Well the third day of lent and so far so good! This year we have given up TV and films - well almost! We have agreed that we will watch one hour of TV a day and the men in my life have negotiated that the 6 nations rugby is completely excluded from our TV fast (but all other sporting fixtures are included). The hope is that this really will release us to spend more time in prayer and reflection or just enable us to be more aware of God.
So far the the crossword and su doku puzzles in the newspaper have been done every evening and I think that we are talking and listening to one another a bit more - not sure God has featured to any greater degree yet but it is early days.
Last year we gave up sweets, cakes, crisps and alcohol, three years ago we gave up meat. The challenge to fast from something other than food arose a couple of years ago when my husband and I were in the process of serious weight loss and so to fast from food seemed a superficial approach to lent as we had been doing that through dieting since the start of the previous autumn.
That year I gave up praying with words (almost) and prayed by drawing, using colour and meditating on icons or religious art - it was really hard work and required a significant investment of time. I had to learn to hear God and communicate with him in a very different way. It certainly taught me self-control and slowness in prayer and how to examine my own heart before Him. Of necessity it took more time as each day I needed to sit with paper, pens or paints and pray.
The decision this year not to fast from food came from my own recognition that I can be diet and weight obsessed (of which more another time) and also from reading Mark 7 v 15 "Nothing outside a man can make him unclean by going into him. Rather it is what comes out of a man that makes him unclean." I really sensed that God was saying to me that my obsession with what I ate was not the issue but rather what I said and did. My words have the power to have a greater impact on others for good or bad than my weight - so obvious I know but quite a revelation to me a couple of weeks ago! So I sensed that the challenge this year was to do something which would have a greater impact on what I said or did. Creating more opportunities to be in the presence of Jesus, finding time and space to live more thoughtfully so that others are encouraged and built up is the priority this lent. Not spending too much time in front of the TV and having our heads filled with images and noise seemed to be a good way of creating the conditions which might help achieve this thoughtful living.
I am really interested in something which Catherine Ogle (Dean of Birmingham Cathedral) tweeted this week - she has given up meat and alcohol and put herself on a diet of poetry. I am looking forward to hearing more about this and in particular the poems that become important during this season. (Catherine is on Twitter @CatherineOgle should you want to follow her as she consumes poetry over the next six weeks.) It would be great to hear from you if you have given up something that isn't food or drink and taken up something else as part of your lent discipline this year.
Friday 24 February 2012
Monday 20 February 2012
Poetry Please!
I attended my first Burns' Night Supper this year. I was surprised by two things. First, the whisky, which I thought was delicious (I wonder whether this is a sign of ageing that a drink which seemed unpleasant in my younger days now seemed quite the opposite, or perhaps it was just good quality whisky!). Second, the poetry, and this really was a surprise to me.
The gathering was mainly friends and family of the friends who had invited us and they all knew one another well. After food we sat in the lounge and read 3 poems we had brought with us to one another - any poems. It was clear, generally speaking, that the older people had spent some time choosing poems that meant something to them whereas the younger ones (myself included) had leaved through a few poetry books or looked online just before coming out. It is not often as an adult that someone reads to you is it? It was a real joy, some people read with such feeling and emotion that the poem took on a new life and evoked images, fragrances and memories.
I have never been a poetry lover although I have been given poetry books as gifts and so assume others think that I am! I like the idea of poetry but I am not very confident about it. I believe this goes back to school days when I would form a view about a poem to then be told by the teacher what it was actually infact about and I discovered that I was usually wrong and had no true understanding. When I lived and worked in London I always used to enjoy the poems on the Underground and if my favourites were in the carriage in which I was travelling I always used to take this as the sign of a good day ahead!
So one of my challenges for this month has been to waste a bit of time with some poetry. To look at it on the page, to read it aloud to myself and to see what I think and feel about it. I hope to collect three poems for next year's Burns' Night Supper (assuming we get another invitation!) which have meant something to me during the year.
I have been helped along by the Times and The 30 Most Romantic Poems published a week ago Saturday. I was particularly taken with "Valentine" by Carol Ann Duffy in which an onion is given as a valentine gift.
My son also wrote a poem which he later explained to me and it didn't mean what I thought it meant but I decided that my own interpertation is valid and perhaps said something about me and what I was thinking when I read it - in truth he wasn't overly impressed with this approach but I did confess to having a history of inaccurately understanding poetry.
So if you have any poems that you would like to share with me I will take the time to read them and ponder!
A Poem about Snow by Caleb Walton
As I stand for a purpose
in the blocked night,
when the ground is covered by the
white blanket that causes havoc.
I stand for a purpose,
as I look for the reason
then the light enters and stays,
but the havoc remains.
I stand for a purpose
the light is still there,
but the night is still
blocked, this purpose is complete.
The gathering was mainly friends and family of the friends who had invited us and they all knew one another well. After food we sat in the lounge and read 3 poems we had brought with us to one another - any poems. It was clear, generally speaking, that the older people had spent some time choosing poems that meant something to them whereas the younger ones (myself included) had leaved through a few poetry books or looked online just before coming out. It is not often as an adult that someone reads to you is it? It was a real joy, some people read with such feeling and emotion that the poem took on a new life and evoked images, fragrances and memories.
I have never been a poetry lover although I have been given poetry books as gifts and so assume others think that I am! I like the idea of poetry but I am not very confident about it. I believe this goes back to school days when I would form a view about a poem to then be told by the teacher what it was actually infact about and I discovered that I was usually wrong and had no true understanding. When I lived and worked in London I always used to enjoy the poems on the Underground and if my favourites were in the carriage in which I was travelling I always used to take this as the sign of a good day ahead!
So one of my challenges for this month has been to waste a bit of time with some poetry. To look at it on the page, to read it aloud to myself and to see what I think and feel about it. I hope to collect three poems for next year's Burns' Night Supper (assuming we get another invitation!) which have meant something to me during the year.
I have been helped along by the Times and The 30 Most Romantic Poems published a week ago Saturday. I was particularly taken with "Valentine" by Carol Ann Duffy in which an onion is given as a valentine gift.
My son also wrote a poem which he later explained to me and it didn't mean what I thought it meant but I decided that my own interpertation is valid and perhaps said something about me and what I was thinking when I read it - in truth he wasn't overly impressed with this approach but I did confess to having a history of inaccurately understanding poetry.
So if you have any poems that you would like to share with me I will take the time to read them and ponder!
A Poem about Snow by Caleb Walton
As I stand for a purpose
in the blocked night,
when the ground is covered by the
white blanket that causes havoc.
I stand for a purpose,
as I look for the reason
then the light enters and stays,
but the havoc remains.
I stand for a purpose
the light is still there,
but the night is still
blocked, this purpose is complete.
Monday 6 February 2012
When there's nothing to say
Well, I have been silent for over a week. When I was younger I was told "if you don't have anything nice to say don't say anything at all!". This last week it has been a case of not really being able to formulate and process what it is that I would want to say rather than having something unkind or not nice to say.
On Thursday I attended the funeral of a two day old boy, a little man whose face I never saw. Sometimes there are no words....
I used to work with his father for a number of years and over time we became friends. His father met and fell in love with his mother and they married. I vividly recall bumping into his father who seemed to be walking on air a few months ago. He told me he had news and we went to a nearby coffee shop - it was clearly good news as he bought the coffees! He then proceeded to tell that me that he and his wife were expecting their first child, she was very nauseous and weary and he was thrilled to bits. He really was the cat who'd got the cream - or at least the skinny lattes that day!
We met again before Christmas when he was reciting some of his poetry at a Christmas event. Poems of meaning, insight, humour and wisdom. In between recitations the talk was of the pregnancy, and impending fatherhood - that time the lattes were on me!
Then unexpected disaster, the baby had to be delivered 10 weeks early and was very ill. During his short life he met all his close family and was christened.
So the funeral - the smallest coffin I have ever seen, the smallest wreath of spring flowers. It was profoundly sad and still there seemed to be no words. But during the silence, the songs, the prayers and the Eucharist inside an old church building there seemed to be a peace and sense of well being emerging for those present as the service progressed. The parents were naturally consumed with grief and yet there was a strength in the father and an elegance in the mother that was unexpected. These qualities seemed to grow in them as they so publicly owned their loss and disappointment. There was talk of hope and a future in heaven, of eternal purposes and meaningful lives. His father, the poet, did not write poetry but a moving and meaningful tribute to his son, his wife, their family and friends which recounted the events of the long three weeks that preceded that funeral day. There were words, written from the heart, from a place of knowledge, love and suffering. At last there were appropriate words.
After his little body was laid in the ground under an old tree in the ancient churchyard and painful goodbyes were said by members of his close family, we enjoyed hospitality and welcome that was gracious and generous. We met old friends and made new ones.
How strange that someone I never met has impacted my life so profoundly. I feel sure that I will remember his name and his funeral my whole life. It was made meaningful by the honesty, openness, generosity and hospitality of this little man's parents who wanted to celebrate a short life, own the pain of loving and losing and mark the value of friendship and being with those who care for you in such impossible circumstances. It profound because the only people who had the right to say something found courage and inspiration and spoke.
On Thursday I attended the funeral of a two day old boy, a little man whose face I never saw. Sometimes there are no words....
I used to work with his father for a number of years and over time we became friends. His father met and fell in love with his mother and they married. I vividly recall bumping into his father who seemed to be walking on air a few months ago. He told me he had news and we went to a nearby coffee shop - it was clearly good news as he bought the coffees! He then proceeded to tell that me that he and his wife were expecting their first child, she was very nauseous and weary and he was thrilled to bits. He really was the cat who'd got the cream - or at least the skinny lattes that day!
We met again before Christmas when he was reciting some of his poetry at a Christmas event. Poems of meaning, insight, humour and wisdom. In between recitations the talk was of the pregnancy, and impending fatherhood - that time the lattes were on me!
Then unexpected disaster, the baby had to be delivered 10 weeks early and was very ill. During his short life he met all his close family and was christened.
So the funeral - the smallest coffin I have ever seen, the smallest wreath of spring flowers. It was profoundly sad and still there seemed to be no words. But during the silence, the songs, the prayers and the Eucharist inside an old church building there seemed to be a peace and sense of well being emerging for those present as the service progressed. The parents were naturally consumed with grief and yet there was a strength in the father and an elegance in the mother that was unexpected. These qualities seemed to grow in them as they so publicly owned their loss and disappointment. There was talk of hope and a future in heaven, of eternal purposes and meaningful lives. His father, the poet, did not write poetry but a moving and meaningful tribute to his son, his wife, their family and friends which recounted the events of the long three weeks that preceded that funeral day. There were words, written from the heart, from a place of knowledge, love and suffering. At last there were appropriate words.
After his little body was laid in the ground under an old tree in the ancient churchyard and painful goodbyes were said by members of his close family, we enjoyed hospitality and welcome that was gracious and generous. We met old friends and made new ones.
How strange that someone I never met has impacted my life so profoundly. I feel sure that I will remember his name and his funeral my whole life. It was made meaningful by the honesty, openness, generosity and hospitality of this little man's parents who wanted to celebrate a short life, own the pain of loving and losing and mark the value of friendship and being with those who care for you in such impossible circumstances. It profound because the only people who had the right to say something found courage and inspiration and spoke.
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