school's out for the summer

Everyone loves the long summer holidays, don't they?

It's only May - but I've decided to take a break from Writing in the Sky until September, when the academic year starts again. When Joe Fox tells Kathleen Kelly he'd like to send her a bouquet of freshly sharpened pencils in You've Got Mail, I'm put in mind of September. A new chapter. A step further. A different approach. Renewed energy after a break.

I'm going to concentrate on another writing project for the moment: writing, reading, clearing my mind and getting to the elusive bottom of that laundry basket. Balance. Peace. Freedom of thought. These sorts of things are things I'm striving after, and I probably need a long summer holiday in which to pursue them.

I wish you a summer of sunshine and relaxation and clear blue skies, and I'll see you in the Autumn term.

Thanks so much, as ever, for reading as I write in the virtual sky. Your company is valued and appreciated.

Bye for now!

an open letter

Dear Boy Scouts of America,

I live in England, thousands of miles from you, and my sons are too young yet to join an organisation such as the Scouting movement. The decision you made last week doesn't have much of a direct impact upon me or my family. But I really, truly believe the right choice was made when 61% of you voted to extend membership to boys who experience same-sex attraction, and if I lived in America and my sons were of Scouting age I'd be delighted for them to be involved in the BSA, now and in the future. Just as a few others have spoken out about their opposition to your new membership policy, or even suggested publicly that they're going to dissolve their links with the BSA because of it, I'd like to speak out in favour of it and to tell you why I'm doing so.

I'd like to offer my support to young men who experience same-sex attraction and seek acceptance within the Scouts. I want to tell you why I'd be happy for my two sons to stand alongside any and all of you, and why I believe you should be welcomed and included and involved. I have no desire to argue or shout anyone else down if they hold different opinions from mine. I'd just like to offer my support to you and to add my voice to all the other people who believe that Thursday's decision was the right decision.

I know that admitting same-sex attraction can take a lot of bravery - a lot. I know that some of you want to be honest about how you feel and who you are, but worry it'll lead to exclusion, hate and rejection. I know that some of you are afraid that you'll lose friendships. I know that some of you desperately need to talk, but don't know who'd listen. I know that some of you come up against bullying and name-calling, again and again and again. I know that some of you feel invisible and ignored and ashamed. I know that some of you long to fit in but fear you'll only ever be different. I know that some of you wonder, silently inside yourselves, whether or not you have any sort of place in the world. And, above all, I know that you as are valuable, unique, special, important and worthwhile as the next person. You just are.

I have two little sons. I'd like my sons to grow up into young men who prioritise honesty and encourage bravery in their friends. I'd like my sons to grow up into young men who aren't afraid to befriend other young men that find themselves experiencing same-sex attraction. I want them equipped to listen to, care for, empathise with and walk alongside other people with ever-increasing compassion and understanding whenever those things are needed. I'd like my sons to grow up into young men who understand that same-sex attraction does not, and will never, offer any excuse for bullying, name-calling, ostracising or marginalising those who experience it. I'd like my sons to grow up into young men who are actively concerned with the business of including, not excluding; loving, not hating; accepting, not rejecting; caring, not ignoring. I'd like my sons to grow up into young men who, when they meet someone different from them - different in any way at all - are able to appreciate and relate to that person as he is: valuable, unique, special, important and worthwhile.

Please know that there are plenty of people who are proud to stand next to you and who want to welcome you and spend time with you. Please know that there are plenty of people who want to be your friends and to support you. Please know that there are plenty of people who want to include and accept you. And please know that you are valuable, unique, special, important and worthwhile. You just are.

And I'm looking forward to my sons growing up alongside you in a world where another step's just been taken to remind you of it.

a pair of fantastic role models

A couple of months back, a Cornwall councillor named Colin Brewer declared that disabled children cost too much and should be put down. It was suggested that he might resign from his job after making these comments, and indeed he did, but had a change of heart only weeks later and decided to reapply for his previous position. Winning re-election to the ward of Wadebridge East last week by four votes, he has been in the news again after announcing that there is a good argument for killing some disabled babies. He is quoted here, here and here as saying that such children are like deformed lambs, and that if a farmer finds such a specimen running around in his flock, perhaps with two heads and five legs, then he "gets rid of it. Bang!" Creatures like that are put down, smashed against the wall and dealt with. What an astonishing comparison.

I profoundly disagree with his views as expressed in these news sources, and consider such opinions to be horrifying, cruel and deeply distressing, especially for those who know, love and care for a disabled child on a daily basis, challenges and all. But when you find that profoundly disagree with someone's views - whilst acknowledging that they are entitled to their opinion, just as you are entitled to yours - what do you do about it? What's the best course of action?

For one thing, you might share the post in question as widely as you can, to give others the opportunity to form their opinion on the subject too. You probably hope that at least a few other people will feel the same way you do, if it's a topic as controversial as this one, and if they do agree with your opinion, maybe you also hope that they'll get a bit steamed up about it as well and share or blog or campaign or retweet. But if you becomes we, and if we really, really believe that we're right about something - that the vulnerable in our society should be protected and nurtured and allowed to take their place in life alongside everyone else, because who among us doesn't have some sort of special need or weakness or challenge to contend with? - is there anything we can do to persuade the Colin Brewers of this world to think again? Can we get angry and at the same time demonstrate, with civility and logic, why it's worth giving a bit more thought to this thing which means so much to us?

It's almost serendipitous that the Disability News Service should have interviewed Colin Brewer since his re-election and asked him the question might it be kinder to kill a child with two heads? His answer, as quoted here, was "Is that one child or two? I would hope that, although I don’t like the idea of it, long before it is born that this problem is dealt with and it will probably be aborted in some way." Perhaps it's by amazing coincidence - and perhaps not - that a pair of conjoined twins called Abby and Brittany Hensel are currently featuring in a BBC3 series called Abby and Brittany: Joined for Life. They're 22, fresh out of college and working as teachers whilst enjoying a very normal life in their spare time. They open each episode by saying "We were raised to believe that we could do anything we wanted. So we do!" They're happy and fulfilled and surrounded by friends and family members. They're blessed, certainly. They have much to be thankful for, as well as several challenges to face daily. But they're happy. They make a significant contribution to society. They make the world a little bit better. I defy anyone to watch Joined for Life and not be inspired. I'd also be pretty surprised if Joined for Life didn't change at least a few opinions along the way.

So, if you too find yourself profoundly disagreeing with Councillor Brewer's views, shall we try to spread the word about Abby and Brittany Hensel in tandem with expressing our opposition to the idea that disabled children aren't deserving of a life? Let's share and retweet and blog and campaign, upholding these fantastic role models as examples of joy and happiness and life in all its fullness. Let's make a difference, because it's worth doing so, isn't it?

a rose-strewn sofa

So last week the weather turned nice, and the UK rejoiced after what seemed like many, many years of constant greyness and rain and low temperatures. I love sunshine and warmth and blue skies, and I welcome with something approaching ecstasy the opportunity to hang washing on the line (it means the laundry pile doesn't so much resemble Everest as, say, Moel Famau, which is a small improvement in the Crisis Area that constitutes my dirty washing basket) and let the boys frolic happily in the garden. So I laundered, and then we all frolicked. It was lovely. 

Inevitably, it was also muddy. My boys like to make mud pies. I mean, who doesn't? There's nothing quite like a bit of mud-pie-making. A lot of it took place that afternoon under the newly-blue skies. There was mud, and coffee, and mud, and choral music, and mud, and sunshine, and mud, and Oreos, and mud all in the space of a short while. But eventually the time came for a bath, which the children themselves requested. You can imagine just how muddy things had got, if a couple of boys were announcing that they'd like to partake of an elongated soak in the tub. I'll freely admit that I was mostly thinking how delightful it would be not to have to mop the kitchen floor that evening, so I stripped them both off at the back door, carried the little one upstairs whilst issuing instructions like don't put your hands on the wall!!! in the direction of the big one as we ascended, and plopped them both into a bathful of warm bubbly water. They swam around, the dirt detached itself, and everyone was happy. 

It was then time to make dinner. I usually like to make dinner without any children underfoot, what with the hot oven and boiling water combining to create something of a hazard, and the cupboard of pans and Tupperware presenting so very much of a temptation to empty and scatter. So I invited them to entertain themselves in the living room while I prepared their food. There's Lego in there: freely available Lego. Duplo. Books. Crayons and paper. Diggers. Train tracks. You get the idea, don't you? There are a lot of diverting things in that room with which a duo of small boys might play. I hoped that they would do just that.

All together now...

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Oh, Fiona. One of these days you're going to learn - I just know you are. Make it soon, will you? Make it soon. Thanks. And, while you're at it, I'd like you to realise that a bit of mud isn't really that big of a deal. Talcum powder's much worse for getting absolutely everywhere.

 

Here is the empty tin of talc. It was a full tin of talc until quite recently. I snapped this photo just before placing it - well before its time, I might add - in the recycling box.

They say you learn something new every day. To recap, last year I learned that an open box of icing sugar provides the perfect illustration for Newton's Third Law. Last month I learned not to judge other parents by the amount of respect their offspring demonstrate towards musical instruments. And last week I learned that it is very, very important to remember to place a locked stairgate between a couple of small boys and any tins of Silky Talcum Powder I might have foolishly left lying around on the landing following the administration of a bubble bath. 

On the plus side, at least I had the good sense to purchase a leather sofa. You can do this when you have a leather sofa. Better than an iPad, no?

these things: they take time

At the bottom of the hill there used to be a cornfield, peppered yearly with summer poppies, and I walked past it every weekday morning, gazing sidelong at country-by-city, having glimpsed Durham Cathedral in the far distance only minutes earlier. Now, it's a building site.

A building site is irresistible to small boys, I've learned. Mummymummymummy! I see DIGGERS and BUILDERS! is pretty much a daily declaration as we travel past on the bus, homeward bound, enjoying the free spectacle from the window. As for me, I'm a little sad that the cornfield's gone. I witnessed it being ploughed and dug up, I've seen it flood during a relentless rainy spell, and just this morning I watched as the first bricks were cemented on top of recently-laid foundations. Sad, yes, but also fully in awe of the scale of the task in hand.

These things: they take time, don't they?

Walking past that ex-cornfield every day and gazing sidelong, festering a tiny fragment of resentment at the sight of beauty demolished, has been an important reminder for me that these things: they take time. What it was isn't what it will become. And that day by day, brick by brick, bird by bird, something's being built. It's taking a good while. It won't be finished anytime soon. Those builders are labouring hard under all kinds of conditions: showing up and doing the work, day by day, brick by brick.

A book takes ages to write, ages of hitting hurdles and reversing out of ruts and pressing on doggedly. Coaxing music from an instrument takes weeks and months and years of dedication and commitment. A child needs endless love and constant teaching and myriad reminders and a consistent example before it's grown. A friendship needs perseverance and investment and nurture to make it solid. Rome wasn't built in a day.  

These things, these things that are worth it in the end: they take time.

I need that reminder. So it's good that I get it every weekday morning, from a cornfield-turned-building site.