A Shiny, Resilient Hold

This will come as a surprise to pretty much everyone who didn't know me during my formative years, but from about the age of 13 to the age of 17, my sincere goal was to pursue a career in ministry. Raised in a Mennonite home with my father as a minister himself, I was exposed to, and encouraged to investigate intersectional faith relationships and teachings. Contrary to the image that many will conjure when picturing a ministers daughter, my experience of faith exploration was one of community, scholarship, and respect for the multiplicity of belief systems around the world. There was also an underlying thrumb of violence, which was so powerful that it put me off the pursuit of any sort of moral community for 17 years. I hesitate as I write this, because to be so bald faced with my experience continues to jar me. It feels like a threat to say aloud. But even in the fairly liberal reaches of the Mennonite church, violence was and is taking place against LGBTQ people, women,

There is a common saying in the writing world, “write what you know”, which I think likely explains why in my teenage years, I was a prolific writer, and then as my rather “supreme” knowledge base mysteriously dropped off, so did the production of my work. Like many of my cohort, I've arrived in the younger bracket of middle age startled by the realisation that perhaps I just don't know very much at all. Startled and awed by the profound increase of shared knowledge and experience all around me, made available by the internet, our day to day existence, regardless of our efforts, can seem humblingly middling. I think many will relate when I say that it sometimes feels like other people are following a script, complete with permissions of behaviour, that I just didn't get. The fact that those who I have perceived as particularly well scripted, when interviewed, have revealed that they struggle with exactly the same looming sense of inadequacy, suggests otherwise. Bu

She sat, staring at the tree in the corner of the room, wondering about the fake snow on its branches. She had chosen this tree, a symbol of change, and insisted it be put up on the very first day possible to make happiness flow into the room. “You can't force joy,” she thought, “but you can cultivate it. You can invite it.” Her husband put a warm mug of something down next to her...tea? Had she asked for it? Probably. She couldn't keep track of the passage of time so accurately recently. Her husband's kindness and caution sat with the cup on the coffee stained arm of the couch, and his...nervous? Frustrated? His energy was bouncing out of the kitchen with the clatter of the washing up, a video on in the background to cover up the odd weight in the living room that was his wife's confusion. She was muddled. And she took a sip of the reassuring drink, (ah, tea), and felt care pour down her throat, and wished she knew how to be more receptive. So she said “Thank you

Every once in a while, it does us good to be reminded that the unexpected, whether in our public or private lives, can be something worth embracing. Today what I'd like to share is the result of an unexpected phenomenon I've experienced since carrying my young baby with me around town: spontaneous storytelling from unknown women in the community. As these women tell me their stories or make their statements, I often see the look of discomfort in the eyes of those around me. "Why is she speaking to a stranger?"  These women are mostly age fifty or above.I get the impression as they speak that these are stories that create part of their life-engines; these are the memories that drive them, but are often not shared with others. Here's a glimpse at two of the beautiful stories I've been given the chance to hear. ***************** I sit down in the thrumming cafe, my coffee in a take-away paper cup in front of me. I tend to choose take away cups because

It's Breastfeeding Week and I, like many women and mothers for whom this week is targeted, find myself conflicted and thoughtful about the focus and drive of this campaign. What we see during this week is what you'd expect from a supportive movement: the positives of breastfeeding are listed, there are special offers by companies for breastfeeding mothers, stories of breastfeeding mothers are shared, and breastfeeding pictures are passed around in the hopes of normalizing the act of feeding an infant from the breast. Women who breastfeed often experience a world of anxiety and struggle when it comes to feeding their babies, especially in public spaces. Mums find themselves sexualised, accused of "whipping out" their breasts; sometimes they are asked to move or cover up (incidentally, this is illegal in the UK, but still happens enough that many places of business will indicate with an extra sticker sign that breastfeeding is welcome). Mothers who breastfeed also fac

Going through my history, my therapist stops me to say "it looks like you've been a parent for while," Well shit. That's true. It took me 23 years to be sexy. By the time I was 19, I had a post partum body, breasts and a belly that didn't belong to me, a mind that could lose dates and names like glitter, and a crowd of onlookers who thought I was selfish. (Spoiler alert: it's actually OK to be selfish. Just apparently not for people who are or are viewed as mothers. But this is bullshit so, mothers of the world, carry on. You don't have to bear everyone's burdens.) When men started to notice me instead of cry to me, I felt confused. When women did the same, I felt even more confused. I don't think there's much point in trying to be poetic about this; most histories and sexualities don't fit a metre. Now,  I'm Harry Potter. I have a very real scar from a very real birth, that time that I was left to die, and if you think scars hurt