September ups and downs

 What a September!  A little summary should follow I think.  We have had weeks working in a tiny training room and now we have been unleased on the remodelled new office.  Comments vary from "airport lounge" - blue carpet, white walls, gregory logo obscured glass breakout rooms, lots of space.  It's much nicer but at the moment, oh so noisy!  Myself and Stacey are in the cool, quiet corner but we face three noisy managers who shout at their laptop microphones when they should be using their headseats.

We are surrounded by piled up dismantled desks, emptied cardboard boxes, discarded ceiling light boxes. But it is clean, light and I like it!

Sandwiched in between was a holiday in Cornwall. Most of the week the skies were like this:

The usual mix of some lovely coastal waks, amazing smoked salmon and scrambled egg breakfasts, leisurely coffees and a bit of touristy shopping in Porthleven. And lazy evenings watching sunsets and Netflix.

It's hard to write a blog sometimes.  

This is one of the times, because for the last few months, my long time friend Judith has been slowly losing her fight with cancer.  To put it into perspective, I've literally known Judith half my life.  We walked together in the same walking group, worshipped together in St Leonards church, laughed and, in my case cried together, through my divorce.  And then as she had her first and second cancer diagnoses.  Through losing her parents, through losing my job - several times, redundancies are common these days.

I'd been to my aunty and uncles. A long day, a long drive.  I poured a tin of G&T.  The phone rang - Judith. "I have spine cancer" I remember saying to her "did you just say...." Hard to take it in. 

Cancer is such a bastard.  It takes the gentle, wise, stubborn friend.  Who hated floppy trousers - wide legs - such as I will wear to her funeral.  Whose warm smile and enthusiasm and cry of "mmm" when presented with anything she liked, I am sorely missing. Who had to have all film and TV references explained as she was too busy being kind to people.

September is a lovely month.  But I will remember Judith with love.

Playing with Fire

This week I have been for one of those box ticking exercises inflicted by the NHS - a health check.  I have a suitably bruised arm from a fairly novice blood taker, and an instruction to walk more - despite being in the "active" category which apparently very few are!! Madness.  Didn't need any encouragement - I swam at 8am and then went to Knightshayes to walk.  The kitchen garden is always the best bit - lovely shapes and the fragrances of herbs.  The weird and twisty shapes.  The bright dahlias and sunflowers lifted my heart.  Quiet trees and needle strewn paths and an avoidance of the honey pot of the tea shop!

Afterwards, I helped my friends in their project of a garden: I was their bonfire warden, after telling them last time that I wanted to be the one to light the fire:  I left too long between visits so the fire was a damped down, smouldering ash heap with blackened stumps but a heart of glow and embers.  My job to wake the dragon!

Fire. Warmth, light, danger, safety, flickers of orange dancing up around green mottled wood. Feeding it air and fuel to awaken it. 

The hissing and crackling as green leaves and fir branches went on.  Explosions of sparks from the giant fire cones - nature's fire lighters, resinous and eventually alight and blackening.  I couldn't stop staring into it's depths as the tiger flames hungrily curled into the green wood. White smoke curled and billowed up and out, drifting across the grass. Ashes swirl around the firepit.  

Standing and watching, feeling the warmth on shorts and bare legs, sign of the spirit, life and unpredictability, holiness and an edge of challenge.  And because I am overthinking as I write, what I actually thought was "other people invite you to a barbecue, here it's me being barbecued"  It was a shame we didn't have chocolate biscuits and marshmallows to toast - it was reminding me of being a guide, and building fires to cook on - going home reeking of woodsmoke and happiness.

Tarka Trailling

 

Yesterday I kicked myself out of a cosy-duveted bed to walk in North Devon.  I think I drove on auto-pilot, fuelled by Tesco chocolate milk from the meal deal I picked up as I had a couple of small glasses of red wine the previous night and that is more than enough to make me feel fairly seedy. Enough not to want to make a packed lunch at 6.30am.  

Parked up in the train station carpark at Barnstaple, the lure of a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich called to me.  It's been a tough week.  An old friend from St Leonards died from kidney and lung failure - I found out, by text, at work. And a long term friend is slowly losing a brave battle with cancer.  Steadfast friend that I am, I find it hard - it's the August that does it - the same month as I lost another friend 6 years ago.  Memories!

Fuelled, and fortified and very slightly more awake I walked up to Fremington Quay.  North Devon is like Cornwall - full of holiday folk ; Tarka shared his trail with a huge rush of bikes - families with little kids on bright bikes, elderly folks on electric bikes, and lycra clad men who thrashed past at speed.  

And the occasional walker. I passed one flagging couple as I walked back and we had a little banter about tea and cake - his knee looked dodgy but I hope he made it as the cake is very nice.

It set me up for an epic battle with the weeds, grasses, and most of all the brambles of Kathy/Peter/Morag's overgrown "secret garden"  A very warm battle, indeed but so mind altering in a good way.  Hard work digging out a border with good company and a very huggable labrador who likes to share her beautiful blonde fur with me.  All over my navy shorts!

It's the time of year that nature goes spectacularly to seed.  Weeds and wilds.  People are like grass - they don't last.  Not forever.  Not on this earth anyway.  Not for now.  But in nature I know nothing goes to waste.

Gay Lego and why we need other people

 

Back in June I bought my first set of lego for many many years.  Diverse, respectful of Trans and non white heritage, beautifully striped, neatly made, it has sat on my shelf with the figures all orderly and sat on their right coloured stripes.

It feels like a brave and happy thing.  I don't see being made in God's image as a problem to be solved, or something that I need to hide or cringe about anymore. If Exeter had had Pride this year, I  would have donned a purple "Christians at Pride" T shirt and joined in, or been a steward if allowed to volunteer.  What an incredible transformation those words are from the person who would have argued that God's will was singleness.  I still opt for singleness, but know that this is a happenstance, a chosen option, not a forced decision because of who God has made me.

Yesterday my lego got rearranged. First the figures waved - that was the total extent of my tranformation.  My spiritual director, delighted at seeing the completed set, which she had first seen as heap of little plastic shapes tipped out on her table, moved the black lady to the pink spot.  And vice versa.  I felt slightly uncomfortable. Change very rarely comes at my hand!

"Leave it on your shelf" she said "your visitors will play"  Not just the visitors but the homeowner. It occurred to me that transposing the colours and the wigs would be far more fun.  

And so it is.

At work, I make tiny modifications, ususally when prompted.  Today, doing church felt awkward, happy, strange and encouraging - singing - weird - talking over tea and excellent sticky pastries to celebrate our vicar going on maternity leave.  I'm still trying to work out where an overthinking, friendly person who would prefer to blog and to read fits in. But in all contexts of my life I am very slowly and hesitantly learning that as much as I need other people maybe they also need me.

Hillsong

 Last night I caught up on watching a documentary on Hillsong church.  My colleague Marcus had mentioned watching it.  It followed the development of the brand, the mega church, the power and influence of the main pastor and his all white, mostly all male leaders through many nations.

It was very difficult to watch, in that I am middle aged, a follower of Jesus, and I was never, ever cool, one of the in crowd - I always felt an outsider at school.  When I was a teenager, I was part of a church that edged towards this level of control, power encounters with God, a family who led and still lead the church.  It didn't do much for my young faith except lead to one incredibly unwise decision that I wasn't equipped to make.

Occasional forays into a scaled down version of Hillsong would be the women's conferences held by my friend's church in Cheltenham racecourse.  With lights, big screens, smoke machine, powerful speakers, prayer ministry, and the gimmicky and expensive goodie bags and merchandising.  I felt uncomfortable, awkward, manipulated, yet I found it a memorable experience because my good friend loved it so much. It was time spent with her where she found God at work. That meant a lot to me.  

So I can see the appeal.

The young pastor, tattoed, with "fedora, leathers, skinnies and boots" the hillsong brand "starter kit" was incredibly passionate about living all out for Jesus.  It is so hard to question that, it is an attractive thing.  But the film did make me think - this is all about image, all about numbers, "insta" and selfies - particularly the selfies and filming at the holy sites in Jerusalem were awkward - other christians were lost in devotion, these cool young guys were like tourists with little understanding of their faith but so much enthusiasm. 

Despite all the abuse - a history of sexual abuse not reported, abuse of power, control, money irregularities, I felt conflicted.

Here is a church which gets young people committed to Christ, to reading the bible, to bringing their friends to church.  It provides a home and family for the lost and lonely, the city kids, the damaged.

It is smart, it is definitely somewhere you would not be ashamed of attending.  It has amazing music, quality drama, plaform speakers whose rhetoric is easy to digest.

And yet, and this is a criticism levelled at me, it seemed so far from the Jesus in the gospels. I know I hide my faith too often, I know it is isn't centre stage sometimes and these extrovert guys just want the world to know they love Jesus - what is not to like about that?

Like the young pastor, I pray I will have Jesus' integrity, his honour, his love and ability to sacrifice.  I just wonder if that is what my colleagues see, worked out day by day.

On middle aged reading

 This morning I met up with a friend for tea and cake.  We shared a lemon muffin chosen on the basis of eeny-meeny-miney-mo, or however it is actually spelt.  Sharp, sweet, light and very good but how you eat an entire one on your own I am not sure.

My friend loves books - we used to be in the same bookgroup.  She likes the kind of books where nothing happens but there is lots of meaningful dialogue and deep and intensely thought provoking ideas floating around.  I like thrillers, murder mysteries, nature books, history and straightforward biographies.  It is a good thing we are different, as it allows our ideas to cross-pollinate.

Currently I am reading Monty Don "My garden world" which is when my friends tells me I am becoming very middle aged.  She has a huge crush on Monty Don - I once tried to find her a calendar featuring him, but obviously I wasn't too successful. Firemen, footballers, nature scenes but not BBC2 style garden show presenters.  I tell her that I am a one woman weed destruction machine, having spent several hours clearing what friends jokingly call "Armegeddon" - a patch of nettles, thistles, grasses and the odd gnome and dog toy that ramps joyfully at the back of their equally generously built house.

I like the book.  He has a gentle countryman's style, and it is written as if it were a series of seasonal blogs, describing the flora and fauna in his extensive garden and Welsh hill farm. It feels soothing after a day of staring at screens.  Some of the plants I know, most I don't so it is slowly educating me.

As for the fauna - I loved reading that Pine Martens are more common these days. I remember my delight in seeing a stoat on the footpaths around Lee Abbey and the thought of seeing this beautiful little predator with it's neat creamy chest, compact ears and chocolatey back makes me very jealous indeed!

I enjoy his writing on birds the most.  Woodpeckers, sparrow hawks, cuckoos, garden birds.  Lots to enjoy.  It has been a busy few weeks.  I realised, today, sitting in the garden with a glass of rioja and a decent sausage casserole, that I hadn't had a spare Saturday for a while. Even going round Morrisons felt like normality.

Edward's demise

 There is a folk legend that King Edward 2 was murdered, unpleasantly, with a red hot poker inserted somewhere you don't even want to think of having such a thing.  Gruesome tales have a way of making a visit to a castle very exciting.  Maybe for small children but also for me.  Berkeley Castle is privately owned and I am sure that pre Covid it was a lot more fun to visit.  But restrictions meant that a lot of the attractions seemed to be closed.  The castle didn't seem to make much of the legend either - advising me, soberly, that he was probably smothered with a pillow.  Oh dear.

My temper hadn't been improved by being unceremoniously dumped on a small road by my Sat Nav, announcing "you have arrived at your destination"  Which I clearly hadn't. The castle is very straightforward to find if you use the road atlas!

 But it was a beautiful day, windy and bright, with a lovely view and plenty of wire sculptures to give a sense of atmosphere.  I really like sculpture.  The texture and that you can walk all round it. That you can imagine it being a living being.  Once I reached the kitchens I felt a little more amicable towards the castle.  Clearly the table and sinks were built for persons of short stature - as serving folk would surely have been in days when they probably weren't so well fed.  Being the granddaughter of a cook in service, I noted the fixtures were fine for a five foot lady but if you were much taller, you would have developed a very sore back from bending all day at the sink.

The cellar has a collection of vast casks and barrels and I think that this family would not have been short of a few well earned drinks!  On the whole it was a good place to visit, but I missed the very National Trust-y signs, guides and information