How to learn one thing about blogging

I am writing a daily blog (Monday to Friday)  on preparing spiritually and physically

to lead a Pilgrimage of 100 miles in September.

for details of the Pilgrimage, click on the dropdown Cotswold Pilgrimage bar at the top of this page 

How are your blogging skills?

Have you thought about writing a blog?

Last September, as part of my Happiness Project (http://happiness-project.com/books/the-happiness-project/about-the-book/) I decided to learn to blog and tweet.

According to Livehappier, “When we stop learning we stop living. Most people are happier when they learn new things” (http://www.livehappier.com/life-arenas/learning) and I needed more happiness. So I began to engage more with social media.

I did it my way. Learned a little from family and friends. Picked up hints and tips from people I met. Copied what others did.

And to a certain extent, it works.

Then yesterday I decided to take a day to read and research about blogging. It’s never ending – there is a lot of information available out there to help you on your way.

But what was most noticeable was the reaction to my blog posting yesterday morning.  I asked for comments and suggestions and help in my day’s project.  And people have been very kind and very helpful.

One friend, Anita, whom I met through social media and had lunch with last week,  has even written a whole blog post to help me.  http://dreamingbeneaththespires.blogspot.co.uk/

The best thing I have discovered about social media is the sense of community, the relationships, the help and the generosity.

Whether it’s meeting with people (and I’ve met a number of twitter friends face to face, both in the UK and the USA, over the past three months - what joy!)

or downloading freebies

or even a free webinar tonight (http://blogthatconverts.com/webinars/jeff-goins-derek-halpern/)

there is a spirit of reaching out and being generous that I have not really experienced anywhere else.

Not even in church.

* * * *

So I’m glad that I blogged my resources for retreats because I want to help people to be able to spend deeper time with the Lord.

ideas for a 24 hour retreat

http://www.ministriesbydesign.org/2012/06/12/refresh-renew-recreate-retreat/

thoughts on a 10 day silent retreat

http://www.ministriesbydesign.org/2012/06/13/bubbles-and-silence-a-10-day-retreat/

special places to go for a Retreat

http://www.ministriesbydesign.org/2012/06/20/760/

A one minute retreat anywhere anytime

http://www.ministriesbydesign.org/2012/06/21/a-one-minute-retreat/

And today I want to urge you to do one or more of those - 

To spend some time alone with God.

To BE in His Presence.

Even if it’s just a minute.

It’s my gift to you.

* * * *

And I want to learn this lesson.

To give.

Not expecting anything in return.

Just because it is more blessed to give than to receive.

* * * *

Thank you for what you are giving me.

I hope I can give a little in return.

HOCKNEY AND THE SEASONS

THREE TREES IN SEASON  

We met in the archway.  Swept past the waiting crowds, joined the queue inside.

Headed for the stairs - another long line.

But then we were in. Swept with the people into a room of vast canvas, brilliant blinding colour, trees.

Three trees.

I stare at the spring of the trees.

Look with the artist through the blossom to the greening.

Feel it coming alive with new hope.

Freshly.

Greenly.

Scent the new grass growing.

Feel the life, the hope, the returning.

It’s my picture. I stand and stare, unable to take in all that it promises. This.

This is what I am here for, what I am meant to see. That there is hope. Life springs out again.

And again.

And again.

At the scent of water which I can see  - it has already rained and everything is fresh and new-sprung.

There is hope for a tree: If it is cut down, it will sprout again, and its new shoots will not fail. Its roots may grow old in the ground and its stump die in the soil, yet at the scent of water it will bud and put forth shoots like a plant. (Job 14:7-9)

People pass in front of me, obscuring the view. I sigh and turn to view the next.

It is Three Trees.  Again.

I swing.

Three Trees.

And again.

Three Trees.

spring summer autumn winter.

And oh yes.

Yes, yes.  My seasons. That’s where I WAS.

Winter, stark, bare, frozen.

Devoid of signs of life.

Cold and unfeeling.  Cut down.

But now.

Now there is spring and the life.

And the promise of this next – summer.

Full growth.

Thick luxury of life in all its fullness. Bold glorious colour.

Verdant. ALIVE

If winter come, can spring be far behind? And then a summer’s lease.

And knowing that one day will be the autumn of my life.

But for now, I am content to be in spring time.

Anticipating the summer yet to come.

* * * *

I have to move on. There is more to see.

I long to view the trees again and hunt in the shop for postcards.

Only two – winter and spring. But they meant the most.

We go to lunch. She hands me the heavy bag. ‘For you.’

It is the whole book of paintings. I gasp.

All four are there.

The book stays open on my table. At spring.

Soon it will be summer.  It’s been painted, it will come.

Each season in its time.

And you?

What season are you in for now?

Ecclesiastes 3

A Time for Everything

    1 There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven:

    2  a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot,

    3 a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build,

    4 a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance,

    5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

    6 a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away,

    7 a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak,

    8 a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.

SPRING SONG OF THE BIRDS

 

Liltingly it drifts on the gentle breeze.

The spring song of the birds.

In hedgerows, from treetops, under bushes tipped palely green. They sing trill whistle call chirp, tiny feathers ruffled in the air.   The symphony crescendos, wafts away on the wind, floats back.

Happiness sounds in each note.

I stand still the better to hear it. Something in me responding, lifted by this music.

These birds sing because they have songs in them to release. Notes to utter. It is the best thing that they can do, to sing right now. To sing because.

And their music is balm, soothingly uplifting. Deafening in its persistence.

And so I too sing. Trill and chirp and tweet within my soul. And the song becomes MY song, the attitude of my heart. Inexpressible, uplifting, known only unto God. So it changes me.

I have listened.

I have sung.

I will remember.

Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say, “I find no pleasure in them”— before the sun and the light and the moon and the stars grow dark,….. when people rise up at the sound of birds, but all their songs grow faint.                  Ecclesiastes 12:1,2,4

THE SONG OF THE BIRD

The disciples were full of questions about God.

Said the Master, “God is Unknown, the Unknowable. Every statement about Him, every answer to your questions, is a distortion of the Truth.”

The disciples were bewildered. “Then why do you speak about Him at all?”

“Why does the bird sing?” said the Master.


Not because he has a statement, but because he has a song.

The words of the Scholar are to be understood. The words of the Master are not to be understood. They are to be listened to as one listens to the wind in the trees and the sound of the river and the song of the bird.

They will awaken something within the heart that is beyond all knowledge.

 - Anthony de Mello S. J.

WE MATTER

She is just a few hours old.  My youngest. January 1983

“The year and month and day you are born matters. The very moment you are born matters. To matter in the scheme of the cosmos: this is better theology than all our sociology. It is in fact all that God has promised to us: that we matter. That He cares. God knows the very moment we are born.” – Madeleine L’Engle

And isn’t that what we crave, that feeling that we matter?

That we matter to someone.

Mean something special. Because we are different, special, unique. Ourselves and not someone else.

We need to know that we matter.

From the moment of my birth, I mattered. To my mother.

I became her raison d’etre, and we went everywhere together. She was my north, my south, my east, my west. As I was hers.

For a year or so. And then I grew, became independent, fought against her often.

Teenage angst and a strong desire to leave home.

“But where, after we have made the great decision to leave the security of childhood and move on into the vastness of maturity, does anyone ever feel completely at home?” – Madeleine L’Engle

She was always there for me. At home, waiting for me, welcoming me home with arms stretched wide, no matter what. I mattered.

She always carried me: in her body, then in her arms, then in her heart.

I was one of the fortunate ones: a mother who cared, who loved almost unconditionally. Loved enough to discipline strongly.

Tough mother love.

She showed me God. Showed me that I matter to Him.

And though she is not here to be my home, my anchor, she has left me her legacy:

I am mother to my own children. Grandmother to their children.

And now I too love and care and am a home.

And need to show them God.

That they matter to Him and to me.

For You formed my inward parts; You wove me in my mother’s womb. 
14 I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; 
Wonderful are Your works, 
And my soul knows it very well. 
15 My frame was not hidden from You, 
When I was made in secret, 
And skillfully wrought in the depths of the earth; 
16 Your eyes have seen my unformed substance; 
And in Your book were all written 
The days that were ordained for me, 
When as yet there was not one of them.     Psalm 139

My younger sister, my mother & me.  On Mummy's 90th birthday

PODGY PENNY

 

'Morning, Penny, nice to see you!

She charged past me in the church side aisle, intent on delivering small fry to children’s ministry.

Did my face show any emotion?

I could barely choke out an answer.

It happens every time.  Every time I am called Penny.  That rising bilious feeling. The denial of the name. A refusal to allow it to define me.

Podgy Penny.

That’s who I was. A small round personage, chubby, filled with a desire to please:

Good girls eat everything on their plates. Waste not want not. Anything left and you will have it for breakfast.  The starving children in Africa would be grateful for that. We can’t afford to waste food.

I ate.

And ate.

My mother was proud of the name she had given me.  Penelope Jane. She had chosen it long before she met and married my father, for it was the name of someone she admired, an older woman in the office where my mother worked when she was evacuated in the war.

A tall, elegant woman, I was always told. Beautiful.  I know nothing more about her. But when I arrived, I was given her name.

I was born on my maternal grandmother’s 70th birthday. Your present, my mother told her: one penny. And so the diminutive became the norm. Penny.

And Penny was a good girl. Penny ate what was put in front of her. And so Penny grew. And grew and grew. Round as well as up.

My father was fond of me, I know. But at the church jumble sale I well remember him auctioning me. I was four years old. Lifted on to the White Elephant stall.  Who will give me one penny for this Penny? he cried.  They laughed at their young curate and volunteered their pennies for his Podgy Penny.  I raised a lot of money that day as they turned out their purses and donated their pennies in my honour for the church funds.

(It was a VERY long time ago; pennies were worth a lot more then)

I was mortified. I was worth a mere Penny.

But  Topsy -like, I grewed. The friends at Primary School called me Podgy Penny too.

Children can be so cruel sometimes.

But then we got a dog and I discovered a love of walking with her. And I had a bicycle for a birthday and discovered a love of riding with the wind in my hair and a sense of freedom.

Exercise. And my legs grew faster than anything else.  Suddenly I was the tallest person in the school. Still slightly podgy but still growing.

Nicknames stick however.  Maybe - especially -  within families.

But as my early thirties approached, I made a decision. No longer was I Penny.  I would be tall and elegant, the full Penelope Jane.  So I simply refused to answer if called Penny.

Whether my husband or my mother, my friends or my colleagues, all had to relearn me by a new name.

Penelope.

My birth name.  My baptismal name.

Me.

And as I changed from Podgy Penny to Penelope, I tried to shrug off those feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness.  Learned the story of a faithful, long suffering Penelope who sewed and embroidered and remained true.

Became a little more like the Penelope I was meant to be.

My name is Penelope.

I am not Podgy Penny.

And I do not have to eat everything. (But that is another story)

* * *

God gives us new names.   He gave Israel a new name, just as he had to Abram and to Sarai.

The nations will see your vindication,

   and all kings your glory;

you will be called by a new name

   that the mouth of the LORD will bestow.  (Isaiah 62:2)

And one day, we will each have a new name.

Anyone with ears to hear must listen to the Spirit and understand what he is saying to the churches. To everyone who is victorious I will give some of the manna that has been hidden away in heaven. And I will give to each one a white stone, and on the stone will be engraved a new name that no one understands except the one who receives it. (Revelation 2:17)

A new name, given by the Lord and known to Him and to the one to whom He gives it.  A new secret nickname: it’s what the Father names His child, and it’s known to just the two of them.

That speaks to me of such intimacy. Such love.

It contrasts so strongly with the uncertainness of this life  -  its nicknames, its hurts. Its imperfectness, its misunderstandings.

Where  sometimes I am unsure even of my own identity.

I will be known by my Heavenly Father, called by His name for me, as He whispers to me what He has written on the white stone.

Just for me.

A new name.

I am so excited!

What will my new name be?

He knows. He knows.

Just as He knows me already through and through –

His Penelope.

Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. (face to face) All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.             (1 Corinthians 13:12)

BEING SO FOREIGN

Istanbul

Rain brushed my cheeks in the soft darkness of this nearly Eastern  city.

Strange sights and sounds assailed my ears. Scents of roasted meats, unknown herbs and spices, even different cleaning fluids, gave the night air a delicious fragrance.

I laughed delightedly. Clung to my husband’s arm. Stared wide eyed at the demonstration marching ahead of us up the İstiklâl Caddesi. Participants cheered and shouted, banged their drums, waved the banners high. A large group of young people, determined and vociferous, trying to make some point known to the rest of the world.

We dived down a side passage, unable to find space for our feet among the demonstrators. Unexpectedly found an old flower market, now full of restaurants. Were virtually dragged inside one by the persistent doorman, delighted to share his knowledge of England with us.

Turkish lira from our pockets were carefully counted. Just enough left for fresh grilled fish, baked aubergines, glasses of white wine.

What is the demonstration, we asked. He chortled at our ignorance. International Women’s Day. I raised my glass.

We laughed aloud at the adventure as the gypsy musicians loudly played over us. Commented on the dancing at a nearby bar. Savoured the flavours assaulting our senses.

Then back into the night air. Saw a tiny passage full of bars and locals. Turned into this one, twisted into that one, followed the sounds and the smells and the sights.

Emerged into a large modern square, full of police cars and deflated demonstrators. Realised we were lost, pulled out the map. Old eyes dimly perceived very little in the darkness. This square? That one?

Demonstrators dispersing. A home made white banner, pronouncing in large black wobbly letters: Women are not for decoration,  coming nearer, wavering over us, suddenly folded away.

Are you lost? asked its polite bearer, a young good looking Turk. He smiled at our ignorance, showed us our bearings, informed us it was too dangerous to walk back to the hotel, several miles away across the Golden Horn.  Did we look uncertain?

Come, he said. I show you the bus. My friend live in Plymouth. Nice city.

We followed him, high on the sense of adventure. He dodged the cars, stopped the traffic, waved us over, gestured to the waiting buses. This, he said. But wait, I get you ticket, I pay. We remonstrated, showed our remaining lira. He laughed, waved a card at a machine, ushered us on the bus. Enjoy your ride, please I help. Good riding. Like to help. Good night.

The bus lurched away, dimly lit. Ancient eyes peered again at the map, wondering how would we know which stop was the one he’d underlined. What did it say? The lettering was too small.

Please. A pretty young woman leaned forward. What you want? Where you go? She counted stops, waved us off the bus. An old man stepped off too, waved again. That way, he said as we deliberated in the traffic.

The kindness of strangers, young and old. Their politeness to foreigners. He PAID for us, we said. HE PAID.

I thought of the song my father loved: It’s being so foreign that makes them so bad - The English, the English, the English are best, I wouldn't give tuppence for all of the rest. (Flanders & Swann)

 And thought again of the verses I have read in the mornings so recently.

You are to love those who are foreigners, for you yourselves were foreigners in Egypt. The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the LORD your God.*

Those young people were probably Muslim. If anything. They were certainly Turkish. And we must have seemed so old and crazy to them.

But they have taught me so much.

* Deuteronomy 10:19  Leviticus 19:34
.

THE SECRET GARDEN

I pick it up.  A large, beautiful, Folio edition, green bound and illustrated. Caress it, remember it, wondering where is the copy I read as a child?

Maybe a daughter has it on her shelves – or more likely in her boxes hidden in our attic cupboards. So I lift the unread copy from my shelf, and begin to read, in readiness for the first gathering of we who have decided to read children’s books for fun.

The heroine: Mary Lennox.  A sickly, wan, sticky sort of girl, one who stamps her feet and shouts. I remember disliking her intensely. And feeling she did not deserve to be rescued.

Who does?

Then there was Dickon.  Almost too perfect, knowing so much at the tender age of 12. Free to roam the moors. An animal charmer. Lover of fresh air and gardening.

And Colin. Scary Colin in that scary house.  A secret, hidden down long corridors. He, it, frightened me. Deliciously. Tapestries and rich hangings, four poster beds and heaps of cushions. Chamber maids and house maids, cooks and gardeners. Way out of my experience.

I liked the robin best. He knew where the key was hidden. And Martha.  Not that I could understand much of what she said, but I learnt, along with Mary.

And like Mary, too, I learnt about the Magic.

To the child who was me it seemed quite natural and almost romantic: positive thoughts pushing up along with the crocuses and daffodils, making everything all right again – Colin and his not-so-twisted back, Mr Craven and his despairing, traumatised sadness, Mary and her loneliness.

In the secrets of the garden, everything comes alive, nature and people alike, and spiritual and physical healing is experienced as the beloved roses begin to bloom again.

And they all lived happily ever after. Or so I assumed.

So now, I begin to read it all again. And this time there is sadness and sympathy for those poor lost ill-tempered children.

Admiration for Martha’s mother.

Amazement that the staff stick around.

And compassion and empathy, oh, so much empathy, for bereaved, crazed Mr Craven, travelling to escape, travelling to forget.

I race through the book, devouring pages, staying up late to read.  After sixteen months of not remembering much of anything read, I find I am captivated and able to recall so much of what was read as a child.  A child of ten, maybe eleven.  Primary School, certainly.

I knew little of what I now see.

The emotional bruising and scarring of adults and children alike in this Craven/Lennox family.  A fallen world.

Madness and loneliness and death and bereavement, all mixed up and changing those affected. Like me.

The ‘earth-mother-ish-ness’ and healing ways of Mrs Sowerby, Dickon and Martha’s mother. Is she a Mary figure?

Dickon as a young St Francis, with animals his constant companions.

And the garden itself, the archytypal paradise of the Garden of Eden, bringing healing to those who find it.

But now, as I read, I wonder about the author and my curiosity searches.  And I learn of this young Englishwoman from nineteenth century industrial Manchester, emigrating to rural Tennessee, scribbling to supplement the family income in the aftermath of the American Civil War.

Of her unhappy marriage.

Her own illnesses.

The death of her son from consumption.

Her divorce.

Her success as a writer, giving her financial freedom to return to England and rent a large country house – with a walled garden.

And her spiritual journey, her adherence to Theosophy, Christian Science, Mind Healing.

I’m glad I now know more.  But I’m glad too that I could read it both as child and adult with the glorious anticipation that all would come right, that there would be healing and joy again.

And so there can be.

We need the Holy Spirit, winged and red-fire, to point the way.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.

Romans 15:13, NKJV

FINDING FUN

The book stared back at me. Dared me to pick it up. Buy it, even.

It’s blue – always a favourite colour. And written on the front in large capitals:

START YOUR OWN HAPPINESS PROJECT – GUIDE INSIDE.

New year.

New me?

Can I ever feel HAPPY again?

Resigning from my beloved work in ordained ministry to concentrate on getting well again, emotionally, spiritually, physically.

Recovering from the dark heaviness of depression and post traumatic stress syndrome which has clung and clawed to my shoulders for sixteen months.

Removing the burden of the guilt of not working - a first step to accepting this major life change, this living with What. Happened. And. Cannot. Be. Undone.

And joy. Can I find joy again as I learn to give thanks and find the grace in each moment?

The book leaps into my hand. I start reading as we drive away.  I am hooked from the start, wanting to know if it’s possible for me too. Knowing I need to work out my own salvation because it is God at work in me.  So I begin. January.

But I read fast and furious, wanting to know next month and the one after; and the book tells of discerning what made its author happy when younger.

I am instantly eleven years old.  Gawky and geeky, losing the immense podgy penny-ness. Happy, cycling freely and fast; devouring books faster than my parents can buy them for me, scribbling stories of my own creating, racing with the dog along the beach.

That was me. That joyous little girl.  Where did she get so lost? Can she be refound in a new me?

Regroup. Remember. Reform.

What counts is whether we (I) have been transformed into a new creation. (Gal 6:15, NLT)

That happy girl.  She read. And read.  I have not, for a year, been able to read.

Can I find my reading me again?

Might children’s literature be a hidden treasure?

The project tells of a new book group; of the joy of rereading those much loved gems of childhood.  My heart leaps.

Can I do it?  Commit to a book a month with friends?

Narnia. Green Gables. And Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents. Should Mallory Towers creep in? And the Lone Pine Five and my complete set of The Chalet School? All 58 of them?

Did anyone else read Dorita Fairlie Bruce and Mary Louise Parker and Elsie Oxenham? Even their names weave an ancient spell.

The Secret Garden and The Little Princess.  Noel Streatfield.

Alice and Katy.  The mayday Queens in The Abbey. Heidi of course.

And more, so many more.

They are on my bookshelves still.

Could we meet and enjoy? Find some fun? Eat food from the books?

Would you come?