Rituals

(written during Lent 2023)

1 We wake up 

and hold each other;

it is the beginning of another day.

2 You go to the toilet,

I go to the toilet,

then we sit in the lighted room and pray. 

3 Like tides we drift

in and out of rooms

unearthing keys, clothes, and books.

4 Under the same sun

we cycle from home, 

along the old railroad, along the river,

5 until like homing birds

we feel the pull 

to return to the blessing of each other. 

6 When darkness comes, 

you place your arm over my side

and in our darkened room we pray.

7 Then we rest.

We hold each other

it is the end of another day

The Prayers of our Father

Earlier this year Jacob and I tried to write a poem a week (or was it a day?) for Lent. I found myself returning, over and over again, to my father's stroke. One that I wrote (which I haven't included here) was based on the one of his early prayers, when he was struggling to find words but which resulted in prayers that were, often, just right.

Here are a smattering, of what I think will be a larger project of processing the strange grief of someone who Is there-but-not-there, himself-but-not-himself:

If a Tree Falls in the Forest, and There's No One Around to Hear It, Does It Make a Sound? 

That night you didn't snore so loudly

and later they found a blister pack for panadol 

in the rubbish bin

that masked the throbbing in your head.

In another room your wife was sleeping.

Your son was out.

I was on the other side 

of the world, frying courgettes for a dinner party.

How can it be

that a blood vessel bursting

does not make a sound?

I play it over and over again in my head

the moment you fell

in a noiseless world.

Grace before a meal

Father, thank you for this provision

and may you always be

a source of investment for good food

Amen

The butterfly

It was purple

the butterfly on a green leaf

The woman on my left took out her phone 

and flicked her finger across the screen

conjuring a camera

and all the time I was afraid

to enjoy the miracle before me

because I knew that when you don't expect it

a butterfly can fly away.

Little moments of joy in July

Sniffing perfumes in the National Gallery shop, and being surprised and tickled that my favourite scent is Pepper and Tobacco (followed by Earl Grey).

A bright yellow envelope, like the sun in my postbox.

An evening trip just to get ice cream - but what ice cream! Blue pea flower studded with matcha sponge, and black forest with decadent brownie pieces swirled in. 

After giving a presentation at 1am (time differences), I climbed into bed and Jacob - fast asleep - put his arm out and wrapped it around me. 

Hearing a friend say "we're officially close friends!"

Long slow evening runs on Sundays.

Reading.

Running home

(written a while ago)

I was cycling home on Tuesday when the idea to run home from work came into my mind. I often cycle to and from work and by the time I get home, I feel far too tired to go for a run on top of that, or if I do it's usually not a very long one. But I love running; it is a barometer of where my heart is, a reminder of the physical nature of my body and the natural fact of limitations, and almost always reacquaintance with joy.

So yesterday I closed my laptop early, changed into my running clothes, and began. I felt invincible and agile, able to hop over curbs and rough paving stones or dodge people walking in the middle of the path easily. 

Once I got to about half-way through I was tomato-faced and tired. I stopped and walked, looked at my phone and realised I'd gone much faster than I thought I would, probably because I was comparing myself to the pace I am familiar with: bicycle pace. I was used to the world passing by me much faster and when running I felt awfully slow, so I pushed myself harder as a result. 

I tried to ease off a little to take things at a more sensible pace, but my internal drive for glory kept pushing me faster. I got home 10 minutes quicker than my goal time, partly because of this competitive streak, partly because of Cece Winans singing, and partly because the route was slightly shorter than I'd initially thought. 

Would I do this again? Yes, more slowly. Running often reflects my internal state, and the relentless speed I kept driving myself to reflects an attitude I've been taking at work. Today I won't be running home from work; I'll practice slowing down until I can trust that my next run will be more measured. 

Is the world still beautiful?

First - an explanation. The whole of this year, I have felt like a bad writer. I half write things and then stop because they sounds trite, moralising or just not-very-interesting. I have also noticed myself apologising for what I say, often. 

When I was in university, writing here was easy but writing in my diary was hard. Somehow the digital world seemed like a place of experimentation and the occasional update with no bonds of chronology or form. Whereas I felt guilty for leaving spaces in my diary - I would leave pages blank for the days I missed with the full intention to go back and fill them in but I never did because my memory would fade beyond the precision and exactitude I held myself to, in order to detail a day.

"I don't want to be someone who is particular about things," I told Jacob last night, which I what I told myself back in those days and wrote on a page in my diary, in a big black pen that spilled through the pages, "I will write anything in here and it doesn't have to be perfect".

So here comes a series of imperfect, half written blog posts in no particular order, but I feel that only in getting things out can things start afresh.

(written a while ago)

Yesterday the trees were shedding pollen. It fell like tropical snow, creating a light layer of specks on our window sill. I was lying on my back on the sofa, feeling the hard edge of the arm rest under my head. So many times I have thought that this is one of the world's least comfortable sofas, with pillows that slouch toward the center and hard, angular, wooden arm rests, but on that Sunday it was the perfect place to watch the golden pollen against the leaves. It was so beautiful; this world is so beautiful.

When I was younger, I went to a Bible study on a Wednesday night. We sat round in a living room and talked about the book of Ruth, and how it starts with a famine and ends with a harvest. One evening we were asked to share of one word to describe the world. After spending some time in thought we went around the room.

"Broken."

                            "Chaotic."

        "Sinful."

When it came to me I said the only word that had thrummed away in my head like a heartbeat: 

"Beautiful."

I believe it still, but last week I felt at moments a sense of dread at the way the world is, the way that animals and ecosystems and rivers have been destroyed to make room for a manmade picture of progress. I'd be walking around and suddenly think something like: "I don't think I'll ever have grandchildren" and a big wave of sadness would settle. 

On Sunday we went to church, and sang these words: "Your plans are still to prosper, you have not forgotten us. You're with us in the fire and the flood. You're faithful forever, perfect in love. You are sovereign over us." That was comforting. 

I painted the view outside my window the week before when Jacob was away. It began as a silly thing - on children's drawing block paper and using paints I'd found discarded at a dustbin - just a way to be creative with no accountability at the end of it. I made leaves purple and blue underneath their green, and tried small dotting strokes and long swishy ones. Then I got invested, and stayed up painting till 10pm to recreate the beauty I have all around me every day.