Contracted space inverted –

we may enter but we bring

the choice to be expansive,

space of possibility brims!

I’ve been grateful for those close to me, who have transformed a place of constriction within my heart and mind into one of expansion. I, of course, must also be mindful of how my demeanour and assumptions affect the spaces I move into.

Stories of contrasting characters in situations of conflict have risen before me many times in recent months. David, Saul, Solomon, Joseph, a tyrant king and mysterious mystics have all laid out their patterns – within and without. Attitudes and atmospheres intertwine, and outcomes may be redirected and reframed. Overcoming the instinct to simply defend our own interests is aspirational, but gritty realities can be so deceiving and constraining. What is beautiful and alluring though is the wonder of what might be, beyond the moment’s limited perspective. It invites us all to be courageous and generous.

Expanding my boundary has been promised to me. My capacity to cope with the discomforts that imposes on me is ever pressing back. The extent to which I choose to allow the possibilities is open before me. I hope I will step into that space more often.

No shadows, no shining,

‘neutrality’s’ prime on

acceptable likeness-

not character – chosen.

It took a number of attempts to get a photo that passed the criteria for my passport renewal. There was so much rejection, followed by further attempts to conform! It needed to be ‘me’, but only within certain parameters. What I recognised was that sometimes security is encapsulated in too narrow an image; in community we may demand this of ourselves and others, and it is a false idol. I am made in the image of one so multi-faceted and free. My snapshots will reflect that wild truth, and will take me far.

Line drawn,

for which I mourn.

Light of dawn

pierce like a thorn,

draw grace there-from.

I made a decision recently which hangs heavy within me. In the news this week, again, has been much about toxic cultures which flourish and perpetuate because of bonds of silence and cover-up. It is only when someone finally uses their voice that restorative justice has a real chance, and healing may truly come, in time.  It is a daunting thing to do, but may be a catalyst for change that would not otherwise come. It strangely protects.

I do this while very mindful that compassion is needed for all parties. ‘Hurting people hurt people’ isn’t always true as imagined – and it isn’t always the most obvious ones with sole purview on this playing out. I ache for the hidden wounded ones who need immense understanding and care. I ache for a tending of their wounds too. I yearn for the patterns and undercurrents to be changed.

I await the gasp and wince from the harsh prick of enquiry. We may bleed some more, but I will keep vigil for a flow of good purposes to begin seeping through.

I’m razed-rebuilt upon the rubble

(reconstruction’s not so terrible)

Abiding clay not crumbling mortar

constructs new purpose as it ought to.

Being taken apart is frightening. A sense of fear and failure can overwhelm when only seen in the present.

We are told that we were made from clay, that from the earth we came and to the earth we’ll return. Our essence remains though the form changes.

I’ve allowed so many temporary things to hold my life together, to define its shape. I’ve been afraid when those things have been torn down in my life. But like a city razed then raised again, I see the essence repurposed even as the old constructs fall away.

The good bricks have been salvaged and a new build has begun.

Dark confines of that veil entrapped

my being and suggested that

my form and purpose were amiss.

What lies! Truth splits the chrysalis.

Change can be hard and much misunderstood. Disassembly of what was may invite lament, it may provoke derision. What is to come may be unexpected and unenvisionable. Only waiting will bring us to revelation.

A calling that condemned his place

in the garden, now he’ll face

boundaries widened where he’s cocked

to serve a more appreciative flock!

We keep hens. One became broody, so we brought her two fertile eggs from a neighbour down the road. The eggs hatched, and everyone delighted in them as they grew into themselves. Then one day one of them made an awkward crowing sound, which soon became a distinct cock-a-doodling. It began proclaiming each new dawn –  which disturbed the peaceful slumber of all around.

With a plumage that stood him out from the crowd and a voice that unsettled and affronted the clucky status quo, eviction plans began forming. There was quite a caffuffle around his removal, but soon he found himself in a spacious small holding. A whole host of hens welcomed him, along with ducks and pheasants and guinea fowl. His calling was fitting in that place.

Meanwhile in the garden a paltry grouping continued pecking.

Cloaked in pain I just grant licence

to more malevolent connivance.

Disrobe me! Let me dress as one who’ll

wear more gracious habitude.

I wear clothes that express and project something of myself. How I present myself has an effect, on me as well as on those who see me. There’s always a choosing about what I put on – the comfort, the vibrancy, the weight, the line. Last year I spent too much time draped in heaviness, which I’m now unpicking. It was a mantle that fashioned a bitter streak, which I’ve not admired in myself. But just as when I face my wardrobe each day, I have choice about what attitude I’ll put about me. I can discard what drags and dulls me, I can swathe my form in an uplifting silhouette. I hope you’ll like the cut of my jib!

‘You don’t belong’, ‘not one of us!’

waymarks my life, t’was ever thus.

Yet in their imposed wilderness

wild love claims us, coalesces.

I’ve had many forms of estrangement. This last year I’ve experienced it from the place that professes great acceptance and inclusion. People are people though, and we practice othering in every gathered group. But the wilderness is a place I’ve been before, a place I’ve reluctantly journeyed times, and always its sand is between my toes.

Its a bleak and blistering place. But I wouldn’t be without it. In spite of how isolating it seems, it is a place that God better has our attention as he sand-blasts the hard edges of our lives, and draws us closer. And then we find each other again.

Those who peddle

a cycle of grace

Have spoke – their mettle

shall malice efface.

I have friends who, in the face of great conflict, persevere with peaceable ways. They continuously allow for failings, and open opportunities for a new way ahead. They use words of gentle penetrating wisdom. There are many high profile role-models of people practicing non-violent resistance, but my friends live it out in overlooked ordinariness.

I have had times with  violence spinning within me. Pain and injustice do that. It threatens to be propelled out, away from a wounded core. I’ve learned to relinquish that urge – I can’t be contributing to the recycling of hurts.

Justice and grace are not an either/or. We can have and/both. Spirit and resilience will get us there I’m sure.

What’s meant for bad shall turn for good.

Dispel the dark, in light I’m stood.

Set down their spiteful litany,

now trickles through epiphany.

There comes a time when you’ve borne condemnation long enough, from without and within. It must not, does not, define me. I’ve laboured long and hard, and then find I transition unexpectedly – a small crowning moment that comes with quiet wonder. I find I am part of a circle of light held up on the eve of Christmas. I have promise.  I’m going to hold on to that.