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How to be A Gap Year Mum.

48 hours... that's how long it is until our daughter, Mia, steps onto a plane and into the biggest adventure of her life. 
5 months of travelling the world.
5 months of no work, no studying and, best of all, no parents.

" How do you feel?" my friends ask, " You must be worried. Are you sad? This is it, isn't it?  She's leaving home. Does it feel like the end of an era?"
And I pause for a moment. 
I need time to think about it. 

Because I suppose I should be feeling all those things. 
I suppose I should be preparing myself for impending heartache. 

But the truth is, I'm not sure how I feel.

As a parent, I have spent much of my life full of the uncertainties that are inherent to a job that has no description, a role that has no rules, cares that have no end. 
I spend my days worrying about whether what I have said or done is right or wrong, whether what will happen next is going to be awful or incredible, whether what I believe to be true is actually a threadbare fabric of misconceptions.
Our daughter spreading her wings, floating freestyle through the world for a while, that's just another one of those things not to be sure about.  
Today, like every day since our children were born, I grasp at rags of emotion and wonder how they fit together.
Like every day since they were born, I feel many things a little bit and nothing quite completely.

On this grey, rainy morning, sitting in our little kitchen, in a tiny city, in small, unsettled England, it's easy to imagine taking flight. 
Who wouldn't rather be heading towards sunshine and dreams-come-true and days of carefree wandering? 

 And, of course, I can't help remembering how it felt to be that young.
To feel the breeze of the future ruffling my hair.
To dip my toe into the ocean of tomorrow and wonder which way the current will pull me. 
To feel the intensity of almost perfect moments in almost perfect places. 
I remember how that felt.

 It feels as though it was just yesterday...it feels as though it was so very long ago.

And now it is our daughter's turn.

I picture her walking through the departure gates and away from me.
Walking through the departure gates and into the next part of her life.
The painting we have been creating together is almost finished now, the last few strokes beginning to dry, the lines almost, but not quite yet, blurring into memories.

It's time for her to start creating a new canvas,  to be guided by a new map, with new co-ordinates.
Time for her to follow the beckoning path of the future she has been waiting for. 

And she is ready. 

I hope that I am.

I picture her walking through the arrivals gate into an airport full of light and noise and colourful confusion.
I picture her, hopes and dreams stuffed into her turquoise ruck sack, stepping out into a hot and steamy world that is too far away for me to touch.

And I hope that it will treat her well.

I hope she returns wearing the stories she lives and the stars she touches like invisible pearls around her heart.

I hope she has the time of her life.

"How do you feel?" my friends ask.
And I can't answer that.
Because in the end, that is not what matters.
What matters is what we share. 

And what we share, is, and always be, love. 

Go well my Mia. 

Fight the Might - March Against Prejudice

This is not one of my long, rose-tinted meandering blogs
Not words full of hope and all-that-is-good-in-the-world. 
This is a short and cloud-tinted blog.
Because right now I am scared.
And not just because the world is being held precariously in the hands of an egocentric, thin-skinned reality TV show host 
Not just because the BREXIT vote has divided a nation and burnt the bridges for our children's future.
Not just because hate crime is rising and the weak and young and vulnerable are left voiceless and weak
.
I'm scared because of the little things
.
While our politicians discuss the big things:  how to live in a "post-truth," world, international policy, global warming, state visits, while they discuss all those things, every day, right on our doorsteps, the little things are destroying the fabric of our communities.
While politicians debate and discuss and negotiate, swaztikas are being sprayed on walls, our daughter experiences "soft," racism on a daily basis  and just today I watched a video  where a local Parish Council (composed of elderly white men and women) reject the development of a skate park for teenagers at the same time as expressing racist views
.

How can any of this be ok?
These small things....they're not small.
This local politics.....it's not just local.



This is a short blog about being scared.
And the thing that  scares me the most, is my own cowardice.
The thing that I am most frightened of, is doing nothing.
Inaction and apathy are as much to blame for the wave of fear and hatred and prejudice that is washing over us as the actions and words of our leaders and politicians.

I spend my days finding a million excuses to do nothing.
I convince myself that I am too busy, that I already do enough, that I am just one person so what difference can I make.
But those are no longer good enough excuses.
.
I'm not sure what it is that we can do, but I am sure that doing nothing is no longer an option.

My parents, like many others, are the children of refugees who fled war-torn Europe.
It's not so long ago that "hate," almost won. 
We cannot risk that happening again.

And we can sit here and discuss how terrible it is and how wrong everyone else is, or we can do something about it. 
And we can say these things are too big and too complicated and too-out-of-our-control to  or we can start trying to stop them from happening again.
We are the grassroots.
Grassroots is where it starts.
There is power in numbers.
Power in the knowledge that we are not alone.


So...people of Chichester (or close-by).....how about it?
How about we show we care?
How about a March Against Prejudice? It would, at least, be a start.
Parents- we are fighting for our children's future.
Grandparents - we are fighting for the future you used to dream of. 
Everyone, we are fighting for a safer, more caring  and better tomorrow.

If you want to be part of this, leave a comment or a message...and perhaps, just perhaps, we can make it happen.

Pearl-Searching and Sock-Matching

I have to say, I'm not enjoying this working-very-hard-again thing.
I'm not enjoying spending my nights and weekends at the computer, head in work.
Not enjoying never being fully in the full moment with my family but instead, filling my life with an ocean of incomplete and unfinished moments that just make everyone grumpy.
The year that I spent writing and being a mum seems like a long-ago dream, fading into the that-was-so-nice-puddle of "things that used to be fun".
And it's a shame because I think I was particularly talented at not working.
Waking to the knowledge that my days were endless sea of beckoning potential. 
Without practicing or panicking in any way, I drifted happily  from working too much, for too long, far too often...... to not working at all.
It was a seamless transition.
At 50 I feel it should be time to start working less, not more.
"But what did you do all day?" friends ask me, when I explain that I feel a return to joblessness is definitely a day dream of mine.
And I try to remember.
Our house was definitely tidier than it ever has been before or since.
We had more pairs of matching socks.
I was always here when the kids got home from school.
I had time to sit down and really talk to them if they wanted me to or, at the very least, provide them with an unending supply of almost healthy snacks.
Dinners were unburnt and mostly ready in time. 
I caught up with friends -not just a rushed meeting but with time to talk and, more importantly, to listen.
I wrote and wrote...and laughed and laughed..
I did things because I wanted to, not because I had to.
I did what I thought to be right, not what I knew to be wrong because the powers-that-be told me I had to.
I said what I knew to be true, instead of conveying a twisted version of the truth.
I felt complete and in control of all that matters to me.
"Ok, ok," my friends say, backing away from the wave of almost desperate determination that they can feel washing towards them. " We were only asking. Stop working then....if it's so important. Don't explain it to us anymore.  We believe you."
And so I stop talking.
But I can feel them still.
Those dreamy days so full of possibility.
I do know how lucky I am.
I know there are people forced to stay at home through illness or redundancy or injustice.
I can imagine how they must long to be part of something bigger than themselves, how they must feel that their four walls have become a prison., that they are losing their identity in a career-oriented world, that what they do has no value. .
I understand that it is easy to feel that you have been forgotten.
But what is important, is that we do not let our jobs define us.
What is important, is not what we do but who we are.
What matters is not whether we get promoted or follow a career trajectory that was planned by someone else but that we care enough about each other to make the world a better place.
We are, each of us, the carriers of a hidden pearl.
They are our certainty and our hope.
They are all that we believe in and know to be true.
They are what makes life worth fighting for.
In these times of swirling confusion and fear, when all that was certain yesterday seems uncertain today, those pearls are the potential we have been reaching for.
And we don't need to wear suits or ties  or high heels to find it, we just have to let go of our vulnerability and open our protective shells.

Whatever we do, whoever we are:  worker, dreamer or just be-er, all that matters is that we find our hidden pearl and make it glow.
And if you can do it, so can your partner or your children or your neighbour
One glowing pearl might not be enough, but a whole string of them.....that might just be indestructible.
So, perhaps today, instead of sitting in front of my computer, I will start the search for my inner pearl- I wonder if I can find it while I am matching socks!

Christmas, Courage and Kindness

Christmas is here again with all its consumerist excitement.
It's tempting to throw yourself into it.
To believe for just a few short weeks that the world is simply full of joy and love and lots of mulled wine.
It's tempting to look at the excited faces of the Father-Christmas-believing children and say "Santa Claus is coming to town."
It's tempting to sit at your work Christmas dinner and soak up the alcohol-drenched 'Joy-to-the-world," ambiance.
It's tempting to join in with the familiar carols, the tunes  that take us back to a a better time.
"Peace on Earth and mercy mild."

Whatever  happened to that?

While all around us the storm clouds are gathering, we hang on to our glitter-filled, bauble- shaped dreams and hope that by hanging them on our Christmas trees, the world become a better place.

We have to keep hoping, right?

last night I helped at a Christmas party for students with special needs coming home for Christmas. 
 It was organised by our daughter, Mia.  
She found the hall, the DJ, sent persuasive texts to friends, siblings ( and her brother Joss) and together they created a magical night.
There were traumas, there was dancing, there was much flirting.
Like any home coming friendships had to be retrieved and re-shaped and re-kindled.
And they were.

And at the end of the evening, one of the mums came up to Mia and said:
"Thank you, you have done something amazing tonight because it was done  out of pure kindness."
That meant a lot to Mia.
But I think it might have meant even more to me.
Like a wake-up call, I felt those words send a shock through my body and 
wrap themselves around my heart.
" Pure kindness," - how often are our actions shaped by that?
How often do we do something that is purely kind?

In the crazy, frightening, divisive world, I think we might have forgotten how to do it.
And yet it takes so little..
Pure kindness doesn't need a hall or a DJ or a sound system.
It doesn't come with  a price tag or a money-back guarantee or a present receipt.
You should expect no thank you letter.
it's not tangible or concrete.

But all the same, I think it might be the greatest gift we can give..

It's a gift that can take courage and thought and time.
It's a gift is easy to forget about or hide right at the bottom of the pile.
It's a gift that is impossible to wrap.
But it's not what it looks like that matters.
In the end, pure kindness is the light that can guide us through these zig-zagging days of distrust and darkness because no one can stop us from making it shine.

I think it might be our most powerful weapon in these days of growing hate and injustice.
i say, this year, let's give pure kindness a go.
.
So Happy Christmas/ Holidays/ Days off work - and here's to next year being everything that this year wasn't.

Here's to 2017 being the year we find the courage to be truly kind.

It's Not Fair That It's Not fair.

So, I was sitting in a grid-locked traffic jam, a trail of unmoving red tail lights in front of me,  rows of unblinking headlights behind.

And I couldn’t help railing against the injustice of it all. 

I had been to visit a student on placement 30 miles away.

Not only had it taken up most of the day but while I was there I got a  £70 parking ticket .

 And now, here I was stuck in a never-ending traffic jam, getting later and later for my next meeting.

It wasn’t even slightly fair.

I wanted to yell at someone.

I wanted to fume and let steam flow from my ears.

And then, on the radio came Steve Hewlett - broadcaster, journalist, film maker - 
And he was talking with  stoic cynicism about his fight with cancer.

Sharing with such honest humour his painful, uncomfortable journey.

Accepting  with such  courage the future of  his now time-limited life….

And I knew, that what was happening to him was so, so much worse than my semi-wasted day and my parking ticket and my grid-locked evening.

I knew that to be diagnosed with aggressive cancer when you are mid-successful career with two kids, that is just not fair.

It is so much less fair than what was happening to me.

It’s a whole a whole other universe of unfair.

And knowing that should have put my day into perspective.

I should have calmly accepted that my frustration and sense of injustice was as nothing in comparison.

But…I just couldn’t.

Now, not only was I cross about the injustice of my day, but I felt guilty about feeling cross about it, which made even crosser.

Apparently there is a hierarchy to injustice.

And in the scheme of things, a parking ticket, a long day and tardiness for a meeting come right at the bottom.

The world is full of actual heart-wrenching, painful, mind-blowingly real injustice.

When you think about it, nothing in life is fair.
It's not fair that we have to grow old.
It's not fair that we watch those we love suffering.
It’s not fair that in some parts of the world people are starving while I scrape my leftover dinner into the bin.

It’s not fair that nations are awash with hatred and prejudice and war.

It’s not fair that the greatest amount of power seems to be held in the hands of a few self-absorbed despots. 

It’s not fair that almost everything that is good about the world seems to be hidden by almost everything that is bad.

It’s not fair that 90% of the world’s wealth is in the hands of less than 10% of the world’s population

It’s not fair that thousands of children die each day because they are too poor to live.

Nothing in this life is fair.

We learn that at a young age.

“It’s not fair,’ seems to be one of the first phrases that children learn to say.
And I'm almost jealous of their black-and-white certainty that it really isn't fair

For them there is no league of fairness.

When they believe something is unfair, it really is.

It’s not fair that they have to share toys, eat vegetables, go home, stop playing, go to bed……it’s just NOT FAIR

Our toddlers struggling to make sense of the world are lucky..

They haven’t yet learnt the annoyingly awful truth that every moment of every day someone has it much, much worse than them.

They can have terrible, screaming tantrums because their parents won’t buy them the latest flashing, battery driven toy or the  chocolate biscuits they saw on the shop shelves. 

They can shout and kick and hit in the absolute belief that nothing is as unfair as what is happening to them.

Don’t you sometimes wish you were still a toddler, so certain of your absolute right to be indignant and outraged?

Truthfully, I would have loved to have sat in my car in that traffic jam ranting and raving on that grid-locked evening.

But I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t let my inner toddler  out.

I am burdened by the knowledge that what I considered unfair that day wouldn’t even register on a generic barometer of injustice.

And so I tried to breathe slowly and go to my happy place, somewhere full of sunshine  and gin and chocolate.

But even there, inside my head, a little chocolate-filled voice was whispering:

“but a whole day, a parking ticket, a traffic jam…..it’s just not fair.

And yet,  here’s the thing.

A sense of injustice, of indignation at all that is unfairly wrong with the world, seems to be part of the human condition.

We are good at being victims. at blaming others, at explaining that it is not our fault.

But sitting in the car, staring helplessly at the unending trail of red tail-lights, I realised something: there is a purpose to our sense of injustice.

A reason why we feel angry about all that is out-of-our-control-wrong with the world.

If we didn’t feel angry, we would never try and do anything about it.

It’s ok to be a little bit cross if something is a little bit unfair – as long as we get very cross if something is incredibly and hugely unfair.

If we don’t get cross about the little things, how are we ever going to get cross enough about the bigger ones.

Anger can be a catalyst.

Seeing red, tail lights and all, can be the difference between apathy and action, between doing nothing and doing something.

And if those of us for whom life is generally fair enough don’t act, who will?

“Are you a glass-half- full or a glass-half-empty-person?” people sometimes ask me.

“ I’m more of a why-does-it-matter-how-full-the-glass-is -let’s-just-drink-up-and-do something-about-it person,” I say.

And I hope that’s true.

I hope I’m brave enough to fight injustice with actions as well as words.

I hope I have courage enough to stand up and battle for all that I believe is right and good in the world.
I hope I will never let evil triumph by doing nothing.

I hope I never stop feeling angry about how unfair life is.

So the next time I am stuck in an unmoving, never-ending traffic jam, at the end of a day that has probably not even been unfair enough to be unfair, I'm going to get really cross.

I’m going to bang my hands on the steering wheel,.

I'm going to rant and rave at the injustice of it all.
I'm going to eat all the bits of old chocolate I can find.
I'm going to swear and curse  at anyone who looks at me.
And I'm not going to feel even slightly bad about it.

Because  I'll be doing it all to make the world a better place...won't I?

Rocking the Donald Trump Blues

"We are numb with despair," wrote our friend Amy from Foxborough, Massachusetts as Donald Trump, the next President of the United States, walked onto the stage to make his victory speech.
Numb seems to be the safest way to be on this "end-of-the-world -as-we-know-it," day.
Despair doesn't seem like a crazy or big enough word to describe how it feels.

A reality TV show host has just become ruler of the Western World - actual reality doesn't get more bizarre than that.

"I kept thinking that I should turn off Comedy Central and watch the real news this morning," said one of my friends, " and then I remembered.....this is the real news.".. 

" Can we close for the day?" I ask my boss when I get to work. " We could declare a day of mourning. We need to mourn the loss of sanity and the loss of all that might have been good in the world."
He stops humming REM's " It's the End of the World," and laughs, the kind of empty laugh that hides the numbness of despair.
I think that might be the only kind of laughter there is now.

"You have to laugh mum," says Mia, our 19 year old daughter, " there's nothing else left to do."
And she's probably right.
What other weapon do we have. 
But it's hard.
Hard to find something to laugh about when the path to the White House is paved with  bigotry and racism.
Hard  to find something to laugh about when our fragile future is held in the brutish hands of an overt disdainer of women, of the vulnerable and of any minority you can think of.
Hard to find something to laugh about when a man with limited world vision and little interest in politics is about to become the political leader of the Western hemisphere.

But who needs knowledge, open-mindedness, political awareness or a capacity to care when you can be a vote-gaining, crowd-pleasing, billionaire president without any of those attributes?.
It would be nice to believe that those who voted for Trump were hood-winked, confused, mis-led.
But I don't think they were.
Like the Brexiteers, his message was clear, his surreal promises definite and his words uncompromising in a world full of confusion and uncertainty.
To some the confidence that comes with such black and white inflexibility is comforting.
A vote for Trump, like a vote to leave Europe, was an indisputable, anti-establishment, nationalistic vote.
A vote for something concrete.
A vote for a change so definite that it is almost tangible.
What is most frightening is not the fact that that voters jumped on the Trump band-wagon but that he jumped on theirs.
He played the popularity game and won. 
He chose to  surf the wave of discontent and  protest that seems to be sweeping across Europe and America at the moment.
And in true showman style, he rode the wave all the way to the White House. 
But washed up on that politically powerful shore, he will have no more crowd swell to support him.
From January 20th 2017, the buck will stop with him - and so far he has been much better at passing than carrying the buck.

It's hard to laugh on a day as sad as this.
It feels like an end not a beginning.
Obama arrived at the White House wrapped in his cloak of audacious hope. 
He never stopped fighting for what he believed to be right and good,  I don't believe he  ever will,
Trump will arrive at the White House wearing an expensively tailored suit of discontent,ignorance and hatred..
But hope cannot be cast off so easily.
Even though Trump will be living in the White House with his strange hair-do and oh-so-white teeth, Hilary Clinton is still going to win the popular vote.
That means that more people in America actually voted for Hilary than Donald.
We must not forget that.
Some of the problem lies with the system not the nation.

While he was in power, Obama was thwarted at every turn 
He was constantly forced to compromise, his hands tied by a party that refused to work with him, his voice muffled by the loud, demanding and intransigent majority of Republicans in the House of Representatives. 
That impossible-to-win battle is over now.
And sometimes it's easier to shout louder when you are in opposition, easier to take a strong position when you have nothing left to lose, easier to unite when you have a shared vision to fight for.
There's no more need to compromise, only to show clearly and courageously what we believe in.

Hope has been crushed not destroyed.
Hope has survived worse.
Hope has pulled people from the depth of much deeper and darker despair.
We are out of time for now, not forever.
Voices have been muted not silenced.
Apparently it was Burke in the 18th century who said:
"In order for evil to triumph, good men (and women) must do nothing." 
The world is full of good men and good women ready to stand up for what they believe in, we just need to find each other.

It might be Trump, not Obama, who is "all fired up and ready to go," for now.
But there are enough of us to put out the flames.
And perhaps it's true.
Perhaps we do have to laugh.
If nothing else, it will remind us of all that is still good and great in the world. 
Perhaps laughter is the only way to ease the numbness of despair.
And if a reality TV show host is truly going to rule the world, then it's time for those of us who do not see the world through through the detachment of a camera lens, to truly rock the future.

Dear Brexiteers and Leave Voters.....a letter from my heart.

Dear Brexiteers and Leave Voters

Just so you know, I'm finding it hard to forgive you.

Hard to forgive the damage that is being done to our country by the vote you cast.
Hard to forgive the fear and sadness and racist comments that haunt our mixed-race family since you voted to leave.
Hard to forgive  the rise in hate crime and the way your vote seems to have legitimised racism.
Hard to forgive the uncertainty to our economic future that leaving Europe will cause. 
Hard to forgive the constant, and uneasy feeling that since that historic day in June we are teetering on the edge of chaos..

Just so you know, I'm finding it hard to forgive you.

And I'm sure you will say that  it's because I don't understand.
That I don't understand the huge advantages of being financially independent from Europe.
That I don't understand that leaving Europe is the only way to stop our country from bursting at the seams with those seeking a better life.
That I don't understand that leaving Europe is the only way to save our drowning National Health and benefits system. 
That I don't understand the advantages of being free from the European "ball-and-chain," That I don't understand how important it is to stand alone, to make our own decisions, to be in charge of our own destiny.
But it's that destiny that If fear the most.

And there is much that I do understand.

I  understand that not everyone who voted to leave Europe is a racist or a bigot or a xenophobe.
I understand that many people, much cleverer than me, could cite a million reasons why we are financially better off out..
I understand that people were feeling disempowered by decisions made about them without them from miles away
I understand that the old system was flawed and broken.

I understand all that.

But when has a problem ever been solved by running away from it?
When has the way to mend something that is broken, ever been to leave it to rot?
The European Community was created to try and build peace and understanding, what message have we given by choosing to leave?


And I wonder.

Wonder if, on the day you cast your vote to leave, you imagined how it would actually feel for those who have become the victims of your choice.
Wonder if you truly considered all the consequences of your actions.
Wonder if you can picture our 18 year old Sri Lankan/English daughter walking down the stairs that morning, the 24th of June, trying to stop her voice from trembling as she asks 
" why doesn't my country want me anymore?"
Wonder if you can hear the voice of our sixteen year old son telling us that he is going  to try and study in Canada now, that he doesn't want to his future to be in a country that doesn't want him.

And I know.

I know that's probably not what you thought you were voting for.
But it's the message your vote gave to our children and thousands like them.
You were voting for the future of our country.
They thought they were its future.
You've told them they are wrong.

And I'm trying.

Trying hard to understand your motives.
Trying hard to see it from your point of view.
Trying hard to acknowledge the benefits there may be.
Trying hard to believe that good can come out of this.
But it's difficult  to understand what is better about being separated not just by a sea but by an ocean of difference and indifference.
Hard to believe that anything but good can come out of learning to work together, learning to value each other cultures, learning to care about something greater than ourselves.

I suppose, in the end, all any of us can do is what we believe to be right.
And I truly hope that's why you voted the way you did.

But just so you know, on the day our son boards the plane and flies away from us into a world that is still too big for his seventeen years, I will find it very hard to forgive you for my broken heart. 

With hope that the future will be better than it seems

Becky

A heart-warming story of macaroni cheese.

A little while ago I wrote a blog ( Camper Van Ethics) about a homeless person who, for a little while, lived in our camper van. 
Even though our van was parked less than 10 metres from our front door, none of us noticed - which says a lot for our observation skills.
And when we did find out, when we discovered, amongst the overflowing  makeshift ashtrays and dirty crumpled sheets,  the tiny collection of personal possessions that was all that we had to identify our unexpected guest, it wasn't anger or violation that I felt, but a deep and haunting sadness.

But even sadness has its up-side.
And for me it happened when my friend Cath read my blog and, understanding my guilty conscience at the thought of a camper van standing empty through long, cold winter nights, told me that she had always wanted to volunteer in our local homeless shelter and wondered if I would like to do it with her.
I am normally a person of many good ideas and very few real actions.
But there is no more powerful motive than the thought of letting down a friend. And so it was that Cath and I found ourselves sitting next to each other in a meeting, signing up for cooking dinner once a month for ten people who have fallen on hard times.
And that is truly who they are.
A cross-section of people from all walks of life who are battling with all their might to stop themselves from falling any further.  
And as we chop wilting vegetables and open tins and race against the clock with whatever peculiar collection of ingredients we are using, we listen to their stories.
And each month I am struck by how easily it could be any of us.
One unlucky shake of the dice, one financial loan too many, one escape from an abusive partner, one dream that didn't lead where it was meant to. 

"What would you like us to cook next time?" we ask, dubiously eyeing our latest creation of slop poured over pasta.
For a moment there is silence.
It seems to be a question that is not often asked.
"What I would really like," says one young tattooed man, staring dreamily through his dinner, "what would be really delicious is macaroni cheese.'
I think of the complicated dishes we have tried to create, the spicy chicken we have served one time too many because there is so much of it in the freezer, the all day breakfast that used every pan, dish and plate in the building....macaroni cheese seems too easy.

But the next time we are there, we boil up the pasta, mix the flour into the melted butter and cheese and create our dish.. 

"What's for dinner?" asks our tattooed friend.
"Macaroni cheese" we say.
I stir harder, trying to stop the sauce from turning into lumps.
He stares at us, eyes wide, remembering.
"Last time you were here," he says, "last time you were here you asked us what we wanted and I said macaroni cheese"
We nod worriedly.
Perhaps he had been joking.
"I said macaroni cheese," and  a smile begins to shine from his so-often-disappointed eyes, "and you've made it. You've made macaroni cheese because that's what I said I wanted."
The disbelief in his voice is almost tangible. like shards of ice that are beginning to melt.
And walking back towards his room, he seems to have gained a pride in his step, to have grown somehow taller, to fill more confidently the space around him. 

And it makes me wonder.
Wonder why being homeless makes you voiceless.
Wonder how quickly you stop expecting people to listen.
Wonder how long it takes before you start believing that your words are worthless.

We serve up the macaroni cheese.
A plate full of the past, 
A meal of comforting memories.
A taste of better times when the world felt almost safe.

And I realise that it's always the simple things.

That sometimes something as plain as a plate of macaroni cheese will be the "simple thing" that gives someone back their voice and make them believe that what they say is worth listening to. 

My friend and I start walking  towards the door.
" What are you going to make next time?" 
We turn.
"What would you like?" 
There's a pause.
And then a man, sitting at the end of table,  who rarely smiles, looks up at us for just a moment, eyes full of suffering and shattered dreams.
"Any chance of shepherds pie? he asks.

.........don't go


                                                                   ..............                                                        


A guest blog by my amazing friend (and fellow volunteer) Cath

                    

On macaroni cheese, and engaging in the conversation.

Reading Becky’s post about our volunteering at Stonepillow night refuge made me feel both proud and uncomfortable. It is a beautiful account of a shared experience, but I’ve also found it a tricky subject to discuss with friends, particularly the complicated, emotionally charged bits that Becky is so good at confronting. If it comes up in conversation, I stick to what I’m comfortable with - the practicalities of what we cook, where the hostel is, how many people live there, and so on. So Becky’s post put us well and truly out there, and suddenly lots of mutual friends are interested in what we’re doing. 

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Like many people, I was intrigued by Becky’s story about a homeless person living secretly in her campervan. On our street! It is the ultimate illustration of how invisible a homeless person can be to the people living around them.

I’d long had vague intentions to help out at Stonepillow and knew that they needed evening cooks at the night hostel, but I’d put it to the back of my mind due to the doubts that arose when I thought about actually going through with it. What if the people were scary, or I felt unsafe around them? What if I heard distressing stories that I couldn’t un-hear? What if I ran into clients when I was around town with my two small children and felt awkward?

But I knew from Becky’s unique response to her camper van squatter that she’d be up for joining me, so we thought we’d give it a try, after all there was nothing to lose.

So, we’ve been doing it. It is pretty low maintenance volunteer work – 2 hours, once a month, playing a bizarre version of Ready Steady Cook with donated ingredients to feed pleasant, interesting people with good appetites.  

My fears were unfounded. The hostel has a stable, warm, quietly hopeful atmosphere. Residents feel really fortunate to have a place and it represents a stepping stone away from the street to something better – a flat, rehab, work, whatever. The ground rules are crystal clear, and the price of breaking the rules is high - to give up the coveted place, the chance of something better, to someone else.

----

On the evening that Becky described, it is clear to me that I was far less engaged with the events happening around me than Becky, which is why I was pleased  that Becky wrote about it and articulated so beautifully what she gets out if it. Her honesty and awareness cut through my concerns and also gave me the chance to consider my own level of involvement.

My main impressions of that evening were:

·       I arrived late and felt stressed.

·       They liked the macaroni cheese. A lot.

Really, that was it.

I was so absorbed in my own internal to-do lists that I had entirely missed the subtle connections that were happening around me.

Now I look back, I do remember a particularly upbeat mood around the table, and also that I laughed (as did everyone in the room) at the way that the cheeky chappy of Becky’s original story asked for second helpings:

“That’s filled one bollock. Now can I have some more please!”

----

We were told in our induction that volunteers are hugely important to residents because they are a powerful sign that local people see them, accept them, and care what happens to them.

The work has also given me insight into how our community treats its most marginalised members, and overall I’m really encouraged. Chichester seems to be kind to its homeless, and that’s important.

----

I’ve concluded that tuning in to the subtleties would be beneficial. But the bottom line is that I show up and feed people, and enjoy it, and I’d recommend the work to anyone.

Now Stonepillow have read Becky’s piece and their Chief Executive has invited us to their AGM to give the volunteers’ perspective. So we’re joining all sorts of conversations that wouldn’t have happened without her blog, and I feel excited to get more involved.

And maybe next time, while we’re making Shepherd’s Pie, I’ll pay more attention to what’s really going on.