in search of quiet space

Spiritual direction went well today. Lots to process and think about over the next few weeks, but that's no bad thing. The most difficult part was wondering where to start and how much background information to give initially. My first few thoughts in spiritual direction are pretty garbled at the best of times, and I was significantly more inarticulate than usual today as I tried to work out what I actually wanted to say. It's made slightly strange because we'll only be meeting about three times, so there's not much space for getting to know each other slowly. It felt more important to just dive right in.

I feel a bit too close to it all to try to write coherently about it now. There's just too much to unpack, and as I usually do after direction, I feel a bit tender - but in a good way. I usually try to carve out some extra space in the days after meeting with my spiritual director to continue making some of the connections which come out of the session. It often feels essential that I create a bit more reflection and writing time than normal. Unfortunately, the next couple of days are quite full (full of some lovely things - like meeting friends and family - but there are also a couple of slightly more complicated situations to be negotiated too), and even though I know I'll have some time to myself, I still feel slightly claustrophobic and tetchy. It's not helped by the fact that next week starts off quite busy despite the holiday, and there's plenty to be done between now and then in preparation.

Sigh. So much for balance. . .

a change in direction

Tomorrow I'm seeing a new spiritual director.

The person I normally see is on sabbatical for the next few months, so this is only temporary, but I feel slightly apprehensive. I have been seeing my spiritual director for several years now. She and her husband are responsible for my meeting Justin. They not only watched our relationship grow but they also married us. Last year she guided me through the Ignatian Exercises, and she has been privy to many of my spiritual wonderings, wanderings and wobblings. She knows about our struggles with infertility and the way that has affected my journey with God. She is also a friend. Our relationship is complex. We have history.

The person I'll be seeing tomorrow is someone I've never met before, but about whom I've heard wonderful things. She came highly recommended by several people, and my spiritual director is the one who set up this arrangement. She will know a bit about me, and she will certainly know about recent events, so we're not entirely starting from scratch. But it does feel a bit strange. It's all so personal - more so, I would say, than counseling (which I've started, by the way, and I'm really glad I'm doing it). Somehow, it's easier for me to talk to a counselor about stuff in my head than a spiritual director about what's going on in my heart, though the two are obviously not totally separate. But what happens between God and me - that's really getting to the essence of who I am. It's the big stuff. I feel far more vulnerable during spiritual direction.

On the other hand, I'm quite curious to experience a new style of spiritual direction. It will be interesting to see what comes out of talking to someone who doesn't have all my background information. Maybe new threads will emerge or new movements will be glimpsed. A fresh perspective could be very helpful indeed as I begin to look towards the next few months and the various uncertainties that they hold.

Despite the mild apprehension, I'm really glad I've got spiritual direction tomorrow. I normally have it at least once a month, but it's been about six weeks this time, and I've got a lot to ponder. . .

what next?

I think it's finished (admire the lovely screen shots!). We still need a final thorough proofread, and there's still a chance that things could go horribly wrong at the printer's, but for now anyway, I've done all I can do. And the two people I've been working most closely with are both on holiday, so at last, a bit of breathing space.

As I turned the stereo on this morning, I asked Justin what it meant that I have been listening to Gorecki's Symphony No 3 virtually nonstop throughout this project, and he had the audacity to call me melodramatic. (If you're not familiar with it, do click the link above. The Wikipedia article has samples of it at the end. Really though, you should go out and buy it.) My love of this piece of music is bordering on obsession, and even a life-long association with the Holy Trinity history book which is now inevitable has not dulled its ability to give me goosebumps when I hear it. It is that powerful.

Now I'm in the delightful position of looking for new ways to fill my days. I found the latter stages of the layout process completely drained me of my creative energy, so I hope to redirect some of that back into this blog. It has been utterly lacking in worthwhile content recently. I'm amazed people are still reading, but according to google, you're still with me, dear patient friends. One thing which must happen is a complete reorganisation of Justin's books (financial, not the ones you read - though they could use a bit of organisation too). That was the original plan for when I quit my job, but the history book took over. Maybe now I can get round to some of the odd jobs around the house I've been planning on doing for ages too.

What I'd really love to do though, despite the fact that it feels utterly indulgent and luxurious, is set aside chunks of time each day to read. I bought all those gorgeous books at the book sale last week, received several spiritual formation books from my godfather today (I love the smell of new books as you unpack them from their box - that was the only part of working at Waterstone's that I liked towards the end of my time there several years ago), and have loads of reading I could be doing to get a head start on my course (because yes, I really am a swot at heart). Is it not sad that I get a guilty twinge just thinking about spending my days reading? Seriously, how can Anglo-Catholic have such a dreadfully Calvinist approach to work?

bloggers and bluebells

My computer has decided it no longer recognises our camera, so downloading pictures has become a huge ordeal of transferring pictures from camera to Justin's computer to the external hard drive to my computer. But at last, photo evidence from the weekend. Better pictures can also be found at Stewart and Tim's blogs.

before catching the ferry to Dunoon


the bluebells were gorgeous


lunch time


Puck's Glen

Huge thanks to Kimberly for organising the day and hosting us all!

off to the wild west

For a day of bloggers and bluebells tomorrow. First though, is the expat evening tonight with Kimberly of wonderful exchange, who's hosting the event, and Elizabeth, who I've gotten to know a bit through her comments here and elsewhere. I've really been looking forward to it. It will be interesting to finally meet some of the people whose blogs I read (though it does feel slightly strange that they will already know so much about me, too). Should be great fun.

Right, I really must get myself organised.

was that it?

Summer is over in Scotland apparently. After two weeks of gorgeous warm weather and clear skies, the temperature has been steadily dropping, and today it's just cold. I used to think that Justin was terribly pessimistic when he would mumble through the good weather, 'We're going to pay for this. Enjoy it while it lasts. For each day of sun, we'll get a week of rain.' Now, though, I know that he's just being realistic.

I had started writing a post in my head last night about how nice it has been to wake up with the sun on my face in the mornings, how much I've enjoyed going for walks with Justin in the evenings, how I finally feel like I've emerged from hibernation. I should have known better than to even think such good thoughts; writing them certainly dooms us to months of gloom and cold.

Despite the Scottish weather now doing what it does best, the sun was a blessed relief when it was here. I feel more like going out when the weather is nice, and in the past week, I have seen more friends than I have in the past few months. It's been so good to catch up with people I hadn't seen for ages. I do feel like I have been in a sort of hibernation since January. When we got 'the news', everything changed for us. Assumptions that we had made about our future, stories we had created for ourselves, points of reference which seemed so fixed all of a sudden disappeared, and I didn't feel during that time that I could see anyone. I wasn't ready to talk to people about it because I didn't know how, but I also didn't feel that I had the strength to meet up with friends and pretend everything was ok.

Now, though, infertility has become a part of who we are, and it's a part of the story we are creating as a couple. I hope we're never exclusively defined by it, but it has become as much a part of us and our lives as, say, pregnancy and children have for friends of ours. It is always present. I'm ok with that now. Yes, the pain is always in the background, and my recent contentment has felt quite fragile. I'd obviously prefer things to be different and will no doubt go through other phases where I'm not ok with it. But a part of me now needs to share it and share my struggles with it with good friends. My intention certainly hasn't been to burden them with it or expect them to support me; instead, somehow it feels that to not let them in on this part of us would be almost dishonest - or inauthentic, maybe - although I can't really articulate why that is. I'm just really pleased to be back in touch with some friends again.

And of course, it's been Christian Aid book sale week, so these visits with friends have been supplemented with book buying, which is always a mood-enhancing activity. I am always amazed at how good it is, and how cheap the books are. 'Greedy frenzy' comes short of describing the state I enter into when I am amongst good books selling for 50p. Taste and discrimination abandon me completely when I see novels (for £1.50) that I thought about maybe reading 10 years ago and haven't thought of since because I didn't want to waste my money on rubbish. And the fact that the money goes to a good cause? Well, you can justify just about any purchase then. It's a dangerous, glorious place, the Christian Aid book sale.

slowly, quietly. . .

. . . losing the will to live.

A morning of dire, drab hymns at church and an afternoon full of the tedium of Photoshopping photographs for the history book for church is enough to make me want to go to sleep and never wake up. Seriously, church was grim this morning. The hymns were dreadful. Justin and I couldn't look at each other because we'd just make faces and giggle like school children. The spirit of Pentecost missed our church today, I think. Or maybe we're just snobs.

At least the history book is nearly finished. I know I keep saying that, but it really is almost done. We (I say we, but actually Justin's the master of Photoshop - I just constructively criticise as he tries to ignore me) are almost finished touching up the photographs which just need to replace the filler images I had been using. If I weren't so tired of looking at it, I'd say it's looking really, really good. I hope to have it 99% done by the time I leave for the west coast on Friday, and if Justin works his magic while I'm away and manages to design the cover, we'll have it ready for final editing by next Monday. That will be quite a relief.

Today was the first time we have been at church since Easter, and we only went today because we needed to get some photos for the book. Our poor attendance at church is no longer about me needing space to reevaluate my understanding of God or feeling like it wasn't a safe place to express some of my uncertainty, anger or sadness. It's much more mundane than that now: Sunday is the only day we both take completely off of work, and spending half the day in church simply isn't how we'd like to spend that time. There are lots of reasons why that is - bad hymns are certainly part of it, but overall, I just don't feel like I'm worshiping when I'm there. I've reverted back to my child self who used to count the words that needed to be said before the service could end. It's lacking in energy, but more importantly, it's lacking in mystery. But the big question then, of course, is how to bring that sense of mystery back into the worship. Is it about the music? The form of liturgy? The translation used for the scripture readings? Or the physical surroundings? And what about when different people experience the mystery in different ways? Or does the fault partly lie with me?

I know that church can't always be what we want it to be. I know that some days I want the smells and bells and glorious music of a high church service. Other days that seems too much, and taking a long walk or gardening is a more 'productive' form of worship. And I know that part of the experience of church is about worshiping in community. This is a conversation I've had numerous times with my spiritual director, our rector and friends who work in churches, and there are no easy answers - particularly for a rural church. In the city, it's easier to pick and choose churches based on the community and style of worship, but in rural areas, that choice is limited, if there is a choice at all.

And I have to say that even though we haven't been present on Sundays, we feel more involved with church now than we ever have done in the past. We do hover on the periphery by attending the ethics debates, and we lead the book group. We also help with the quarterly newsletter; Justin will be doing the website; and I've been helping with this history book. But - and this is another reason why we haven't been attending very often - some Sundays I would really love to just go to church, participate in the service, chat to a couple of people at the end and then go home without someone coming up to me asking me to do something. My desire to go back to church has begun to return over the past few weeks, but I haven't been certain that we could go to our church and just be - just be part of the worshiping community without feeling like we're obligated to offer something. Sadly, I was proved right today.

I know that this is a complicated issue too. Our church, like many churches, is run on volunteers. I'm happy to help with the newsletter. This history book (which, I confess, is a paid job - but at 'charity' rates which will work out to less than minimum wage by the time I'm finished) has given me an opportunity to get to know some of the people at church a bit better, and I have - for the most part - enjoyed working on it. Also, learning InDesign more thoroughly is a great new practical skill. But. Sometimes it's hard to draw the line. Sometimes I struggle with the high levels of expectation - both of quantity and quality of work done for free. Sometimes it's hard to communicate that even though Justin and I both work from home, we actually have less free time than we would if we had 9-5 jobs. And because we don't have kids, we can offer more of ourselves to the church, right? (I'm still formulating a good response to that one. Right now sarcasm is winning out over politeness.)

As I said, this is nothing new for us. A lot of this we've discussed with our rector, and I have enough friends working in the church and read the blogs of other church people to know that for the most part the rectors are incredibly grateful for all the work done by their volunteers, and they're aware of the problems. We're certainly not going to be leaving our church, however frustrated I am with it just now (though we have decided to pop in to some of the other churches - of other denominations - in the area to have that experience of just being during the worship). We do genuinely like the people there, and no community is without its flaws. My complaints could be true of any number of churches, and I know that they are as much to do with me, my attitude and my inability to say no as anything. But sometimes it's all about balance, and it's finding that balance - and maintaining it - which is the real struggle. We're not there yet, and might not be for a while, but searching for it feels quite important just now.