The taste like an old familiar friend, the smooth watered down espresso, the sweet syrup, the warmth refreshing, remembering. Lying on cold polished granite, the echoes of noise a distance away, music in my ears, hiding the tears from the world, in this place that no one knows of, no one sees. Until the moment when the thoughts have been enough, when the fear has passed, when I can pull myself together enough to be alright, to be alive.
Unspeakable terror, fear that has passed on generation to generation, we know in our lives in our bones the horrors that cannot be talked of, cannot be fathomed, too much for those to bear, for those who love.
Saturday, 16 October 2010
Sunday, 15 August 2010
Unlikely Sanctuary
In the last few months I've found a likely sanctuary, a place which makes a lot of sense to be the place of peace, freedom and escape. A place of sanctuary is something that I have always needed, until the floods got in the way the lions mouth was always that place, a spring in the village closest to my town, it still acts as that sometimes, but I stopped wanting to walk around this town, it stopped being place and so to get to the village became something harder. Without realising it 9 years ago I began to find a place of sanctuary, though a very unlikely place. For most of the last 9 years it has been my sanctuary, though stopped being that after the death of a friend who I used to spend time there with, finally this week I faced that, I faced the memories all at once and the ghosts stopped hurting, the memories are there but not the sharp stab of grief which stopped me wanting to be there.
The year I started secondary school was the year I turned 13, at the end of August I got my school bus card, any trip anywhere on MK Metro for a total of 35 pence! At the tender age of 12 I took my first trip to Milton Keynes shopping centre by myself. The place confused me at first, especially when I realised I was getting lost walking in a straight line! The weekend before I'd been wandering around the streets of Oxford on my own completely oblivious to the need to think about where I was, confidence and knowledge was something that I had in Oxford, I knew where I was, a map of the city imprinted on my mind from about the age of 7, I could never get lost or forget where I was. Now I was surrounded by this place, glass and marble and palms, shops everywhere, I didn't know where to go or what to do, but I had my independence in this strange place and if all else failed I would go to the only shop I knew until I worked out what I wanted to do - John Lewis.
I had taken to going into Smiths and buy a magazine once a month already - I would walk down to Midsummer and sit and drink coffee. Now I had time and freedom I thought I better try to find somewhere else. That summer day I wandered into Silbury, it wasn't busy, and I took the money out of my purse thinking hard, the guy behind the counter looked at me, I was looking up trying to work out what I wanted to drink - I wanted to drink Mocha, the delicious concoction of chocolate, milk and espresso with vanilla flavoured cream (the vanilla made all the difference), but I was 5 pence short. At the enquiry I told him, he smiled at me, don't worry about it, he said to me and made me a mocha.
From that point on whenever I wanted to stop for coffee it was always Silbury, then I started to write there. I was only writing short stories and I realised how nice it was to sit there with the people walking past, the smell of coffee, inspiration surrounded this young writer. I began to know the staff, they would remember me, and I would always remember the smiles that were returned, the laughter and the coffee they gave me. I would try something different everytime I went in, and it was a lovely place to be.
Slowly every month became every fortnight, every fortnight became every week, and very slowly every week became every day, and sometimes more often than that - though it went back to every week a lot of the time. Secondary school had not been what I had hoped for, I had hoped - naïvely so - that secondary school would be a place where I could learn, where I could use my mind to understand the world, literature, philosophy, to excel at mathematics and chemistry, to learn what I was good at and challenge myself where I wasn't good. Instead it was a fight, a daily battle to learn anything, to do more than sit in the back of class having finished all the set work within the first ten minutes whilst people threw rubbish and insults at me. It was the sort of place that I needed to escape from, and my house felt like a building site (to this day we have an archeological dig in the front room). So slowly I realised that I was happy to be sat in a coffee shop most of the day, the people around me were lovely and I could spend the time out that I needed.
Then I began to write a book, a hefty task for a 14 year old to take on, but I took it in my stride, soon the hours wasted at school became places where I would escape to the place I was writing about, working out the characters one at a time, I would think through a scenario in every way possible, saving it up until I got to Silbury and I would sit and write. Though when you're spending that much time somewhere it no longer becomes just about the writing or the coffee, it became about the people, the people who surrounded me, who made me laugh and smile when I was trying not to cry, the community that existed for me in this place. It became the only place I really wanted to be, and it became my escape, my place of sanctuary, that place I needed more than anything else at that moment in my life.
I could spend many more thousand words talking about how those people stood by me in my times of trouble, how that place was the only place that I was safe, and if anyone tried to attack me there I had defences around me, people who would jump in and save me and when it was my own mind that pressed against me, my own fears and doubts I had my writing, I had words that moulded themselves into people on a page. Of all the things I never expected in my life, I never expected a community of friends who stood by me to come through a Starbucks store in Milton Keynes shopping centre, that place was my sanctuary, where I was found for many years, where people who knew me would look for me, it was a safe place for me to be when I need it.
The year I started secondary school was the year I turned 13, at the end of August I got my school bus card, any trip anywhere on MK Metro for a total of 35 pence! At the tender age of 12 I took my first trip to Milton Keynes shopping centre by myself. The place confused me at first, especially when I realised I was getting lost walking in a straight line! The weekend before I'd been wandering around the streets of Oxford on my own completely oblivious to the need to think about where I was, confidence and knowledge was something that I had in Oxford, I knew where I was, a map of the city imprinted on my mind from about the age of 7, I could never get lost or forget where I was. Now I was surrounded by this place, glass and marble and palms, shops everywhere, I didn't know where to go or what to do, but I had my independence in this strange place and if all else failed I would go to the only shop I knew until I worked out what I wanted to do - John Lewis.
I had taken to going into Smiths and buy a magazine once a month already - I would walk down to Midsummer and sit and drink coffee. Now I had time and freedom I thought I better try to find somewhere else. That summer day I wandered into Silbury, it wasn't busy, and I took the money out of my purse thinking hard, the guy behind the counter looked at me, I was looking up trying to work out what I wanted to drink - I wanted to drink Mocha, the delicious concoction of chocolate, milk and espresso with vanilla flavoured cream (the vanilla made all the difference), but I was 5 pence short. At the enquiry I told him, he smiled at me, don't worry about it, he said to me and made me a mocha.
From that point on whenever I wanted to stop for coffee it was always Silbury, then I started to write there. I was only writing short stories and I realised how nice it was to sit there with the people walking past, the smell of coffee, inspiration surrounded this young writer. I began to know the staff, they would remember me, and I would always remember the smiles that were returned, the laughter and the coffee they gave me. I would try something different everytime I went in, and it was a lovely place to be.
Slowly every month became every fortnight, every fortnight became every week, and very slowly every week became every day, and sometimes more often than that - though it went back to every week a lot of the time. Secondary school had not been what I had hoped for, I had hoped - naïvely so - that secondary school would be a place where I could learn, where I could use my mind to understand the world, literature, philosophy, to excel at mathematics and chemistry, to learn what I was good at and challenge myself where I wasn't good. Instead it was a fight, a daily battle to learn anything, to do more than sit in the back of class having finished all the set work within the first ten minutes whilst people threw rubbish and insults at me. It was the sort of place that I needed to escape from, and my house felt like a building site (to this day we have an archeological dig in the front room). So slowly I realised that I was happy to be sat in a coffee shop most of the day, the people around me were lovely and I could spend the time out that I needed.
Then I began to write a book, a hefty task for a 14 year old to take on, but I took it in my stride, soon the hours wasted at school became places where I would escape to the place I was writing about, working out the characters one at a time, I would think through a scenario in every way possible, saving it up until I got to Silbury and I would sit and write. Though when you're spending that much time somewhere it no longer becomes just about the writing or the coffee, it became about the people, the people who surrounded me, who made me laugh and smile when I was trying not to cry, the community that existed for me in this place. It became the only place I really wanted to be, and it became my escape, my place of sanctuary, that place I needed more than anything else at that moment in my life.
I could spend many more thousand words talking about how those people stood by me in my times of trouble, how that place was the only place that I was safe, and if anyone tried to attack me there I had defences around me, people who would jump in and save me and when it was my own mind that pressed against me, my own fears and doubts I had my writing, I had words that moulded themselves into people on a page. Of all the things I never expected in my life, I never expected a community of friends who stood by me to come through a Starbucks store in Milton Keynes shopping centre, that place was my sanctuary, where I was found for many years, where people who knew me would look for me, it was a safe place for me to be when I need it.
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
Right now I don't want to be in this room, this house, this town. I'm rubbing tears from my eyes again and I realise I've spent more hours crying in this room than not, it feels so familiar to be crying in this room, with baskets of flowers on the walls, black paint from the beam falling into my hair and the rattle of the window as the traffic passes by. I don't want to be crying, but I can't seem to stop myself. My chest aches near my heart, I know it's just stress, I just wish it wasn't.
I'm not made not to care, I'm not made not to want to understand, I'm not made not to love. I love unconditionally, I love without hesitation, I love those whom I cannot trust, and those I cannot trust are only those who have broken my trust more than once, I love before I do anything else, that is who I am, that is how I am.
I do not use this word lightly, I do not talk of romantic love - that I have chosen to sacrifice, I talk of the love that God has shown me, the love that binds me to Him and to the creatures I share this world with, the love that IS God. He has shared with me love that is unrelenting, sacrificial, unconditional and my love is a reflection of that, though a poor one compared to the original, I am but creature. I love because He loves, I strive to love that which He loves.
I would rather love like this than not, yet this love has cost me dear. This love is the reasons for all my tears, this love for those who have hurt and beaten me down, my love for those who have fallen away, my love for those who are lost, have been lost and will yet be lost, my love for those who have thrown me away, rejected and feared me. This love is costly, it is painful and so as a friend once told me - for those people whom we love it is right to cry and we walk down the street with tears in our eyes for the broken, how much better is it to cry for them rather than be someone who does not see them, does not notice them, does not care, does not want to care.
Now I think it is time with to let the frankincense fill the air, let the psalms fill my mind and sit at the feet of my Lord and pray.
Monday, 9 August 2010
Grief never helps when I need to work. Seven years ago yesterday my Grandmother passed away, seven years ago today I was sat in silbury crying into an americano with irish creme syrup trying to write something, anything to take my mind away from the pain, I did that for several days, there was nowhere else that I was safe, nowhere else I wanted to be, nowhere else I felt I could be, then I called my Dad and we went over to the house, my Grandma's house, my Aunt and my cousin were cleaning, I can't even remember what I did, I just had to be there. Then I was there again before the funeral, walking down the stairs as my Great Aunt looked up at me and mistook me for my mother. I was wearing a black skirt and aubergine top, my cousins stood outside smoking. I hardly remember the church my father spoke I'd never seen him with tears in his eyes before, at the crematorium they played Vaughan William's The Lark Ascending, the pub after was called the Chequers, I wrote it into my book.
Monday, 26 July 2010
When I decided at the age of 14 that I wanted to write a book I had no idea where it would lead. The places it would take my mind, the people I'd get to know and yet that dream of potential that if I could just finish it to my own wish; that I could find a publisher; that it could engage all those unengaged, everyone who's promised me that however much they hate reading, or don't enjoy books that they would read it.
I sat in Ottakar's - that place named after my childhood's hero's story, full of inspiration, and I decided this would not be another short story, this would not be five pages of strange words of fiction, telling a story from the depths of my mind; my loves, my dreams, my fears, my hopes. This would be something that would be carried on tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, and eventually I'd add something to it every week for three and a half years, some days completely oblivious to anything around me as I put the ink upon the page "Emma, you carry on, I'm locking up, let me know when you need to leave." Became as common place as "Emma? Where have you been? We've been open three hours already!" That was Silbury to me. This place of sanctuary where week after week I would sit and write, my second home, another family, my mood denoting my drink and the only person who dared drink Eggnog Mocha and that much Irish Cream Syrup.
I sat in Ottakar's - that place named after my childhood's hero's story, full of inspiration, and I decided this would not be another short story, this would not be five pages of strange words of fiction, telling a story from the depths of my mind; my loves, my dreams, my fears, my hopes. This would be something that would be carried on tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, and eventually I'd add something to it every week for three and a half years, some days completely oblivious to anything around me as I put the ink upon the page "Emma, you carry on, I'm locking up, let me know when you need to leave." Became as common place as "Emma? Where have you been? We've been open three hours already!" That was Silbury to me. This place of sanctuary where week after week I would sit and write, my second home, another family, my mood denoting my drink and the only person who dared drink Eggnog Mocha and that much Irish Cream Syrup.
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
Where is God?
I'm sitting here today thinking about how wonderful and beautiful life is, about how the goodness of God shines through the darkest moments, and that however hard we try, once we know Him, we can't turn away forever.
I turn my back on the enemy and he can stab me in a back, but he cannot pierce my heart from there whilst the breastplate of righteousness covers me. Whilst the shadow of God's wings covers me, whilst the blood of Christ covers me. From all sides I am covered, from all sides I am protected.
Yet a week ago I was sitting here a mess of tears wondering how this moment could be happening, how God could let me suffer this. Because a week ago, my Nan almost died. The most important word in that sentence is 'almost.' This has happened before, I've been told that she was going into hospital, that the doctors didn't know what else to do, that they'd tried everything but didn't think she could recover. I've been told these things, but it was 7 years ago, I was 14, it was the year my Grandmother died, for several summers it had been visits between two hospitals, I know the smell and the corridors and the nurses of those hospitals. I know where the flower room was where you could go and cut the flowers people had brought and find a vase for them.
So when 7 years later I get a call, my Nanny, she's waiting for the ambulance, I hear from my mother that it's bad, that she might not last a week. I'm half way through writing an essay, my last assignment of the year before exams, and it really matters, up until that moment it mattered. But now I just want to get on a train... no, not a train, a plane! I want to be there, I want a teleport, I want to see her, I want her to see how much I love her. I don't want to sleep because what if she dies whilst I'm sleeping, I fight myself to finish the paper which is already late, I finish the paper, I need to revise, I have an exam in less than a week, I must revise. I don't want to revise, what if she dies whilst I'm sitting that exam, why can't I be there! Why! And I start to pray, and I'm fighting myself for the words, because I know that I want to see her, but I can't pray for her to hang on another few days for me to get there, no, she can't suffer pain just so she can see me. So I pray to God that whatever it is, whatever He wants, take the pain away, take her pain away, if she dies then she isn't in pain, and if she lives let her be better. Please God, just don't let her suffer any more of this! I revise, every few minutes I find I don't know what I've read and the tears are wheeling up in my eyes, I cannot see. I just want to cry, because how can this be happening again, how can we not know what will happen, can she get better again, she's older now, can she get through this.
I cry out to God, so many questions and fears in my mind, and I just cry as I listen to the words the Church are singing "now we arrive at eternity's shore, where death is just a memory and tears are no more" and all I can do is let the tears roll down my face and my heart is screaming now "I CAN'T DO THIS!" and then, my mind, but for a second is still, and I hear the words in a whisper "No, you can't, but I can." In that moment of stillness some level of peace enters my heart. I still want to cry, but I know God is there. Yet not for another few hours did I come out of the haze I'd felt in my head for a week, but within 24 I understood. She was better. I didn't quite believe it. I laughed and cried as I heard, this was another kind of miracle. I knew at Church on Sunday, when the haze lifted, when God gave me a fresh sense of purpose, that even if she had gone to Him at that moment it would have been okay, because she'd "arrive at eternity's shore, where death is just a memory and tears are no more."
I turn my back on the enemy and he can stab me in a back, but he cannot pierce my heart from there whilst the breastplate of righteousness covers me. Whilst the shadow of God's wings covers me, whilst the blood of Christ covers me. From all sides I am covered, from all sides I am protected.
Yet a week ago I was sitting here a mess of tears wondering how this moment could be happening, how God could let me suffer this. Because a week ago, my Nan almost died. The most important word in that sentence is 'almost.' This has happened before, I've been told that she was going into hospital, that the doctors didn't know what else to do, that they'd tried everything but didn't think she could recover. I've been told these things, but it was 7 years ago, I was 14, it was the year my Grandmother died, for several summers it had been visits between two hospitals, I know the smell and the corridors and the nurses of those hospitals. I know where the flower room was where you could go and cut the flowers people had brought and find a vase for them.
So when 7 years later I get a call, my Nanny, she's waiting for the ambulance, I hear from my mother that it's bad, that she might not last a week. I'm half way through writing an essay, my last assignment of the year before exams, and it really matters, up until that moment it mattered. But now I just want to get on a train... no, not a train, a plane! I want to be there, I want a teleport, I want to see her, I want her to see how much I love her. I don't want to sleep because what if she dies whilst I'm sleeping, I fight myself to finish the paper which is already late, I finish the paper, I need to revise, I have an exam in less than a week, I must revise. I don't want to revise, what if she dies whilst I'm sitting that exam, why can't I be there! Why! And I start to pray, and I'm fighting myself for the words, because I know that I want to see her, but I can't pray for her to hang on another few days for me to get there, no, she can't suffer pain just so she can see me. So I pray to God that whatever it is, whatever He wants, take the pain away, take her pain away, if she dies then she isn't in pain, and if she lives let her be better. Please God, just don't let her suffer any more of this! I revise, every few minutes I find I don't know what I've read and the tears are wheeling up in my eyes, I cannot see. I just want to cry, because how can this be happening again, how can we not know what will happen, can she get better again, she's older now, can she get through this.
I cry out to God, so many questions and fears in my mind, and I just cry as I listen to the words the Church are singing "now we arrive at eternity's shore, where death is just a memory and tears are no more" and all I can do is let the tears roll down my face and my heart is screaming now "I CAN'T DO THIS!" and then, my mind, but for a second is still, and I hear the words in a whisper "No, you can't, but I can." In that moment of stillness some level of peace enters my heart. I still want to cry, but I know God is there. Yet not for another few hours did I come out of the haze I'd felt in my head for a week, but within 24 I understood. She was better. I didn't quite believe it. I laughed and cried as I heard, this was another kind of miracle. I knew at Church on Sunday, when the haze lifted, when God gave me a fresh sense of purpose, that even if she had gone to Him at that moment it would have been okay, because she'd "arrive at eternity's shore, where death is just a memory and tears are no more."
Monday, 1 March 2010
Release
All the strain and stress passing from my shoulders as a massive wave hits me, a wave that is the love of God, a wave that I've seen coming, of joy and peace, peace and joy, joy and peace, those words spoken over me trice from many corners of this world. For over a month there has been sadness and sorrow and grief so close my heart that I thought it would never fade, and now it is washed away. The power of the love of God invades my heart, break through those chains of sorrow.
My saviour reminded me of who I was, images flashed across my view, images from visions that God has shown me, the dancer, the child strewing rose petals, the holder of a dove, the scribe. Images so powerful, and this power like wings beating above me. "Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by name; thou art mine." Words of scripture in my ears - "you are under the shadow of the wings of the almighty, you dwell here."
As the sun broke through my curtains this morning I felt the warmth and cold of the day all at once. I could not help but dance this morning. As I walked across campus this afternoon I could hardly help but sing. I am suddenly at a place of peace, an invading peace, that dwells so deep within my heart it cannot be taken, only hidden, and so I choose not to hide it.
No longer to fear the death march that comes and is not yet mine. I would not fear my own death for a second, to be with God that I could never fear, but the lives of others lost has been a fear that has no left me, until now. No, that fear is past, I have no power of life and death, I have seen lives saved when my hand guided, but it was not I that did the saving, if life is lost, it was not I that lost it, no, that is not mine.
My saviour reminded me of who I was, images flashed across my view, images from visions that God has shown me, the dancer, the child strewing rose petals, the holder of a dove, the scribe. Images so powerful, and this power like wings beating above me. "Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by name; thou art mine." Words of scripture in my ears - "you are under the shadow of the wings of the almighty, you dwell here."
As the sun broke through my curtains this morning I felt the warmth and cold of the day all at once. I could not help but dance this morning. As I walked across campus this afternoon I could hardly help but sing. I am suddenly at a place of peace, an invading peace, that dwells so deep within my heart it cannot be taken, only hidden, and so I choose not to hide it.
No longer to fear the death march that comes and is not yet mine. I would not fear my own death for a second, to be with God that I could never fear, but the lives of others lost has been a fear that has no left me, until now. No, that fear is past, I have no power of life and death, I have seen lives saved when my hand guided, but it was not I that did the saving, if life is lost, it was not I that lost it, no, that is not mine.
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