Autumn Mornings

Last September we got a puppy. She turned our lives upside down (mostly for the better – who can resist a happy puppy face in the morning and when you get home from work?) but probably the biggest change she made is that I now actually HAVE to get up when my alarm goes off in the morning. No more snoozing. No more lying awake but savouring the warmth of my duvet. I am not a morning person but I have actually found that, once I’m up and out, I genuinely enjoy my morning walks with the pup. Hubby and I alternate the morning walk so we both get alternate days where we can be a tad more lazy/slow to wake up. But on my walking days, even when it’s raining, it’s nice to start the day with some fresh air. I can listen to my audiobook or some season or mood appropriate music to set me up for the day. Sometimes I blog as I walk (like I am now) with breaks, of course, to throw a stick or chase my playful not-quite-a-pup-anymore, or just to watch her revel in the general joy of being a dog off the lead. It’s lovely.

But…

Now we are getting into autumn proper and winter is creeping it’s way toward the northern hemisphere, our morning walks are happening in the pitch black. I’m not so much watching the pup playing as I I am watching a disembodied LED collar trace circles round the park. Now, don’t get me wrong, I LOVE this time of year – the boots! The scarves! The autumnal food and music! It’s my favourite. And I still enjoy stepping out into the crisp morning air. But, this morning, as I walked, I couldn’t help but pen a realistic portrait of how I felt…

Wild & Improbable Tales – Hope in Invisible Prisons

Suspended inside iridescence, she watches the world pass by. It is beautiful. But she cannot reach it.

Rainbows ripple across the surface of her invisible prison, distorting the view: the hopeful land morphing into looming, shadowed threats; the lilting sound of laughter and music ringing hollow in her ears. She knows those terrors are lies but still her heart races in fear. She knows there is wonder and joy to be felt, but her head echoes with emptiness.

Some shadows loom larger and nearer than others and occasionally their undulating forms resolve into something familiar. Comforting. Her heart contracts with hope and love blooms somewhere deep in the pit of her twisting stomach, as a hand reaches out and penetrates the walls she has bloodied her fists trying to break.

They do not shatter, even now, but still the hand is there, holding hers.


“You’re a storyteller. Dream up something wild and improbable,” she pleaded. “Something beautiful and full of monsters.”

Strange The Dreamer by Laini Taylor

Inspired by Erin Morgenstern’s Flax-Golden Tales, I have decided to embark on my own creative writing blog series, “Wild & Improbable Tales”, as a way to write more freely and more frequently. At least once a week, I will choose a card at random from The School Of Life‘s ‘Small Pleasures’ box and use the image and/or writing on the back to inspire a short piece of creative writing. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

A Pause, A Ponder And Some Poetry

After a brief, unintentional hiatus, I’m back and trying to figure out how on Earth to balance a busy day job and a more-hectic-than-usual home life with the writing life I crave. During the summer lull, I had managed to start to create time during my days to write or at least play with ideas for writing. I had been posting regularly on the blog and creating regular content for my bookstagram account, both of which grew in followers and engagement. I was loving having the time to enjoy my creative life. And then the new term started. I was utterly snowed under within a matter of days and, even on the evenings when I wasn’t having to bring work home with me, I was so shattered and anxious from the accumulated stress of the work day and then the waiting housework that I had no energy for writing or taking photos, even when I could have found the time. So all of my creative pursuits fell by the wayside. My journal pages stayed empty. My notebook gathered dust. My latest blog post aged slowly in its corner of the internet. My bookstagram started to stagnate. And I felt guiltier and guiltier for not managing to summon the energy for these creative pursuits; for not managing to do it all.

I’ve still not managed to pull myself out of that particular guilt rut and I’m starting to realise it maybe runs a bit deeper than I’d thought.

It’s frustrating to feel I’ve lost the momentum that I had started to build – it all feels a bit ‘one step forwards and two steps back’. But I can’t deny that my brain – which is doing all sorts of unpleasant things right now – needed a break. Juggling all the many aspects of life (wonderful though most of them are) is exhausting sometimes. Occasionally, some balls are going to slip and fall. Sometimes it will take a while to recover them. And most of the time I know that’s ok.

I did manage a little flurry of bookstagram posts last week which I actually wanted to share here as well.

Last Thursday was National Poetry Day and, as I’m a huge poetry lover, I wanted to take the chance to share some of my favourite poets/poetry collections. So following my pause and my ponder, I present you with some poetry recommendations:

First up is the fabulous Nikita Gill whose poetry is a poignant reminder that though we may be inconsequential in the grand scheme of the universe we are each as miraculous as the stars. Beautiful, lyrical, empowering poetry.

Next up is Nocturnal by the oh so talented Wilder – I absolutely ADORE this collection. Not only is the poetry thought provoking, moving and beautifully written, but the book is exquisitely designed with accompanying illustrations by the author. I devoured this when I first got it and turned back to the first page for a reread as soon as I’d finished. Simply gorgeous.

Another favourite poetry collection of mine is Chasers Of The Light by Tyler Knott Gregson – simple and elegant, these appealingly presented typewriter poems show the power of poetry to capture poignancy in the smallest moments.

I fell in love with Amanda Lovelace’s poetry with her first collection – the princess saves herself in this one – but for me, her second collection – the witch doesn’t burn in this one – is something truly remarkable. Raw and empowering, Lovelace uses not just the words but the form of her poems to raise a call to arms at the same time as inviting you into the embrace of the sisterhood. This collection raised the hairs on my arms with its power and the connection it offers.

Last but certainly not least in my poetry favourites is this exquisite book from Robert MacFarlane and Jackie Morris – the illustrations are absolutely stunning, seeming to live right off the page, and combined with the wonderful collection of acrostic poetry celebrating the natural world bring back all the wonders of a childhood spent in the garden and exploring the woods. Filled with nostalgia, hope and marvel this collection is the antidote to our hectic digital lives. You’ll want to wander in the great outdoors from the first page.

Do you have a favourite poem, poet or collection of poetry? If so, I’d love to hear about it in the comments as I’m always on the look out for new poetry to enjoy.

Network Error

The ever so lovely tiggsybabes shared this image on Instagram earlier this week and oh how I laughed…and laughed and laughed and finally cried. It rang so true for me at the moment! My mind is definitely an overloaded internet browser right now, with poor connectivity, multiple network errors and more frozen screens than I care to count. I’m also pretty sure there are some secret tabs open in the background somewhere, all running important programmes that I’ve forgotten about.

Inspired by Tiggsybabes post to try and have a little fun with my current chaos, here – for your amusement – are my many brain tabs:

  • I would like a nap.
  • Why aren’t Time-Turners real?
  • If I could do magic I would be able to clean my house without getting up off the sofa.
  • Shoot…I was supposed to…that thing…nope, it’s gone.
  • I really need new boots.
  • I still haven’t read Lord Of The Flies
  • Oh, that book looks good!
  • I should really stop buying books.
  • I need to plan my reading interventions.
  • Did I pick my printing up? Where did I put it?
  • I’m going to make a real effort to eat more healthily…I wonder if there’s any chocolate in the house.
  • I wonder what my daemon would be…
  • Note to self: kitchen roll doesn’t go in the fridge.
  • What day is it?
  • How is my meter reading lower than last month…?
  • PUPPIES!
  • Autumn is the best. Look how pretty the leaves are!
  • Wearing jumpers makes me happy.
  • I’d like a nap.
  • …where is that music coming from?
  • Coffee Shop Writer

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    There is something endlessly appealing about sitting and writing in a coffee shop. Sinking into the words as the gentle percolation of humanity bubbles around you. A low hubbub accompanied by the smell of coffee and pastries. It’s not something I often get the chance to do so when the opportunity arises it feels like a real treat and privilege.

    It’s the atmosphere I love most (although the rich, coffee shop coffee certainly adds to the experience) but I also love the opportunity to people watch. The grey haired gentleman sat by the window, reading a paper and sipping his americano. The two friends catching up in the corner, two tea pots and two empty hot chocolate glasses cluttering their table – a testament to their long conversation which has no sign of breaking up any time soon. The mum with her children peering at the pastries on the counter, noses pressed near to the glass which holds all the cake, wide eyed in anticipation of the coming sugar! The one or two scattered individuals, including myself, who sit tapping away on keyboards – I wonder what they are writing. Catching up on emails, maybe. Writing an article or a blog post or even the next great novel.

    In this little corner of this little town, people are creating and loving and living. So am I. And isn’t that the most wonderful thing?

    x

    Merry Of Soul

    Sing me a song of a lass that is gone,

    Say, could that lass be I?

    Merry of soul she sailed on a day

    Over the sea to Skye.

    Billow and breeze, islands and seas,

    Mountains of rain and sun,

    All that was good, all that was fair,

    All that was me is gone.

    Sing me a song of a lass that is gone,

    Say, could that lass be I?

    Merry of soul she sailed on a day

    Over the sea to Skye.

    We’re up in Scotland for a break away from all the building and DIY chaos at home. A little cottage in a little village, nestled in the midst of the Machar peninsula is just the ticket after weeks of plaster dust and builders in the house.

    I had the Skye Boat Song (specifically the Outlander theme arrangement) in my head for the whole journey up here.

    Scotland and I have a long and beautiful history. Many of my childhood holidays were spent in various Scottish locales and my memories of this beautiful country are filled with joy and wonder. It has always felt like a magical place to me. Even more than that, it somehow feels like home.

    I love the wildness of the landscape.

    I love the Celtic history, culture and folklore.

    I love that it feels like a world away and coming home at the same time.

    I’m so happy to discover a new part of Scotland with my love and our happy little pup. It was a fair drive up so for now we’re curling up in our cottage with books and food and nothing to worry about.

    Happy Monday and ‘merry of soul’ indeed.

    x

    The Sacred Everyday

    Some time ago, I discovered the Harry Potter And The Sacred Text podcast. This was a wonderful discovery. HP and the Sacred Text takes one of my (and the world’s) most beloved series of books, and engaged with them in a thoughtful and inquisitive way, exploring the lessons and ideas the story has to offer us and providing tools for treating any text – and I would argue any part of life – as sacred.

    Here’s how the founders and hosts, Vanessa and Casper, explain what they are trying to do with the podcast:

    This podcast creates time in your week to think about life’s big questions. Because reading fiction doesn’t help us escape the world, it helps us live in it.

    On this podcast, we ask: What if we read the books we love as if they were sacred texts? 

    Each week, we explore a central theme through which to explore the characters and context, always grounding ourselves in the text. We’ll engage in traditional forms of sacred reading to unearth the hidden gifts within even the most mundane sentences.

    Vanessa and Casper are so thoughtful and engaging in their exploration of Harry Potter and I have taken great joy and great comfort in approaching these much loved books in a new way.

    I am also intrigued by the idea of viewing those things that might be considered ‘everyday’ as sacred, especially in light of my recent musings on my experience of religion and the church. When I was actively involved in the Christian church, one of the things I loved most about it was the chance to take a more considered approach to reading a text. I enjoyed the opportunity to explore deeper meanings and ideas and desperately wanted the change to question those ideas. The sacred practices shared on Harry Potter and the Sacred Text allow me to do just that.

    On a recent episode, Vanessa beautifully broke down the elements they believe are necessary for applying this kind of sacred practice to wider contexts – not just the reading of any text but to things like writing or running – and I loved the simple clarity of it so much that I wanted to share it with you today.

    1. Faith – you must have faith that the more you do or engage with something the more gifts you will receive from it. If I persistently dedicate time to reading, writing, running, cooking or any other thing, then those things will reward me more and more.
    2. Rigour – the time you give to these things will be more rewarding still if you approach them with rigour. By ritualising the processes you use, the time you spend will be more focused and valuable. If I want to approach the reading of a text in a rigorous way, I can take notes and I can research or discuss the ideas that arise. If I want to approach my writing in a rigorous and sacred way, I can switch off my phone and focus my attention, I can carry out a mindfulness meditation before I begin.
    3. Community – find others to share the process with. By engaging in these practices alongside like-minded individuals – or even very un-like-minded individuals – you open up more opportunities for questioning, exploring and sharing ideas. If I share ideas about a text with people in my community, their ideas further enrich my own and open my mind to new perspectives. If I share my writing with other writers and readers, I will better understand the impact of my words and will be able to share the struggles and triumphs of the process.
  • I love the possibility that anything in life can be treated as sacred if we only give it the right attention and approach it with intention to do so. This is something I hope to explore and experiment with, especially with regards to writing.
  • I’d love to hear if you decide to give it a go (or decide to listen to the podcast!) too.
  • My Beloved Monster And Me

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    I have written, deleted and rewritten the opening lines of this post so many times I lost count. I have had a few days of severe anxiety and very little sleep, and as part of my efforts to honestly express what I’m feeling I wanted to write something describing my experiences. Verbalising (or in this case typing!) the reality of these experiences is difficult but helpful. The opening lines of this post proved to be the hardest to write because I kept including the phrase ‘living with mental illness’, and every time I wrote it something in me shrank away in a ball of shame and fear. In spite of my advocacy of openness when it comes to sharing experiences of mental health and mental illness, I sometimes really struggle to live by it myself. I worry about how I will be perceived. I worry about not having ‘a real reason’ to justify my experiences of mental illness, even though I know that mental illness sometimes just is, that it doesn’t always have a reason behind it or a specific trigger. I somehow still feel like I should have a reason. And if I don’t, it’s simply another failure in what my brain tells me is a long list of failures.

    But I’m here and I’m trying so here goes.

    “Anxiety does not mean you are weak. Anxiety forges you. Living with anxiety, turning up and doing stuff with anxiety, takes a strength most will never know. Have anxiety for two decades and you have lived several lifetimes, and have won many invisible wars.”

    – Matt Haig

    Matt Haig has a wonderful gift for putting into words things which sometimes feel inexpressible. There is a lot about living with mental illness that feels inexpressible. I am still in the process of learning a) that it’s ok – good, even – to verbalise what bouts of mental ill-health feel like and b) how, exactly, to put those experiences into words. So often, the explanations I find myself giving either feel inadequate or melodramatic. The problem with something like anxiety, though, is that the experience itself is melodramatic. There is no calm reasoning with anxiety. There is no downplaying it. (Not whilst it’s happening anyway.) It is sheer, unadulterated fear and panic. For me, that fear and panic is often without any cause at all or with a tiny trigger that, logically, is inconsequential.

    It is, quite frankly, exhausting.

    My anxiety often manifests itself in a very physical way, sometimes even before I’ve become aware of any anxious thoughts. I become very cold. I shake and tremble. I can feel adrenaline coursing in my veins. I feel nauseated. My head pounds. My stomach roils. I can’t breathe comfortably. It is a very uncomfortable, very visceral experience that can last anywhere from a couple of hours to a couple of weeks, and at whatever point it finally passes I am completely drained – physically and emotionally. It also doesn’t help that it most often strikes at night and either stops me sleeping restfully or stops me sleeping at all. Sleep deprivation doesn’t help matters.

    All the time my body is going haywire with these fear induced symptoms, one of two things happens in my brain. I sometimes experience a profound disconnectedness from the world – derealisation – which feels like a sort of silent scream: as though I am suspended frozen in a bubble of chaos, which is invisible to everyone else so they carry on with life and the world spins as normal but I am drowning. To borrow some more of Matt Haig’s words: “To other people, it sometimes seems like nothing at all. You are walking around with your head on fire and no one can see the flames.” I find this a particularly useful metaphor because most of the time I am able to continue ‘walking around’ and function as normal, so anyone watching me or interacting with me, outside my nearest and dearest, probably wouldn’t notice anything was wrong. I have always counted myself lucky to be able to do this because I know for many people anxiety and other mental illness can be completely debilitating. Nevertheless, it is a very surreal experience and not a pleasant one.

    The other thing that happens in my brain – and this is the one that usually happens when the panic rises at night with no-one around to see – is that I ping-pong between extreme emotional turmoil, where I am overwhelmed by fear and despair, and extreme rationalisation, where I try to logic it all away, convincing myself there’s nothing to fear. Now that second part might not seem all that bad, but I’m starting to think it is actually the most dangerous part of the experience. Because the rationalisations, which start in fact (you’re safe, this problem is not as big as it feels, these feelings will pass etc.) very quickly turn into accusations of inadequacy, and an internal monologue of self-shaming. If anyone else spoke to me in the way I speak to myself in these moments I would consider it an abusive relationship. If I ever heard anyone speaking to my friends or family the way I speak to myself in these moments I would be angrily leaping to their defence to stop such unnecessary and hateful language being directed at them. And yet whilst I know this, I can’t seem to stop. And it becomes a vicious cycle. I panic, I shame myself for feeling things I don’t think I ‘should’ feel, I berate myself for not being able to ‘just pull it together’, and then I panic more because what if it never ends?

    That is a dark place to be.

    Something I have recently explored with a counsellor is that my reflex responses at times of high anxiety or panic are either to fight it or try and suppress it (hence the ping-ponging). Neither of these responses is helpful and, in fact, seem to make things worse. The counsellor suggested instead that I try accepting the state and presence of anxiety and sit with it. To acknowledge the feelings and give myself permission to feel them. I know, in my heart of hearts, that this is the step I need to take. That reaching a point of acceptance will be, at the very least, helpful in moving forward. But it is so hard to do. How do you sit with and accept something that every fibre of your being rebels against? Something that feels so wholly uncomfortable, even painful? It’s the anxiety dilemma all over again: when I’m anxious I know that I’m safe but don’t feel that I’m safe and I don’t know how to get from A to B; I know in order to deal with this I need to accept it but I don’t know how to accept it.

    It has been a really long journey to get to the place that I’m at now. It’s been twelve years since someone first put a name to what I was living with. I don’t even know how many years I’d been experiencing it before that. Years of anxiety and panic attacks, medication and various counsellors, meditation and mindfulness programmes, some of which has helped, some of which hasn’t. I have to keep reminding myself that I have come a long way. I would never have been able to speak (and write) so openly about these experiences when they first started. One of the things that has helped me most on this journey so far is hearing about other people’s experiences. Knowing I’m not alone in them helps massively. So that’s why I’m sharing my own. Even though it’s uncomfortable to do so. A bit at a time, I’m trying to turn my story from one of despair at the hands of a beast I can’t control to one of hope and acceptance. A tale of my beloved monster and me.

    Whatever your own experiences of mental illness and wherever you are in your journey, keep going. It’s tough but you’re really not alone, however much it feels like it.

     

    If you’re unsure how or who to ask for help the resources and websites below might be a good place to start. Take care of yourselves and each other, lovely people. 💛

    ECBC Manchester – https://ecbcmanchester.com

    The Blurt Foundation – https://www.blurtitout.org

    The Samaritans – http://www.samaritans.org

    Mind – http://www.mind.org.uk

    Young Minds – http://www.youngminds.org.uk

    Papyrus (prevention of young suicide) – https://www.papyrus-uk.org

    Self Harm UK – https://www.selfharm.co.uk

    Time to Change – http://www.time-to-change.org.uk

    Rethink Mental Illness – http://www.rethink.org

    American Foundation for Suicide Prevention – https://www.afsp.org

    In This Moment

    Outside my window… the sky stretches wide and blue overhead, streaked with wisps of white. The air is warm and still. The street is quiet. A summer weekday morning lull has settled over the neighbourhood. There is a white butterfly flutter past, stark against the red brick of the house across the road.

    I am thinking… that I should probably get on with the work I have to do but I’m enjoying taking a moment to relax so I’m going to ignore that nagging should, just for a little while.

    I am thankful… for the school holidays and the opportunities they give me. For the incredible friends and family I have around me. For the opportunities that are presenting themselves and the support from those around me to take them.

    In the kitchen… there is currently complete chaos as the whole room is about to be ripped out and rebuilt! That’s the work I should be doing…finishing packing it up…just a little bit more lazy time first.

    I am wearing… black treggings and a rust t-shirt – comfy clothes for a mooching round the house kind of day.

    I am creating… a novel, a blog series, a collection of poetry and short stories, bookstagram content – so much of my creating these days is in writing form. It feels new and exciting and I love it.

    I am going… to get around to packing up the kitchen…really soon…honest…

    I am wondering… if I can squeeze a nap in somewhere today.

    I am reading… Notes On A Nervous Planet, The Summer That Melted Everything, A Wrinkle In Time, Harry Potter And The Half Blood Prince…this list goes on and on.

    I am praying for… for calm.

    I am hoping… for a smooth kitchen installation over the next couple of weeks.

    I am looking forward to… a trip to Gladstone’s library with my mum in a few weeks time.

    I am learning… that sometimes we have to accept uncomfortable truths and unpleasant feelings in order to deal with them and move on.

    Around the house… it’s all very chaotic! The kitchen is in disarray, the dining room is piled high with boxes containing the new kitchen, the lounge currently has old furniture we’re getting rid of waiting to be collected later today, the main bathroom is tile-less and covered in plaster dust ready for its own makeover…I’m trying to focus on how fabulous it will all be when the work is done.

    I am pondering… the direction I want to take.

    A favourite quote for today… (I’m cheating and using a whole poem…)

    One of my favourite things… is curling up under a blanket with a good book or a good film and forgetting the world for a bit.

    A few plans for the rest of the week:

    Finish packing up the kitchen.

    Take some photos for bookstagram.

    Watch some TV.

    Read some books.

    Nap.

    A peek into my day…

    This Is My Church

    I have had a strange and convoluted relationship with religion. It was not a particularly prominent part of my upbringing; we went to church at Christmas for the carols and that was about it. It was only when I was in my final year of secondary school that I began to give religion and the idea of God any real consideration. I made a friend to whom faith, religion, and a relationship with the divine was very important. She invited me into that world. A place I had never explored or even considered before. I quickly felt it to be my home.

    I went from being someone who had always felt a little on the outside, never quite fitting anywhere, to someone who felt warmly accepted, even loved, and who was surrounded by friends. It was a dizzying experience. Being with those people felt so different from what I had grown used to. Don’t get me wrong, I had had friends but I never quite felt like I had found my people, never quite felt like I fit comfortably within my friendships groups. And here, suddenly, I felt a sense of belonging that I don’t think I had even realised I was missing. Not only did I meet a whole host of people who were friendly, welcoming, and interested in me, but they gave me space to ask big questions: questions I didn’t even realise I wanted to ask! A whole new realm of possibility, not just for my own immediate life but for what I knew of the world, opened up before me.

    It was exhilarating and I immersed myself in it entirely.

    I joined worship groups, I went to church every Sunday – sometimes twice – I spent all my free time with this new group of people, I started reading the bible hungrily, I went to Christian camps and festivals and I volunteered with my local church. I attended regular bible study with the youth group and within a few short months I was preparing for confirmation. When I look back at it now it all seems to have happened so quickly but at the time I was so swept up in the feeling of acceptance, that everything I was doing felt right.

    Shortly after this whirlwind introduction to the world of the Christian church I entered a difficult period of my life. I was grateful for the faith I had found because it gave me hope and something to turn to. After an finishing college, a year later than planned, I began my first full time job working for the CofE administrative offices in Manchester. My relationship and involvement with the church had changed, mostly because all my friends had moved away to university and I found that I felt vulnerable attending church without them, but it was still an important part of my life.

    I spent the next six years working for the church in different capacities: receptionist, property and finance administrator, and finally Lead Youth Worker for an ecumenical project. Over that time, my perception of and relationship with the church changed a lot, as did my faith. I sadly found that the more involved I became the less welcome and accepted I felt. I found myself increasingly uncomfortable in church services, whatever the denomination, and I had more and more questions and doubts but they were met with far less acceptance than they had been when I was newly discovering the religion.

    I would like to clarify, at this point, that some of the best people I have ever known are committed Christians and/or people I met through the church and I am forever grateful for their presence in my life. I met my husband through a church youth group and if it had not been for my foray into faith through this particular path, my life would look very different indeed, and I think I would have been considerably worse off than I am now, in all sorts of ways.

    But it reached a point where I felt increasingly uncomfortable in churches and in many Christian circles. I encountered so much hypocrisy, which still saddens and frustrates me greatly because, again, I know the church as a body (or rather as several bodies) to be full of wonderful, good-hearted individuals. And yet that hypocrisy was there and it did not sit well with me at all. I was made, on too many occasions, to feel that my faith was inadequate. That my time for asking questions had passed and I should now accept and believe what the church told me, however ill it sat with my soul.

    And I couldn’t continue to do it any more.

    So I left.

    I left my church related jobs and voluntary positions, I stopped attending services, I had already stopped reading the bible except when necessity dictated and I rarely prayed anymore. I felt a mixture of grief and anger. I felt betrayed, tricked by what seemed like a false sense of security and acceptance laid out before me when I had been vulnerable with a need I didn’t recognise.

    I still felt that I had faith. I had had experiences over those years in the church that had convinced me of the existence of something far greater than myself. That unknown and unknowable force that I had felt touch my life did not fit with the God I had been told about but it felt like what I somehow inherently felt God to be, so that is what I call it. I felt like what I had thought was my faith had been stripped bare, taken back to this tiny nugget of something, fragile but full of life and possibility. And I decided to sit with it. To prod it and poke it with questions, to allow myself all the doubts I had been told to deny, and to wait. To give this little thing the time and space to grow.

    And grow it did. Into something beautiful and powerful and flexible. Something that grows and changes as I do but that holds me as an anchor. And the church in which this faith has grown? It is the world. My faith has grown in the brilliant summer sun over golden grasses swaying in the wind; in watching the Milky Way wheel over head in countryside far from city lights; in an unexpected downpour that soaks to the skin; in the crescendo of music in a darkened theatre that raises the hair on my arms; in the soft skin and milk smell of the newborn children of friends and family; in the incredible, resilient young people I have had the privilege to work with; in the sunsets and sunrises, in the laughter and the tears, in the hopes and dreams and fears of a life lived fully and to the best of my ability. It has grown in allowing myself the space to know my own mind and recognise when my heart tells me what is right and what is wrong.

    It isn’t perfect. But it’s true. This is my church. And truly anyone is welcome here.