Moment

Not all minutes are equal... Many pass us by without a second thought. I wiled about forty-five of them this morning, looking out the window and thinking. A moment is something different, I would like to suggest, that a moment, is a minute that has an impact. A minute that defines the way we are as humans. A moment is something that we will remember indefinitely. 

I do not write about my fitness journey very often, in fact, I never write about it. Part of the reason for that is it is intensely personal, another reason is that there is a lot of noise on social media around fitness and diet. My protocol and philosophy are less interesting, and far more routine than our tik tokking pals, but I have over the last three years, developed a healthy and sustainable lifestyle that has achieved a huge amount of weight loss and some ridiculous strength gains. 

There was a moment during the process that confirmed my desire and also shifted my perspective somewhat. It was, by my definition, a moment and not a minute. It was amidst that great lesson teacher we endured, the covid lockdown. This particular moment was in November 2020. We were locked down, in the hopes of 'saving Christmas.' I am not sure, entirely from what, Christmas needed to be saved. I was outside doing exercise. I had hired a strength coach and the text ‘Surely, we don’t work out in the snow?’ resulted in me walking a weary path down the hillside to the local common where the damp grass and worms awaited me. 

At this point, I reminded myself, it isn’t actually snowing. The clouds are looming grey and full of the stuff, and I will take a bullet for this one, it smells like snow.

Fifty-five minutes later and I am lying flat on my back on a grubby green mat. The workout is over and the snow is falling steadily. At that moment, as I sat up, a snowflake landed in my eye. If the angel of death had appeared and invited me forward with him, I would have chosen death itself. The thing is though, that moment changed my attitude toward my goal. It became surmountable for the moment and switched from an idea to a destination. A snowflake can do that you know!

Favourites

 

I love the concept of favourites. Perhaps it;s childish, it probably is, but I have a friend who I often name 'My favourite Chris' brief silence followed by top ten, easily top 25. I think he appreciates the bants. I think Madeliene L'Engle has the same sense of whimsy. In her book "Walking on Water' names Thomas Traherne as one of her favourite 17th century poets. He wrote this

'Certainly Adam and Eve in Paradise had not more sweete and curious apprehensions of the world than I when I was a child.'

She goes on to make a well rounded and considered answer about the development of language and the importance of understanding the motivation behind the change in the use of words. I agree with her, but my writing is not so eloquent and to be honest to be able to paraphrase her journey I would need to use more words than her. My recommendation is simple - read her book.

However,  my mind fixated on the practical outworking of the statement 'one of my favourite 17th century poets...' I would struggle to name ten 17th century poets. It set me to thinking, throw away line do that to me a lot. I could say my favourite young children's author - Julia Donaldson, my favourite literary theologian - Frederick Buechner. 

 Beyond that, I have a dream, not nearly as lofty as MLK's, that one day, I would like to use the phrase 'One of my favourite seventeenth century poets' to describe a poet and mean it. To be able to say, with authenticity, I have a favourite amoung my vast knowledge and experience of said authors. I would currently struggle tp name three seventeenth century poets.

 My writing would have such depth if my reading had more depth, and to be honest, my reading could use more breadth. I wonder how I would change if I could write such a thing. Reading changes you, it changes your perspective. Stories give you a window into someone elses life and at time a mirror into your own. 

It makes me realise, that all I can hope, is that there are books and a quiet corner in heaven. There I will sit for a few thousand years with some of the seventeenth century poets. At 3:36 one Friday afternoon, I will announce, which one is my favourite. The two of us will dance together down the streets of gold, blissfully, aware that, it makes no difference.

The BeeKeeper of Aleppo - A Review

The Beekeeper of Aleppo, is a tale for our time. It tells the tale of a family of migrants from Aleppo to the United Kingdom. The trials and tribulations they face, and that’s just navigating the UK social care system. At first, the characters playing the social workers grated on my nerves a little they were often brusque and rude to the clients. As the story developed and we were given an insight to the view of Britain by the rest of the world, perhaps, then I felt that the representation of these characters was at best accurate, and at worst slightly too sympathetic. 

The set design for this piece was absolutely stunning. Through projection and clever use of static pieces of scenery, the actors were able to convey a sense of space, whether they were in Aleppo, suburban England, or a boat in the Mediterranean. The actors responded and treated the space differently as they moved through the space. There was tension in their bodies as they were trying to understand the British social care system that wasn’t present in their bodies in their beloved Aleppo. They absolutely convinced me that nobody chooses to leave home; unless home is the jaw of a tiger.

The actors were excellent, and took on some very technical challenges with sophistication. Throughout the story the two main characters the physical circumstances of the two main characters alter dramatically. The timeline is non linear, so these changes must be depicted with skill and subtlety as the narrative shifts. Although, I may not have agreed with some of the choices they used to depict these shifts. I respect that, as an audience member, I was always aware of how the story was developing at that time. 

All good theatre should bring you to the quivering edge of raw humanity. The theatre has historically been an agent of social change and education. This play certainly painted a picture of Britain as an isolated and elitist bastion of white supremacy. It was the sort of play that should have incited riots, and public outcry for social change. However, judging by the conversation in the queue to pay for the parking next door, people were entertained by how similar it was to the book, and apathetic and hopeless about any kind of real change. That made me weep.

Swimming in Mustard

 

I have this picture from the epic Scott the Painter on my wall. I like how the detail of the hands mirror the ripples on the golden liquid. I find an immense sense of comfort when I realise that I do not have to row.

In the interest of full disclosure, I ordered it as a present for someone and it did not arrive in time, my fault entirely. I benefit from the fact that it now sits in my house. I have spent more than a little bit of time, staring and contemplating this image. I think it’s beautiful.

Anyway about a year ago, a small child asked me why I like that picture. I did not want to tell her. The mystery of art is discovering why you like it for yourself. So, I ask her the question, what does it remind you of and what do you think about, as you look at it?

Swimming in mustard is the only answer I can achieve. I giggle and mutter something about God holding me and me not needing to try. The moment passes.

She visits a few more times this five-year-old who has a way with words. The picture remains on the wall and is never mentioned.

These past few weeks have been tough, personally, financially, and relationally. Difficult, is the best way to describe them. She arrives to visit in a bundle of energy and questions! There’s a reason that I’ve written a little song where she is crowned ‘most curious girl in the whole wide world.’

We have been swimming and she’s a little tired, so I make some pizza and relax next to her on the couch. Part way through eating her pizza, she looks up and says, entirely unprompted

‘You know, God’s holding you wherever you go.’

She resumes eating pizza, as if this profound statement is as commonplace as cornflakes. I suppose that is how I want it to feel.

The point is that often, so much of learning, looks like seeing art and swimming in mustard. We get so much wrong, and that is how we learn. If the moment of unlearning had not occurred, the moment of real impact on my soul would not have occurred either. We are so quick to reach the solution, the correct answer, the resolution. Sometimes, I think we need to remember that we are held. That might just encourage us to swim in mustard a little bit more!

If a book's worth reading, it's worth buying... TWICE

I like to think I am clever, at least of average intelligence. I can hold my own in a conversation, and recently answered 6 questions in the sports round of a quiz. Six in the sports round, all the while I was pretending that they mattered. 

Anyway, I just purchased the biography of Truman Capote by Gerald Clarke. It has a picture of Philip Seymour Hoffman on the front, and as you can see says he starred in the film at the top. I started reading it, as I love a good biography. It all felt familiar, like London, I felt like I had read it before. 127 pages in I realised I have read it before. In fact, the copy I purchased from the second hand bookshop is in fact the copy I sold them back about 8 months ago in a ruthless purge of books, from my overflowing bookshelves. I sold it to them for £1.00 and purchased it back for £3.75 plus a large coffee and an average cake. Great, I am exactly £10 down on life.

I know it was my copy, because when I reached page 127, I found this post it note reminder, in a very familiar handwriting, to a former colleague. Fairly confident, I am £10 down and in big trouble because if it was inside the book I donated, I did not call him, no question.

Anyway, the book is brilliant, the film is captivating, and the book is worth buying TWICE.

This quote from page 127, is my favourite... Newton describing Capote

"You aren't a human being; not a mere human being, I mean," he later added. " I've been sure of that all along. You only have all the conceivable charm of a human being, but in fact you are a supernatural helper in patent leather pumps."

Anyway, I am going to say that Capote may well have done something very similar to buying the same copy of the same book twice. Have you ever done something a little mindless that has perhaps made you chuckle. Share in
the comments below, if you're brave enough, we could all do with a chuckle!

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The Islanders

Because I am a nerd, and because my closest friends home educate... I found myself at Fitzwilliam's museum recently on a day out in Cambridge. We had a very important date with a Chelsea bun so we decided to concentrate our visit on their special display called The Islanders. It did not disappoint. 

The display concentrated on the historical relationship between three Island communities, Cyprus, Crete and *Sardinia, from 4000 years ago until present day. The curation was exquisite and for most of the exhibit you felt like you were exploring a mystical ship. We explored the way they swapped materials, long before there were trade roustes. The role of women, the tools, pots and inventions that marked the development of this community across the Millennia. 

There was one black mug with red highlights which was in exquisite condition. It was created further away from the birth of Christ than we are today. It had not seen much life and must have sat in the cupboard without incident for millennia. It gave me a new level of respect for the way I treat my crockery which will not be around 4000 years from now. 

The exhibit concluded with the picture of the bowl that was created in 700 BC and was entitled, the story of the elders. One of my favourite authors is Frederick Buechner and my favourite quote of his, apart from all my other favourites, is this ‘I tell you my story, not because it is mine, heavens no. I tell you my story, because if I tell it anywhere near well enough, you will see, it is also yours.’ It came to mind, as I studied this artefact, because I have sat in circles like those people from 700bc, I have harnessed the power of a shared story and it has created space for those who were present to become better humans. This silent pottery reminded me that we were storytelling animals, that their story was also mine. That my friends and I who shared that exhibit had spent the entire day up to that point sharing stories, that were ours, that were all of ours. 

*In the interest of full disclosure before this day, I hadn’t even realised Sardinia was an island. Ho-Hum, every day is a school day.

Scarcity

A few weeks ago I wrote about the abundance of abundance in every season and how much it reminds me of M and m's. I feel a little disingenuous about it now that it is in the blogosphere. Scarcity is sometimes a reality. You only have to be a little bit thirsty on the last mile of a long walk to recognise the scarcity of water will not be nullified by the abundance of countryside flowers.

Sometimes, there is a little bit of month left at the end of the money, and that creates very real pressure. I read a study recently that looked at the IQ points of sugar cane farmers in India. Because of the nature of the industry, these farmers find themselves rich after the harvest and poor before it. Their IQs dropped by an average of 13 points in the weeks before the harvest. The stress poverty placed on their cognitive reasoning had a negative impact on their ability to think clearly. 

Scarcity has an impact on cognition. Poor people aren’t poor because they make poor choices. Often they make poor choices because they are poor and do not have the bandwidth to devote themselves to non-essential thought processes that might lead them out of poverty. Scarcity reduces your options. Sometimes, so drastically that you can consider nothing else but the most immediate concerns. 

Going back to my short-lived analogy of the last mile of the walk. There are a few options at that point! Become skilled in cow milking and kidnap a passing heifer, or suck it up and carry it on to the nearest pub. The point is that it overwhelms your brain and there is nothing else you can think of except your growing thirst. Each step is no longer marked by the beauty of your surroundings but rather a rhythmic repetition in your head that says ‘I am thirsty, I am thirsty, I am thirsty.’

I have no answer to this beyond, bearing one another’s burdens. The pressure we can relieve from each other when we just take a moment to sit alongside or invite to share an experience can relieve the impact of scarcity. It can create a moment of clarity simply with your presence. 

https://www.princeton.edu/news/2013/08/29/poor-concentration-poverty-reduces-brainpower-needed-navigating-other-areas-life