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Author: sharon (page 1 of 12)

Windows of my Mind

It’s been a few months since my last post, and as usual, it’s a reflection of how busy I’ve been elsewhere! Since the start of 2018 I’ve been doing a lot more work with Portsmouth Cathedral on their annual theme programme, which has grown significantly even compared to the previous year.

I’ve also been doing a lot more making and even responded to a commission opportunity, so this seemed a good time to fill you in on what I’ve been up to, from a making point of view.

I must include a heartfelt note of thanks here to those wonderful chaps at The Maker’s Guild: Sam, Ming and Gav who have supported me enormously and most importantly, practically with moving my ideas from concept to a solid and sturdy reality. I couldn’t have done what I’ve done so far without their help and intervention.

At the end of January this year, the first of my installations went in. It was called A Journey Through Time and involved various site-specific installations throughout Portsmouth Cathedral building. Those visitors who braved and damp and dismal weather and came along ,remarked on how much they enjoyed it and how different elements spoke to them. The installation elements included projections in St Thomas’ Chapel, an array of mostly handmade candles in the Quire, a fountain in the font (it looked amazing!) and further projections onto the ceiling of the Nave. Each of these sections reflected how time travels and how natural objects can reflect the passage of time.

The next piece I created was for Harbour Church as part of their Good Friday event called ‘Renew’. At a planning meeting I had an idea about a piece featuring lots of small pieces of glass with black splodgy paint on one side and white splodgy paint mirrored on the the other. Although that concept was a bit too complex for the time available (we had only a month to action anything!) I was able to revise it to two larger pieces of glass with words on each side: life/death and hope/doubt. Originally I was trying to fit the word ‘despair’ on the other side, but the letters were so different, I was struggling to make it work. Nemo, who’s also based at Maker’s Guild said simply: “Why don’t you pick another word that means the same thing?” Genius! Yet another benefit of accessing MG (Maker’s Guild) is collaboration.

The finished piece Life/Death Hope/Doubt was constructed with the help of the fabulous Sam Asiri, whose carpentry skills far exceed my own! It was exhibited at Harbour Church during the event and for about a week afterwards.

The font was hand painted from a template I sourced online and it’s modelled on an ambigram – that is to say, certain letters are a mirror image of each other. What you see on the glass is a reflection of your perspective: do you see death, or life? Doubt or hope? Good Friday for Christians is very much about balancing on that knife edge and swinging betweenone and the other.

This piece then saw a new lease of life in the next piece of work I created: Windows of my Mind. For various reasons, I like to try and reuse parts of previous works in new pieces, so we decided to use part of the Life/Death frame in the construction of Windows of my Mind.

This piece was originally inspired by a call out for artists from an art festival in Basingstoke. Although I couldn’t attend the festival, the idea was still percolating in my brain, awaiting the proper time. The ‘proper time’ appeared in May 2018 to coincide with the wellbeing and mental health emphasis which we had as part of the annual theme programme at the Cathedral.

The premise behind Windows of my Mind is simple enough: our mental health changes how we see things. We all have mental health, just as we all have physical health. And in the same way we can catch a cold, or strain a muscle, we can also get run down, stressed or overloaded mentally and emotionally. How people are affected by poor mental health is manifested in these different windows. For some it’s despair – cloying and sticky, miring us in grief and inaction. For others its a sense of being foggy or directionless. For some nostalgia is what distorts our view: looking back at another time and believing it to be so much better than now. The whole piece contains 14 different elements which reflect aspects of mental health and it can be viewed in Portsmouth Cathedral, on the High Street, Old Portsmouth until May 25th.

Don’t look back…

So it’s January 1st today and I suppose a lot of people will be writing New Year’s Resolutions: making plans to lose weight, get a new job, keep on top of the laundry etc etc

I’ve never been a fan of NYRs, mostly because I think we accidentally set ourselves up to fail: we announce big goals, but without a plan of small steps on how we’re going to get there. As a result, if we then fail to reach our goals, we end up giving up or feeling disappointed with ourselves, which is a shame because that failure is most likely down to bad planning rather than an inability to achieve the goal.

Anyway, I digress…

It was raining when I took the dog for a walk this morning, and I was wearing a baseball cap and had the hood of my coat up, to keep the rain off my face.  As I was walking along the beach I was aware that I couldn’t easily look behind me because the cap and hood got in the way. And I felt like God said to me: “you can’t look behind you”. At first, I was a bit confused because of course, I could see behind me, if I just twisted my shoulders or turned at the waist. But then I began to think more about the phrase – something about it resonated with me? As I walked along I began to think about it in terms of the past in the future.

We look behind us all the time: we look behind us to judge the future. We look at past events and use that as a way to assess or guess what the future outcome of something might be. It’s how we’re wired, our brains are wired in this way intentionally: we learn from the past in order to make decisions about the future. As children, we learn about how high we can swing before we fall off. This is because we have fallen off once before and therefore we learn how high we can go before we’re likely to fall off again. We learn how to run, how to write, how to read – we learn how to judge social situations by making mistakes. It’s the key component and factor in how we learn things and how we progress, how we grow and how we mature.

Emotionally this is a particularly strong dynamic and Daniel Goleman explains it well in his books on emotional intelligence: essentially what he points out is that when an event occurs our brains record not only factual information, but also emotional and sensory information as well. Thus when we encounter a similar event in the future, our brains access any and all relevant information and use that in order to tackle the situation we’re currently facing.

For example: let’s say a child encounters a dog for the first time. The dog happens to be a large breed and it barks excitedly. However, the child was frightened. The next time this child meets a dog, their brain informs them: Dogs are large. They make a loud noise. They are frightening. Even though the new dog they’re encountering hasn’t barked and isn’t loud, the child is still afraid. The child is afraid because they were scared by a different dog on a previous occasion. It takes the calm presence of an adult to help the child understand that not all dogs are large or scary, in order to help the child overcome their fears.

Our perception of the past shapes our view of the future.

This dynamic of drawing on the past to assess the present and the future is an ordinary, familiar and expected mechanism. It happens all the time, every day in our lives, in big and small ways. It’s entirely understandable that we use the past to anticipate the future.

However, on that walk, I began to wonder if God wasn’t challenging me and perhaps others as well, to think differently about the future? I wondered if God was saying: “Don’t look at the past to assess what the future is because the past has gone, I’m not re-doing the old things. The future is a clean, clear, sheet which you can’t read, but if you were to superimpose the past on to the future then you only see what you expect to see. ”

And that perhaps is the crucial element here: our expectations can sometimes define our outcomes.

If we always use the past as the lens through which we see the present and the future, then there is a very real danger that we will only see what we expect to see. We begin to anticipate others responses, attitudes and behaviour and we pre-empt their behaviour by responding to what we think they’re going to do – not what they’ve actually done.

Now it’s true that there is wisdom in learning from our mistakes and learning from past and Einstein wisely pointed out that only a fool repeats the same actions and expects a different result.

BUT – I’m not sure that we can simply apply a binary ‘yes’ or ‘no’ approach to the past and the future. I’m not sure that we can be so complacent, or even as lazy as to say: “Well, I know he’s always like this, so I won’t bother,” or “I know that always happens, so there’s no point in changing anything.” We have to be wiser, more sophisticated, more discerning. The general rule of learning from mistakes is a good one on the whole. But when it becomes an excuse for not challenging ourselves or changing our behaviour…that’s just apathy. No-one else does that to you. No-one else imposes that on you or makes you a victim of that outcome. That’s just you.

So how and when do we tell the difference? When do we acknowledge and benefit from the lessons of the past and when do we take off those lenses and lay them down and look at things with fresh eyes again? It certainly feels risky sometimes, to dare to imagine something different on the horizon – to dare to consider that something new might arise from the circumstances or context before us? There is a risk of being hurt, of being disappointed.  A risk of being frustrated and let down again. That doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t have outcomes and expectations; it doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t be hopeful or look forward or indeed learn from our mistakes. But when that begins to falsely shape and warp our perception and our behaviour, that’s when it creates a problem.

There is a very real risk I think, that we ourselves might perpetuate the very problems we anticipate, simply because we’ve made assumptions….simply because we’ve used the past to measure the future.

So what now should we do? Well, I hope I’ve been able to explain clearly enough that there isn’t a simple answer – if you were looking for a ‘light-and-fluffy’ ‘Happy-New-Year-Happy-Thoughts!’ piece, I’m afraid this isn’t it! But what I can offer is hope: if we can begin to recognise where our ‘past lenses’ are obscuring our ‘future perceptions’, then there’s a good opportunity for things to change: for us to take responsibility for our own reactions and expectations and allow ourselves to open to new ideas and different behaviour from those around us.

Do not cling to events of the past
    or dwell on what happened long ago.
 Watch for the new thing I am going to do.
    It is happening already—you can see it now!
I will make a road through the wilderness
    and give you streams of water there…” Isaiah 43:18

Bindweed – or – how our assumptions can choke relationships

I am a keen, if somewhat haphazard gardener.  In the Spring and Summer, I view the garden rather like a room outdoors – except that instead of hoovering, I need to be mowing, pruning and weeding. I managed to get my summer bedding and wildflower seeds planted during the Easter holidays this year, with pleasing results! I am hoping to get some Spring bulbs planted in the next couple of days, so that we will have some colour to look forward to early next year when the weather is dull and depressing.

However, every garden reaches a point in the year where it needs to be prepared for winter: the grass needs a good cut, the bushes need pruning back and any dying summer bedding needs taking out and replacing with autumn colour, before that too quiets and fades.

I find this time of year both sad but also hopeful, I guess. I don’t like it when the garden looks dull and colourless, but I know that the plants need this season of rest, in order to have the energy to grow back and flourish next year.

It so happened that I was pruning back the dog rose bush in the corner of the garden. These are traditional roses, with wide open flowers – great for pollinators, and they smell nice too! But boy, do they have a lot of thorns! Dog roses are fiercely prickly and even sturdy gardening gloves won’t protect you from all the sharp spines. It was covered with bindweed, which we’ve struggled with a lot this year – it’s roots are buried deep within the soil and it is relentless and resilient when it comes to its own survival.

If you’re not familiar with it, bindweed is a voracious climber and a noted survivor in the gardening world. Its roots travel deep into the ground and unless you dig them up completely, a snapped root will simply spawn new tendrils and make a new appearance elsewhere. It will not distinguish between a fence or a flower – everything is fair game for this tenacious terror of the garden!

And this is what had happened to the dog rose – buried beneath layers of bindweed, which had insidiously grown up from the soil at the base of the plant, the bush was completely covered and overthrown. No longer able to flower, the rose was simply surviving, buried under the weight of the other plant.

I couldn’t tell the difference between where the bindweed ended and the rose began.

At first, I thought about pulling the bindweed off, in order to get to the dog rose itself. But the more I pulled, the more rose leaves and slim branches began to be wrenched off. The bindweed was so entrenched, so entangled with the rose that it was impossible to separate the two without causing damage. But to leave it untouched would result in the slow and inevitable death of the rose altogether. And so I made a choice:

I got some sturdy loppers and started slowly and steadily chopping everything away, rose and bindweed together.

It was during this cautious and painful process, that the analogy of relationships occurred to me. The dog rose is like our relationships: sturdy, resilient, able to bring life to other things (think bees and pollination). But like all plants, it needs regular care: pruning, watering and sunlight. A plants’ main driver is survival: they put all their energy into it. But sometimes that energy is misdirected – you might get spurs or creepers growing off in random directions, drawing energy away from the main body of the plant.

Plants, like relationships, need care. Pruning, watering and sunlight.

The bindweed is like the assumptions that can form in relationships over time. Subtle at first, coming from the base and not easily noticed, they can creep up into every area of the plant, leaving few sections untouched. If left unchecked, these assumptions, like the bindweed on my dog rose, will become so overwhelming that it’s impossible to see the shape of the original plant underneath. This happens slowly at first, so we don’t really notice it, but soon it can become overwhelming and we can almost forget what the relationship looked like in the first place.

Our assumptions shape the way we view the relationship. It becomes the new ‘norm’ and we find ourselves responding not to the original shape of the relationship we had with that person, but the new, disfigured, distorted version.

It’s usually at this point that couples or working relationships break down. People say: “I can’t see how it could change.” “She/he isn’t the person I first met.” “We’ve been through too much.” Some people can only see the misshapen mass, and not the rose beneath, and feel that it’s too big a mess to fix.

How then can we possibly save the plant? How can we ever extract the bindweed sufficiently, to get to the good stuff of the plant beneath?  It’s not easy, and it requires a strength of character and level of commitment that believes in more than can easily be seen.

How can we fix the situation? How do we restore the plant to full health? We get out the loppers.

Plants, like relationships, require attention: pruning, watering and sunlight. Pruning is important for a perennial plant: without pruning, without an intentional period of rest and regeneration, the plant will strive to continue to support all its disparate shoots and branches, but to its own detriment. People and relationships are like this too – we need periods of growth and periods of rest and restoration. We need seasons of excitement and extension, but we also need time to take stock and consolidate. It’s true when someone says: “She/he isn’t the person I first met.” But did you honestly expect them to be? We are like plants – we grow and develop and change as we age. We are shaped by the seasons in our lives – circumstances and situations; children, work, family, money, death and life. Of course we change. It’s a natural part of the human experience. Not changing – now that would be a far more unusual circumstance.

So to get to the root of the problem, we get out the loppers. And let me be honest: this a brave and painful process. I donned my gardening gloves, took up my loppers and systematically took the whole thing apart. I started at one side and worked my way across and down, cautiously taking each section as it fell down and putting it in a garden bag. The bindweed hid a lot of the dog rose thorns from me, so it was a prickly and painful process. But it was also only at this point that I could see how much the dog rose was struggling, and notice the lack of flowers. Slowly but surely, the bindweed was stripped away, revealing the shape of the wood below. Sturdy, despite its struggles, and strong enough to survive and grow back again next year.

Sometimes we need to prune everything right back to the source, in order to rediscover the heart of the plant, the heart of our relationship.

It’s only when we strip away the assumptions that we can rediscover the plant – and the people beneath. The plant/people haven’t static during this time. They have been growing and changing, just as we have. Sometimes people, like plants, get twisted out of shape by events in life – birth and death, for example, changes us all and sometimes we can’t go back to how things were before. This can be hard to accept – for everyone concerned, but that doesn’t mean that growth and flourishing aren’t possible. It just means that life continues along a new track and maybe in a different direction. Even bushes which have been heavily pruned can regrow into healthy, thriving plants. And sometimes they are all the better for it!

This understanding of how assumptions affect our perceptions and relationships can be applied to all sorts of other things too: not just family or work relationships, but even things like how we react to confrontation, how we choose to spend our money or even how we see God.

Our assumptions fill the gap between knowledge and experience and we often make decisions and choices based on this flimsy bridge. We all need to be mindful of our assumptions, and how they shape our choices and decisions.

May we all seek to take good care of our plants and our relationships. May we recognise the importance of the cyclical seasons of rest and growth. And may we all be mindful of our assumptions and know that we can prune those too, rather than letting them shape us.




All at sea…

This morning I went for a walk with our beagle Cosmo. My husband does most of the morning walks during the week, but on Sunday’s he gets a lie-in and I get up early instead to walk with the dog.

We’re in that hazy time of year in the UK when summer has started to fade and autumn is getting into her stride – a wonderful mixture of warm sunny days, alongside the hint of crisp leaves and glowing colours, as the trees begin their slow hibernation process. (We also get days of deep, grey skies and sudden torrential downpours – usually just in time for the school run at about 3:15pm, but today was a good day!)

As it was nearly high tide, I decided to walk down by Whale Island, also known as HMS Excellent. The island is man-made resulting from historic dredging in the Solent, to make room for ever-larger Naval vessels. In-between Whale Island and Portsea Island is a narrow tidal inlet,  which I tend to think of as the remains of Stamshaw Bay. This small strip of water eventually links round to the Solent, further up the coast. There are a small cluster of fishing boats which appear and disappear depending on the tide and the type of fishing they do.

As my dog and I ambled along the path, I noticed a small, yellow fishing boat right up close to the shore line. I remembered that my husband had commented that he’d seen a fishing boat which had drifted up to the beach, so I went to have a look.

The little boat looked to be in good shape; the usual collection of barnacles and seaweed along its hull, but the bow was clean and clear and the mast and sails tidy and straight. Through the water I could clearly see the keel resting on the pebbles underneath and then I realised…

The boat wasn’t drifting. It was grounded.

The little boat was in good condition. It was perfectly able to sail. But for some reason, it had ended up on the beach, and now the water wasn’t deep enough to float it. Everything about it spoke about its purpose – it ought to have been sailing, gliding effortlessly on that smooth expanse of water. But instead it was motionless, grounded on a shallow bank of pebbles and rocks, which although small, had somehow trapped this vessel and made escape seem impossible. And that got me thinking:

How many of us are living seaworthy lives? 

How many of us are like that boat: fully equipped and able to sail, yet somehow grounded in our situations and circumstances, not because we can’t set sail but because we don’t believe we can.

In this photo, the tide hadn’t yet risen to its highest point. Another half a metre might be all it would need to get this little boat off the beach and back out to sea. How many of us are stuck in a place where we think we need an entire ocean to change things, when in reality it’s just half a metres worth?

Our perceptions affect our reality.

What we believe can have such a powerful effect on the choices we make. Those beliefs can stop us from applying for that job we really want, or standing up to that demanding boss. They can make us feel trapped and frustrated, when actually all we really need to change our circumstances, is a bit of a push to get us off the beach. Not an entire ocean. Just a bit of hard work.

The things is, for the sailor on the boat, it’s hard to see what the obstruction is, because it’s underneath the hull. That’s why we need friends and family to come alongside us.

Friends and family might have a different perspective. They can see through the water surrounding us and help identify what the problem is.

So what is it that keeps you beached at the moment? Are you so convinced that your situation can’t change that you can’t hear the voices of your friends and family? You’re a seaworthy vessel – what’s really stopping you from exploring your potential and heading out to sea?


The Road Well Travelled

Image: Sharon Court ©

I’m a fan of Doctor Who. Have I mentioned that before?

I re-connected with the Whoniverse at the tail end of Christopher Eccleston’s incarnation, when David Tennant took the reins (and boy did he!). I loved the way each episode was full of humour and insight, frustration and compassion – and of course a generous helping of mild peril and running around a lot! I was shopping for new trainers at some point during this re-connection and settled on a pair of red converse style shoes, as my nod to Doctor Who.

They’re a bit worn out now. You can see from the photo, the scuffs and dirt and the cracks along the edges. Not entirely waterproof either (though they were never meant to be I guess, being mostly canvas).

There’s a parallel at the moment, between my old, worn out trainers and some of the people I’ve been connecting with. Part of my role as in the Youth Chaplaincy project is to come alongside people; to travel with them on their journey of life. To offer companionship, a listening ear and empathy, even though, as a Chaplain, I can’t personally change anything.

Thing is, this journeying business has been happening, not at work, but at home.

I’ve been travelling with a young Mum whose husband died of cancer (he was 35 years old).

I’ve been journeying with a young woman who is struggling with a restrictive medical condition (she’s in her early 20s).

And now my journey extends to include this young woman’s mother, whose own mother is gravely ill, as well as another woman whose older husband is seriously ill.

Each of these situations are distinct and disconnected from each other (apart from the family link between the young woman and her grandmother). Each of the people involved is feeling a wealth of emotions at different times, and weighed down by a burden of love and anxiety which is hard at times to put into words.

And I can’t change any of them.

So what does it mean then, to take ‘the road well travelled’? Most of us have heard of the phrase ‘the road less travelled’ but it seems to me that lots of people are on this well-travelled road of pain, suffering and uncertainty.  We’re all of us familiar with the stress, anxiety and even powerlessness that comes in certain seasons of our lives.

And yet, despite all the people on this road, having these periods of struggle in your life often seems to be a very isolating experience – we don’t talk about it, we share our pain with only a few people and we hide away our vulnerability from others saying “Oh it’s ok.” “We’ll get by.” “It’s been worse!” or the classic “I shouldn’t complain!”

Shouldn’t you?

Why not then?

Who said that how you’re feeling isn’t worth complaining about, or sharing with others? Who declared that suffering is somehow a gradable thing, and that some types of suffering are more worthy than others? By keeping things in, our feelings can intensify. They can become concentrated and begin to manifest themselves through our moods, behaviour and even as physical symptoms such as headaches, muscle pain and indigestion. Sharing our pain and burdens is how we heal each other, and how we help to form a community. But I’m digressing a bit…

The thing that struck me about all this is not whether or not I can change anything (which I can’t) but actually the importance and value of being on the journey with someone. Mostly I’m cheering from the sidelines – praying, texting, popping in to visit sometimes and listening – giving time to listen and care about what’s being said. Offering my time, my empathy and at times even my tears, for the situations we find ourselves in.

My trainers are tatty and old. Worn and marked by the journeys I’ve taken in them over many years. But I think that’s good thing. Those marks and scuffs are the signs of the journey I’ve made and am making. The holes and tears in the seams are the marks of the things I’ve gone through: the grief, loneliness and burning frustration that I’ve felt at different times in my life.

And in some ways, those scruffy old trainers might be more valuable, more useful, more flexible and responsive to the unexpected puddles and grit of life, than a pair of shiny new ones? With shiny new trainers, we might be wary of getting involved; worried about splashes of mud, or sharp stones. But scruffy trainers have seen it all and they don’t mind a bit! They’re not bothered by grass stains or mud splatters or anything else for that matter. They’ve done a few rounds in the washing machine and they’ll no doubt do it all again.

Because you see, we need each other.

We need community, relationship, friendship and honesty – to hold us up, and root us to the ground. To lift our heads, but also to offer a place to hide.

We need each other – not in our perfection, but in our weakness.

We need each other in  our battered, worn through, holeyness, rather than our shiny, new, untouchable ‘successful and got it sorted’ apparel.

We need each other.

I hope that you may learn to value your battered, worn out holeyness as something worth sharing with others. I hope that you slowly gain the courage to be vulnerable enough to share the truth of your journey with others. And I hope that you and I might find some joy in amidst the difficulties, on this well-travelled road.

Creative Lent #6: Gilded

The astute among you will have noticed that Lent has finished.

In point of fact, not only has Lent passed, but Holy Week and Easter weekend as well!

It’s fair to say, therefore, that this post is a tiny bit late…however, better late than never 🙂

For those of you who have just joined us, I have been writing a series of posts over the last few weeks, as part of my personal reflection during Lent. I don’t normally write things which are quite so overtly Christian, but hopefully this hasn’t created a barrier for you as the reader.

The themes I was focussing on during this period were: Restoration, Repentance and Rest and I set myself the challenge of creating something new each week, which responded to one of these three themes. This is the final piece and although it’s a couple of weeks late, I hope you’ll still find it interesting and useful.

Having already done two pieces on Restoration and Repentance, I decided to revisit Rest for my final piece, and I must admit it was a tricky one for a while. I just couldn’t figure out what I wanted to do, or what God might be saying to me…

During this period of pondering, I happened to be on my way to Portsmouth College for one of my weekly Chaplaincy visits. I’m part of a small project in Portsmouth Deanery, called the Youth Chaplaincy project and I use creative practice to engage staff and students in discussion about all sorts of themes including spirituality, mental health, equality, terrorism, communication, gender…basically anything!

My route takes me through various neighbourhoods in Portsmouth, including Baffins which has a beautiful pond with waterfowl. Normally the swans, geese and ducks stay within the confines of the pond boundary but on the day I was driving through, a pair of swans decided to find somewhere else to have a nap…

It was a very pleasant Spring day, with wonderful sunshine and the swans had wandered away from the pond to find a patch of grass on which to sleep. As you can see from the photo, they were right up alongside the path and people were strolling fairly close by and walking their dogs.

Dog walkers detoured around them and people walking by were respectful of the swans and kept their distance, although a fair number of us did pause to watch them for a while and take photos!

The swans never moved. They didn’t raise their heads to watch us. They were happy resting. They weren’t alarmed, edgy or nervous; they were confident that the place they had chosen was safe and secure and that no harm would come to them.

The swans felt confident and safe enough to rest just where they were.

Something about that really spoke to me: something about them feeling safe, secure and at ease, in a space which could have made them feel vulnerable and in danger. There were no fences, nothing to stop anyone coming right up to them, or a stray ball hitting them. They felt confident and safe.

How often do we feel like that? Can we list the places or people with whom we feel safe? Safe enough to let down our guard? To allow ourselves to be vulnerable, to cry? To shout out the rage and grief which burns within, without fear of rebuke?

This notion of being at peace, of being able to rest in safety and confidence, without feeling vulnerable, rolled around in my head for a few days after that, and it occurred to me that for us as humans, the feeling of safety often coincides with trust and the sense of ‘being known’. With our life partner, very close family or friends, we feel like we can tell them things which really matter because they know us. They are trusted and safe.

I have a habit of falling asleep when riding in someone else’s car. Not always, but fairly often. I apologised to my friend once, having drifted off while he was driving. But he responded by saying it was a real compliment, because I’d obviously felt safe enough to completely let down my guard and fall asleep, trusting him to keep me safe.

Rest means allowing ourselves to become vulnerable.

Which brings us to the sixth and final piece I have created for this Lent reflection. It is called Gilded and it’s a mixed media piece involving embroidery, beadwork and paint.

In the picture you can see five vertical coloured bands, descending the paper, each with their own corresponding embroidery and beads. The bands might represent different people in your life, or perhaps different seasons – childhood, adolescence, adulthood and so on.

Each band of colour has beads sewn into it, and these are the things which I want to give particular attention to because these represent our flaws, mistakes and foibles. These are the hiccups in life; the failures and mistakes. The things we regret or failed to do. And these things can feel like huge lumps, like boulders in our lives; things we carry and can never quite be rid of.

These are the things which mark our lives.

They’re the kind of things which perhaps only a few people ever know about. The kind of thing where you look at the stranger standing in front of you and think ‘Oh, if you only knew what I’m really like…”

But here’s the really amazing part: as  Christian I believe that God sees and knows all these things. Every bead, every knot, every mistake, every mis-spoken word which can’t be taken back. He sees and knows all of them.

Across the whole piece are black splodges -things which marr and spoil the overall affect. These also represent things which we can’t undo.

But instead of punishing us, instead of pushing us away and saying that we’re not worthy, God does something quite remarkable and completely undeserved.

He gilds our sins and makes them beautiful.

By his grace, made possible through the events of Easter and Jesus’ death and resurrection, God makes the ugly things beautiful and the broken things whole. He takes our mistakes and blemishes and paints them with gold.

You are redeemed. You are beautiful. You are loved. You are precious. You are accepted. You are whole. You are mine.



What this means is that we can rest: we can let down our guard and allow ourselves to become vulnerable, just like the swans did, because we are safe.  We can relax and know that God already knows everything about us – and he still loves us. We can rest, knowing that he sees all our flaws and achievements and he still likes us. No extra effort required. No pretending that it’s all ok, when  it isn’t really.

Rest is allowing yourself to be truly honest and vulnerable, because you truly believe and know that you’re safe.


This may feel like a lot to take on board, and in the interests of honesty, I will admit to you that I personally don’t find this concept particularly easy. That’s not to say I don’t think it’s true for you: I have no difficulty believing that God feels this way about each and every person I meet. I just struggle sometimes to believe it for myself.

So maybe rest takes practice. Maybe we don’t have to throw down all our walls at once – maybe we can do it gradually, slowly, bit by bit and piece by piece until eventually we feel the same sense of security which those swans felt.

May you come to know rest in God, as a place of peace and safety. Of being known and accepted. Understood and cherished. May you know the comfort and peace from knowing you’ve been Gilded.




Creative Lent #5: The Water Feature

This week’s Creative Lent has been rather like a school science experiment gone wrong. I have created a rather tranquil water feature. I’d be even happier about this if I’d done it on purpose.

Allow me to explain…

As you might be aware, since the start of Lent I have set myself the goal of creating one new piece each week, themed around Rest, Repentance or Restoration, as these are things which Christians might explore during this season as part of the build-up to Easter. I wanted to use my creative practice as a means to intentionally think about God and what he might be saying to me and others, whilst making.

The last few weeks have featured photography, sculpture, painting and candle-making. This week’s effort didn’t quite go to plan – at least not my plan. We’ll see if the outcome suits the purpose better, by the end!

What started me off this week was a walk with my dog, Cosmo. Being a beagle, he is insatiably curious and drawn into all sorts of mischief. As we were out for our walk, I realised it was high tide – and a very high tide at that, as it’s Spring time and Spring and Autumn tend to see higher tides. (I may have described that slightly  wrongly, but hopefully t’internet will correct any accidental errors!)

Thus Cosmo and I took a detour on our walk, and came along to Whale Island walk, formally known Stamshaw Bay. Here we could see the tide was indeed very high, almost overlapping the steps at the edge, which happens very rarely. Something about this resonated with: about fullness and over-flowing and I decided to let this idea percolate some more.

My Bible readings this week have been about the provision and protection of God. Lots of stuff reminding us that God protects the widows and orphans, feed the hungry and provides shelter for those who are lost. This has been most encouraging against a backdrop of Brexit and Article 50.

I thought about the high tide and the fact that it was almost over-flowing and I decided to try and make a sculpture which would, intentionally overflow. I’d had an idea for something similar in a recent conversation with my friend Peter at the Cathedral: a tall, slim tube where the water would be pumped up from the bottom and then overflow at the top, sliding down the outside of the tube, before pooling in some kind of dish or container at the bottom ready to be pumped again. I thought this idea – of God’s love and provision being a form of constant restoration and refreshing, might be a helpful one, and so I got to work!

I started out using a glue gun to create some swirling lines on the outside of an empty pop bottle, so as to direct the water as it made its journey over the top of the container and down the outside. I unwired the plug from the fish tank pump, and slid the cable in through the neck of of the pop bottle, then turned the whole thing upside down so that the water could be sucked in from the bottom and pushed out the top (which had been cut off). So far so good. I found a container to be the base, some small white pebbles I had lying around from something else, and I dug out the old fish tank pump, which had been used to circulate the water when we had fish. I was on to a winner! I had all the necessary ingredients and I was going to make something marvellous!

I then experienced a rather rapid physics revision lesson in displacement, volume and the effect of gravity on water: namely that gravity makes water want to equalise itself, and you can pour as much water as you like in the top of your container, but as soon as that volume exceeds the available space in the bowl at the bottom you will end up with an unexpected flood. Also, if you accidentally drop some of those lovely small white pebbles into your pump mechanism, it’s not going to work very well.


Having cleared that mess up, I realised I needed to make the central column smaller, so I unwired and re-wired the plug for the fish tank pump, cut up and re-glued my central column and found a bigger bowl.

Alas, gravity was still too powerful for my little pump, and the water couldn’t get any higher up the tube without sufficient force. I tried various permutations with different sized bowls and arrangements of stones, central columns etc, but all to no avail.

So I plonked the pump back into the bottom of the smallest bowl, covered it with the lovely white stones (again) and plugged it in. And this is what I got:

Now, as I like to remind my students, my friends, my family and even myself from time to time: nothing is wasted if you’ve learnt something from it. So here’s what I’ve learnt.

When it comes to restoration, God defies the laws of gravity.

As my little science experiment clearly shows, it takes a lot of effort to make water defy gravity! But we try and do that all the time with our energy levels: we keep trying to push what little we have up the tube and over the top, in order to be everything we think we need to be, for every person we meet. But that’s just not achievable – or sustainable. We can’t keep giving out of an empty well, or even a half-empty one. Only God can defy gravity and only God can successfully fill us up from the inside out.

Sometimes we need to be more than full.

What does that mean? Well, in the example of the water feature, the glass dish is just full. The water doesn’t exceed the space available. It’s contained. Safe. Tidy. But maybe God is calling us to give more than we usually do? To step outside our safe, tidy, comfortable space and engage with people in a way which is messy and uncertain? If you ever needed an example of uncomfortable and uncertain, I think Easter is the right place to look.

(This last paragraph might seem to contradict the previous one, but actually I think they’re aimed at two different types of people.)

Do our expectations limit what God can do for us?

This is the big one for me. The bowl is full. But only just. And yet God’s word speaks of abundance, of over-flowing, of things ‘beyond measure’. Do I think God is capable of that? Of really doing more than I can ask or think? Or do I only expect what I can see, hear or know with my own senses – that life is limited, not limitless? Its a tough one this, and it doesn’t have an easy answer.

But maybe as we look at the water and watch its movement, we might be reminded that this same small pool finds its source in limitless waterfalls, vast oceans and untapped depths. That each drop comes from a place far bigger than we will ever know or fully understand.

That even though we can’t fully see or understand it ourselves, it doesn’t mean that God can’t do even more than we could ever ask of think. 

Food for thought and hopefully, water for the soul.

Until next time x


Creative Lent #4: The Garland

I wrote a letter to the Prime Minister today.

I write to my MP on a fairly regular basis –  after all, this is a democracy and I can’t moan about things from the sidelines and then refuse to act and blame someone else for the results. But I don’t write to the PM very often at all. I don’t know whether she’ll read it, or whether it will reach her in time, but I’ve sent it none the less. It’s a letter which has burdening me for some time, but which I’ve been struggling to phrase.

Unless you’ve been living in the wilds of Scotland  for the last twelve months (and some people have, for a Channel 4 reality TV show), you can’t have escaped the news that the UK is on the brink of leaving the EU. Not just politically, but also the Single Market, which affects our trade and employment agreements along with a bunch of other things. Various people have been ringing warning bells, but with no effect apparently, as our leadership seems diligently and wilfully committed to throwing the UK off a political and economic cliff.

I could happily work up a head of steam on the subject, but I’m going to steer away from that and instead draw out something from the letter which I wrote: I suggested to the Prime Minister that the only reason for not changing course from our current trajectory was human pride.

“It was human pride that pushed aside a major decision to an ill-equipped public. It was human pride that took the ‘easy’ way out and opted for a process which will cause more harm than good. And it is human pride which refuses to back down and admit that this may not be the best course of action after all.”

I went on to suggest that “The only way to change the course of history now, would be to admit that this ‘hard Brexit’ is a mistake and that you were wrong. Do you have the courage to do such a thing I wonder? To be a leader like no other in history, before or since?”

Now it’s all very well to be angry at someone from a distance and to accuse them of wrong-doing, but the Bible reminds us that we should not judge, lest we ourselves are judged. And I have been judged – and rightly so. I have made mistakes which have affected those close to me, whom I love, and some of those mistakes, even though I’ve apologised, can’t be undone. Granted, I haven’t made the kind of decisions which affect an entire nation…but each person within that nation, just as each person within my family, is as important to God.

It got me thinking about repentance – the attitude of being sorry, of admitting that we’ve done something wrong. Repentance is one of the three themes I’m reflecting on during Lent this year, as well as Rest and Restoration.

Repentance is the mindset that is willing to admit to mistakes and take responsibility for them. To repair what has been broken and replace what has been lost. But repentance shouldn’t be forced on someone, otherwise it’s not genuine or sincere – that’s the kind of circumstance when a parent forces an errant child to ‘say sorry’ which they then do grudgingly and then as soon as the adult is out of earshot they start being naughty all over again.

A forced repentance can also have disastrous consequences later down the line: consider the ‘Reparations’ which the German nation was forced to pay to the Allies after World War I. None of those involved in the conflict had clean hands, but the penalty Germany had to pay crippled the nation and made the ground fertile for Nazi ideology which might never had taken root, if the Allies had treated Germany differently.

Forced repentance can create brokenness, bitterness and resentment, which yields a bitter fruit later on. But conviction – that internal acknowledgement that something is wrong and needs to be put right – that creates the space for something different. As we yield our will to God or friends and family, as we acknowledge our mistakes, we can bend rather than break and in so doing, we can learn from our mistakes.

This brings me to this week’s piece: The Garland.

Made from supple twigs and woven in with leaves and flowers, The Garland  represents repentance.  Rather than being forced to bend and ultimately snapping in two, the twigs have been gently curved into shape and held in place with florist’s wire.

Sometimes we need help to see our mistakes and be able to learn from them. Discipline offered in love doesn’t always need to be harsh or severe in order to be effective.

Another thing to consider is that repentance affects change – but that requires choice. As soon as the florist’s wire is undone, the twig could whip out and resume its original shape, causing injury in the process. But if it’s bent in that position gently for a period of time, it will keep its new curved shape.

Repentance needs to be a willing act on our part, otherwise we aren’t open to seeing our mistakes and we can’t learn from them.

I have added flowers and leaves to this willowy wreath, which draws out the beauty of the wood – but the spaces where I have inserted them have only been created because the twigs were woven together and able to bend. If the twigs were inflexible and stubborn, if they had stayed straight, the flowers and leaves would have fallen straight off, and no garland would be possible. The twigs’ flexibility creates opportunities which would not otherwise exist.

Repentance can be fruitful.

So this then is my Creative Lent offering for this week: The Garland of Repentance.

May we all be gracious, patient and flexible, because of and in spite of our mistakes, in order that we can learn and love one another more fully.


Creative Lent #3: Eternal Rest

This week’s Creative Lent post is themed around ‘rest’. But it’s incomplete. There have been so many different threads that have linked into the theme and whilst they all connect and make sense individually, I’ve found it difficult to focus in on just one of them.

So I decided to stop fighting this whirlwind of thoughts, and just give you a flavour of each. I hope and trust that at least one of them will resonate with you!

So to begin with: let’s start with daily rest. Or rather- the lack of it. I’ve been reading some intriguing and affirming books lately about time, rest and the importance of getting a better balance in our lives. One is called Sabbath as Resistance by Walter Bruggemann which my sister-in-law Sarah sent me. Another was given to me by Steve Frampton, Principal at Portsmouth College, entitled Too Fast To Think by Chris Lewis. Although written from different starting points, they both concur in their conclusions and findings.

Bruggemann is looking from a theologian’s point of view at the traditional Jewish sabbath. He quickly points out the contrast between Yahweh (traditional Jewish word for God) and Pharaoh’s systems. When the Jewish people were in Egypt, they outnumbered the Egyptians considerably, and over time became enslaved to the Egyptians state (this was just before Moses arrived on the scene and the lead-up to the famous plagues of Egypt and parting of the Red Sea). Pharaoh’s system is based on surplus:

“What the slaves are to produce is more bricks that are to be used for the building of more ‘supply cities’ in which Pharoah can store his endless supply of material wealth in the form of grain. Because the system was designed to produce more and more surplus, there is always more need for storage units that in turn generate more need for bricks with which to construct them…in the narrative… Pharaoh is a hard-nosed production manager for whom production schedules are inexhaustible.”

Bruggemann goes on to point out that there is no sabbath rest in this system. “There is no rest for Pharaoh in his supervisory capacity…no rest for his supervisors or taskmasters…no rest for the slaves…We may imagine, moreover that the ‘Egyptian gods’ also never rested…for the glory of Pharaoh surely redounded to the glory of the ‘Egyptian gods’…In that context all levels of social power…are uniformly caught up in and committed to the grind of endless production.”

Spring blossom, taken at St Mary’s cemetery

However, Yahweh comes from a very different starting point and “at the taproot of this divine commitment to *relationship* (covenant) rather than *commodity* (bricks) is the capacity and willingness of this God to rest…That divine rest on the seventh day of creation has made clear (a) that Yahweh is not a workaholic, (b) that Yahweh is not anxious about the full-functioning of creation and (c) that the wellbeing of creation does not depend on endless work.”

Take a minute to absorb that idea.

The wellbeing of creation – of our lives even, does not depend on endless work.

And yet how many of us look around our homes, our workplaces and our to-do lists with an exhausted and almost futile sense that we’ll ‘never get it all done’? Here’s an intriguing thought for you: what if it doesn’t all have to get done.

What if some of it could be left knowingly unfinished?

You might need to have a little lie-down at this point.

Enter stage left Chris Lewis, whose starting point on this same journey, originates in the business world. In his book he has spoken with and listened to a number of different people from a range of backgrounds. Lewis observes:

“I see a world moving faster, but somehow making less progress. There is more communication, but less conversation. There is more information, but not more learning.” He comments that “we have created so many ways to interrupt ourselves” and that “every profession has suffered from a decreasing amount of time to really think about problems”. “The rush has forced us to process yesterday as if it were trash, and left us no time to recall, review and learn.” 

It is into this context that Brueggemann offers the practice of sabbath as resistance: “Into this arena of restlessness comes the God of rest who offers relief from that anxiety-producing system.” “The celebration of sabbath is an act both of resistance and alternative. It is resistance because it is a visible insistence that our lives are not defined by the production and consumption of commodity goods.”

I would argue that this notion of rest, as part of the rhythm of our lives, is something which we have become increasingly detached from, and yet it is so vital to our wellbeing, as to be as essential as food and sleep. Indeed, Lewis devotes an entire chapter to sleep and the consequences and benefits of having not enough or a good and regular amount of sleep.

But if daily rest and having a good rhythm to our lives is one thing, what’s the long-term view? What are we working towards? Why are we pushing ourselves so hard and so long and at such speed?

This is one of the other threads to this week’s theme which I couldn’t quite manage to tie in to the first one, although I sense they are inextricably linked…

I took a walk round St Mary’s cemetery last week. It was a grey day, not too chilly and the estate team were in mowing the grass. When I first arrived it was rather like a cluster of over-sized and grumpy bees buzzing about the place. Gradually the noise fell away as they finished their work and I was able to take some time to walk among the tombstones and memorials.

I was surprised at how many of them had fresh flowers – I don’t know why it surprised me, but it did. Bright, defiant bursts of colour in between the grey, white or black markers. Some were recent, one grave with the earth still a mound where it hadn’t yet settled, others covered with ivy and almost buried by time. There were a noticeable number of Victorian graves for children – infant mortality was high at that time, but I couldn’t help thinking of the grief and loss of those families who had lost their children at such a young age.

Most of the wording was similar; ‘beloved wife’, ‘dear husband’, ‘ in loving memory’. A couple of them had unusual wording which caught my attention: one crypt had the words “Yes! Yes!” after the names of the people interred. I wondered if they felt not fear, but joy about death and a hope for heaven?

Another had the phrase ‘fell asleep’ which struck me particularly, as it related to a four year old boy. I know that as a society we struggle with talking about death and the fear, pain and grief which surrounds it. We shy away from it, avoid it, give it odd and inaccurate terms ‘lost’, ‘fell asleep’, ‘passed away’ because the brutal truth is so hard to bear.

And yet it exists and it will come to all of us at some point. We may not know when, or how or where, but each of us has a story and all stories have to end.

So what then, does that mean for us? Shall we continue to strive and labour, filling all our time with noise and distraction so as to avoid the inevitability of an ending we can’t control? Or shall we  stubbornly, rebelliously choose to stop, to rest, to adjust the rhythm of our lives in order that we really can make the most of each moment – savour the sights, smells, colours and tastes of everything around us so that, when the time comes, we can say with confidence “Yes!” my time has come, but I have lived my life well and I’m ready now for my story to end.


Perhaps those two strands had more in common than I thought?

As to my making: it is the simplicity of a photograph. Ronald James Towse died, aged four, in 1953. I don’t know his story or the circumstances of his death. But his memorial is a reminder that every life, however small, can and will make its mark upon another, and in so doing, perhaps they can be eternal?

Creative Lent #2: The Rucksack

My second reflection for Lent is around the theme of repentance, and nothing says ‘repentance’ like Yoda and a rucksack.

Not convinced? I’ll explain…

My children have been enjoying some videos on YouTube by a group called ‘Bad Lip Reading’ and I must admit, it is very clever and quite funny (for the first 2-3 times at least…) One of the videos focuses on a conversation between Luke Skywalker and Yoda whilst in training on Dagoba on the subject of Seagulls.  During this exchange Luke says “you owe me an apology” and it got me thinking: why?

Why should anyone *owe* anyone else an apology? 

We talk about owing someone money which we’ve borrowed, or owing someone a favour, if they’ve done something for us, but how does that work with an apology? If we don’t admit to something, how can it belong to us?

Whilst this was ruminating in my brain for a few days, my daily Bible readings were taking an interesting turn. For a few days we had Psalm 32, which looks like this:

Psalm 32
Of David. A maskil.[a]

1 Blessed is the one
whose transgressions are forgiven,
whose sins are covered.
2 Blessed is the one
whose sin the Lord does not count against them
and in whose spirit is no deceit.

3 When I kept silent,
my bones wasted away
through my groaning all day long.
4 For day and night
your hand was heavy on me;
my strength was sapped
as in the heat of summer.[b]

5 Then I acknowledged my sin to you
and did not cover up my iniquity.
I said, “I will confess
my transgressions to the Lord.”
And you forgave
the guilt of my sin.

That part in the middle, verses 3 & 4 is very interesting and I wondered for a while what it meant: “When I kept silent, my bones wasted away…your hand was heavy on me, my strength was sapped as in the heat of summer…” And then I realised, that heaviness, the weight described, is guilt or conviction.

Guilt or conviction is the internal acknowledgement which we hold when we know something is wrong or out of balance. It fidgets within us, restless and unsettled, all the while that the issue which caused it is unresolved. And the longer we ignore it, the stronger the feeling gets. In fact it becomes so strong that it takes more and more effort to ignore it.

It’s like wearing a heavy rucksack on your back, which you can’t see, but which you feel and carry with you. The rucksack is behind you; it bears down on your neck and shoulders and all the while it’s unresolved it gets heavier and heavier. Sometimes it’s been there so long, we actually get used to it, and we struggle to remember a time when it wasn’t there…

But why do we carry such a weight if we don’t have to?

I wonder if the fear of facing or resolving such an issue is what compels us to avoid it? We’re frightened of admitting the wrong-doing in the first place, and the longer we leave it, the harder it is to face and the weightier the issue becomes. Eventually perhaps, we start behaving differently, walking with a limp as it were, because we’ve become so accustomed to this extra weight, we’ve learnt to compensate for it. Maybe we feel it’s taken so long to resolve the original issue that in fact we ought to be bearing this additional burden, as some kind of punishment or penance for not having resolved the issue originally…

But here’s the thing: until we own the guilt, we can’t be free of it.

Until we can acknowledge to ourselves and God, and maybe our loved ones, whatever it is that has burdened us – until we can own and accept our mistake, we can’t let it go.  We can’t be set free from something which we don’t own. I can’t pay back money I don’t owe, or repay a favour which no-one did for me first. And I can’t be forgiven for something which I haven’t yet confessed.

It’s not until we admit to ourselves the guilt we’ve been carrying – the rucksack on our back – than we can take it off and be free of it.

And that takes courage – to admit to ourselves and others about the guilt which burdens us. But the words in the Psalm remind us about what awaits when we do:
5 Then I acknowledged my sin to you
and did not cover up my iniquity.
I said, “I will confess
my transgressions to the Lord.”
And you forgave
the guilt of my sin.

6 Therefore let all the faithful pray to you
while you may be found;
surely the rising of the mighty waters
will not reach them.
7 You are my hiding place;

you will protect me from trouble
and surround me with songs of deliverance.

We don’t have to carry that weight around. We are not destined or fated to be burdened in that way. The ‘rising waters’ need not reach us. God doesn’t want to punish us for all eternity, in some cold, hard-hearted way. In fact the opposite is true: he sets himself to be our ‘hiding place and protector’. But until we acknowledge and accept our own wrong-doing and lay it down (admit it to ourselves and others) how can God forgive us and release us from it? We can’t yet be forgiven for something we haven’t admitted to. The equation doesn’t balance out.

And so this is my Creative Lent piece #2: a watercolour illustration of a rucksack, with a name label: “mine”. There is time, there is always time and space for all of us to acknowledge our mistakes and be freed from them. We are not destined to carry that guilt forever, and God who knows and loves you, doesn’t want that for you.

May we all find the courage to admit to our mistakes and take that step of faith which leads us to laying these things down, in the hope and trust that we can be forgiven and set free.

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