The old birch woods above the Kyles…

I have had a lovely day today.

It has been a gorgeous warm spring day, and I took a walk in the hills with Andy. We drove over the Cowal Peninsular to Colintraive- around a 20 minuite trip- and walked up through the farm into some lovely high country- broken craggy tops with little walkways and ridges to climb through. We disturbed only the odd sheep, accompanied always by lambs.

The views out over the Kyles of Bute were great- a little hazy, but full of the movement of yachts taking advantage of a favourable wind to fly through behind brightly coloured spinnakers.

We came down through some birch woods, just coming alive. We were surrounded by the noise of brooks and birds, and walked through a carpet of cowslips.

I have wanted to explore these woods for ages. They look so inviting from the road at any time of the year. In the winter they are almost purple-bare, but around the spring time, they start to wear a bright bright green as the buds come through.

A couple of years ago, a woman who was staying at the Colintraive hotel went for a walk somewhere in these parts. She was never seen again, and not a trace of what happened to her has ever been found, despite extensive searches. It must have been incredibly sad and difficult for those she left behind. She kept coming to mind as we walked. It must be incredibly difficult for the loved ones she left behind, but today, it did not seem to me to be such a bad place to have your last resting place. May she rest in peace.

A few years ago I took a little walk in these parts on my way home from work- and wrote a poem. So here it is!

With all the optimism of the early spring

I turned the car from the road home and looked to the hill

Taking the camera more for motivation I head for the high point over the Kyle.

I feel the old excitement in the smell of wild places

All around I can almost hear the soil coming alive

The whisper of the wind in the larches sounds like blood flowing

Sap rising

And, unconcerned as my unsuitable shoes take on water,

I climb through heather and the old years dry grass

Up through ancient Gneiss outcrops

Still holding the shape of their birth in lava poured out in days so distant

That there seems no point calculating.

My feet cut into slow growing mossbanks

And scatter the stalks of bracken

And in the moment, I fear that I bring a human rhythm,

In this place unwelcome, discordant

Drowning out the stillness

Oil on water

I notice blackened heather stalks swept by fire

Perhaps lit by a smouldering cigarette last summer

And remember that this place is everywhere marked by men

Close cropped by the sheep, the land curves towards

The regimented contour crop of Spruce trees in the valley below

And half hidden, there is the evidence of older dwelling places

Now memories in the soil

Barcodes in bracken and dead nettle

Feeding on the residual richness

Leached from these poor houses

Whose people drained away.

Then perspective shifts again

To the far horizons

Across the sparkling Kyle lies Bute

Then beyond, Arran’s hills rise above Lochranza

Still wearing winter white against the blue sky

I stood and gloried.

Awed by things much bigger than I

By creative forces far beyond my understanding

But by Gods grace

Not beyond my reach

Blessing received, I take photographs recording only human spectral light

Then scramble back to shiny car, and head, too fast, for home

Anxious to see my loved ones

Eager for my own slice of civilisation.

Squirm…

My mate Andy laughs

Because of a 15 year old boy

He sees inside me

Who makes too many

Risky decisions

And so a leap that ends in mud

Can become analagous

For middle age

Unsuccessfully evaded

Today I made this journey

Through the town where I was born

(But also in my head)

Along scruffy streets

Whose memories

Are monoblocked

Overshadowed by MacDonalds

Pretentious

Under new street furniture

And just underneath my skin

An adolescent

Squirms

Making poetry…

Just back home after leading a poetry workshop with Audrey.

We were a little bit nervous, but it seemed to go well. There were 7-8 people from a local church, and we talked about personification and assonance and the like, and then read some lovely words.

I love it when people start to get turned on by ideas… and this did start to happen.

I hope the folk there get into writing some stuff.

It really is good for the soul.

We had a discussion about words, and I described hoarding them, relishing them ready to plant them and let them grow into a poem. And how sometimes it really is that simple.

But at other times- as with all things worth doing- poetry is hard work.

It requires a lines on your face.

So, a bit of Audrey’s favourite poet- R S Thomas. Lines and all.

Poetry For Supper
Listen, now, verse should be as natural
As the small tuber that feeds on muck
And grows slowly from obtuse soil
To the white flower of immortal beauty.

Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer
Said once about the long toil
That goes like blood to the poem’s making?
Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls,
Limp as bindweed, if it break at all
Life’s iron crust. Man, you must sweat
And rhyme your guts taut, if you’d build
Your verse a ladder.

You speak as though
No sunlight ever surprised the mind

Groping on its cloudy path.

Sunlight’s a thing that needs a window
Before it enters a dark room.
Windows don’t happen.

So two old poets,
Hunched at their beer in the low haze
Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran
Noisily by them, glib with prose.

Lent, and ’40’…

I recieved this lovely e-mail the other day-

Dear Chris,

This is the second year I have used 40 through Lent and I am loving it again but in a completley new way.

Isn’t it amazing how God can speak to you differently even when the words are familiar?



I bought my copy at Lee Abbey a year after I had first seen it; it had called to me right from the start!
It is so lovely to hear that things that you have written are meaningful to others. It is almost like hearing people praising your child.

You can still get hold of ’40’ from Proost.
It is not too late to make your own Lenten journey…



Find me O my father

Make me.

Take me back to you

My throat is cracked

But thirst is more

For you

My stomach craves

A food that feeds only this;

My soul.

So I walk

Desperate

Close to falling

Stumbling

To you

Michaela’s poem…

I love my wife.

Sorry to get all soppy, but I do.

She still sometimes sends me cards for no particular reason and yesterday, she sent me one with a poem inside, which I am going to reproduce here.

Words are such wonderful things- they flex like muscles and can hold you in their tender embrace.

We have our list of dreams

Of sunsets and adventures

And our bags are packed

One with troubles

One with hopes

And tea bags

And good music

Medicine for the soul

Some friends will expect news

Pack the address book too

Are we ready?

Do not forget the map

And the itinerary-

Some adventure

And some stillness

We climb into the week

And head off

Let me carry your bag of troubles

I’ll meet you at the weekend

In a cafe with yellow walls

That feels like home

We’ll dream again

Share memories of the week

And smile in the family album

MG March 2010


Exposed

I am exposed

A fat seal left on barnacled rocks

Bent like a black banana

By the ebb of tides-

Whose rhythms I should know better

Soft over-blown body

Burnt by the sardonic gaze

Of the cruel sun

I live only in the hope

That the waters that spat me

Will turn again

Will roll me in the weeds and wracks

Will hide me

In the dappled deep

Making recovery real…

To Oban today to a Scottish Recovery Network conference on the promotion of ‘recovery’ as a concept and driver for mental health services, and more importantly, for those of us who experience mental ill health.

It snowed, and so we were a bit worried about the drive, but in the end Audrey, Victoria and I got there and back with no trouble.

The challenge and critique brought to services by the change of thinking and shifts in power required to move towards a recovery based system (rather than an illness based system) has been the stuff of my working life for a while now. I have found that it has had the capacity to reignite my passion for the work that I do.

I have spoken about recovery before- here and here, but for those who have not come across the concept before, here is the definition from the SRN website

“Recovery is being able to live a meaningful and satisfying life, as defined by each person, in the presence or absence of symptoms. It is about having control over and input into your own life. Each individual’s recovery, like his or her experience of the mental health problems or illness, is a unique and deeply personal process.”

It is about trying to stop expecting people to fit into hierarchical burearocratic structures, but rather shifting power from the institution to the individual. It is about creating opportunities for people to rediscover hope, and to re imagine what a fuller life might look like.

You could say that it is about the redemption business- the Jesus business. And where he is, I want to be near.

But lest you think that I am doing that familiar paid helper thing, and dividing the world into us (the professionals) and you (the recipients of our expertise) then let me confess that I too am in a process of recovery.

Or should I say sometimes I am.

Because we were asked today to consider what might contribute to our own ‘wellness’, and people gave the usual answers- love, relationships, long walks in the country, meaningful activity, meditation and rich ruby wine… But I was led once again to reflect on my own mercurial sense of wellbeing, and how fragile it was at times.

Because sometimes it seems as though I am merely a victim to unfolding circumstance. Things happen, and I have little control over them, nor my emotional reaction to them. Of course, this is not true. There are lots of things I do, or avoid doing that make me who I am.

It is perhaps more like one of those slow unfolding accidents, that give you chance to react and minimise the inevitable impact- which is nonetheless still painful and shocking.

Of course there is such blessing in this journey of mine too- and I am so grateful that I do not walk alone.

So by way of celebrating these continuing outbreaks of redemption, almost in spite of my own ability to miss them- I offer you this lovely poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins-

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying What I do is me: for that I came.
I say more: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—
Christ—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

Look upon my works you mighty and weep…

For I have walked the wild country

And watched the sun slipping slowly down

Turning green to gold

working alchemy before my very eyes

I have seen the mountains

Lifting up their faces to the sky

Gathering in the starlight

So beautiful it makes me want to cry

And I can hear a voice- its calling me

Can you hear the voice?

It says;

Look upon my works you mighty and weep

(CG 2001)

The myth of immortality..

I have been very much enjoying the series on Radio 4 called “A history of the world in 100 objects”

Today’s object was the statue of Rameses II, made around 1200 BC, broken up by an ex-circus performer-cum antiquities dealer, and sold to the British Museum.

It caused a sensation- inspiring poetry and art- including most famously, Percy Shelley who wrote this famous sonnet after visiting the museum in 1818

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away

Rameses II was perhaps the greatest of all the Pharoes of the new Egyptian Kingdom. He ruled for 67 years, and determined to outshine all other pharaohs, called himself ‘ruler of rulers’ and had more monuments and statues created than any other Pharaoh. He ruled the most powerful nation in his world, but still, his concern was on casting his memory for ever in stone.

Shelley’s poem catches the futility of this ambition so beautifully. And so this statue can be seen as a symbol of the fragility of all human achievement.  They remind us that all civilisations, not matter how great- will fall. And no matter how meglomaniacal our leaders become- they too are made of clay. After Rameses II- it was downhill all the way for the Egyptian empire. Each successive Pharaoh was weaker, and had to make more compromises with the surrounding powers. Corruption and decay set in.

I began to think of this desire we all have to be immortal. As a young Christian, I was taught that this was the great selling point to offer as a carrot for potential converts. The promise of eternal life.

I have come to believe that this all consuming pre-occupation with living for ever prevents us connecting with the stuff of here and now. We forget that, as Brian McLaren would say, Christianity is not an ‘escape plan’, but rather an invitation to participate fully in the here and now.

Perhaps we also are affected with the same impulses that drove Rameses II- it can all become about ME. Placing ourselves at the centre of our universe. Including at the centre of our religion.

God exists in order to make me (and others that are like me, and believe in the stuff I believe in) immortal.

Hmmmm…