As I think I may already have mentioned, I’ve just become a granny for the first time. (Pause for exaggerated yawns) A couple of days ago, I went with my daughter-in-law and grandson for the weekly weigh-in at the local baby clinic. It’s nearly thirty years since I’ve set foot in a baby clinic and I was astonished at the sheer volume of everything: nifty light-weight prams as far as the eye could see; babies of all shapes and sizes in various stages of undress; young mums breast-feeding, bottle-feeding, changing nappies, logging down today’s weight and comparing anxiously with last week’s, asking advice of the professionals and exchanging baby chat with one another. A lot of these new mums had been holding their own in the workplace only a few weeks before, thinking they were hard pushed and stressed out. Now, plunged into the 24 hour demands of messy, exhausting, bewildering, full-on childcare, they realise life at the office was a doddle.
I’m a bit ashamed to admit that for the past thirty years, I haven’t taken much notice of the young mum brigade. Okay, I’ve stepped off the pavement for the occasional push-chair, quietly changed seats on a plane to avoid the toddler in the seat behind, and made the right noises at other peoples’ baby photos (oh the joy of finally getting my own back!). But now suddenly, a whole sector of the community is on my personal radar and it’s taken first-hand experience to put it there. And maybe that’s the way it works. Most of the time we float around in our own personal bubble. In some ways that’s inevitable. It takes God and life to prick the bubble occasionally, make us wise up to all those other bubbles out there in the ether. It took a brush with breast cancer to take me inside the cancer sufferers’ bubble, to put the oncology unit at my local hospital onto my radar and into my prayers. It took the mental health problems of a family member to make me similarly aware of the local psychiatric hospitals. And having a son who’s gay, took me inside a bubble that encompasses a world-wide community, many suffering terrible, violent prejudice and rejection, sometimes in the very places where you’d think they’d be most entitled to love and respect.
Yesterday evening, we went to a wonderful Haydn concert at St Mary’s Cathedral in Edinburgh. The centrepiece of this concert was the choral work, ‘Seven Last Words from the Cross’. The audience was largely middle-aged and middle class, well-behaved and savvy about clapping in the right places. Near the end of the final piece, ‘Father into thy hands I commend my spirit’, a humble little statuette caught my eye, a mother holding a child, simply carved in unpretentious wood. The sight of it, combined with the equally simple words I was listening to, brought a lump to my throat. I prayed for my lovely daughter-in-law, at home in her flat, struggling to convince my fretful grandson that night-time is designed for sleeping. And then my prayer spread out to other young mums throughout the city, some of them bringing up children single-handed with inadequate resources and no support network.
For perfectly good reasons, no-one would have wanted a crowd of screaming babies and their harassed mothers at last night’s concert, but the quiet presence of that little statue, tucked away in a corner of the vast cathedral, was a reminder of all the people that need commending into a loving Father’s hands, those who might be disbarred from a concert but never from our lives.
Have you had any bubbles burst? How has it changed your outlook on life?
Thursday 31 March 2011
Saturday 26 March 2011
Getting mad at God
Course correction
I'm a book-a-holic and whether I'm in Lectoure or Edinburgh, in both places I love being a member of a Book Group. I'm a bit of an absentee member in Edinburgh as the meetings rarely coincide with our spells in Scotland, but I appreciate being kept up with the book choices by email and try to read along where I can. The most recent choice for the Edinburgh group, which is affiliated to St Mary's Anglican Cathedral, was the Archbishop of Canterbury's Lent book for 2011, 'Barefoot Disciple' by Stephen Cherry. It's a 'bite off in small chunks and digest slowly' kind of book, so over the past week I've been taking a small bite each morning. It's proving to be a real course correction exercise for me, helping me to face up to the fact that, increasingly, over the past few months, I've been getting mad with God.
A visit to the dentist
I don't mean mad about tsunamis and earthquakes, world hunger and terrible injustice. I get mad for different reasons about these things, but I don't necessarily lay the blame at God's door. But I realise I am resentful about what I perceive as God thwarting me in my attempts to achieve my writing goals. Written down, that looks incredibly lame and on the scale of world suffering it is, but it seems a writer needs an agent if they're to make real progress in their career and over the past few years, I've experienced the slow drip, drip discouragement of rejection from literary agents, or (and in some ways, this is worse) the excitement of an agent showing interest, the feeling of taxiing down the runway at last, only to have take-off aborted, followed by return to another long wait in the departure lounge. 'Tell me about it' will be the cry of so many fellow writers, 'been there, done that, got the tee-shirt', so I'm not pretending that my chapter of set-backs and disappointments is in any way unique, but it is unique to me. I've experienced far graver personal and family problems in my life and I'm thankful that God has faithfully brought me through them all, but this particular experience is like nagging tooth-ache; it's always there in the background, not life threatening but a niggling ache that wheedles its way into everything I do. So Stephen Cherry's book feels like a long-overdue visit to the dentist.
A tumble down the cellar stairs
His book is about humility and is based on the premise that if we seek humility, we've failed at the first hurdle, because to pride yourself on being humble is an obvious contradiction in terms. At the beginning of his book, he describes an accidental tumble down a cellar staircase, and the ensuing bruises to his body and his pride. He then goes on to say:
I suspect that most genuine growth in humility is not sought. Rather we find it coming to meet us as we discover that our preferred way (the way of self-confidence, self-achievement, self-justification, self-admiration, self-consciousness, in fact self-everything) starts to go wrong. Most people will be spared a tumble down a long staircase, but they will experience something like it. That is, they will not seek the lowest place, but they will find the lowest place coming to meet them with a wallop.
In common with most of the human race, I would never aspire to the lowest place and I'm certainly not advocating lack of ambition. But I'm beginning to see the frustrations of the past few years from a different perspective, as a means of giving me something far more valuable than a publisher's contract (although that would also be nice!).
'And blessed is he, whosoever shall not be offended in me.' Luke 7:23
Are you offended with God for some reason? Do you see life in those terms or do you approach setbacks differently?
I'm a book-a-holic and whether I'm in Lectoure or Edinburgh, in both places I love being a member of a Book Group. I'm a bit of an absentee member in Edinburgh as the meetings rarely coincide with our spells in Scotland, but I appreciate being kept up with the book choices by email and try to read along where I can. The most recent choice for the Edinburgh group, which is affiliated to St Mary's Anglican Cathedral, was the Archbishop of Canterbury's Lent book for 2011, 'Barefoot Disciple' by Stephen Cherry. It's a 'bite off in small chunks and digest slowly' kind of book, so over the past week I've been taking a small bite each morning. It's proving to be a real course correction exercise for me, helping me to face up to the fact that, increasingly, over the past few months, I've been getting mad with God.
A visit to the dentist
I don't mean mad about tsunamis and earthquakes, world hunger and terrible injustice. I get mad for different reasons about these things, but I don't necessarily lay the blame at God's door. But I realise I am resentful about what I perceive as God thwarting me in my attempts to achieve my writing goals. Written down, that looks incredibly lame and on the scale of world suffering it is, but it seems a writer needs an agent if they're to make real progress in their career and over the past few years, I've experienced the slow drip, drip discouragement of rejection from literary agents, or (and in some ways, this is worse) the excitement of an agent showing interest, the feeling of taxiing down the runway at last, only to have take-off aborted, followed by return to another long wait in the departure lounge. 'Tell me about it' will be the cry of so many fellow writers, 'been there, done that, got the tee-shirt', so I'm not pretending that my chapter of set-backs and disappointments is in any way unique, but it is unique to me. I've experienced far graver personal and family problems in my life and I'm thankful that God has faithfully brought me through them all, but this particular experience is like nagging tooth-ache; it's always there in the background, not life threatening but a niggling ache that wheedles its way into everything I do. So Stephen Cherry's book feels like a long-overdue visit to the dentist.
A tumble down the cellar stairs
His book is about humility and is based on the premise that if we seek humility, we've failed at the first hurdle, because to pride yourself on being humble is an obvious contradiction in terms. At the beginning of his book, he describes an accidental tumble down a cellar staircase, and the ensuing bruises to his body and his pride. He then goes on to say:
I suspect that most genuine growth in humility is not sought. Rather we find it coming to meet us as we discover that our preferred way (the way of self-confidence, self-achievement, self-justification, self-admiration, self-consciousness, in fact self-everything) starts to go wrong. Most people will be spared a tumble down a long staircase, but they will experience something like it. That is, they will not seek the lowest place, but they will find the lowest place coming to meet them with a wallop.
In common with most of the human race, I would never aspire to the lowest place and I'm certainly not advocating lack of ambition. But I'm beginning to see the frustrations of the past few years from a different perspective, as a means of giving me something far more valuable than a publisher's contract (although that would also be nice!).
'And blessed is he, whosoever shall not be offended in me.' Luke 7:23
Are you offended with God for some reason? Do you see life in those terms or do you approach setbacks differently?
Monday 21 March 2011
There will be no miracles here
St Bernard's WellOn Saturday we took an afternoon walk by Edinburgh’s Water of Leith, from Stockbridge to the Dean Art Gallery. A network of these walkways criss-crosses the city, accessed from the bustling city streets by steep stone stairways or narrow lanes. Just a few yards and you’ve left the crowds and the traffic behind. The only noise is the tumult of birdsong and the sound of the waters, in places flowing gently, in others crashing over weirs and cascading over rocks. The place is a popular haunt for walkers, cyclists, parents pushing prams, people exercising dogs, anyone who seeks a break from the city streets and a brief urban taste of the countryside. The only hazard is the occasional kamikaze cyclist!
An Ancient Well
All along your route, whichever path you take, there are excuses to pause, get your breath back and study something interesting. Our first halt was St Bernard’s Well, discovered, according to legend, by Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, founder of the Cistercian Order, in the 12th Century. Afflicted with sickness, he went to live in a cave near the Water of Leith. He noticed birds drinking from a spring, followed their example and regained his strength. An unlikely health cure, but a charming legend. However, there must have been something in it, because in the late 18th century, the well became a popular place for ‘taking the waters.’ Thomas Nelson Publishers even bought the well at one point, so they must have considered it a canny acquisition! A Doric rotunda was added and a fetching marble statue of Hygieia, Goddess of Health was installed. Sadly, these days, Hygieia is decorative but redundant. People are more likely to sign up at the gym to get fit.
A Bold Statement
Our destination, Dean Gallery, housed in an imposing former Victorian orphanage, is surrounded by parkland. On our way up the path to the main entrance, we stopped short to look at an arresting installation on the wide lawn in front of the house, erected by 2007 Turner prize nominated artist Nathan Coley on a length of towering scaffolding. In letters a couple of feet high, we read the bold statement ‘THERE WILL BE NO MIRACLES HERE', words borrowed from a royal 17th century edict in the French village of Modseine, when its residents were fed up with sensation-seeking sightseers.
Framed against a 21st century Edinburgh cityscape, even the backdrop to the installation belied the message: glimpses of trees, the towers and turrets of ancient buildings and monuments, an historic well where many sought healing, the rich architectural heritage of Edinburgh with the Water of Leith flowing at its heart. Maybe no-one takes the waters from St Bernard’s Well any more, but there’s a sense in which every walker and pram pusher (yes, and even kamikaze cyclist) expresses the need for those miraculous, restorative waters to flow through their lives, the sense of being ‘led beside the still waters’ (Psalm 23) in the midst of the stresses and pressures we all cope with every day.
Gazing at Nathan Coley’s massive installation, I was impressed by the artistic statement, but unconvinced by the message. I thought of the miracle of more than £74 million, raised in recession hit Britain last Friday evening in response to a Comic Relief Gift Aid appeal; the miracle of the Japanese doctor I saw interviewed on TV, working 24 hours at a stretch on only a few handfuls of rice, to help relieve the unimaginable suffering of his people.
Yes, there ARE miracles here.
Framed against a 21st century Edinburgh cityscape, even the backdrop to the installation belied the message: glimpses of trees, the towers and turrets of ancient buildings and monuments, an historic well where many sought healing, the rich architectural heritage of Edinburgh with the Water of Leith flowing at its heart. Maybe no-one takes the waters from St Bernard’s Well any more, but there’s a sense in which every walker and pram pusher (yes, and even kamikaze cyclist) expresses the need for those miraculous, restorative waters to flow through their lives, the sense of being ‘led beside the still waters’ (Psalm 23) in the midst of the stresses and pressures we all cope with every day.
Gazing at Nathan Coley’s massive installation, I was impressed by the artistic statement, but unconvinced by the message. I thought of the miracle of more than £74 million, raised in recession hit Britain last Friday evening in response to a Comic Relief Gift Aid appeal; the miracle of the Japanese doctor I saw interviewed on TV, working 24 hours at a stretch on only a few handfuls of rice, to help relieve the unimaginable suffering of his people.
Yes, there ARE miracles here.
What's your take on miracles?
Friday 18 March 2011
Beware of talking to your toothbrush
Your i-phone is not a person
This morning I woke to the sound of a beep-beep warning signal from my husband's i-phone. He'd had to park outside a resident's permit zone the night before and didn't want to forget he needed to move the car. Edinburgh's parking regulations are draconian. Only yesterday I watched a car being craned away from outside our flat like a prize toy in a funfair slot machine. Good spectator sport if you don't happen to be the motorist who's trangressed, but a sober reminder that you don't mess with the traffic wardens in these parts.
"Okay, okay, I know, I'm going," my husband said to his phone.
"Your phone is not a person," I told him.
Then I had to confess that only the other day I'd apologised to my sonic toothbrush. It had flashed up the low battery signal three days running and I'd been in too much of a rush to re-charge it. On the third day, when it gave its mournful beep, I heard myself say, "I'm sorry, I'll do it, okay?"
Laptop seduction
We laughed about it, but it set me thinking. I have a morning tussle with myself these days. I like to begin the day with a time of quiet meditation and prayer. It's always a rewarding start, especially when life is hectic - so why am I always prey to something else jostling it out? Lately, the 'something else' has been social networking. I sit down with my Bible and notebook and my laptop immediately starts its seduction tactics.
"You should check your emails. You never know, you might have something from an agent."
"You didn't get round to tweeting much yesterday. You only get as much out of it as you put in. Your followers will start to lose interest."
"You didn't follow up a Facebook message last night. You should check it out this morning."
I've now started leaving my laptop in the drawer until I'm ready for it. That way, at least its come-ons are muffled!
Don't get me wrong, I think social networking is great, but let's face it, my twitter followers, Facebook friends and authors of the junk that clutters up my spam box, are not falling over themselves to spend time with me, any more than my toothbrush is sulking in the bathroom cabinet because I haven't got round to re-charging it.
A lovely paraphrase of Psalm 54:4 says, 'God is my helper. He is a friend of mine!'
Not a fickle twitter follower or a 'forgot to post today' Facebook' friend, but a faithful, 'never let you down', 'there for you through thick and thin' friend.
"So belt up, laptop. I am NOT listening"
Oh no, I'm at it again!
This morning I woke to the sound of a beep-beep warning signal from my husband's i-phone. He'd had to park outside a resident's permit zone the night before and didn't want to forget he needed to move the car. Edinburgh's parking regulations are draconian. Only yesterday I watched a car being craned away from outside our flat like a prize toy in a funfair slot machine. Good spectator sport if you don't happen to be the motorist who's trangressed, but a sober reminder that you don't mess with the traffic wardens in these parts.
"Okay, okay, I know, I'm going," my husband said to his phone.
"Your phone is not a person," I told him.
Then I had to confess that only the other day I'd apologised to my sonic toothbrush. It had flashed up the low battery signal three days running and I'd been in too much of a rush to re-charge it. On the third day, when it gave its mournful beep, I heard myself say, "I'm sorry, I'll do it, okay?"
Laptop seduction
We laughed about it, but it set me thinking. I have a morning tussle with myself these days. I like to begin the day with a time of quiet meditation and prayer. It's always a rewarding start, especially when life is hectic - so why am I always prey to something else jostling it out? Lately, the 'something else' has been social networking. I sit down with my Bible and notebook and my laptop immediately starts its seduction tactics.
"You should check your emails. You never know, you might have something from an agent."
"You didn't get round to tweeting much yesterday. You only get as much out of it as you put in. Your followers will start to lose interest."
"You didn't follow up a Facebook message last night. You should check it out this morning."
I've now started leaving my laptop in the drawer until I'm ready for it. That way, at least its come-ons are muffled!
Don't get me wrong, I think social networking is great, but let's face it, my twitter followers, Facebook friends and authors of the junk that clutters up my spam box, are not falling over themselves to spend time with me, any more than my toothbrush is sulking in the bathroom cabinet because I haven't got round to re-charging it.
A lovely paraphrase of Psalm 54:4 says, 'God is my helper. He is a friend of mine!'
Not a fickle twitter follower or a 'forgot to post today' Facebook' friend, but a faithful, 'never let you down', 'there for you through thick and thin' friend.
"So belt up, laptop. I am NOT listening"
Oh no, I'm at it again!
Wednesday 16 March 2011
Scotland the brave - or braving Scotland
No distractions
Scotland is a better milieu for writers than SW France - official. Why is this, you may ask? Is it the rich cultural heritage: Walter Scott, RL Stevenson, Robbie Burns, not to mention JK Rowling? (Incidentally, if anyone else says to me by way of encouragement, 'You know, she had several rejections before she was published', so help me I'll club them with the nearest set of bagpipes.) Is it the availability of first class libraries, inspirational writers' groups, numerous Starbucks? Well no, actually, it's the diabolical weather. I haven't been out for three days. Well no, I tell a lie. My daughter-in-law washed up (literally- she was absolutely soaked) on my doorstep yesterday afternoon with my beautiful howling grandson. Scottish infants grow up hardy. After a cup of tea for her and a nappy change for him, I helped her struggle home in a deluge. It was gruesome out there. But daytime television being what it is, the weather helps me write. It's no hardship to spend days on end at my laptop when the only view from the window is horizontal rain and driving sleet.
When is final final?
Today I completed yet another final edit on a novel. My Documents file has at least half a dozen versions of this novel, produced over the past year and all optimistically labelled 'final edit'. Only the date shows me which is the most recent. Tomorrow I shall do an 'out loud' or more accurately a whispered read through of this latest version. My husband is a longsuffering man but he too works from home and hearing a novel declaimed from the room next door can prove distracting. Reading out loud always throws up further glitches, and you guessed it, another final edit. When is a final edit final, I ask myself? Maybe when it stops raining in Scotland.
Scotland is a better milieu for writers than SW France - official. Why is this, you may ask? Is it the rich cultural heritage: Walter Scott, RL Stevenson, Robbie Burns, not to mention JK Rowling? (Incidentally, if anyone else says to me by way of encouragement, 'You know, she had several rejections before she was published', so help me I'll club them with the nearest set of bagpipes.) Is it the availability of first class libraries, inspirational writers' groups, numerous Starbucks? Well no, actually, it's the diabolical weather. I haven't been out for three days. Well no, I tell a lie. My daughter-in-law washed up (literally- she was absolutely soaked) on my doorstep yesterday afternoon with my beautiful howling grandson. Scottish infants grow up hardy. After a cup of tea for her and a nappy change for him, I helped her struggle home in a deluge. It was gruesome out there. But daytime television being what it is, the weather helps me write. It's no hardship to spend days on end at my laptop when the only view from the window is horizontal rain and driving sleet.
When is final final?
Today I completed yet another final edit on a novel. My Documents file has at least half a dozen versions of this novel, produced over the past year and all optimistically labelled 'final edit'. Only the date shows me which is the most recent. Tomorrow I shall do an 'out loud' or more accurately a whispered read through of this latest version. My husband is a longsuffering man but he too works from home and hearing a novel declaimed from the room next door can prove distracting. Reading out loud always throws up further glitches, and you guessed it, another final edit. When is a final edit final, I ask myself? Maybe when it stops raining in Scotland.
Saturday 12 March 2011
Grannying and Writing
How did they survive?
I'm back in Edinburgh having fun for a few weeks, learning to be a first-time granny. I've brought up three sons and now realise it's a miracle they all survived, because apparently, thirty years ago, I was doing everything WRONG! New babies lie on their backs now, not their fronts; they must never be exposed to a room temperature above 18C; they must never be left in their cribs to cry, even for an instant, because they'll feel rejected, and as for the dreaded nappy bucket, which by a piece of fancy footwork on my part was always my husband's job to empty, well it doesn't exist anymore. It's been replaced by an extremely clever object that not only swallows the disposable nappy but wraps it up hygienically into the bargain. Don't ask me HOW - I'm only a rookie granny.
Nappy changing lesson
So the other day, sporting my L plates, I had to suffer the ultimate ignominy of having my eldest son and now very proud dad, give me a demonstration of how to change my grandson's nappy. I watched very attentively - this is a serious business after all - but inside I couldn't resist a grin. How many of my teacher's nappies had I changed in his lifetime? - far too many to count. But that was a long time ago. Memory fades and things have moved on since then. I needed to be open to a granny refresher course. But I also needed to remind myself that I'd learnt a few things over the years as well, that I have the wisdom of experience to pass on to these wonderful new parents.
Keep the faith
As with grannying, so with writing. As a writer, seeking publication, you get used to being 'ever so 'umble'. You steel yourself for rejection, over and over again; you consider any and every suggestion that anyone makes about your work; you draft and re-draft until you're worn out and cross-eyed and no longer know whether the end result is a load of rubbish or a work of genius. But somehow you have to retain your self-esteem, to believe that you have a gift worth exercising. You have to expose yourself to the input of others, to learn and accept criticism without losing faith in yourself.
'Don't let anyone look down on you because you are young (or not so young, come to that!)....Do not neglect your gift.'
(I Timothy 5:12-14)
I'm back in Edinburgh having fun for a few weeks, learning to be a first-time granny. I've brought up three sons and now realise it's a miracle they all survived, because apparently, thirty years ago, I was doing everything WRONG! New babies lie on their backs now, not their fronts; they must never be exposed to a room temperature above 18C; they must never be left in their cribs to cry, even for an instant, because they'll feel rejected, and as for the dreaded nappy bucket, which by a piece of fancy footwork on my part was always my husband's job to empty, well it doesn't exist anymore. It's been replaced by an extremely clever object that not only swallows the disposable nappy but wraps it up hygienically into the bargain. Don't ask me HOW - I'm only a rookie granny.
Nappy changing lesson
So the other day, sporting my L plates, I had to suffer the ultimate ignominy of having my eldest son and now very proud dad, give me a demonstration of how to change my grandson's nappy. I watched very attentively - this is a serious business after all - but inside I couldn't resist a grin. How many of my teacher's nappies had I changed in his lifetime? - far too many to count. But that was a long time ago. Memory fades and things have moved on since then. I needed to be open to a granny refresher course. But I also needed to remind myself that I'd learnt a few things over the years as well, that I have the wisdom of experience to pass on to these wonderful new parents.
Keep the faith
As with grannying, so with writing. As a writer, seeking publication, you get used to being 'ever so 'umble'. You steel yourself for rejection, over and over again; you consider any and every suggestion that anyone makes about your work; you draft and re-draft until you're worn out and cross-eyed and no longer know whether the end result is a load of rubbish or a work of genius. But somehow you have to retain your self-esteem, to believe that you have a gift worth exercising. You have to expose yourself to the input of others, to learn and accept criticism without losing faith in yourself.
'Don't let anyone look down on you because you are young (or not so young, come to that!)....Do not neglect your gift.'
(I Timothy 5:12-14)
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