the director and his team wanted to have as little of that as possible and so we were all in the same room between takes, eating the same food and sharing the same air. I didn't notice any Evian or hot towels. The director wanted to build a sense of community which apparently is a rare treat in this type of scenario. The food was good, people were called by name, from the most experienced and expensive crew member to the extras and from chatting to various members of the crew there was a different flavour to the whole experience and that delighted me. The message of the film is incredibly challenging, getting to the hard of what it means to be good and what it means to be human... and creating a community around that makes that message even more special. The work of creating community paid off, and has left me, and others, inspired to pay that creativity forward (until I receive my Oscar for those three lines)...

2012

2012-01-05T22:15:00.003Z

I love new notebooks. New pens. A clean page on which to write with a new black pen (my resistance to blue pens is becoming almost militant) is one of life's simple pleasures.

And the gift of a new year feels like the opportunity to turn over a new leaf, open up a new notebook and start afresh.

Soapbox posted about how to do this well here.

The Guardian blew away all my beliefs about a January detox here.

I gave up caffeine (apart from a cup of weak tea on one or two days to prevent headaches), but today, day five, I relented. To be fair, a member of staff brought me my favourite form of caffeine (an americano with hot milk) to a lecture on fire safety ("pass me a strong drink NOW") and handed it to me. How could I let her down? I should note that this morning I announced to my office colleagues on more than one occasion 'would anyone feel it was a terrible thing if I bought a coffee?' which brought empathy the first time, silence times two and three and 'shut the hell up and go buy one' the fourth.

I will participate in social consumption of alcoholic beverages tomorrow. It will have been six days. This has been a good thing. But there are friends to rejoice and sorrow with, and a rolling evening of meet ups across Belfast's cathedral quarter moving from one group to another, as I am wont so to do. January will still be dry, in principle, and in practice throughout the week.

Here's to discipline, and healthy choices, and most importantly LIFE in 2012.

Virginal

2011-12-29T16:26:00.002Z

Apparently Christians aren't waiting any more!

Interesante!

I'll be interested to know what J thinks of this!

All is calm, all is bright

2011-12-29T16:11:00.002Z

It is 4.12pm and I am still in my pyjamas. I'm not ashamed. It's Christmas week after all.

There are busy and hectic days, and there are days when our need is to rest, retreat, hide, vegitate. I often forget this.

There has been drama in recent days: drama consuming friends of mine in ways which make me wince. I have sat and listened and inwardly wept, and shared their pain. I've also said things that probably weren't very helpful, and been less patient than I should have. I'm not sure who said life is not a dress rehearsal but they got it in one. Friendship is at the very heart of what it means to be human and so I count it a rare and delicate privilege. It requires empathy, intuition, sacrifice and wisdom, but these necessitate self care and nourishment. And chocolate for breakfast.

It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas

2011-12-10T18:29:00.001Z

I've been listening to Christmas music in a effort to get in the mood. Planning a carol service has certainly helped, and I've been on the organised side of my usual dither between planned-to-the-hilt and thrown-together-at-the-last-minute.

It is good to be quiet at this time of year. It is good to take stock. In and amongst the usual dissatisfactions of contemporary life I have found space to sit back and acknowledge that there are abundance of good things to be thankful for. If advent is about expectation, I wonder if there is a lesson about reducing our expectations. A wise man once told me about the psychotherapeutic notion of 'the good enough'. He referenced the good enough job, the good enough family, the good enough partner. The Judeo-Christian God was not imagined in a context of perfection, but in the context of goodness. If we lower our expections, or our satisfaction from the ultimate, from the best-ever, and allow it to be what is good... what we need... what we may not want, but which may be the right thing for now: what might that look like?

& Forgive Us Our Trespasses

2011-12-10T18:24:00.001Z

& Forgive Us Our Trespasses
by Sinead Morrissey

(spotted here. Thanks!)

Of which the first is love. The sad, unrepeatable fact
that the loves we shouldn’t foster burrow faster and linger longer
than sanctioned kinds can. Loves that thrive on absence, on lack
of return, or worse, on harm, are unkillable, Father.
They do not die in us. And you know how we’ve tried.
Loves nursed, inexplicably, on thoughts of sex,
a return to touched places, a backwards glance, a sigh -
they come back like the tide. They are with us at the terminus
when cancer catches us. They have never been away.
Forgive us the people we love – their dragnet influence.
Those disallowed to us, those who frighten us, those who stay
on uninvited in our lives and every night revisit us.
Accept from us the inappropriate
by which our dreams and daily scenes stay separate.

Trauma

2011-12-07T22:17:00.002Z

Tonight I went to an evening class about how to work well with those who have been through trauma. The speaker had stories and stories and stories to tell. And tell them she did. I wanted theory, technique, academic critique, but instead she told stories. Her closing words was that the central task of helping people to recover is to be present, maintain trust, and LISTEN. I couldn't help thinking that those three things are both the most difficult, and at the same time, the most simple of actions.

The peaceable kingdom

2011-12-05T22:46:00.002Z

FOURTH LESSON (from Nine lessons and carols)
The peace that Christ will bring is foreshown. Isaiah 11
"And there shall come forth a rod out of the stem of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots: and the spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and of the fear of the Lord; and shall make him of quick understanding in the fear of the Lord. With righteousness shall he judge the poor, and reprove with equity for the meek of the earth. The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them. And the cow and the bear shall feed; their young ones shall lie down together: and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. And the sucking child shall play on the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put his hand on the cockatrice' den. They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain: for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea."

Yesterday I discussed this painting with three women- only one of whom I'd met before. We talked about what it means to live in peace. When is peace something we have to 'fight' for? How do we gently push ourselves towards those who appear like the wolf next to our lamb. I am in situations at the moment where I want to run out the door. I want to retreat from any sort of difficult conversation. I wouldn't mind sitting silently beside this other person but 'playing on the hole of the asp....' (?!) I assume takes more than just silent (dis)engagement. Turning to face the other is the first step. Let's see if I can take it.

Ad/venting

2011-12-04T20:54:00.004Z

So I started a new blog but then thought, why not return to this comfortable, if slightly dusty space.

Today I described advent as waiting for something without knowing what that something is; believing that there is gift, but carrying the underlying scepticism/hope that that something will be what we need rather than what we want. A Messiah in the form of a baby; a throne made of hay; a community of mystics and shepherds rather than debutantes.

Living with that level of unknowing is scary. All of us want to plan, to carefully manage our expectations and to envision what the future might look like. Instead we face a long stretch of work without the promise of early, fat pensions, rising prices, diminishing public services and long dark nights with only the dull memory of summer to keep us going. And don't let me even START on my real problems!

Oh for the advent of hope...and belief in the promise of unexpected gifts.

HJNTIY

2011-12-04T20:53:00.002Z

29 Nov

For an update you should read this.

My friend MATGFC love to talk about this contentious theory. Or should I say, she and I like to benchmark real scenarios against the theory and give each other honest opinions. What I love about friendship is the delicacy of balancing a heaped plate of support with the right seasoning of plainly spoken truth. If someone cuts me down once too often, they’re likely to be relegated to the outer circle, but if they gently tell me the cold truth when I need to hear it, then they are to be treasured. And if there is one skill I could develop (and let’s be honest, I have many in need of developing) then this would be HIGH up the list…

Advent-ures 29 Nov

2011-12-04T20:53:00.001Z

Advent-ures
29 Nov

The idea is that I post something reflective every day. It’s day three of advent and I’m only properly beginning. I remember in previous years writing about what exactly advent is. Do you have to know what you’re anticipating in order to patiently wait? Or can your expectation be latent, without any sense of what its concrete end might look like? I imagine that serenity is necessity, but am grateful that in the messiness there is space between the squirrels, raccoons and foxes for divine surprise.

Making the House Ready for the Lord by Mary Oliver, Thirst
Dear Lord, I have swept and I have washed but
Still nothing is as shining as it should be
for you. Under the sink, for example, is an
uproar of mice—it is the season of their
many children. What shall I do? And under the eaves
and through the walls the squirrels
have gnawed their ragged entrances—but it is the season
when they need shelter, so what shall I do? And
the raccoon limps into the kitchen and opens the cupboard
while the dog snores, the cat hugs the pillow;
what shall I do? Beautiful is the new snow falling
in the yard and the fox who is staring boldly
up the path, to the door. And still I believe you will
come, Lord: you will, when I speak to the fox
the sparrow, the lost dog, the shivering sea-goose, know

that really I am speaking to you whenever I say,
as I do all morning and afternoon: Come in, Come in.

A little Rumi poem

2011-11-07T22:40:00.002Z

Come, come, whoever you are.
Wanderer, worshipper, lover of living, it doesn't matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come even if you have broken your vow a thousand times,
Come, yet again, come, come.

Rumi (posted on fb by a dear friend of mine, PO'T)

On welcoming people to our country...

2011-10-30T07:59:00.001Z

I'm currently supping a coffee in Dublin airport after missing my bus to Belfast. I met a beautiful young woman from Egypt on the plane and in broken English we became - in her words - friends. She gave me a photo of she and her husband on what looked like their wedding day. She spent most of the flight checking her head scarf and make up whilst I drooled beside her and snorted at the film 'Dodgeball'. We exchanged numbers and I told her should come and visit Belfast. She asked me to help her get through the airport. All was well....

This changed when we got to immigration. The lady was suspicious of her and in being unable to establish a clear reason for her entering the country- is she married already? Betrothed? - warned me that I could be considered an accomplice if it all went wrong. I watched and waited as she smiled and looked at me, bright with hope at seeing her husband. Finally, she was through, with temporary status and an instruction to report to the polic station when her time expires. Will she? Should she? All I know is that the reunion moment which I embarassedly watched before she said goodbye with a huge hug, was a beautiful one.

The butterfly effect

2011-08-22T21:20:00.004Z

(courtesy of http://artsytime.com/butterfly-effect/)

I've been thinking a lot about the power of strategic influencing. If I've learned one thing in my management career, it is that the most power conversations are usually unplanned and often opportunistic. This is something I used to balk at. Where was structure? Where is consultation? But the world is spinning, plates, issues, politics in the air, and like a butterfly's wings, we can be spiralled into many directions in seconds. I want to be a shaper of our strategic direction. I want there to be equity and strategy, not political gaming. In order to do this, there is a different type of game. It's called 'telling the truth' and 'telling it often' and most importantly 'telling it well.' And that is what I am seeking to do, knowing that a flutter here and there may have an instrumental effect (hopefully for the good).

On leadership: Warmth versus Action.

2011-08-19T19:24:00.000Z

There have been some interesting changes in our office. Let's call it a mini-restructuring, with the temporary addition in the form of M. M is fairly laid back, with a definite skill set in relation to data, and attention to detail, reporting writing etc. M also brings warmth. When she moved into our office I was a strictly one- cup-of-coffee-per-day-with-peppermint-tea-for-the-rest-of-the-day-gal. I have become a tea-aholic instead. I have strict work/life boundaries and I don't like to let my guard down. I try and be warm and welcoming to people, but I have so much damn work to do that it just ain't easy. What I've learnt from M is that a little bit of warmth goes a long way. Her story has been a difficult one over the past year and some of that difficulty might have been spared if there had been warmth at the core of it.

We chatted yesterday because she is moving to a job which will suit her well, and she said 'always take time to be warm'... which was an important lesson for me. A smile, a quick chat, a cup of coffee... this is important to people. In reality, it means sitting at the computer until later at night working through emails and papers, but I am continually reminded that it's what being a leader is about. One of my colleagues said to me this week 'you have the look of the war-weary'... and that's a whole other blog post, but warmth and welcome are my lessons for this week.

What should I do?

2011-05-22T20:12:00.002Z

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This article says a lot about my life right now. Better than I can say it.

Ashes to ashes

2011-05-16T21:11:00.007Z

Today we laid the ashes of my Canadian uncle to rest at the foot of the Mourne mountains. The sun shone intermittently, the wind blew, and with gentle words, a minister who had never met him, nieces and nephews who barely knew him, and sisters, brothers, his wife and son said goodbye to the man they loved. It was a mark in the sand, a holding, treasuring moment in blustery Northern Ireland to a man who loved this place but who left it. And there have been many like him, who have packed their bags and gone elsewhere. Heavens, I think about it often. But for all of that, this was home. He wanted some of his ashes in Canada, and some here, in the Emerald Isle.

As we stood huddled together, family brought together by death, quietly reciting the Lord's Prayer it reminded me, in the midst of my adult-escent hope for immortality, that to dust I, like all of us, will return. A sombering thought for a Wednesday morning, but nonetheless a thought....

The wonderful world of work.

2011-04-01T21:11:00.002Z

I've been thinking recently about the difference between 9-5vers and those of who spend multiple hours devoted to that which is called 'work'. One of my friend likes to remind me that 'no one has ever said on their death bed "I wish I'd spent more time at work"' which is why he clocks out the second the clock hits 5pm.

I feel radically differently. Probably because for me 'work' means 'desperately-trying-to-make-a-difference.' I'm not prepared to kill myself in the process... but if it takes longer than eight hours a day, and that particular day I choose to stay later, then I'm ok with that. It's recognising that this is my choice.

Mary Oliver reminds me that my work is 'to pay attention', and right now, I'm ok with that.

Spring

2011-03-23T21:31:00.003Z

It is a lovely thing to have longer evenings and brighter days and shadows joyfully stretching and flexing. And a few words from Dennis O'Driscoll to bring some LIFE...

Vigil.

Life is too short to sleep through.
Stay up late, wait until the sea of traffic ebbs,
until noise has drained from the world
like blood from the cheeks of the full moon.
Everyone else around you has succumbed:
they lie like tranquillised pets on a vet's table;
they languish on hospital trolleys and friends' couches,
on iron beds in hostels for the homeless,
under feather duvets at tourist B&Bs.
The radio, devoid of listeners to confide in,
turns repetitious. You are your own voice-over.
You are alone in the bone-weary tower
of your bleary-eyed, blinking lighthouse,
watching the spillage of tide on the shingle inlet.
You are the single-minded one who hears
time shaking from the clock's fingertips
like drops, who watches its hands
chop years into diced seconds,
who knows that when the church bell
tolls at 2 or 3 it tolls unmistakably for you.
You are the sole hand on deck when
temperatures plummet and the hull
of an iceberg is jostling for prominence.
Your confidential number is the life-line
where the sedated long-distance voices
of despair hold out muzzily for an answer.
You are the emergency services' driver
ready to dive into action at the first
warning signs of birth or death.
You spot the crack in night's façade
even before the red-eyed businessman
on look-out from his transatlantic seat.
You are the only reliable witness to when
the light is separated from the darkness,
who has learned to see the dark in its true
colours, who has not squandered your life.

"Vigil" by Dennis O'Driscoll, from "New and Selected Poems, 2004". © Anvil Press Poetry

Autumn riches

2010-11-15T19:52:00.004Z

I have just returned from what will be a weekend I will never forget. I was invited on a story telling residential which brings together people from across Northern Ireland (and beyond) to talk about their experiences of living in and through the conflict here. And honestly, I have no words (and that's pretty rare for me). It was an incredible, affirming, humbling, painful, beautiful experience. I shared meals and conversations and chocolate fudge cake with people who have walked a very different path in life here in our 'wee' land. And with very gentle facilitation, we walked towards each other.

The gentle way each member of the group welcomed me and cared for me in their own way, through humour, drinks, gentle questions and sideways glances will stay with me. May I go and do likewise.

DTCEIASHF?

2010-11-07T21:43:00.001Z

As a frustrated scrabble player this would have driven me round the bend!

Inja

2010-10-26T20:51:00.003Z

My dear friend meandthegirlfromclapham and I have had quite an adventurous few weeks. She has written about it beautifully and I don't think I can even begin to do so. Head on over to her blog to read about it...here. Suffice to say the whole trip was like the Taj Mahal... from far away incomprehensible, and close up, one of the most beautiful and deeply sad experiences I've had in a long time. The Taj Mahal is a mausoleum, the burial place of Mumtaz, the third wife of Shah Jahan. He built this as a tribute to her, in her memory. MATGFC and I arrived there in the late afternoon, and after wandering inside for a quick glimpse at the simple tombs we sat and stared at the exterior for hours. The intricacy of the marble, the hand carving, the dancing evening light tracing it's brilliance against the sunset and the scale of a building which appears to stretch from here to the heavens when you're standing beneath those bulbous domes: it is staggering beautiful. And yet it took 20,000 people to create that beauty. And I'm imagining there were no trade unions or working time directives or Human Resources policies to protect the humanity of those workers. The exotic grandeur of the Taj is juxtaposed with horrible poverty which was another thread to our trip. We may not have been around when the Taj was being built, but we were certainly in town pre and post the Commonwealth Games and witnessed a little of the miraculous clean up operation which saw Delhi cleaned by planned eviction of some of it's less aesthetically pleasing residents. Does something become more beautiful when sitting side by side with that which is ugly? I always thought the answer to that was yes, but having visited India, now I'm not so sure...

A timely prayer

2010-09-14T21:43:00.001Z

We are strange mixtures of loss and hope.

As we are able, we submit our losses to you.
We know about sickness and dying,
About death and mortality,
About failure and disappointment.
And now for a moment we do our
Failing and our dying in your presence,
You who attend to us in loss.

As we are able, we submit our hope to you.
We know about self-focussed fantasy
And notions of control.
But we also know that our futures
Are out beyond us,
Held in your good hand.

Our hopes are filled with promises of
Well-being, justice and mercy.
Move us this day beyond our fears and anxieties
Into your land of goodness.
We wait for your coming.
We pray for your kingdom.
But in the meantime, give us bread for the day.

Amen

Walter Brueggemann prayer from his book Awed to Heaven, Rooted to Earth
with thanks to crookedshore

Rain on my parade

2010-09-11T20:24:00.004Z

The Autumnal rains have begun (let's be honest, they never really left, but I'm feeling melodramatic). I've been reading the news online. Big Brother is over for ever, today is the ninth anniversary of 9/11 and I can't believe how much the world has changed in the past ten years. Privacy is a concept of our memories. The ubiquity of 'on-line' has created an interweaving of each others stories, best selves, immediate news, opinions, controvery etc. I recently debated with a good friend whether changes in communication styles and the mass media have been a good or bad thing, but that is another blog for another time.

Here Robert Fisk outlines some of the world headlines over the past nine years... the ebbs and flows of politics, "collateral damage" and outrage. Where is hope? Yet I believe, somehow, somewhere, that there is a flicker of light which calls us to keep on keeping on.

I feel the need to listen to somethin' spiritual...

Good Will Hunting

2010-08-16T19:39:00.002Z

"So if I asked you about art, you'd probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life's work, political aspirations, him and the Pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that. If I ask you about women, you'd probably give me a syllabus about your personal favorites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can't tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You're a tough kid. And I'd ask you about war, you'd probably throw Shakespeare at me, right, 'once more into the breach, dear friends.' But you've never been near one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap, and watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help. I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on Earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of Hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn't know about sleeping sittin' up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms "visiting hours" don't apply to you. You don't know about real loss, 'cause that only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much. And look at you... I don't see an intelligent, confident man... I see a cocky, scared shitless kid. But you're a genius, Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my f--kin' life apart. You're an orphan, right? You think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you? Personally, I don't give a shit about all that, because you know what, I can't learn anything from you, I can't read in some f--kin' book. Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. Then I'm fascinated. I'm in. But you don't want to do that, do you, sport? You're terrified of what you might say. Your move, chief."

Wow. A lovely beginning to a Monday... I love books, but give me life every time.

Faith

2010-07-03T19:41:00.004Z

This is courtesy of the very talented nakedpastor.

Friday, friday

2010-06-11T18:39:00.005Z

So it is the weekend. However weekends don't seem entirely about rest at the moment. I've found myself going into work to catch up on work I haven't got done during the week, trying to spin the plates which I've slipped into my back pocket during the week, but which must be spun if I'm to continue to do my work, and please all those with expectations upon me.

Multidisciplinary working is the new modus operandi in healthcare. I find myself in the midst of this, responsible for overseeing 10+ teams, driving them to develop and modernise and communicate well, all with the focus of improving patient care in an ever more complex context. Evidence suggests that teams who work well together have better clinical outcomes than those who don't. As always, I am stunned by how simple it sometimes is to facilitate the development of a more healthy dynamic (however I should say that this is not always, nor even frequently the case).

Today I had a meeting with one team. This speciality is not characterised by humble or quiet characters and I only knew a few of them. It's the first time they've met in a context like this in a long time or perhaps even ever. The meeting was programmed for 1.5 hours, and ended up being 3. There were tangents and digressions and small disagreements, but at the end there was broader understanding of different disciplines and competing voices, and an understanding that we have a ways to go, but that we're on a journey. And that everyone has to give an inch, rather than one giving a mile. And all of that is AMAZING given the constrained circumstances we're in.

Happy Friday indeed.

'Come ye out from among them and be ye separate'

2010-05-09T08:46:00.002Z

My views on worldliness have changed. I no longer believe that the world is intrinsically evil and that I and mine in order to be 'holy' must hide ourselves away living in fear of the debauched Sodom and Gomorrah in which we live.

However I recently read something that challenged me to stand on my own two feet, not benchmarking myself against others who I think are cooler, skinnier, more fun or more intelligent than me. (NB I didn't say 'more stylish'... for there are indeed few who surpass me on style :-) )

"self definition over against the other is at root nihilistic..... it is only if I dare not to define myself over against the other that I will be given being over time, and that there is a purpose and a sense and a meaning to this identity whose discovery-from-within will by my joy." James Allison, Undergoing God.

Easter...

2010-04-10T08:37:00.002Z

Do you ever feel like you're about 5 minutes behind what's actually happening? Well that's my life right now. For a variety of reasons I'm playing catchup which is perhaps why I'm eating an Easter egg and thinking about the Passion, and suffering and redemption. And was going to write something thoughtful and controversial, but the sun is calling to me, and thus, I've decided to play catch up and enter the right NOW. Hanging baskets, tis time to fill you with blooming goodness!

The Holy Land

2010-04-10T08:34:00.001Z

A little thought for the day...

I have just returned from a trip to the Holy lands...walking in the steps of our Lord

As someone raised Christian, this was the trip of a lifetime.

But I had forgotten, for everyone of 'me', there are millions of others from many religions who throughout the ages have descended on the plains of the Middle East

leaving their mark, setting up tributes, shrines, religions, stalls, and claims to ‘their’ holy land.

On a trip to the West bank our guide pointed to the 2000 year old tree which Zaccheus, a tax collector, is said to have climbed. A friend humorously pointed out that if the tree really is 2000 years old, then Zacchaeus must have been a dwarf climbing a 2 metre high sapling.

As I looked at the stone where apparently Jesus fed the five thousand, I tried and failed to 'feel' something, stunned by the disco of camera flashes

In Jerusalem I watched hordes of tourists with matching hats and badges, stressed out tour guides, descending on the heavily guarded entrance to the supposed empty tomb of our Lord, .

What struck me was the diversity of ways in which we humans celebrate the divine.

On a Friday in Jerusalem, at 12pm the Islamic call to prayer reverberates throughout the old city.

At 3pm, it’s the tradition that Franciscan priests lead Christian pilgrims along the Via Dolorosa,

And at 5 or 6pm as the sun sets, Jews welcome in Shabbat by praying and dancing at the Wailing Wall.

Where is God to be found in the midst of all this?

While all these ‘holy’ sites set something resonating inside of me I discovered that I found God’s presence more often in random encounters-

in a group of Moravians breaking into song in the church at the Mount of Beatitudes...

in falling over, and loudly swearing, on the Via Dolorosa,

in discovering an underground cavern beneath an Egyptian coptic church and

in racing like children through an abandoned Ottoman fortress in the Golan Heights.

An icon is that which we peer at and through in order to see God.

I used to think that there was a prescription for experiencing the divine and the holy, but this trip reminded me if God is always present, even the simple and ordinary ‘non-holy’ things can become icons.

All these things have their place - Tradition and rite, religious iconography, sitting in silence, and the surprising moments when we unexpectedly feel God’s Spirit.

Perhaps true holiness isn’t about the veracity of the methodology, but whether it helps me see God more clearly, in which case I’ll be so awed and humbled I’ll be a lot less concerned with what everyone else is doing, and I'll be standing on holy land where ever I am.

International Women's Day

2010-03-08T21:51:00.005Z

I decided to write something because I'm excited that today is International Women's Day. And my dear friend challenged us to guest blog (and since I missed my window of opportunity and she's out for the night I thought I might as well post at 'home' so to speak). AND there is a delightful groundswell of local activism led by another dear and incredibly articulate friend of mine, which you can tap into here. I realised that I wanted to write something in the final three or four minutes of my gym workout tonight. I was pounding the treadmill at sub 9 minute miles partially -a- because I want to complete a half marathon next week without dropping on the spot, and partially -b- because I want to prove to my male friends that I'm at least half way close to competing with them on time. This doesn't mean that I'll beat them, but merely that my time will be acceptable. I hate the fact that it matters, but when I suggested a race time I would be happy with and one said 'are you really THAT unfit?' I was absolutely gutted. And rose at 6.30am a couple of days last week to do speed training. For me, it's the taking part that matters, but I allowed his pressure to make me despise my little legs for not being able to outrun him. The other reason -c-, of course, is that I have to run to stay slim.... because that is what makes me acceptable. On this matter, Kate Moss's epithet is philosophically astute- 'nothing tastes as good as skinny feels' (although I think she must never have made any of Nigella's recipes). Oh for a society where looks and size don't matter, where life isn't a competition, and where women and men can be accepted in all their glorious difference and complementarity, as equal.

JANUARY

2010-01-22T22:21:00.002Z

January has been work madness. In the big bad world of work, the main deal these days appears to be ACCOUNTABILITY. You do what you have to do, and then big wigs come in to inspect every little inch of detail of what you do, plus detailed EVIDENCE of what you say you do, plus descriptions of what you do, plus descriptions of why you do what you do. And guess what my job is? Compiling of the above. And I ain't a details person. But I discovered that one of my co-workers is OCD about document detail... and I can deliver the difficult people with my skills in professional Cajoling. It just takes TIME. And they'll be pretty damn happy when the reviewers say we're doing well... although I will be an old woman by then (April).

2010: the year of....?

2010-01-07T19:39:00.002Z

2010 has crept up on me.... but somehow it's been lovely to review the decade and think on how different I was 10 whole years ago.... my nose stuck in the pages of the good old book in a big castle in the Lake District.

Advent was about waiting and watching, hoping for the arrival of something or someone unknown and unfathomable; recognition that revelation takes different forms. The new year feels different. It's about making it happen; taking risks, surprising one's self by challenge to do something different.

Therefore, I pronounce 2010 to be my year of COURAGE (and those who know me well will know that MUST have something to do with the Enneagram. :-)

Rest

2009-12-22T23:44:00.003Z

I'm surprised by how much one comes to NEED rest at this time of year. I usually think 'I'll soldier on through, keeping my annual leave for exciting trips and adventures' but this is the second year where tiredness has STRUCK, and I've decided to take a few days purely to rest. January and February are going to be pure madness in work, and a little contemplation is no bad thing at the start of a new year...

Gifts

2009-12-22T23:43:00.001Z

I know that the three wise men brought gifts of gold, frankinsense and myrrh... but my gift to this year's nativity scene was some obo-ing and piano playing dressed as a shepherd. Beat that!

Babies

2009-12-15T19:32:00.003Z

Little ones are a fairly important part of Christmas, whether as symbols of the blue eyed, blond haired baby Jesus (ha), or as recipients of gifts which will have many parents faithfully repaying Mr. Visa for much of the next year.

Last night I was permitted, nay, invited to babysit my very own nephew whilst his parents ventured to a seasonal soiree. I had packed unwritten Christmas cards, Foxes Cream Biscuits, and a Dairy Milk to see me through the evening, to be snatched at intervals when I took a break from intently listening to the baby monitor.

After some playtime, which involved a boisterous game- fun! and a little bump to his head- not fun! he waved goodnight as his Daddy put him down for the night. I proceeded to ignore my unwritten cards and enjoy the novelty of their Sky TV and the pre-record function. Father of the Bride, speeding through the cheesy sections? Check. Casualty? Heck yeah. The American Office? Almost- but sis and her husband returned to relieve me of my intense duties.

Maybe the ole parenting thing isn't as hardcore as I've always thought...

Carols

2009-12-12T19:14:00.004Z

Now, at Christmas time, carols really must feature. Recently I got together with a few other former members of TLKs and we had a jolly old sing song which I thoroughly enjoyed, but Tuesday was another type of treat altogether. Lovely F, my schooltime best friend who has turned into a delightful woman married to a PATIENT and exotic foreign man (haha!) journeyed with me to St. Patrick's Cathedral in Armagh (I'm not telling you which one, for there are indeed two), for our old school's annual Carol Service. It was wonderful. I haven't stepped foot in the cathedral in 11 years... but all those feelings came rushing back. I remembered standing out in the vestry in my magenta blazer, nervous but excited, looking forward to singing Once in Royal David's City acappella for two verses and then hearing the organ kick in for verse three; walking up the main aisle of the church proudly peering round to find my parents in their pew, and heart hammering with excitement at whatever new carol or choir part that I felt particularly excited about singing that year.

Choir singing is about being part of something bigger than just 'I'. It's about surrendering to the whole; and as I watched the Belfast Philarmonic Choir perform Handel's Messiah last night, I was again reminded of how one's ego must be harnessed towards ensuring that the sound which comes from the whole is beautifully rounded. Perhaps the only moment when this changes is for deserving soloists or for the final verses of those carols with descants. F is a confident soprano and it was a treat to hear her easily soar to those high notes whilst I trundled on with my strong alto, switching to the tune against her descant. The complementarity of it all reminded me of community, friendship and gift-sharing, and for all three of these I am grateful.

Inspiration and light

2009-12-12T19:00:00.002Z

Music brings light and life... and if advent is about nothing else, surely those two should bring a sliver of joy to these dark days. Hearing Iain Archer on Thursday night was like oasis to my weary soul. He brings story and joy and pain together in a way that to describe as unique sounds paltry... but somehow scrapes the surface of what I mean.

Listen here to him singing Songbird.

Lost

2009-12-12T18:26:00.002Z

I've always liked the story where the child Jesus gets lost on the road to Jerusalem. I like someone who is capable of getting lost, because it's something I'm good at, both literally, metaphorically and psychologically. This week at work was one of madness and chaos... and somehow I feel I lost myself in the midst of it.

There was critique of something I was involved in.. and if I'm honest, I've learnt a lot from how I dealt with it.

Following a substandard situation on Friday, Senior Person (SP) 1 wrote an email to two people about the problem saying something was 'shambolic' and dealt with in a 'childish' way by my team. I was casually cc-ed in, although his critique was of me and should have been directed at me. It was a beautiful example of passive aggression. I childishly responded by not responding. Ching! Round one to m..... , well, no one.

SP 2 wrote an email to lots of people, including me, levelling his critique. He also wrote me a short oneliner asking that I ensure the issue was fixed immediately. I responded with a curt reply. He replied. I replied with only one word- 'Fine.' It was classic female sulking ploy... and then I wrote him a longer email explaining how bally hard I'd worked to try and resolve the situation in the first place and that I'd had no appreciation at all for my efforts! To my shame (and slight glee, if I'm honest), the sulking worked and following my action below he wrote an email to the group thanking me for my efforts. And was decidedly sheepish when I greeted him at a meeting, arms folded and eyebrows raised and with lots of drama and no small amount of banter explained how committed I was to getting things resolved!

I asked SP 3 to come and give me some advice. I explained that I had composed a lengthy email to the group explaining the extinuating circumstances, complicating factors and length of my efforts. His words? 'Don't be a defensive administrator. Forget the excuses and tell everyone your solution.' Immediately I became.... defensive... but on reflection, which for me usually includes analysis of the situation with a sympathetic colleague, decided to bin my discursive and emotive email, and write a short bullet pointed list of 'Actions following Friday's Multi-disciplinary Team Meeting'.

I'm learning to take things on the chin... but still unsure how to do so without losing oneself in the emotion and drama. Where the heck are Momma Mary and Papa Joseph?

Lessons in life: Becoming Present

2009-12-06T22:49:00.002Z

(This is my reflection from this evening's ikon. The service was entitled 'Adventure').

When I was a little girl, I thought that when I grew up, I would know my place in the world, and as a big person, everything would make sense.
Margaret Thatcher,
Father God,
Ian Paisley,
Daddy and Mummy,
Princess Diana,
the King of Kings, Lord Jesus Christ…
these were my icons of power. These people knew what they were doing.... didn’t they?

But now at the age of 30, I’m now looking straight into the eye of the world I once looked up at.
And all I see is
power
and fear
and flaw
and structures riddled with chaos.
I constantly ask myself how the hell this happens,
and my working theory is that
We can’t help but take things which are organic,
and create structures to gently prop them up,
which become empires,
which dominate
and suppress
and which inevitably either crumble or become mini-dictatorships
(or maybe I’m just talking about the organisation in which I work).
If you’ve ever watched the TV show the Wire, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

At the heart of all this is self interest,
and protection of me and MINE;
my family,
my type of people.

As I ask myself how I become present and PRESENT in the midst of this chaotic mess of society, I remember that rupturing 2000 year old story of ADVENTure.
I remember that the old book says God chooses the foolish things of this world to shame the wise.
G-d, whatever that is,
deconstructs,
eludes,
evades,
transcends our notions of self-righteousness and self determination.

A baby is what a god looks like.
A single mother brings forth this baby.
A carpenter is what a god looks like.
A human is what a god looks like.
And therefore,
because we are human,
usually unthinkingly,
God is what a human looks like.

We have made this ADVENTure story powerful.
We have woven it into institutions,
engraved it in gold,
printed it on dollars,
and made this the story of the wise.
And yet, how the wise have fallen.

Perhaps the ultimate ADVENTure is to relinquish our grip on that 2000 year old story since for many,
credence to it,
along with owning shit,
networking
and looking good is today’s wisdom.

In the wake of this wisdom, how can we become foolish before that foolishness should become a system, a cause, a movement and an institution?

I know not, but my hunch, in the fragile flickering light of the ADVENT candle is that perhaps it begins with
loving quietly and consistently,
risking it all to commit responsibly,
and instead of virtually existing,
BECOMING present.

The Message

2009-12-04T17:40:00.003Z

So I know this blog is entitled 'feminine feminist' but feminist rantings are somehow not the norm. At a little break from the hellish work week that I've had, I came across something inspiring here: Feminist books for five year olds. I do wonder if I have children how I'll imbibe them with values that are dear to me without forcing myself upon them fundamentalist stylee. But at least I've found a few places to start...

Revelation

2009-12-03T21:06:00.003Z

Tonight I had dinner in an Indian restaurant with my father. We meet monthly or so to sample spicy cuisine in one of Belfast's finest, always seeking to evaluate whether any restaurant can come close to beating our favourite in the category: 'Ability To Make One's Mouth Tingle For The Rest Of The Evening'. Tonight we listened to incidental details of each other lives, and I found myself giving him some, gulp, advice, on a few issues. I had just been rambling forth with my opinions on various subjects when he stopped me to thank me. Usually it's the other way round... me phoning slightly stressed- if it's emotional drama then it's Mum I seek, if it's something to do with work frustrations then it's Dad... and if it's a practical problem then obviously I go next door to Big Billy (he's got both the contacts, the time and the WIT to help me patch my wee house together). Revelation and support come in many forms and from many sources. I never thought I would become a 'revealer' (is that better or worse than a reveller?).

Twilight

2009-12-01T22:19:00.003Z

So tonight, in a bid for escapism and delightful catch up with an old friend I succumbed to the Twilight: New Moon film. I argued that my reason for watching it was to keep my finger on the pulse of contemporary societal trends... we both knew I was more interested in nibbling a Cadbury's Twirl in front of a 'Daily-Mail-esque moral rom-com' (TM) which I could proceed to loudly deconstruct despite having enjoyed every second.

Surprisingly, I really enjoyed it. I'm not going to attempt any sort of layered reading of the plot, but on the simple layer of fantasy and adventure and drama, it certainly worked. The reason I liked it is because each of the three main characters are delightfully conflicted. They are compelled to choose between obedience, desire, trust, mistrust, fear, hope, life... and since this is a saga, the film doesn't resolve any of these. With each fresh revelation comes a fresh decision. It makes me realise that for me, the stories I enjoy most are those with the same complexity which I experience in life and all it's messiness.

Waiting for what

2009-11-30T21:15:00.002Z

So today I received some unexpected news... something that jolted me from relative security and something that makes the future a little more daunting. Now this was not a message from an angel telling me that I am with child, but it got me thinking about what waiting is like when you don't know exactly what you're waiting on. Revelation... incarnation... incoming... these things are all scary because they represent something different to that which is known. It's amazing what a difference a day makes. And right now, I'm feeling it.

Bloggin' Advent

2009-11-29T21:29:00.005Z

I've decided to try and blog daily throughout Advent to encourage me to reflect and pause a little.

Last night was the second of this year's two sumptuous Thanksgiving dinners. At the first, when it came time to offer verbal thanks, I was too shy, sitting in a group of 40 people of whom I knew only a few, and none well. Last night, I read a little and talked about some of the things that have been bringing me life recently. There is much to be grateful for, and now, liturgically, we're entering a period of preparation.

How does one wait well?

Nesting

2009-11-21T18:04:00.004Z

Today is one of those days where I feel like I have nothing to say. The absolute busy-ness of the week: people, tasks, relational dynamics, coffees, pastoral visits (with me as recipient and not pastor!) has come to a halt and instead I'm re-arranging the living room, listening to a shuffling ipod and sheltering from the rain. Earlier I donated a tv on freecycle and have never been so popular in my life (20 emails in an hour); I made a trip to see my sister and to get some photos developed for a little bit of a decorating project. As I said a few months ago, the older I get, the more convinced I am that the 'E' of my "ENFJ" Myers Briggs personality type is slowly morphing into an 'I'. But I'm sure some 'E' will emerge over dinner tonight.

Now how's about a little inspiration from the Writer's Almanac.

XI.

by Wendell Berry

Though he was ill and in pain,
in disobedience to the instruction he
would have received if he had asked,
the old man got up from his bed,
dressed, and went to the barn.
The bare branches of winter had emerged
through the last leaf-colors of fall,
the loveliest of all, browns and yellows
delicate and nameless in the gray light
and the sifting rain. He put feed
in the troughs for eighteen ewe lambs,
sent the dog for them, and she
brought them. They came eager
to their feed, and he who felt
their hunger was by their feeding
eased. From no place in the time
of present places, within no boundary
nameable in human thought,
they had gathered once again,
the shepherd, his sheep, and his dog
with all the known and the unknown
round about to the heavens' limit.
Was this his stubbornness or bravado?
No. Only an ordinary act
of profoundest intimacy in a day
that might have been better. Still
the world persisted in its beauty,
he in his gratitude, and for this
he had most earnestly prayed.

"XI." by Wendell Berry, from Leavings. © Centerpoint, 2010.

The seasons are a-changing

2009-10-20T20:30:00.003Z

Autumn has always been my favourite season. And never more than now. Much is happening... much which is good. Having had a housemate for almost two years, I am now living alone... and the timing has been perfect. I enjoyed sharing space, but living alone is like a holiday. Already I'm sprawling a little more... keeping things the way I like them (and quirky things like not stepping on the mat in the bathroom so it stays fluffy rather than flattened down.... sleeping with the bedroom door open... planning a serious re-organisation of the kitchen cupboards... etc).

The weekend saw a night out with old school friends... which took me back nervously to my 15 year old self, but it was fun. My concluding findings was that we're all surprisingly normal- me included. I did some hardcore theology reading on Saturday, and then on Sunday headed to Tollymore for a yomp through the forest all the while observing trees at various stages of the shedding process. Some were canary yellow, some burnished gold, some red, some brown and some holding on for dear life to their last green leaves. On returning I made chocolate chip banana bread and apple and raspberry crumble for some of my nearest and dearest who gathered in from the cold.

I want this Autumn to be about retreat- carrying forward Camino values into life.... and yet tomorrow is gym, two hardcore team meetings at work which will require mental and managerial skill and nipping between sites, a meeting with my boss about my future, some radio work, and then a flight to London. The challenge- calm in the midst of all that.

so I'm 30.

2009-09-14T22:23:00.002Z

Yes. I've reached that ripe old age of wisdom and total self confidence. What a journey. I could write long blogposts about the Camino de Santiago which MATGFC have just walked... but why would I when she has written so lyrically about it here? I will bring you some thoughts in time, but right now, I have a PARTY to plan... and some major disappointment to reflect on.

Less than a week to go

2009-08-19T19:49:00.003Z

The older I get, the more of an introvert I become convinced that I am. My Myers Briggs profile might indeed be ENFJ, but I need time alone. Time to watch shows on IPlayer like 'Desperate Romantics' (I blame me and the girl from clapham), time to eat crisps, time to make veggie chilli and brown rice, and time to just zone out from my filofax and all the many 'to dos' which fill it's pages. Tonight was one of those evenings. A modern day retreat from the world, which still manages to include text messages, online chat and reading live forum feedback from the Camino de Santiago which I shall walk in the first week following my transition to the ripe old age of 30. Yeooohh.

13. Midweek

2009-08-12T21:02:00.004Z

I spent some time this week in the lab. I saw some things that I both wish I hadn't, and that I feel privileged to have been allowed to see. I watched a pathologist slice a tumour into 5 pieces ready to be processed, dried, fixed in wax and then further sliced so it can be analysed. I saw tiny cores of flesh which have been biopsied which was surreal because I talk about these particular biopsies frequently... but to see what biopsied pieces of flesh and tumours actually look like totally threw me. I am grateful to the individual who suggested it, (exceptionally grateful actually, because it was a very thoughtful offer) and I should also mention that in the context of the work we're doing, it was entirely appropriate and beneficial. (The work that we're doing is of course me seeking to change the world singlehandedly, ruffling a few feathers in the process which tends to be because of time constraints and thus lack of proper consultation as well as the fact that I don't think that because things have always been done a certain way they should continue to be done that way and I'm not afraid to say so, then admitting my well intentioned naivety with a triple shot of diplomacy and lots of long words, buying contentious people americanos, and hopefully getting there in the end. I'm optimistic. They haven't quashed that just yet.)

Anyway- I'm ok with words and emotions and dynamics, but bodies? Cells multiplying and dividing and growing cysts and tumours and cancers and fatty deposits etc. What the heck is that about? I'm not a scientist, so I have to admit that on one hand it scares the living bejaysus out of me, but on the other I think, if one of those 5cm tumours wants badly enough to grow itself in my breast/cervix/colon etc. etc... then is there really very much I can do about it other than eat my 5 a day, and follow all those vague metanarrative healthy lifestyle choices? And they don't seem to make much difference. Forget optimism- oh nihilism, where art thou?

16. Festivals

2009-08-09T19:40:00.003Z

I'm not good at going totally low maintenance. It comes from having a mother who is always turned out meticulously. But at this weekend's Forfey festival I was proud of myself! Totally low-fi, no washing, lots of wipes, and a blimmin spectacular time. Although it was lovely to have a friend's caravan to retreat to for a fry and a cuppa every now and again. That's one to consider for the future. It's remarkable how cutting out four brick walls, tvs, facebooks, internets and radios seems to allow space for encounter. Old friends, new ones, banter, heartfelt chat, silence, reading in the corner.... It was brilliant. The music was pretty good (we played on Friday night and had a great time, notwithstanding a few sound issues!), but the best part was the dj set late last night where the dj produced some thumpin' tunes and we all went WILD. Heck, summer time rules!

I really should sleep since cumulative sleeping time for the whole weekend was in and around 8 hours.

Life Class

2009-08-02T11:58:00.001Z

http://theschooloflife.typepad.com/lifeclass/
A little bit of everyday philosophy. I've just digested the current thought on Regret and found it beautifully thought provoking.

23. Gigs and madness

2009-08-02T11:35:00.002Z

The band that I'm in are midway through a run of gigs: 2 in the past 3 days, some filming today, and then another gig this evening. These gigs involve setup, standing around, frustrations over mixes, soundchecks which are all too short, sound guys who appear to mix things according to their star sign rather than anything to do with creating the right mix, and finally, eventually, 30-40 minutes on stage to do our thing. You know what? I love it. We talk amongst ourselves about our motivations- some of us are in the band for strategic reasons- to learn, to network, to become famous, or just to hang out with friends... for me it's about sheer love of music. Singing makes happy... and often I'm just as happy driving along in my (now very dented) car, harmonising to whatever CD I'm currently playing on repeat. Yes, performing is nice, but with the many tuning and mixing difficulties that we face, if I focus on exclusively on the 'output' I would hate it, because of the many imperfections. Instead, I want to focus on the collective joy that it brings me and others in the band... and be grateful that we have the opportunity to do what we do and to have others giving us a wee bit of attention whilst we do it.

25. From encouragement to disappointment.

2009-07-31T21:34:00.004Z

Friday began well. A healthy breakfast instead of a blueberry and white chocolate scone (although those days begin even better)... and nervous preparation for a meeting which a gracious person had asked me to attend with her, because in her words, she is a wimp. We met on Wednesday and I elicited from her the changes she would like to see in her service, typed them up with rapid fire, formatted them and slapped on a fancy title, and today was the big meeting where these would be proposed. She bought everyone coffee, I pushed when she was gentle, I supported when she was brave, and the result was positive... and we were both exceptionally pleased with ourselves.

At about 4.45pm, I got an unpleasant shock via a few scribbles on a letter returned to one of my team. All I'll say is that I had to compose a long email to a group of important people, and that a difficult conversation awaits me on Monday in order to fix the situation. I hate to see people made to feel guilty, but I have to communicate something with significant gravity to someone who made a significant error. And I ain't looking forward to it. Ah, adulthood.

28 days to go...

2009-07-28T20:04:00.002Z

1. I read 'On Chesil Beach' by Ian McEwan this weekend. Absolutely lovely. It's a tender wedding night story which perilously unravels as it becomes apparent that both parties have different desires for how their evening should play out. They have misread each other in different ways... saying much more about the nuances of communication than first time practicalities. Oh and it's beautifully written too.

2. I planted flowers in my hanging baskets and window boxes. I had to borrow a ladder from Billy, make a pilgrimage to a nursery, set up a soundtrack of Bon Iver and content myself with a-symmetry, but I got there. And my little yard is awash with bursts of colour.

3. Someone drove into the side of my car this evening. And I don't know if he'll phone me with his insurance details like he said he would. I called him earlier and there was no answer. I'm trying (in my lessons in adulthood) not to panic, and to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I'm worried...

35 days to go...

2009-07-21T21:36:00.003Z

Today was one of those where I worked until 8pm. I wasn't involved in a crisis, or something life or death... but meeting a deadline and seeking to do my work well. Now of course that long day involved a good oul chat with a colleague who I consider a bit of a mentor about some of the issues going on in both of our work worlds and how we're dealing with them. The older I get the more I realise that it takes a helluva lot of people to keep our world spinning. I NEED Johnny, who empties my office bin and when I banter with him gives it a half hearted hoover, whilst I ask how his latest night on the tiles has ended. I need him to do that so that I have a space in which to make phone calls where I get told by some people how they would like me to help them be the change they want to see in the world... and for others to tell me that unless their job plan is changed, then they sure as heck won't help me facilitate any change that I want to see in the world. Oh and for me to receive emails to that effect too. How do clinicians seem to have time to write essays via email? And why must people hit the 'cc' to all button...? Why? Why? This evening I took both those types of calls and received emails of affirmation and frustration in response to my attempts at enthusiasm and I'm trying to discern if there are any of Dale Carnegie's 'How to win friends and Influence People' skills which can help turn this situation around. I feel like I've exhausted them all...

A few less days to go... Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

2009-07-19T15:51:00.006Z

I have spent at least 10 valuable hours in the last week watching Harry Potter. One of the main reasons was that I was being paid to... and then to espouse some opinions on the morals contained in the latest film. I searched for the Potter metanarrative; I hummed and haa-ed about whether the philosophy was deontological or teleological, the ethic utilitarian or universal... and then I realised that J.K. Rowling was writing a STORY... and why should a story be expected to have a comprehensive philosophy? And yet, how we have searched for an all compassing philosophy/theology/framework to fit round the verses that we read in Scripture! Why should this work any better with Scripture than it does with Harry Potter (although there is the small matter of revelation.... but who said that "revelation" had to be revelation of a systematic belief system)? A guy who wrote a book on God and Potter said that it was clear Harry Potter was a Messiah figure because if you say Harry fast it sounds like 'Heir to' (eh?) and that since 'Potter' is a phrase St. Paul uses for God... CLEARLY JK Rowling was alluding to Christ. Nuts! [Although I should note that if anyone out there wants to give me funding to do a PHd on the Systematic Theology of Potter... I would be fully committed to squeezing every ounce of Christian juice from the allegory.]

One thing I DID find with Potter, is that the ethic is one of bravery, action and courage in a world where adventure seems the norm and where there is no product placement or 24 hour, multilayered entertainment. 10 hours in that world opened up my mind to adventure and passion for justice... whereas in this world it all seems too impossible. Now where did I put the remote control....?

40 days to go...

2009-07-16T20:16:00.002Z

One of the things about reaching the tender age of 29, is that you tend to have come face to face with your mortality, either fleetingly or devastatingly, through the experience of personal or family illness or some sort of loss. In the past months I have spent time with someone who has been walking tantalisingly close to death due to illness. Spending time with her is like stepping outside of time, such is the peace, wisdom and rest that I experience when I am around her. Recognising that death is a very real possibility brings a significance to each day and a space for welcome and simple pleasure which I find astounding. Her fragility brings a vulnerability to our conversation, and her desire to escape the reality of her illness makes her enthusiastic to hear tiny details about my daily life which are an ego-boost to a story teller such as myself. There is a dance as well as sadness in her eyes, and it's wonderful to spend time with her and her family.

John O'Donohue has some comforting words about loss...

"On the day when the weight deadens on your shoulders and you stumble,
May the clay dance to balance you.
And when your eyes freeze behind the grey window and the ghost of loss gets into you,
May a flock of colours, indigo, red, green and azure blue come to awaken in you a meadow of delight.
When the canvas frays in the currach of thought and the stain of ocean blackens beneath you,
May there come across the waters a path of yellow moonlight to bring you safely home.
May the nourishment of earth be yours,
May the clarity of light be yours,
May the fluency of the ocean be yours,
May the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow wind work these words of love around you,
An invisible cloak to mind your life.”

'May the clarity of light be yours' has to be one of the most beautiful phrases I've ever read... and is one which I continually hold onto.

Travel plans

2009-07-12T21:48:00.002Z

So it's time to make plans... for a little trip in September. A trip of self discovery and spiritual pilgrimage. What I canNOT fathom is how many hours it can take to book four different flights, albeit every one on a different route...

46 days to go...

2009-07-10T18:54:00.003Z

So today I'm smiling to myself at some of life's mysteries. Many of those revolve around dynamics concerning men and women; a little bit like the aforementioned HJNTINY. What makes a twenty something woman attractive to a forty-five year old man, but not to a twenty something man? At what st(age) are such inextricable connection rendered meaningless? Why do men honk their car horn at women? At what age does a woman stop traffic, and at what age does she pray for the traffic to stop whilst she waits at a pedestrian crossing with her grocery bags?

I remember when I was in New Jersey interning as a hospital chaplain. One of my fellow chaplains told me 'there will be a day whenever you can no longer use your looks to win you favour' and I looked at her in surprise, feeling in no way attractive enough to realise that I was availing of any such favours. But every now and again, I realise that there is truth in her statement, and that one day I will get such a shock. And for all my talk of diplomacy, and feminism, and skillful, intelligent banter, (gulp), I have to recognise that there are benefits that come with feminine guile. And I have no idea when that window of benefit will close. To bring forth the argument of opposition, perhaps all I'm referring to is simply the art of good conversation and managerial skill; all of those charms which I possess which extend beyond gender. I really wish that were true.... or do I?

NB I'm watching the box set of Studio 60 and it is fabulous. There's an episode about the use of 'Jesus Christ' in vain. It's incredibly clever as well as thoughtful... querying how the use of 2 consecutive words could be more controversial than casually watching dramatised coverage of the corpses of a few strangled prostitutes, or whatever the latest criminal investigation show has as it's opener. Studio 60 sees a couple who clearly long to be together, but who are divided over their religious positions... his, liberal atheist, hers, Southern Baptist. It's intelligent, witty, and painful in its honesty... and I'm loving it.

50 days to go

2009-07-06T23:05:00.002Z

(although it's just past midnight). The revelation which came today to my 29 year old self was that my house has rising damp. This revelation came from an angel in the form of an old work colleague who I bumped into in the gym and who when he asked 'how the heck are you?' and I picked the random subject of my damp house told me he was training to be a surveyor and would happily come round and take a look.

So here's to an appreciation for the kindness of fellow adults who have taken plunges of financial commitments to things like bricks, mortar, stones, tin transport machines, etc.

He's just not that into you

2009-07-05T21:27:00.003Z

I watched this film tonight whilst doing some worky stuff... only because a friend rented it for two nights and I was wanting to exploite 'value for money' strategies.

As expected, it was totally stereotypical, ie girls are needy, whiny, control freaks and generally longing for commitment (or else lush, wanton and trying to tempt men away from those girls I just described). In the end, after a not entirely unenjoyable hour and a half, the conclusion appeared to be:
a) lighten up/play it cool and everything will work out ok.
b) just because he doesn't want to marry you doesn't mean he doesn't want you.
c) unless he chases you, he's just not that into you.
d) not every marriage works out, usually because of a wanton woman, or a man who didn't want to get married.
e) not all men are b(*&&*ds in the end... even if they are for some/most of the time.
f) Jennifer Aniston is really beautiful.

In some sense it was disappointingly less controversial than the book, which myself and some friends read whilst in Morocco, and which led us to believe that close to no-one in our entire lives had been 'really into us' (excuse the innuendo).... because it would appear that if anyone 'is really into you' then 'he' (for it's all about clearly defined genders) will fairly well swim through a shark-infested ocean to let you know. Playing hard to get is clearly only a psychosomatic protective device that women have been taught by older generations, in order to protect them from getting hurt. By the end of the book every possible scenario in which you may have had an eencey-weency notion that someone may have been interested, but was prevented from letting you know because horrible circumstances prevented him, is played out for what it apparently means in the cold light of day- 'he's just not that into you'... at which point most girls are going to lose all hope for the continuance of the human race (or at least the furtherance of one's own gene pool).

The film, whilst not as singularly morale-lowering as the book had no real complexity or nuance, particularly with regard to the relationship which broke up and the gender stereotypes throughout. The notion of romance or soul connection, although part of the neatly constructed ending, fell short of moving me towards any sort of emotion... although I did eat more than my fair share of pretzels and buy some books online (thankfully none of which were of the self help variety)...

And so another week begins!

51 days to go...

2009-07-05T20:51:00.003Z

So, the girl from clapham has started a trend. A countdown, if you will, to the grand celebration of her 30th birthday. I like to pretend that I'm all anti-convention, but if it something seems like a good idea, then I want to get on board. It may not be every day, but I think that the journey should be acknowledged.

So I have 51 days to go...

Gratitude

2009-05-31T21:09:00.002Z

Sometimes there is a need to vent, a time for catharsis, or a need to simply say thank you. Tonight is one of those. A weekend which began with a work night out for which I had my escape route ready: a tentative band practice and another group of friends who were out on the town. I was ready to use either to make my excuses and leave but instead
a) found myself hearing tales of how my boss's life has turned out how it has
b) found out that I was placed number one in a sweepstake to name the secret girlfriend of a senior colleague (flattering but untrue)
c) had a meaningful conversation with a man who is a leader of one of our healthcare organisations and whom I admire deeply for both his strength and vulnerability and willingness to agree to coffee with a rookie (me) in the near future.
d) spent more than I spend on two weeks groceries on one night's dinner
e) learnt that the person I was fairly sure disliked me DEFINITELY dislikes me (I tried to subtly ask a colleague and he confirmed that my reputation is being muddied by said person), which sparked a few conversations about doing what is right, despite the consequences, a lesson that I anticipate to be a life long one.

Yesterday was a day in the garden with my parents and brother. Gentle conversation, papers, tea, memories and sunshine. On to a bbq... and then another.... (ah, I love summer... all those chargrilled meat-n-carbohydrates).

Today, brunch in the sun- an impromptu invite from a couple I don't know well but am looking forward to getting to know- always a joy to be welcomed, to have conversation about why certain strands of theology stand in isolation to other schools of thought (meaty) and to anticipate future opportunities to hear their stories (and experience her BAKING!). Then onwards to a garden gazebo I know well, and some white wine and long round-the-world-and-back-again-conversations followed by bacon butties, cuddles with the children and plans for the summer.

All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well. Oh Julian, you had it right.

Parents

2009-05-10T19:06:00.005Z

Today I spent some time with friends talking about parents... and how we become who we are, a large part of it due to who they are.... but another important part, regardless of who they are. This doesn't mean that we don't love every inch of them, and are deeply gratitudinal for their love for us, it means that our adult passions and choices may not be ones which they would choose. In spite of that, we have to forage our own way in the world, loving who we love, and doing our own thing.

There are a number of ways to articulate the complexity of our heritage. Philip Larkin writes one way:

***

They f**k you up, your mum and dad. - They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had - And add some extra, just for you.

But they were f**ked up in their turn - By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern - And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man. - It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can, - And don't have any kids yourself.

******

But, this be the Converse

by Richard Kell

They buck you up, your mum and dad, - Or if they don't they clearly should.

No decent parents let the bad - They've handed on defeat the good.

Forebears you reckon daft old farts, - Bucked up in their turn by a creed

Whose homely mixture warmed their hearts, Were just the counsellors you need.

Life is no continental shelf- It lifts and falls as mountains do.

So, if you have some kids yourself - They could reach higher ground than you.

*****

I'm not a parent.... yet or perhaps ever, so I cannot speak from my own experience, but I reckon it's a hard old task. However, if I'm half as good as my two, I'll be doing well.

Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.

2009-03-29T19:02:00.003Z

I've been thinking recently about the point of systematic theology. I've spent a heckuva lot of time getting to grips with some of the great minds and what they had to say about the divine. 5 zeros of debt later, and I'm now fully convinced that each of these systematic attempts to describe and define God say much more about the writer than about G-d. I was talking to a friend about this today and she shrugged and said 'isn't it all a best guess?' which immediately discomfited me... and which we proceeded to discuss at length. For me, the unravelling of a worldview was which watertight and explainable, to one which is constantly being changed and challenged, written, scribbled out and re-written, is something equally exhilarating and confusing. Karl Barth who said that doing theology was like trying to paint a bird in flight, managed to write 14 volumes of Church Dogmatics. I don't know how he managed to make that transition. I'm still learning how to speak whereof I must be silent, to steal the words of Mr. Wittgenstein.

Footnote to all Prayers by C.S. Lewis

S/He whom I bow to only knows to whom I bow
When I attempt the ineffable Name, murmuring Thou,
And dream of Pheidian fancies and embrace in heart
Symbols (I know) which cannot be the thing Thou art.
Thus always, taken at their word, all prayers blaspheme
Worshipping with frail images a folk-lore dream,
And all (hu)mens in their praying, self-deceived, address
The coinage of their own unquiet thoughts, unless
Thou in magnetic mercy to Thyself divert
Our arrows, aimed unskillfully, beyond desert;
And all (hu)men(s) are idolaters, crying unheard
To a deaf idol, if Thou take them at their word.

Take not, O Lord, our literal sense. Lord, in thy great
Unbroken speech our limping metaphor translate.

Grey

2009-03-28T17:44:00.004Z

Northern Ireland does grey in a pretty spectacular manner. When I returned here from living abroad for about six years I soon decided that the multiplicity of greys here deserved a rainbow all of their own.

I've been talking to friends in the past weeks about the nature of humanity, and whether at heart we are good or bad. I started out as an original sin kinda girl, although I love that Catholic theology begins with the purity of the garden rather than fasttracking to the fall the way Protestants tend to do. However, I've been challenged to think that perhaps neither is the case. I will never know what a human 'left' to his/her own devices will do. I don't know if they will orient themselves towards good or ill... and it's simplistic to make a universal call one way or the other. I asked my good friends at book group if there was a piece of chocolate cake in the middle of the room, and no one was looking, who wouldn't wander over and eat it for themselves? One lady replied that she would drive to Marks and Spencers and buy a whole one just for herself rather than opting for only one piece. My simple question and answer was nicely scuppered, and I was reminded that the labels and simple answers that I long for simply don't stand up upon scrutiny. I often feel unsettled by talk of subjectivity, but ultimately, story wins out almost every time. For it is in stories and experiences that so-called objective beliefs and self-sufficient labels are challenged. In our experiences sometimes we tend towards good, and sometimes towards not-so-good and then sometimes we ourselves are treated with kindness and experience a common bond with humanity that transcends any attachment to a particular religion, or any naive inclination that we may or may not have been born with.

For me, grey is the rainbow between black and white... but within it heralds purple, orange, pink, blue, brown, red, yellow, green... and life.

More East Belfast drama

2009-03-11T21:46:00.002Z

So, I know there are tragically serious issues happening at the moment. But now is not the time for me to reflect on them. Instead, tonight, we had our own little moment of drama and redemption on my street. I got home from work around 7 (yes, it's March, which is the BIG month in terms of "performance management" for the service in which I work). Started to cook up some dinner when next door neighbour Billy knocked on the door to tell me 'I've got something that's gonna knock your conscience and keep you from sleeping tonight.' I immediately did what I usually do, which is to have a massive guilt complex about every single thing I've ever done wrong... but he proceeded to turn around and point to the top of a telephone pole across the street, on top of which a large grey furry cat was perched. 'It's been there since 9 this morning' said Billy, raising his eyebrows and taking a long drag on his cigarette. He proceeded to tell me about his phone calls to the NSPCA, the police and the fire brigade (Billy's days are fairly quiet, which is why I like to keep him busy receiving my on-line purchases and supervising the boilerman). Apparently the fire brigade don't come out for trapped cats any more (what has HAPPENED to the world?) and so the poor thing had been perched there for hours, looking like it was in PAIN, contorting it's little body whilst trying to maintain balance. We tutted and debated opportunities....(trampolines? using a football to knock it off the pole and gathering the neighbours to hold up sheets to catch it?) and I even considered rejoining the world of facebook in order to post a status update asking for help. I did phone my Dad who didn't have a clue what could be done, but told me I should eat dinner to keep my strength up. An hour later, a lady pulled up outside the house. She (aka superwoman) is a vetinary assistant who had somehow heard about the drama and had managed to convince the fire brigade to attempt a rescue mission. A few moments later along came a large fire engine containing a plaited lady who seemed to be the experienced member of the crew, and a rather strapping gentleman (my cousin and I swooned) who seemed more interested in saying 'make mine a medium' to someone on the other end of his phone than attending to the problem at hand. The firelady said that the problem was the cables- and the lack of building to lay their ladder against. Her suggested solution was to leave a plate of smelly fish on top of Victor's white van, and she reckoned the cat would be down in two shakes of kitten's tail, or something like that. Cousin and I retreated to the house for chat and peppermint tea. Another hour later, noises from outside prompted me to step out to the sight of a man halfway up a ladder, holding the cat by the scruff of it's neck. 'The f***in' fire service wouldn't even rescue it' exclaimed one wee woman. A few hairy moments later, and both man and cat were on the ground to cheers from the crowd. Billy called round later because he'd been distracted by the football. When I told him the news, with my theory that the man had had a few scoops for Dutch courage, he was pleased, in his own nonchalant way. 'Victor's gonna have a shock when he finds that f***in' fish on top of his van!' he said as he lumbered back into his house. Superwoman returned and knocked my door, pleased that the cat had been rescued, but disappointed to have missed the drama and not being the one to have done the rescuing.

All in all, an eventful evening for B Street. Go well Mr/Ms. Cat, wherever you are.

On celebrity-dom

2009-03-10T20:29:00.003Z

I want to write a thoughtful, philosophical post on the evils of celebrity-dom. I want this to include contemporary observations on why we have such a desire to know every nuance concerning the existence of people who have somehow made it into the public gaze. But I'm too excited to do that. Over the past 6 days I have had an AMAZING time due to music, community and the opportunity to 'be' rather than 'do'... (NB 'doing' is something I EXCEL at). I've also had the opportunity to be in the presence of 'famous' people. I've done my fair share of avoidance, of casual blanking, and most recently, last night, of pure unadulterated banter. It's all led me to the position of realising that those celebrities who we esteem as being on another plain, are just human. They are vulnerable... geeky even. They stand on a stage and do their thang... but they have the same bodily functions as the rest of us. And the same social awkwardness. So I'm gonna do my best to be friendly and welcoming... whilst still applying a smart slice of forgiveness whenever I put my foot in my mouth (like when I inferred to a group of 10 people, including the man himself that Gary Lightbody wasn't FUNNY!). Bad.

On birth

2009-02-12T19:04:00.005Z

One of my dearly beloved pointed out to me that I hadn't made mention of the fact that I am now an aunty. This is even more important since I am an aunty to her new son, who of course is the most beautiful baby I have ever seen, bar none, and don't challenge me on this because I will debate this for hours, and cajole/exhaust you until you acknowledge this as true.

I will NEVER forget that moment at 10.11am on Sunday the 25th of January when she phoned me and said 'Just phoning to say I'm in hospital....' INTERMINABLE-PAUSE-WHICH-FELT-LIKE-IT-LASTED-FOREVER '..... and to tell you that you're an aunty!' - cue screams and tears and emotion and beauty, and obviously right now I'm crying again at the excitement of it all.

She is the brave and courageous one, for if I didn't realise it before, I'm fully realising now that motherhood is a joy and a challenge and a journey, and she has risen to the occasion beautifully. Now already I'm noticing that when I phone her on the way home from work to explain exactly what 'he said' and then what 'I said' and then what 'HE said' and why what 'I SAID' in response was much more intelligent, or that when her in the office did what she did, why I was so annoyed/upset/pleased/challenged etc, I've heard a little cry in the background, and my narcissism has had to be put on hold for a few moments whilst instructions go to Papa on exactly how the little one should be burped in order to provide a result. You know what? I'm ok with that. Because my sister is a mummy- and a darn good one at that. And I'm very excited at the priviledge of sharing in the wee one's journey through life. I'm excited at the prospect of being zany aunt FF who brings a wee flavour of sumthin' sumthin' to his life. There's some African saying about it taking a whole village to raise a child, and I'm happy to be part of that village.

Silent Retreat

2009-02-08T20:42:00.003Z

I spent the weekend in absolute silence: snowy Antrim hills, superb food, gentle reflections on the story of the Prodigal Son (and his family), and, really, that's about all I want to say about that here. Buy me a mochaccino and I might tell you more.

This morning as I sipped my last peppermint tea of the weekend and looked out at the snow, I stumbled upon words which I am inviting to become my mantra.

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.

'Wild Geese' by Mary Oliver

Amen, amen, amen.

Charting the territory

2009-01-27T22:26:00.003Z

So one of my list of thirty things to do before I'm thirty was to make bread. I *love* to bake, and although I do it fairly infrequently, in my mind's mirror I see Nigella staring back at me. Cakes and cookies are one thing... bread... the Biblical manna... the transubstantiated body... the food group that the Yellow Door in Portadown has made into an ART FORM... it has always seemed fairly epic. It is even more so because I have a friend who is a mystical, warm-hearted, welcoming, hospitable fellow who makes AMAZING bread. When one sits at his table and catches a whiff of his freshly baked naan bread, people have been known to faint, sigh, or transcend immediately to heaven.*

In the summer I asked him for the recipe. I've remembered it; emailed it to myself as a reminder to print in work; made mental plans to host a large dinner party and emerge triumphant from the kitchen with a bread platter. But never, until tonight, did I actually venture to make the damn stuff.

One trip to the Co-op, and I had everything I needed with only a few substitutions- one of the reasons why most of the recipes I vaguely follow tend to go wrong. I measured, sieved, mixed, kneaded and pondered why the dough was sticky when my friend's description clearly said the dough should NOT be sticky. Throwing caution to the wind I added more flour, kneaded, prayed and mixed, and finally placed the dough in a bowl in a barely warm oven covered by a cloth to allow it to rise.

What to do for the hour whilst the bread was rising? Well a trip to the gym was in order, where I avoided the TRAGIC 'Super Skinny/Super Size', the EMBARRASSING 'Trinny and Susannah are still insisting that they take over the world even though Gok's abilities far surpass theirs' and the other INFURIATING 'Half naked women gyrating' options on the screens ahead of me. Instead I opted for the private backing tracks of my own choice as I thumped along on the treadmill, watching the clock almost as furiously as I sought to run.

Out of the shower and quickly dressed, I skipped downstairs to shape the six circular bread forms, frying the bottoms lightly in oil, then basting the tops with butter, garlic, coriander and sesame seed. When the first two emerged from the grill, I couldn't resist breaking off a large chunk. It was GLORIOUS! A food critic might say that numbers one and two were a little doughy, but I'll be darned if numbers three to six weren't pretty nigh on perfect. I threw a few onions in a pan and made a quick french onion soup, but the bread won the day by a mile. A nice way to finish a Tuesday.

* Not ontologically, but epistemologically true. (Oh for the days when I actually knew what either of those words meant.)

Lessons in life

2009-01-22T21:35:00.003Z

I've decided, nay had the nagging feeling for quite a while, that managing people is an art form. When I think of all my wondrously talented writer/poet/artist/musician friends, I usually feel that the most creative I get is picking out which dangly earrings I'll wear to work. But today, having had a bit of a run-in with a few people who I happen to, gulp, manage, I'm once again wincing at how easy it is to get it wrong, and how getting it right is akin to walking a tightrope over Niagara... so clearly I'm a trapeze artist. How the heck do you inspire people, give them the vision, be a "transformational leader" with "emotional intelligence," "thinking lean," "engaging all stakeholders" and projecting the right balance of fun, care and challenge to be excellent at the services we provide?*

*Come back to me in 30 years and I'll try and answer you. Although I soon plan to be managing that bar in the Bahamas that I keep talking about.

I just have to keep reciting the mantra under my breath "it's not about being their friend, it's not about being their friend, it's not about being their friend" because that approach doesn't work. But for me, it's about being honest that I DO care, but that I expect hard work. Wobble, wobble, wobble, wobble, wobble...

Plain People

2009-01-10T19:47:00.003Z

I just watched an episode of Grey's Anatomy which featured two girls from an Amish Community who had left the community after one, Rachel, was shunned following her baptism. The other, Jilly, was found to have terminal cervical cancer. She decided to return to her parents and the community to be cared for, and given an Amish funeral and was deeply upset to have to leave Rachel alone in the twenty-first century in order to do this. When I watched the scenes between the two of them, and as Jilly's Plain-ly dressed mother said in heavily accented English that she would tell Rachel's mother that her daughter had grown up to be a fine young women, I couldn't help but shed a tear or two.

I said that one of the memorable points of 2008 was a short stay in Amish country, and I think that relates to why I know I was crying. For those who are Plain, life is more simple. That's not to say that life is not difficult, but some of the moral complexities of the modern world are somehow side stepped. I read Jodi Picoult's novel 'Plain People' whilst I was in Amish country, and it felt incredible to enter that world of fiction whilst situated in the surroundings of wheat fields, houses without electricity and fresh pies and pickles. When I entered Amish stores the women would avert their gaze, or offer shy smiles whilst my friend and I exclaimed at the range of wares on offer.

The main reason I'm both attracted and conflicted is the relationship I see between the Amish and the Brethern, which is my heritage. Both exist in a sphere which is situated beyond the "evil" of this world. If my parents had not chosen to move to a slightly broader house of worship when I was eleven I wonder what my world would now look like. Would I go to the cinema? Would I still own a wide selection of brimmed hats and berets? Would I be more, or less, happy? Would I meet the outter world with a shy smile of humility (or subjugation?) , and quiet acceptance of my place within my small, separate, community? That world was much more black and white than the world of grey which I now inhabit. Or perhaps I now live in a full colour world- a much broader palette of colours in which to explore life's complexities. All I know is that now simplicity seems achingly impossible. I'm not going to romanticise the Amish at all, since it seems easy to romanticise practically every age in history apart from our own, but sometimes I long for our place within our community to be greater than the focus on individualism in our culture. Wouldn't it be really something if we really were to love other people like we love/obsess/think about ourselves? And given my attempt and desire to blog, I'm clearly fairly proficient at the latter. :-)

So it's 2009

2009-01-01T14:47:00.006Z

and I've been thinkin' about the past year: personal highlights, difficulties, joys, triumphs, lows, regrets.

But maybe I'll start by going global.

Ladies and gentlemen: my pick for international person of the year: Mr. Barack Obama with kudos, and a close second place to Jeremiah Wright (Obama's ex-minister in Chicago). IMHO it was the liberation theology/'We shall overcome'/ audacity of hope/Exodus/Vision/Striving for better things that won him that election. Heck, I'll even give a shout out to Prof James Cone under whom I was schooled in black theology and inducted into full understanding of the importance of admiration for both Malcolm X and Martin Luther King. Barack Obama carried on their rhetoric and reminded us to hope that a better day might come. And in the very act of the nation voting to elect America's first black president, we've seen the visible demonstration that change is possible. Now, whether or not that reality ever emerges is a different story altogether, but a little hope is a very important thing. It's like the life raft or security blanket that gives one the confidence to open one's front door and take a step into the world. Barack, go well. We're hoping for great things from you, but at this stage, your election is enough.

I could go on with my quote of the year, chocolate bar of the year, etc, but I'd just sound like the over-opinionated person I already am. And maybe I need to lay that aside for 2009.

For me, 2008 was a year of highs and lows- a year where I learned more about how messy this darn world is, and how many darn things I have to be grateful for. I learnt that:

1. "There is a time coming when you will have to choose between what is right and what is easy."St. Dumbledore of Potterland, as quoted to me by a work colleague whom I admire immensely. In a year where work has provided a number of significant challenges, she eyeballed me with these words. In two scenarios, I finally, achingly, came to the place of participating in what was right, rather than that which was easy. And yet I still find myself deliberating on why choosing what is right has to come at such a cost? The only answer I've come to is that being an adult attempting to live with integrity is exhausting and that I'll continue to get it wrong twice as many times as I get it right.
2. Training nights at hair salons are called training nights for a reason. But they might just re-tint the orangey colour for free if you let the trainee practice an 'up-do' on your re-coloured hair. Just remember that you WILL receive funny looks from the guy in the chip shop when you ask for extra salt and vinegar whilst sporting a bridal style on a rainy Tuesday evening.
3. Roasted brussel sprouts are absolutely delicious.
4. At least four times a year you should go on a silent retreat (I managed once). You'll realise that talking really is over-rated.
5. Spending time in Amish country might just challenge you to reconsider if consumption and technology really are the route of all happiness... and for me, spending time with two lovely people living there reminded me of the beauty of strong marital relationships.
6. The Autumn colours on the road between Enniskillen and Sligo were divine.
7. You should NEVER joke with your friends when you go on holiday to a north African country that you'd like to pick up a small stomach bug for a few days in order to shed a few pounds. This will mean that you are the only one to pick up said bug, and will spend 24 hours in severe discomfort (and inflicting related discomfort to the three people sharing a room with you.) Sorry ladies.
8. Caring for another person is a priviledge and a responsibility and a beautiful thing.
9. Singing might make a girl deliriously happy, but dodgy sound systems don't.
10. A day in Mournes can turn your problems into molehills. And a hip flask helps.
11. The Wire is one of the most philosophically, theologically, morally, practically, emotionally, FRUSTRATINGLY complex TV series' I've watched. It's worthy of a PhD... (funding, anyone?!)
Watch it.
12. Facebook maybe a fragile link between us, but it can also provoke some serious timewasting.
13. 'Work' is just that. Some of us see it as our vocation, some sit at our desks hearing the far off sound of pennies dropping into our bank accounts. For some it's boring, some invigorating, and some... often me... close to all encompassing. But in those moments when it all comes together, and you know you're making even a tiny difference, it's worth it.
14. Friends and family are crucial.
15. Swedish half-marathons fly by when you have deep conversations with your running partner, facilitated by sideways glances, laughter and pain :-). Well done Ms. Derry!

Anyway. I'm raising a mug of cold coffee to 2008, and ushering in 2009 with curiosity and openness to the incoming of the unknown. Blessings to ya.

Those Days

2008-12-15T22:11:00.001Z

I read this at the blessing of a beautiful partnership between two lovely people. This is my blog offering whilst I no longer own a computer and thus have no blog access (for the IT people in the NHS believe blogs to be evil).

Ah, words from Mary Oliver...

Those Days

When I think of her I think of the long summer days
she lay in the sun, how she loved the sun, how we
spread our blanket, and friends came, and

the dogs played, and then I would get restless and
get up and go off to the woods
and the fields, and the afternoon would..
soften gradually and finally I would come..
where she would be
my glorious welcoming, tan and hungry and ready to tell
the hurtless gossips of the day and how I
listened leisurely while I put

around the room flowers in jars of water-
daisies, butter-and-eggs, and everlasting-
until like our lives they trembled and shimmered
everywhere.

*Our World (2007)Beacon Press

The Weekend

2008-11-22T09:50:00.002Z

It's only recently that I've become one of those people who lives for the weekend. Seriously. I've always struggled with those sort of people- and mused 'why don't they like their jobs enough?' or 'they clearly don't have as meaningful a week/life/purpose as I have' (eeekk- but I'm being honest). And now I'm one of them. My heart positively sings when I know it's Friday. Yesterday, early morning, I took a pile of work to a coffee shop in the Botanic area of Belfast which serves the best scones in the city, and sat there for over an hour mostly reading through a long document whilst sipping coffee, eating my blueberry scone and texting a few people about weekend plans. Lovely. I was in good form. Although I was wrecked- worked until 7.30/8 two nights and 5.30/6 the other nights, I felt a cheery glow at the prospect of two days off. However- I don't want to be this person. Towards the end of the week something happens to society. Radio personalities get cheery, everyone says 'oh-isn't-it-GREAT-it's-Friday', pubs are packed (and I'm now a regular at the 'let's all meet at the pub on Friday at 5pm) and so on every level I'm JOINING THEM. Soon I'll be booking a holiday to some awful, all-inclusive, Brit-packed resort in 2010 and when my hairdresser asks 'any-holiday's-planned-love' my face will light up and I'll have something to tell her!

Should one give up one's job and train as something else? Discuss. Or is this just the reality of the working world?

Why some banter doesn't... and some does.

2008-11-19T21:53:00.003Z

So whilst I was in America over the summer (having a fabulous time courtesy of some lovely friends and ikon), my little house experienced some internal water damage. During the awful August weather, water dripped down through the guttering, through the walls, from the upper floor down to ground level adjacent to the electricity box. Now this threw me into PANIC with intense phonecalls from Amish country to my exceptionally lovely if rather-less-than-practical father... who proceeded to be recipient of my domestic angst. Cue stressed conversations followed by apologetic conversations: God bless Dad. Anyway, I returned from America, whilst lovely housemate had set up bowls to catch drips, re-written her will, etc., and then attempted to find someone to help fix the guttering. Unsurprisingly, the man I saw helping fix a neighbour's roof was soon persuaded to have a quick look at mine, chat, chat, chat and before I knew it we were swopping phone numbers like old friends. Equally unsurprisingly, he was called Billy, and dear old Billy quoted me 200 quid to fix the damage. I himmed and haa-ed, mentioned all the locals who I know- he said 'love, you just ask them about Billy 'X', and they'll tell you I'm a decent man' and I said 'Billy, I know you won't do me wrong' infering that if he did do me wrong, those locals would be round at his door faster than I could say 'orangeman.' A few weeks later, and a few 'are-you-planning-on-coming-anytime-this-side-of-Christmas' phone calls later, Billy and his mate completed the job one morning without me even noticing. He told me to watch the walls and I'd soon see how good his work had been (at this stage I was actually upset since I'd been selling my homegrown wallflower penicillin to the local pharmacy). Daily I inspected my walls, harumping about the cost of houses, but secretly pleased that the lives of my housemate and I were no longer in mortal danger. But then, one evening, I came home to a nasty surprise. A little invoice awaited me on my floral doormat. 295 pounds was the sum at the bottom of the page- 250 plus VAT. Billy had gone and upped the ante, and I was NOT happy. So I did what I tend to do in these situations and marched outside to next door neighbour, who unsurprisingly also happens to be called Billy. He said 'What's up, butterfly', cigarette ash trailing onto the carpet, and I spewed forth the story with lots of hand gestures and head shaking in disbelief. He said 'well, if you'd got me involved earlier, love' and proceeded to give a short sermon on lessons in the university of life (which usually involve brown paper and vinegar). I listened, then retreated, declining his offer of a chip butty for a tofu stir fry in my own kitchen. As he is wont, two days later he texted me: "call in butterfly x x" and so after work I proceeded to do just that. Drawing deep on his cigarette he looked at me out of the side of his eyes and said 'Get me 160 quid in cash... in an envelope... Billy says that'll do." I nearly fell over! Never before had I known the power of contacts and cash. So I paid up (Neighbour Billy stood on the street and counted out the cash note by note like I was some sort of renegade). And that was that.

The banter that doesn't work relates to Roger the Dodger who was fixing my car and who this week I have phoned REGULARLY for banter and barter, and after he cut 10 measley pounds off the price slipped in that they had run out of anti-freeze and I'd have to come back for that... and PAY for it. And he had the cheek to say 'call in for a chat anytime!' Tuh!

Autumn

2008-11-16T17:33:00.003Z

So I've been talking to friends recently about blogging. It was en vogue for some of us for a while, and spawned conversation on how much to reveal or not reveal, the extent to which it was/is narcisstic, and what the "benefit" is. Now facebook has taken over our lives, it's the new cultural phenomenon which we analyse to death and which drains away minutes which could be spent in many other beautiful activities. And some of us have had distractions of other sorts which have taken time, awoken new feelings and experiences and taught us more lessons from the university of life (actually- that's just me I'm talking about). Whilst on holiday with a group of dear friends, with their help, I made a list of 30 things I want to do before I'm 30... which is just over 9 months away. Now some of them were hilarious at the time and I'm sure will never be actualized, but one of them is to blog weekly.

So here I begin, thinking on what there is to think on, wondering what I want to chart in this little 'in-between' space between reality and unreality, known-ness and anonymity.

The talkative lover - Anthony de Mello

2008-07-13T18:30:00.001Z

A lover pressed his suit unsuccessfully for many months, suffering the atrocious pains of rejection. Finally his sweetheart yielded. "Come to such and such a place, at such and such an hour," she said to him.

At that time and place the lover finally found himself seated beside his beloved. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheaf of love letters that he had written to her over the past months.

They were passionate letters, expressing the pain he felt and his burning desire to experience the delights of love and union. He began to read them to his beloved. The hours passed by but still he read on and on.

Finally the woman said, "What kind of a fool are you? These letters are all about me and your longing for me. Well, here I am sitting with you at last and you are lost in your stupid letters."

"Here I am with you," says God, "and you keep reflecting about me in the head, talking about me with your tongue, and searching for me in you books. When will you shut up and see?"

** I've been introduced to de Mello recently and am finding nourishment in his words.

Good theology makes for bad headlines

2008-07-06T15:42:00.004Z

“There will come a time when three words uttered with charity and meekness shall receive a far more blessed reward than three thousand volumes written with disdainful sharpness of wit.” Richard Hooker as quoted by Bishop Alan Harper

I’ve been thinking recently about how we communicate those things we feel strongly about. We often use stories. Or some of us communicate by exploring words and ideas intermingled with experience and culture. Two recent examples indicate how articulation of our conviction can be poorly interpreted...

Archbishop Rowan Williams spoke about how he felt Muslims should be free to use Sharia law to settle disputes before resorting to the British legal system. I felt this was entirely reasonable, but he was set upon by the conservative media and accused of saying that Islamic law could be used by Muslims instead of British law (interestingly on Friday, a British lawlord announced that his views with fundamentally accord with Williams). Williams’s reasonable argument was condensed, misunderstood and thus misappropriated by those looking for a pithy by-line.

Last week, Alan Harper, the new Archbishop of Armagh gave a speech in which he spoke of his view of Scripture, with specific reference to homosexuality. You can read the totality of his speech here.

Although some of the content is very heavy, his argument is well thought and highly intelligent with strong reliance on the work of Richard Hooker. I wanted to post some of it here, but in clear confirmation of my point I found that to be almost impossible, since it is of course the totality of his writing which sums up his position which points in the direction of beginning to say something which can be (necessarily) only poorly summarised as, ‘it’s ok to be gay.’ He doesn’t quite get there and instead wonders how the church will have to respond if it is proven that for some people homosexual acts are a natural inclination (and just writing that portrays him as much less well-intentioned as I believe he is). In response to his question I would counter that the proof he needs rests in shared conversation with those for whom care, emotion, love, commitment to someone of the same sex is entirely natural. Or even just a recognition that demonstration of love, at ALL, in this world, should be entirely welcomed and supported. Thus Harper may not have my vote, but he has my respect.

How, though, in the context of these examples, can one speak of anything? Three thousand volumes may be needed... but the media will pick three words to report. I remain unsure as to the answer... but I do wonder what the response to either of these men would have been if they'd simply said 'the other night I walked into a bar and I met......'

Gone

2008-07-06T15:42:00.001Z

but not forgotten. I'm back... maybe.

Spring

2008-03-08T08:13:00.002Z

It's almost here, I can tell. And with it, brightness. And we only appreciate it because of winter.

In the midst of a week where I conducted the hardest meeting of my career to date (and received one of the nastiest emails), I was given a bottle of Bushmills whiskey by a banterful Consultant. I'll admit that I started the conversation by asking why such fine liquid had been abandoned, thus planting the idea, and so whilst bored with conversation he thew the bottle to me, (I still see it happening in slow motion), I caught it, and one of his colleagues detered the meeting from its agenda to hunt for a yellow, glittery bag to house the whiskey, which I of course proudly carried around for the rest of the day.

Whilst ill, and coughing and spluttering, I was treated to extreme care and red wine by strangers who are becoming friends.

Whilst wrestling with some inner demons, I arrived home to find a surprise gift and card posted through my letterbox. Someone was thinking of me and reminding me of some important things I find hard to remember.

Whilst 'low' in the context of corporate failure, some senior colleagues were gracious and gentle, offering words of encouragement and hope for my future.

Someone reminded me this week that expectation is like looking at the horizon through a telescope turned the wrong way, but hope offers a much broader vista. Anyone want to join me in asking for a double helping of hope?!

The best of times.... and quid pro quo... (you know the rest).

2008-01-29T22:41:00.000Z

Managing people is flippin' hard. Up until the past few weeks I've loved it. Thrived on it. Probably been a little cocky because I feel like a good boss, and receive reasonable affirmation that I'm "not the worst" (damn, it, I bring them chocolate, am VERY generous with flexi time and perform a mini-stand up routine whenever I enter their offices- what's not to like?).

But now, I'm struggling to balance my goals, hopes and responsibilities. I want to be liked, but I want to do right. And to be strategic. And to think about the bigger picture, and expectations, rather than being swayed by emotion. I'm not going to write details here, people, (that's all I need) but trust me. And you probably don't want to know.

I try to be a glass half full person, but after a twelve hour day like today, it's hard. And thus, on a glass half empty day... you need a half full glass, or at least a beer-left-over-from-a-house-party. I'd never buy Grolsch, but man, did it taste good. (Can I also apologise for the the glass half empty/half full glass thing? I've just watched 3 episodes of Sex and the City and I find it hard not to be influenced by the over-obvious wit. The line of the evening was "Miranda had gone from deeply cynical to Deepak Chopra." See what I'm battling with here?)

I'm trying to slowly exhale... and unfurl that knot in my stomach and remind myself of why I'm doing this job... what I believe I have to offer... and delude myself that it won't get worse before it gets better (it will. And a conversation which I initiate tomorrow will begin that descent).

Bottoms up. And if anyone ever reads this and meets me, don't mention it. I'm already feeling TOTALLY narcissistic (but slightly better).

Act two

2008-01-13T11:16:00.000Z

After a festive/theological interlude... the story continues.

The walking tour led to a friendship with a German girl and 2 days spent touring through the Cuban countryside on a moped.... singing, laughing, meeting people, eating food in Cuban homes, experimenting with food from the street. People laughed and waved at the sight of two gringas speeding past them. I managed to meet up with the crew I'd met at the airport and we drank more mojitos and tried to encourage each other to improve our salsa. It was really fun.

And there are more stories. Going home with a Cuban guy to meet his mother (no, really), bartering for a cheaper room with an attempt to overcharge me at the end... a long day at the artesan market to buy presents for people at home... more music, more discussion of politics, an enlightening morning at the Museo de la Revolucion.... It was a great trip. I feel like I left a little bit of my heart there... the part of me that clings to joie du vivre instead of submitting to the furious pressure to consume... the idea of manana... setting aside goals/priorities/strategy in order to live simply. Alain de Boton's book "Status Anxiety" really challenged me about desiring something different than what might be considered one's lot in life. Is it really a good thing? Or, as I suspect, do I think this because I can pretty much do whatever the heck I want and thus can afford to have an opinion on this with a full belly and much more things than I really need.

Anyhoo. Next was Panama, which was a consumer's dream... and which I found to be a massive culture shock. With a sky line like Miami, and evidence of money, money, money, it was hard to believe I was still in Central America... and yet a 10 minute bus journey transported me back to huts/wooden houses and bumpy streets. I saw the sights, had some accommodation issues, met some people, but found the heat really hard to deal with. One day I caught a ferry to an island with a beach and enjoyed relaxing... but the resulting sun burn persuaded me to spend most of the next day at the Mall after a fabulous experience of the Panama Canal. It was coooooool.

Then, to Ecuador. (I'm glazing over details here, including propositions from taxi drivers, my obsession with Patacones (fried green bananas), one or two purchases in the Mall, a long conversation about the state of the world (in Spanish) with a Spanish man whose accent seemed incredibly strange in that context, and an amazing 4 hour stint in a bar overlooking the ocean drinking Panama beer and reading Anne Michael's " Fugitive Pieces." I'd read part of it before, but had stopped because I'd found it too intense for the context in which I was reading... but this was perfect. )

Ecuador was brilliant. I loved being back in Guayaquil, a city that has changed enormously in the 9 years since I lived there, mostly thanks to Mayor Nebot, the man now clashing with the controversial new President, Rafael Correa. It was great to spend time with Faith, visiting her university, going to salsa class at her gym (!!!), embarking on a four hour manicure/pedicure session, and having more time together to talk than we've had in about 5 years. We are very different and yet in some ways very similar, and I really value having a friend with whom I share such history (and soooo many hours of conversation). Along with Fabricio (who I love dearly) we headed off on adventures to the hippy town of Montanita where we stayed in a rather rustic guesthouse and drank a few huge cocktails whilst watching the dynamic between the hippy Indians and hippy gringos. We went to the beach at Salinas, ate ice cream, and then set off for Cuenca for the Ramirez family Christmas. This was a raucous, social affair with lots of food and lots of story telling. I loved listening to their banter and appreciating Ecuadorian culture from a totally different perspective now than when I was there as a 19 year old missionary English teacher. And it is c.o.m.p.l.i.c.a.t.e.d.. Much more maschismo and much more focused on external appearances than I remember, which was a tough pill for me to swallow. And yet, just as friendly and social and fun.

And now I'm home. And life is different. And John O'Donohue's passing has somehow jolted me with a fresh reminder of the brevity of life and the need to suck the marrow out of each day. You can read about him here. Doing this when on an adventure on the other side of the world seems easy. When running up and down corridors of a hospital, it ain't so.

And still, "I want to live like a river flows, carried by the surprise of its own unfolding."

"There is a place within your soul, that neither time, nor flesh, nor any created thing can touch, hurt, or destroy."

John O'Donohue, rest in peace. 1954-2008

And so the journey of life continues, back in Norn Iron, looking for joy, listening to Radio Ulster, giving people gifts of Cuban cigars, debating the virtues of Barack Obama, and seeking to live in a way which takes account of the crazy complexity of this world. The world where some of us have so much, and some have so little. Where I have the freedom to detest consumerism whilst I nip to Ikea for cheap plants, where two beautiful African babies may be deported at any time, and where we have a perverted relationship with time, trying to chase it, and overtake it, instead of being carried by the surprise of it's unfolding.

Which theologian am I?

2008-01-12T17:50:00.001Z

Which theologian are you?
created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Jürgen Moltmann

The problem of evil is central to your thought, and only a crucified God can show that God is not indifferent to human suffering. Christian discipleship means identifying with suffering but also anticipating the new creation of all things that God will bring about.

Charles Finney

60%

Paul Tillich

60%

Jürgen Moltmann

60%

Friedrich Schleiermacher

40%

John Calvin

27%

Augustine

20%

Karl Barth

13%

Jonathan Edwards

13%

Martin Luther

Anselm

From Trinidad to Vinales

2007-12-18T23:54:00.000Z

So after that joy, the next day in Trinidad was more quiet as I tried to negotiate a taxi for the 7 hour ride to Vinales. It was a little fraught and meant I couldn't really use the day to do anything so I spent some time reading on the roof of the Casa I was staying in (did I mention there are no hostels in Cuba? The alternative option to hotels are Casa Particulares or home stay. You stay with a family and you can choose to eat there as well- and the food, although not very cheap, is amazing). So after much bartering I got a taxi from Trinidad to Vinales.... which was an amazing drive with incredible scenery and with lots of time to read my book (NB, The Women's Room by Marilyn French. Read it. Men and Women alike, it's AMAZING). Anyway after about 5 hours (we'd driven back through Havana), I said to the driver that I was hungry and would he help me find some food in national pesos because I didn't have much CUC currency. Now I should tell you that this was a liberal interpretation of the truth, but I knew that we could find cheap food and I was getting tired of always having to pay more... and growing more and more excited when I would manage to find an amazing meal or dulce for 20p. He basically refused to help me saying he couldn't find any food which I could buy with national pesos... he insisted on taking me somewhere I could pay with CUC. I kept saying I would wait, until he took me to his mother's casa where he suggested I stay the night. After leaving my bags there he took me to a CUC restaurant where I bought a roll for both he and I for about one pound 50 (which the man microwaved with the cling film still covering it which lead me to give him a lecture in spanish about how 'peligroso' it was to heat plastic next to food. Phew. I was 'well grumpy' as my Lancashire friend Johanna might say.) I then retreated to bed determined to get the heck out of this one horse town in the morning. I am aware that 1.50 isn't exactly a fortune, but that's not the point, dammit!

The next morning I had a lovely breakfast (lots of fruit, fresh guava juice) but decided to leave the taxi driver´s mother´s casa since I felt I had been manipulated by her son. So with backpack on, I headed for the bank to withdraw some more money... reminding me that I had blown my budget in four days. Depressed I walked to the Cuba tour office to find out if I could join a tour that day. Upon hearing that I had missed the opportunity to participate in anything, I began to feel the tears seep out of the edges of my eyes and my face started to crumple, in anticipation of a wailing fit (although if I´m honest, I rarely wail... I´m more of a gentle sobber, although I have my moments). It was one of those times (and I think there have been only 3) that I really wished I wasn't travelling alone. As I stood there begging for the ground to swallow me up a blondey haired couple ran into the tour office and I learned from eavesdropping that a walking tour had just left but that they had paid and that they were being instructed how they could catch up. In a flash I knew I had to join this tour or I would stand here and wail all day. I ran into the tour office and after a quick exchange (my rucksack, money, a ticket for the tour) I was walking through the Vinales valley with 2 Norwegians, a German girl and our Cuban guide.

And so the next stage of the adventure began... one of my friends recently quoted Fredrick Buechner that all life in indeed grace... and for me, I know it may seem insignificant, but that was one of those moments...

Post One from Cuba: Trinidad

2007-12-09T14:58:00.000Z

Ah the sweet smell of adventure. It's been good so far- just enough drama to keep me on my toes. I've met some great people- it's amazing the connections you can make with people you meet standing at the baggage carousel. And how I find myself getting a six hour taxi to meet up with those same people in a tropical city.

Cuba is a place of contrasts and contradictions. As I had hoped, my opinions are changing and I'm seeing a political situation which I thought I vaguely understood through more sophisticated lenses (or maybe that's just the mojitos talking). I know one thing: being a tourist here is hard. Using a different currency from everyone else means I know I'm getting ripped off left right and centre... and that irritates me.... although I'm aware that people have so little maybe it's good for me to pay people more than what they could ever earn in their national pesos.

And the music. It's so effortless. Last night in the Plaza de Mayor in Trinidad a 10 piece band made my heart sing- amazing harmonies, rhythms, a mixture of salsa, jazz, funk. It was glorious.

Right... off to try and barter with the taxi man...

The dark nights of the soul

2007-11-13T20:46:00.000Z

It is finally winter. Truly, madly, deeply. With that there is tiredness, refuge, rest....? Well there sure as heck ain't spinning class, which reminds me of a fellow blogger's comment on winter exercise here. Instead, tonight, there is port, cheese (Mark's and Spencer's blueberry and wensleydale, a dinner party gift from a newly blond womyn, and an attempt to block out all the to-do list items (visa, injections, travel insurance, intensive spanish learning, house-tidying, DISSERTATION EDITING) and instead replacing them with online-Hustle-watching and general faffing. And I really should be securing my house against the rat in my attic discovered by Big Billy from next door. He left me a priceless voicemail message on the day he demanded my keys (at 8am) swearing that a 'f&*^ing noise' in my roofspace had kept him up all night. "Butterfly (which is his term of endearment, awarded because I give him apples and Cadbury's Fredo's and he waters my hanging basket in summer and is the delivery recipient of all my online purchases), "you need to phone me. We've found a bloody rat in your roofspace." He and his mate Colin have been stalking out my house in search of this rat. Within 2 hours of setting the trap they caught rat number 1. Rat number 2 clearly has the stealth of a sophisticated athlete since he managed to retrieve a bacon rind from the trap without setting it off. This evening Billy and I engaged in a serious discussion about the best bate- from my days in rural Armagh I have significant experience of the power of chocolate, but Big B swears by bacon... and is also committed to chain smoking throughout my house whilst his mate Colin climbs up into my roofspace. The most hilarious moment was when he insisted rifling through my entire wardrobe to check there wasn't a rat nesting in there. 'I didn't want you to think I was a perv' he kept saying, whilst making derogatory comments about my 'sweaty' shoes being a great place for nesting.

Anyhoo. My boss's boss (ie my BIG boss) just texted asking for a chat about a big presentation I've written for her for her tomorrow. And we've just chatted (including my confessional about eating chocolate and cheese rather than going to the gym. She made the same choice. I feel better).

Oh, and I know I'm rambling, but we in the Knights had a fun gig last night. I broke out the ole oboe in a moment of strange vulnerability... I'm prepping to play in a wedding so I'm not totally unpracticed but I still felt a bit exposed especially since I was free-styling having just practiced very briefly at the practice the night before. But I have to say, I absolutely loved it. And the crew must have known because I received some gentle encouragement after the show... and even a little credit during the performance thanks to Cazi. I love making music, and I love the collective/community who are the Knights. I thought that once I grew up, we adults wouldn't have the same esteem issues as we did in Madrigal group/chamber choir (yadayadayada) at school... but surprise, surprise, it's still going. There's still that slight awkward feeling that everyone is actually wincing when I sing my choir vocals, or that I'm singing this bit too loud, or whatever. But we're slowly growing together (and I do assert my managerial prowess every once in a while) and beginning to talk about arrangements, new compositions, and even life. In between sound-check and performance a few of us had a really great chat about faith and community... and it has fuelled thought and inspired me. I am tied so strongly to the notion and ideal of community... and yet perhaps it's something utopian and something which I see through a lens of rose-tinted, hindsighted spectacles. Perhaps what's more important is fragmented, fragile attempts to care for each other as individuals without credence to an organisation or a label. And yet I'm reminded how attached I am to the apparent safety/authority of both of those. And I'm often frightened to speak out without the security of a backing organisation. Here's to people who make one think and who encourage one another to be passionate and expressive.

When does the 'flu become the 'flu?

2007-10-28T20:02:00.000Z

I'm on the cusp of illness; feeling under the weather, and wanting to be under the duvets which is where I should be now since I just turned down the chance to watch Glen Hansard in 'Once' although about this time tomorrow I'll be seeing him in the flesh in the Grand Opera House with LB.

I've never been a good patient, probably because I'm so rarely ill, and because I'm in the midst of a Liver Detox (by gum, yes), there are probably a number of layers to the feeling-lousyness.

Don't applaud at the thought of my detox virture. Today I had 4 squares of chocolate and 1.5 chocolate digestives. Xandria Williams, the liver guru, would be disgusted. But seriously, how can milk thistle, propolis tincture, slippery elm, acidophilus, aloe vera juice and as many vegetables as one can eat really provide ANY joy on a rainy Sunday in Belfast? Even John the Baptist got to eat honey with his locusts.

Week one went reasonably well. The girls in the Cardiology office told me I looked terrible (thanks) and I confessed to my boss and the Director that my mild grumpy-ness was because of the ongoing attempt to detox. I had headaches and felt irritable but was determined to soldier on having spent a small fortune on fruit, veg and fish. I spent hours cooking fish and vegetables and brown rice. However, when I "broke" the detox for a wedding in Ayr on Thursday I felt incredibly ill. Who would have thought that one's body would suddenly learn to reject foods it had loved for 28 years? The fine luxury of the hotel was wasted on me and I slept poorly as my stomach churned. When I arrived in Edinburgh I ate a Tesco's finest chocolate cookie on Friday night (out of guilt, I must add, because it had been bought for me by a uni friend as a gift of warm hospitality) and was overcome with waves of nausea. Groundbreaking news followed. I was unable to finish the cookie. Saturday, on the train and boat home, I ate fruit and bought an extortionately priced detox juice in Glasgow trying not to focus on the unpleasurable taste of the carrot, beetroot, celery and wheatgrass combination. I only transgressed slightly because the Stena line ferry had such poor provision for it's detoxing passengers. At a hen night last night I sailed past choices of pasta and pizza and supped on sea bass and veg.... nearly falling at the final hurdle when the girl next to me ordered tiramisu.

But today? A disappointing fall from grace. But I'm meeting it with more grace. And bed. As a good friend said to me once- in situations like this, one must be gentle with oneself. I concur...

Night. x

Autumnal Belfast

2007-10-13T23:18:00.000Z

I love it. It's been two years since I was in Belfast in the 'fall' and I'm glad to be here. The nights are drawing in, the leaves are copper, and yet I can sit in my tiny backyard, sitting on my black kerbie bin, covered in a blanket, music wafting through my window (not too loud because I don't want to keep Iris and Billy awake) looking up at the pink-tinged clouds from the Belfast light.

I think Autumn might just my favourite season. I'm too fair-skinned to truly enjoy summer heat, and the short days of winter can ironically feel painfully long, but Autumn brings a quietening to summer mirth, and with it promise of transformation. There's hidden hope amongst the falling leaves of the coming rebirth.

I, for one, am waiting.

A Mooathon

2007-10-01T17:46:00.000Z

A few weeks ago I did something new and possibly unrepeatable. One Sunday at the end of September five hapless human beings adorned themselves with horns, black and white ears and tails and added black and white circles to their faces. I was one of those five, and it was all in aid of the Donegal half marathon, otherwise known as the Mooathon.

The adventure began on Saturday in rainy Belfast when we set off on the road to Derry and eventually arrived at the Ramada in Letterkenny to register for the race. We found our little B n' B nestled in the hills and the landlady brought us tea and Kit Kats which we enjoyed whilst entertaining an American couple visiting the area. After unpacking we returned to Letterkenny and found an Italian restaurant with enough pasta to enable us to carb-load appropriately. Heck we even shared a bottle of wine swearing to drink double our body weight in water to make up for the cardinal sin of dehydration the night before a race. We returned to the B n' B to eat Maltesers and construct horns from elastic, felt and a stapler. It was like Blue Peter, only better.

The next morning we rose at 7.30 (gasp! on a Sunday!) to paint our faces and fasten our tails, enthusiastically anticipating the prospect of an Ulster fry for pre-race sustenance. I only managed half a piece of fried bread but knew that the cholesterol would boost me along those last few miles.

Then it was time to set off to drive to the bus which would carry us to Ramelon where the race was to begin. Most had adhered to the mandatory black and white colours of the Mooathon but no one else on our bus had gone to as much trouble as we had. I didn't know whether to be proud or mortified, but the fairly constant rain managed to take most of my attention. Known for cancelling a run if I even spy one cloud in the sky (a necessary precaution against pneumonia), the thought of running for a few hours in the rain was worrying. But when we arrived in Ramelton spirits were high. I even met an old friend who I didn't know was running. We gathered at the start line, and with one false start eventually cantered over the line and begin the first of many ascents along the road to Downings.

It was a journey of pain and beauty in equal measure (can there ever be one without the other?). I encountered a hill which sapped every ounce of strength, and after conquering it (with a little bit of walking) I decided that I had nothing to prove to anyone, and that my priority would be to enjoy the scenery- which was breathtaking. It reminded me of what I imagine the Moors in England to be like. I shared this with a few fellow runners, saying that I expected Heathcliff to walk round the corner at any moment. 'I'd rather see Mr. Darcy' chirped one runner, and for a delightful 20 seconds the thought of a hero carried away thoughts of the pain. As the crowd thinned there were times when it was just me, the mountains, and the road. My companion who had kindly offered to carry my vanilla gel packs (sweetly flavoured goo) had long since disappeared, and so I was calorie-less, apart from a gummy worm which one kind supporter offered, like manna from heaven. It was a mixture of tiredness, adrenaline and slight irritation that I had no prospect of a sugar-hit which led me to the philosophical musing that the Mooathon was a bit like..... (for-those-who-attended-a-decade-of-Sunday-School,-I-know-you have-your-hand-in-the-air-and-want-the-answer-to-be-Jesus)... life. As Father O'Donohue says, we leave the world as we enter it- naked and alone. There are other people around, sure, but once the cord is cut, we begin the life-long journey of fending for ourselves. Depending on others, for-want-of-a-better-word-community, agape, intimacy... it's all paramount, but there's something about the passion and the focus and the will to endure that is innate and personal to each of us. I saw it when I worked as a chaplain in a hospital in New Jersey, sitting quietly with people who were experiencing immeasurable pain, and it astounded me then, and continues to astound me. The older I get, the more I realise it. No-one else will ever see the world as I see it. Or run the race for me. If only they could, or would (or should, as I often secretly believe, but that's another blog post).

So. Did I finish? Heck yeah. At about mile 10 the introspective malarky went out the window and the merest suspicion of competitiveness crept in. Those who've played Monopoly with me will not be surprised. All that mattered was reaching that finish line. The joy in the journey was in reaching the finish... and the carton of milk, banana and Boost bar (what a superb welcome from the Mooathon organisers) that awaited. We all made it to the end, we rejoiced, and our weary crew set off for home.

Obigrado

2007-08-20T18:42:00.000Z

Bom dia.

I've just had my first full week off in 8 months. Yup. I was ready for it. The Turtle and I headed for Portugal in a last minute cheapie. And it was glorious. Not being one who tans successfully (think red and white blotches on my back, left ankle, and rather peculiarly, on the crease behind my right knee), I elected to wear a hat and bought a rather large umbrella to shade beneath. I read and read and read... not books on organisational development, leadership or how to change the NHS a bite sized piece at a time, but those classics I've been meaning to read for years: Salinger, Tolstoy, Nietzche, with a little Sartre for good measure.

If only. I read 2 girly novels in the space of 3 days. And I was mostly fine with it. Sometimes I put myself under such pressure to read the latest piece of philosophy, although I spend long enough trawling Google to know exactly how much the latest book costs... but never seem to get round to pressing 'Buy now', or if I do, those purchases sit on my shelf with all the borrowed books. Instead over mochaccinos I get the privilege of hearing what other people are reading, and ask questions and privately wonder if my brain will ever be able to have the space and inclination to digest that which I aspire to read myself. To that end, I am slightly proud of my last book of the holiday which was 'Blink' by Malcolm Gladwell, a delightful introduction to the power of the many instanteous decisions and judgments we make every day. It has certainly made me think much more about those dreaded long tables around which meetings are held with 25 important people and little ole me lurking in the corner with my coffee and biscuit. According to Gladwell, since I'll already have been judged on my polyester trouser suit and/or plastic jewellery I may as well throw in my tuppence worth. It sure as heck can't get worse.

Hooray for holidays! And Greenbelt, and dj-ing, and music, and beer tents, and sunshine (please) and even rain.

An essay written in the style of Carrie Bradshaw

2007-07-13T19:37:00.000Z

A few snippets of my leadership essay...

"I was also subtly learning the invisible rules of the organisational hierarcy. One unforgettable lesson occurred at a conference following a late night conversation with a very senior director about academic interests which we shared. When I decided to follow the conversation with a polite but chatty email enquiry for scholarly recommendations and not only received no response but saw him quickly avert from making eye contact at our next meeting, I realised that I had transgressed against the rules of status- something permitted at a certain stage of the evening, whilst propping up the bar, but not in the cold light of management day."

****

"I was an important cog in a very difficult political situation: difficult because of the way they had been managed prior to my arrival, difficult because they were used to working unscrutinised and autonomously and difficult because of who I was in relation to them. Into this mess I stepped, the outsider, and with the options of sinking or swimming, I think I doggie-paddled… by which I mean I doggedly (!) attempted to contribute what I could, and we all know that even by doggie paddling one can still cross the stream, carrying a few sticks and even towing a few others in the process."

****

" “Authenticity has often been thought of as the opposite of artifice – something that is straightforward, sincere, and uncomplicated. But that conception of authenticity is not only simplistic, it is also wrongheaded. Managers who assume that their authenticity stems from an uncontrolled expression of their inner selves will never become authentic leaders. Great leaders understand that their reputation for authenticity needs to be painstakingly earned and carefully managed.” (Goffee and Jones, 2005, p. 95) I think that leadership theory and research has it’s place, but at the heart of good leadership is to ‘know thyself’ (Aristotle). That it what I have found to be true, and that is what I will continue to develop; understanding who I am, and why I am who I am, and seeking to relate to other people in all their complexity, understanding that we all have mixed, competing motives, desires and values."

****

Gosh I love writing this tripe.

Holidays

2007-06-27T22:02:00.000Z

Not that anyone may care, but for some reason I feel guilty that I haven't posted in almost a month... a few highlights are:
working harder than I've ever worked in my life since I'm trying to cover every base in case it could turn into a permanent job
dj-ing at ikon (with one blip: there was an loud intrusion at a crucial moment... although some are calling it divine intervention)
hearing amy millan and one day international at the the empire
running the lisburn half marathon (an act more astonishing than the full marathon, although the banter from lisburn people was worth the trip in itself)
an east belfast pool party
the purchase of 2 new orchids with the hope that they last longer than last year's
a slot on the Stephen Nolan radio show

books, friends, thoughts, laughter, music and hopefully an abundance of grace...

We're all going on a bank holiday....

2007-05-28T19:45:00.001Z

Today a little crew packed up 3 flasks and some Green and Black's Chocolate and headed to the ancient monastic site at Nendrum... and then on to Saul to the little church of St. Patrick. Wonderful. The sun was shining, the banter was good, and it was a lovely way to spend a bank holiday...

The biggest news of the moment is that after much consternation (appropriately), I have decided that I am not, as I previously thought, a 'Nine' on the Enneagram, but a Six! As part of my training I have to do personality quizzes in my sleep (Myers Briggs, Firo B, what-kind-of-a-team-player-are-you, Learning Types etc), but there's something about the Enneagram that I like. And this is big news, people, big news, and precipitated by a conversation by my Aunt who references the Ennegram in most conversations. I had always argued strongly for my nineness (peacemaker, amiable and thinking 'sloth' was my deadly sin, but now I'm fairly sure I'm a questioning loyalist (of no political affiliation) whose greatest sin is 'fear'. Zoikes. Is that a noise I hear in the back yard?

Ikon: The God Delusion

2007-05-24T21:35:00.000Z

At Sunday's ikon we played with notions of unravelling. Above you will see the creed which was edited by people who wanted to participate, either deleting, editing, inserting their stories or experiences, acknowledging that what we actually believe differs substantially from any ratified creed. I found people's honesty incredibly emotional. I wore a piece created for the Ikon Co-ordinates exhibition in the Waterfront centred on the idea of one idea of faith, one set of beliefs unravelling and another emerging... and on Sunday Cazi stood in the middle with an unravelled sweater which Shirley slowly knitted into something new....

This theme will be developed for the service at Greenbelt in August and to say we're excited is an understatement to say the least... and I recognise that the theme of changing beliefs is incredibly dear to me... and I want to take time this summer to reflect on these themes...

2007-05-06T17:25:00.000Z

This week has been a surprising sun-fest here in Belfast. Thanks to forward planning between my next door neighbour and I, we've convinced the lady at the end of the street to move into the world of floral hanging baskets, so presently the street has four (Mr. Next Door has 2 baskets and so I'm feeling the pressure... although since he bought me mine, I'm not sure how appropriate it would be for me to buy a second... especially since my choice of flowers and basket might not be his taste). It's my responsibility to lobby the lady next door to me, and his to convince Mr. V of his floral imperative (especially since V's penchant for ageing vehicles makes the street look like a cross between a mechanic's garage and a car showroom).

The sun has inspired suggestions of frisbee in the Botanical Gardens, evening strolls in the grounds of Stormont, an after work gin and tonic or mochaccino in the sun. And yet I'm struck that appreciating any of the above is tempered by what's going on in that inner place somewhere between the brain and the heart... and the voice of that inner place depends on whether harsh words have marred the beauty of that day, whether glances between colleagues and friends have made one insecure, or maybe even whether some eejet has beeped unnecessarily (oh, alright, necessarily) at one in traffic on the journey home.

I remember my mother once saying to me when I was upset about something 'Don't let anyone steal your joy' and I believe her sentiment to be correct... but I find it impossible not to let the small things matter... and not to wonder at who in this big bad world is crying or grieving or in pain right now. And a large part of that is probably due to the circumstances of some of those known to me, and also because I finished season 3 of six feet under today. Phew. If you've watched it, you'll know.

I guess that for everyone in the world who is experiencing rain or sleet and snow, there's somewhere that the sun is shining, so let's enjoy it while it lasts...

Chocolate

2007-04-22T22:18:00.000Z

There is much to report from recent weeks. On Easter Sunday some of the women in our for-want-of-a-better-word-community created a women's Ikon service entitled Chocolate... which was centred around the following words from Anais Nin: 'We do not see things as they are, but as we are.' We played with hunger and satiation, welcome and uncomfortability and told fragments of our stories....

22399th ain't bad.

2007-04-22T18:31:00.000Z

So I'm back. And I survived the Paris Marathon. Pictures have been seen depicting a slightly stunned female following 4 hours and 54 minutes of pavement pounding through the streets of Paris. In an act of French hospitality, wine was offered to runners at the 40 kilometre stage. I declined, focusing on every mile marker, sharing narcissistic compliments with my running partner as often as necessary, par example, 'We are INVINCIBLE, dammit!' and trying not to be distracted by the growing number of ambulances which lined the sides of the course.

The range of emotions I experienced are beyond any words I can summon. The Complete Book of Running expresses it something like this:

'James Joyce took ten years of Homer's Odyssey and compressed it into a single Dublin day... Joyce took those inner and outer events that happen to everyone and put all of them into the waking-to-sleeping day of his Irish Jew. It takes 18 hours. The marathon does it in three. [just short of 5 in my case :-) ] Like many sports events, the marathon is a microcosm of life. The marathoner can experience the drama of every day existence so evident to the artist and poet. All emotions are heightened. Agony and ecstasy become familiar feelings. The journey from start to finish reveals what happens to a person who faces up to the self and the world- and why he or she succeeds or fails. The successful runner is the one who endures, taking life as it comes and saying yes to it. This trait is so commonly displayed in the marathon that it seems universal. I believe every human must have this endurance capacity.'

In present circumstances, and in testament to endurance I have recently witnessed as chaplains consistently minister to those who are ill and families muster strength in the face of bereavement, to this, I can only say 'Amen.'

Tis good to be back.