A "difference that makes a difference"

Harry and the Flying Club

Harry Hippo sat in his own bit of mud disconsolate.  This was his mud, a place where he could lock the world outside and wallow... his space.  The trouble was that he wasn't really enjoying his wallow.  The trouble, he sighed, with wallowing on your own is that you lock out all the smiling that friends might do, but remember all the bruises that are a natural part of being a hippo and tending to have rather large, clumsy friends. Those memories kind of came into the loneliness with you and hung around when you'd really rather they'd head off to the pub with someone else.  So Harry sat there, feeling a bit bruised, lonely and generally sinking deeper into the mud.

The bruising had been going on for a while now.  Somehow, over the last few months Growth Club had just not been scratching where Harry was itching.  The trouble was, he thought, that focusing entirely on growing, when you were already a pretty substantial hippo was a little bit like going round in circles.  Harry couldn't help but feel that this wasn't getting anywhere.  But the problem was he couldn't put his discomfort into words. Hippos are notoriously inarticulate, you know.  And every time he tried to explain to Roger and Elinor, it just came out as though he was doubting the truth of growth and they would rehearse all the reasons for growing that he'd once found so compelling.  Sometimes the conversations had become arguments and then the arguments had become accusations and then the accusations had become an angry turning and stomping away. (boy, when you have sturdy legs like Harry, Roger and Elinor you can really stomp!)

So Harry sat, wallowed and ruminated in a bruised, grumbly sort of a way.  He wondered if this was how Polly had felt all those years ago.  He wondered where Polly was; he hadn't seen her in ages. He wondered if he had hurt Polly as much as he was feeling hurt today.  His wallow moved from being grumbly to being angry.  All the answers that he couldn't think off when arguing with Elinor and Roger came flooding to mind.  "That would have stumped them, that would have shown them, that would have got them off my case!" But, of course, thinking like that didn't make Harry feel any happier. Indeed, it made him feel worse because he began to realise that it wasn't just his friend who had hurt him, but he was pretty certain that he had hurt them.  So Harry wallowed there and thought the day couldn't get much worse.

Just then, it did.  Around the corner of the mud bath, Harry's mud bath, came Augustine Hippo.  Augustine had never really been Harry's sort of hippo. In fact he'd never really fitted into Growth Club, even though he had been impressively large (with spectacularly sturdy legs).  Harry remembered that Augustine had frequently allowed birds and other small animals to ride on his back - an action considered most inappropriate in Growth Club, where you were supposed to associate only with large and growing animals.  No, Augustine Hippo just wasn't the sort of person to hang around with. Odd, there was no other word for it.  As he came closer, Augustine called out "Hi there" and Harry replied in his best, mock jaunty, voice.  Augustine stopped, raised an eyebrow - a very strange sight in a hippo - and asked "are you ok?"  "Oh yes, I'm just fine" said Harry "just thinking and planning what to do next".  Augustine, dropped his head slightly, as if uncertain, "mind if I join you?" he smiled as he waded into the mud. "ah, this is good stuff" he sighed as he sank in.

Augustine didn't say anything for quite a while.  Harry found it strangely comforting.  Company without a debate or argument.  Company without having to explain.  The two hippos wallowed peacefully together for several hours. "I've been learning to fly" mused Augustine absently... "what?!?" said Harry, "Hippos can't fly".  "yes they can" said Augustine, "I've recently joined the Flying Club" . Harry's concern was on the way to becoming foreboding but was worryingly mixed with interest.  The Flying Club was often the object of scorn and disapproval at Growth Club... not true believers in growth was the generally help opinion.  Harry repeated "Hippos can't fly"

"Yes they can," said Augustine again "Well, we do have to borrow some large wings - called a hang-glider, but if you get sorted out with a pair of wings, then you can fly. It's wonderful, exhilarating, joyous..." Harry was amazed to hear such words.  He realised that he hadn't used words like that since those games he Roger, Elinor and Polly had played as kids.  "Joyous" he mused almost to himself in a dreamy sort of way.  "you should come along," Augustine suggested. and just before a sensible voice could say anything different, Harry blurted out "yes, that might be an idea"  He had reason to reconsider this folly the next moment, when Augustine told him that the club training was held in Northumbria... Harry's geography was just good enough to make him aware that it would be cold there and that there would be a shortage of warm mud baths...

"oh, what have I let myself in for" Harry moaned to himself...

Still, the next Saturday he joined Augustine at the top of the Cheviot hills and was fitted with a large set of wings.  There was loads of smiling and laughter, especially when people saw Harry's face on being introduced to his flying coach, a mouse.  "Oh, my goodness, what would the Growth club think?" thought Harry.  Harry and Mo - the mouse's name - were harnessed together, and it has to be said they did look an odd couple.  Mo explained that the art of flying was not to think about it too much and trust in his wings... it was the wings that did the flying, you just had to hang on, go with the flow and ride the updrafts... (Harry wasn't sure about drafts ... he had never felt a draft in his mud hole and the drafts that he had met in Northumbria were distinctly cold and unpleasant). His flying lesson was about to begin.

Harry walked to the cliff edge and, feeling certain that plummeting 120 metres to his death was possibly not a great way to escape his problems with the Growth Club, blindly he charged off as he was instructed to do.  He waited for his appointment with the ground below... but it didn't come. Instead he felt a strange, very strange, rather chilly, but.... yes, undeniably wonderful feeling of air rushing below his tum... he dared to open his eyes... there was the ground not 120 metres below him but 200 metres below him... he and Mo were soaring... the shriek of delight had escaped his mouth before he could organise himself to 'play it cool' .... wheeeeeee... followed by whooooaaaa.... and yeeeeeehaaahhhh came shortly afterwards.  The lesson lasted for 3 hours and included several flights with Harry taking more control each time.

Now you must fly on your own, the wonderful Mo said... Harry blanched... no! no! I couldn't fly without you Mo.... strange how this odd little mouse had become so important to Harry.  "no," Mo said, looking quite serious "flying is something you must do on your own... you must learn to fly on your wings.  You must learn to trust the wings not an instructor or your friends... flying is between you and your wings.... Harry understood but, he had to confess, understanding didn't diminish his fear. But it was too late now, he and his wings were going to take their first flight alone together.  Harry suspected that his launch technique, which involved closing his eyes and then charging - he thought that Roger would have been better at that - was not elegant.  But a moment or two later, there he was flying.  He wasn't nearly as good at is as Mo.  His movements were jerky, so that his ride was bumpy... I can't get the hang of this he thought... but a while later, early into his third solo flight, it all came together... it was as if he and his wings merged into one, as if he could trust his wings with his life, which is exactly what he was doing.  He relaxed and, of course, in relaxing he flew better. 

He found himself smiling for no other reason than ... he wanted to smile.  He started to look around.  there were other people flying nearby and one caught his eye... a strangely familiar python... "Polly?" gasped Harry.. no surely not. Pythons can't fly.

The dog that didn't bark

A while ago, a friend of mine, called Terry, bought a dog.  He told me that he had wanted a dog for a long time.  He lived on his own, worked at home a lot and he wanted a companionable dog, who would be quiet and docile but be really friendly and loving.  Finally, after several failed attempts, Terry phoned me to say he thought that he'd found the right dog and would I fancy going to pick him up.  The dog, a small cross breed, was very quiet but happily came to you, wagging his tail when you called.  Perhaps I should have be worried when Terry decided to call him Butch.

Anyway, we got Butch home and Terry made a fuss of him.  I used to visit quite often and occasionally would take Butch out for a walk. He was a very docile old character, pootling along behind or just in front of me, sniffing around, occasionally scratching at rabbit holes to see if anyone was at home.  I confess that I was amused to think what on earth Butch would do if he ever met a rabbit... run in terror most likely!

A couple of times I went for a walk with Terry and Butch and watched as Terry tried to teach Butch how to play fetch. I lost count of the number of tennis balls that I had to go and fetch myself as Terry remonstrated with his dog about not rushing off to fetch the ball or the stick.  "Do you know a strange thing?" asked Terry, "He doesn't bark! There are times when I think that he's really a cat in a dog shape!" Terry sounded disappointed. "But Terry, you told the kennel that you wanted a quiet dog who wouldn't disturb you when you were working," I said.  "Well, yes but not this quiet; I want a real dog who barks and runs around and does doggy things."

The relationship went from bad to worse. Terry was now sure that he wanted a dog that barked and Butch didn't bark.  I watched on, puzzled, for it seemed to me that Terry was cross because Butch was the quiet dog that he had asked for. At some moment Terry's ideas had changed and he blamed Butch for not being the dog that he wanted now.

A Conversation with Hild

I have a strange split in my life; on the one hand I hear God call me to a simpler life and yet, on the other hand, I also work occasionally with senior managers in large companies and I occasionally need to think in a businesslike, strategic way.  The problem is that I find that I slip so easily into managerialism, dynamic leader, directive, make-this-happen mode and I leave behind servant mode.  I find that, so easily, 'success', 'I-can-afford-it-so-I'll-have-it' thinking infects me and knocks me off balance.  Sadly, servanthood rarely seems to infect my work with managers. sigh

I was fretting about this the other day when I heard a voice calling. I looked up to see who was in my lounge with me.

She was a smallish woman, perhaps a little older than me - late fifties.  She was square set, not beautiful but the eyes, oh the eyes were so wonderful.  Have you ever talked with someone who's eyes seem to see right through you, right to your heart? Scary isn't it.  Well this woman's eyes did that to me but, I can't explain how, they seemed to say that they liked what they saw, that she was pleased to be with me.

I was a little taken aback, and looked each way for an open door, after all I live on my own. She noticed and smiled at me.  "Hello," I said "err, sorry, I'm not sure we've met before, I'm Caroline" OK, so it wasn't an imaginative opening but how often have you had to handle a woman in her late fifties arriving out of fresh air into your living room?  "My name's Hild," she said "and I've been getting to know you a little over the last few years, Caroline, it's good to get this chance to meet you face to face." 

Now I was really scratching my head. I'm a good 'ol protestant and don't hold with this praying to saints but I confess that recently I've wished that I could have a long chat with Hild of Whitby.  I just thought that maybe she would be able to help me balance out the competing demands of my life. "Oh, pleased to meet you; do you often pop by folk from the Northumbria Community? She shook her head, "What would you like to ask me, Caroline?"  I paused, I knew exactly what I wanted to talk about but now I had the opportunity, I couldn't quite put it into words... "I don't know, Hild, I make such a mess of working in two worlds, the worlds of business and Christian service. You seemed to do something similar so well.  How?  How did you do it?"

I think that she looked genuinely shocked. "Do it well?! You've got to be kidding! I used to get so wound up about the visits from the bishops and Lords. I was on my knees for days afterwards trying to regain my balance, as you describe it." It was my turn to be shocked. "But you managed the role of a nun, living simply and the stories tell of how you welcomed and counselled rich and poor alike. The great men and women of your day came to Whitby for advice; the peasants came to you as well.  You treated them just the same."

"Harrumph," she said; "I didn't exactly ask for the great and the good to come and see me. Why do you think that I wanted to join my sister in the convent in France?  I wanted to get away from my old life at the Northumbrian court amongst royalty. I wanted to leave all the finery behind and instead it came and invaded my poverty; those lords, ladies and bishops all parading in front of me in their pomp." I looked at her and could see a tension in her face, almost as if she was living out the memory of trying to control anger and frustration.  She continued "I'm not sure that I ever really forgave Aiden.  You know that he was the one who persuaded me to stay in Northumbria?" I nodded as she went on, "He was such a wonderful man. Now, he really was a saint! He never seemed to want anything... I saw him give a fine horse he'd been given by the king, to the first beggar he met!  My cousin, King Oswald, just shrugged his shoulders in mock despair.  You see, I don't think that Aiden had ever been rich and so he was content with having nothing and he was so generous, so wonderfully able to share whatever he did have.  I wasn't like him."

I lent forward, looking at her.  Those eyes that had been so beautiful were clouded now.  There was regret and sadness in them.  Her head was tipped forward, it almost seemed to me that she was ashamed to catch my eye. There was a long pause.  It was my turn to encourage her, to give her permission to talk.  "Was it very hard to give up your place in the royal family and all the attendant wealth?" I asked gently. Hild looked up and said, "Not at first.  To begin with I was just thrilled at the opportunity to spend time with God.  The chance to pray, study and be with others was more of a delight than all the feasts and parties at court. I particularly liked working with the younger nuns, encouraging them to try out new skills and learn to read and the such like.  I guess that I was quite good at it, for the authorities encouraged me to set up a new convent as Abbess quite quickly."

"No, to start with, I didn't regret the move at all.  I think that two incidents started my struggle.  The first was when my younger cousin, Eanfrith, came to visit me.  I don't know if she did it deliberately but she was wearing my favourite gold broach.  I'd loved that broach and giving it away had been a powerful symbol to me of my calling to the convent. It had been a moment of freedom when I had unclasped it and walked away.  Yet there it was before me being paraded by a young woman.  I was shocked by the effect it had on me.  I had wanted to give it away, so why did I hanker after it again now, years later?  What was it's hold on me?  I remember being livid with Eanfrith for wearing it - How selfish, how inconsiderate, how mean ... - it was as if I was taking out on her the anger I was feeling about myself."

"The second incident happened a few months later.  The Earl of Hexham visited Hartlepool, where I was abbess. A few years before, there had been talk of a marriage between us.  He was a good man and I suspect that we would have made a good team.  We were both politically astute, both good with managing estates and people.  He came to me for advice and we talked easily.  There was a sadness in his eyes when he told me me that he could never talk to his wife like this.  He was about to say something more but stopped himself.  I  spent the next week imagining what he might have been intending to say to me"

She stopped again and I suspected that she was back in that room again; wishing again, a millennium and more later, that he had continued with some words of love and approval but she weadded, "so you see Caroline, I'm not much better than you in dealing with riches and service" She smiled at me, a smile that was infectious so that we shared a contented silence of shared understanding.  "But you managed to keep going" I encouraged.  "Yes," she said "it's wonderful what a good bit of gardening or calligraphy can do to take your mind off things.  I don't think that any of my friends in the convent really knew. I think that I was able to hide from them what really, rather shamed me.  But I did want someone to talk to, I wanted someone to understand. Maybe that was why I prayed so much.  I guess that I thought Jesus, who left heaven for a carpenter's shed, would understand."

There was another silence between us. We looked up at the same moment and I said, a little choked up, "I can't tell you how much it means to me to have heard your story Hild. How much more real and earthy your saintliness has become" She laughed at that, "Ha, saintliness.. I've got a feeling that was Wilfred's doing! I suspect that he felt a bit guilty after the Synod of Whitby and wanted to feel that he'd done something to repair the damage to our relationship.  Foolish Wilfred, always so keen on titles and prestige - he'd have wanted to get a sainthood (or whatever it's called) did he ever get one?" I nodded. "Oh, I'll have to tell him.  Mind you it'll matter less to him now.  Everything matters less when you're actually face to face with Jesus.  Actual fact, I almost like Wilfred now.  Lucky, I suppose, because we've got to spend all eternity together!"  We both laughed out loud. I was just about to get up to give Hild a hug of gratitude when suddenly I noticed she was gone, as suddenly as she had come. I jumped a little and my cross stitch fell from my lap onto the floor,I stretched a little and looked at my watch, surprised at where the time had gone.  Time for bed I thought.

Rubbing each other up the wrong way

When I lived in Coventry, I had two friends.  One was called Do, the other was called About.  They never could get along with each other.

Connecting

Once upon a time a plug met a socket.  The plug was a two, round pin sort of plug and the socket was designed for three square pins.  There was no connection.

Castaways

My friend Jim spent a few years on the Island of Contro Lesautres, which is just off the coast of Francophone West Africa.  On this Island lived two tribes who were in continual conflict with each other.  The Askaz lived in the hill country to the north whilst the Gettas lived to the south of the central swamps.  For, quite possibly, millennia these two tribes had been separated by the geography of the island and had developed quite differently.  Only the advent of modern transport systems had brought them into contact in a way that had led to the current conflict. Jim, an anthropologist, went there on a research project.

The Askash culture was formal and ceremonial; relationships were governed by polite requests.  Jim had had to learn the strict Askash social etiquette of Request in order to be able to understand and be understood.  The Gettas, on the other hand, were more straight forward. There was no hiding of feelings or intent behind formality or apparent civility.  They just took what they could, it was accepted that those who were weaker had less and a lower place in the pecking order.  Mitigating this 'law of the Jungle', Jim told me, were unwritten responsibilities of the strong to provide for the weak. This did not mean any form of equality but families were very strong and looked after each other; gangs were bound by strict, perhaps frightening, codes of sharing.

The problems arose from the two tribes' total incomprehension of the other's way of life.  To the Gettas, Askash ways were elitist and arrogant. "They look down on us" said one Getta gang-boss to Jim and the Askaz were appalled by the aggressive, almost perpetually angry ways of the Getta gangs.  Jim, perhaps because he was English, tended to find the Askaz easier to work with. He told me that there had been times when he was scared and intimidated by in-your-face ways of the Gettas.  There was not subtlety to the Gettas, they just demanded or took. There were no explanations, no reasons given, no attempt at persuasion. If they didn't get what they wanted first time, they would just push and push until they got their way or sensed that they had lost.  There was no compromise with Gettas and, especially when gangs were involved, a conflict could escalate quickly as other gang members crowded around. Talk was not so much about meaning as about volume and intensity.  On more than one occasion, Jim told of fearful screaming riots over quite trivial issues. If you stood your ground and refused to give in, then you had to be prepared to fight, but if you held your ground and your 'opponent' gave in first then you had won.

Much of the conflict between the two tribes centred over the one thing they had in common; the pursuit of control.  For both tribes, to be able to control others was what counted as leadership.  The Askaz achieved control by persuasion and intrigue; the Gettas by assertion and aggression.  Jim found this shared pursuit of control thoroughly unattractive in both tribes.  Following the end of colonial rule, the two tribes (of about equal size) had struggled for control of the unified island nation.  It was not a pretty or safe place to live, Jim told me.  Control switched between the two tribes, perhaps the Askaz (with better connections to the wealth of the ex colonial power) had longer on top but this made the struggle all the more bitter.  The two tribes could find no way of connecting with each other, they could find no way of understanding each other and gradually the mutual contempt, hatred and fear increased.

Strangely, as an aside, both tribes spoke in awe of a semi-mythical race that had once lived in the central lowlands and who had managed to live at peace with both tribes.  These people were called the Gheevas. They had died out, nobody knew exactly when or how.  Both the Askaz and the Gettas told stories of Gheevan grace and generosity and claimed to be the inheritors of the Gheevas' beauty and majesty.  The Askaz talked about how they were peaceful and made no forceful demands upon others whilst the Gettas pointed to their sharing, close community and open honesty.

Jim used to captivate me with stories of these three tribes. The myths of the Gheevas, in particular, intrigued me.  "How?" I asked.  Jim just shrugged his shoulders.  "Do you think that the Askaz and the Gettas will ever be able to heal their differences?" I would ask.  Jim always shook his head sadly, "No, I don't think so."

Choosing a teacher

At a church that I used to go to, I had a couple of friends: The Professor and a Canary.  They were regular attenders and I got to know them well.

The Professor, as you can imagine, was very clever.  He had a way with words.  He used deep words and he used long words but he was always careful to explain those to other people.  The Canary could sing.  He sang so beautifully. He was a joy to listen to.

Of course, ours was the kind of church that championed "every member ministry" and soon the minister was looking out for jobs for the professor and the canary to do in the church.

Now the Professor, who was good with words and careful to explain them, first became a Sunday School teacher, then a House Group Leader, then a member of the Church Committee (so that he could explain some of the long words in the letters from the Denomination's Head Office.  Then the professor became a Lay Preacher and finally chair of the Church Committee.  He was respected and his words (even the long ones) were listened to very carefully.

The Canary joined the choir but there was a problem there; he couldn't read music.  So, wisely, they suggested that he join the Music Group but here as well, he struggled - you see his voice just didn't fit with guitars and we could never get the balance right on his mike (and you should have seen him when he tried to raise his arms in praise).  The Canary wasn't good with words and, to be honest, we never really understood his explanations very well - if indeed they were explanations (they sounded very much like his other songs), Anyway, not being good with words, he didn't really fit in with house groups and he could never get his argument over in a committee meeting and the one sermon he tried, well frankly, it was embarrassing. So, we had tried to include the canary in the life and leadership of the church but it hadn't really worked.  After a while, we stopped seeing the canary around the church.

You know, I miss that canary.  I miss his beautiful singing. It didn't matter that I didn't understand what he said or that he couldn't explain himself.  The world was just a better place when he was singing and I miss that.  But I do go to house group and I'm sure that's good for me.

Growth

There were once four young friends; Polly Python, Roger Rhino, Elinor Elephant and Harry Hippo.  They were very young and quite different but they managed to find games to play that they all enjoyed and they talked and talked about what it would be like when they grew into adults.  Then one day it was time for them all to join the 'Growth Club', "Now we shall find out the answer to our questions" they agreed.

And, sure enough, they started to grow.  Roger, Elinor and Harry grew tall and round with strong, sturdy legs. Polly got longer.  Roger, Elinor and Harry were concerned about Polly.  She didn't seem to be growing in the 'right' way.  They looked at each other and, of course, they were different in some ways but what seemed pretty obvious was that growing involved getting tall and round and having sturdy legs.  Polly was doing none of these things.  Polly wasn't growing.

Initially, being friends, they all encouraged Polly but as time went on and Polly got a bit longer but not tall, round or with sturdy legs.  It seemed to the others that she wasn't trying hard enough.  Polly, knew what her friends were thinking and she so wanted to grow tall and round with sturdy legs, just like the others but she only got a bit longer. 

As time went by; Roger, Elinor and Harry found other growers like themselves, some (like Gerry) were even taller whilst others, like Wally, were even rounder, although it has to be said that few had quite as sturdy legs as the threesome.  Roger, Elinor and Harry could really respect and learn growth from growers like Gerry and Wally.  These were animals who could lead them, teach them.  These were animals to imitate.  And as good growers they also tended to avoid the less good growers. It was a case of keeping in with the A-team, so that they didn't pick up bad habits.  Polly, as far as they could see, was not growing. She wasn't getting tall and she was really a very sorry thin, sort of round and as for her legs? Well...

Polly noticed what was happening, and was sad to begin with but then she thought "Well I am growing longer!" But the others in the "Growth Club" only saw that she hadn't grown tall, she hadn't grown fat and round and she hadn't grown sturdy legs.  She wasn't growing in any recognisable way. And, as the growth counsellors said, "If you're not growing you're sliding backwards".  The threesome stopped talking with Polly and Polly stopped talking with them.

Her sadness turned to anger "I am growing... longer! Can't you see it?" After a while, she started to find the growth club a lonely place, a disapproving place.  She found that the growth club was going out into the plains so that they could grow and so that the trees didn't get in the way. Polly liked trees, she could curl around trees. The Growth club were suspicious of trees, which, as they pointed out were full of small animals and birds - not the right place at all for a growing member of the Growth Club.  It wasn't that Polly stopped going to the Growth Club, just that they tended to be in different places to where she was spending her time.

One day, Roger, Elinor and Harry were chatting, remembering the old days and their friendship with Polly.  They reflected sadly about their lost friend, commented (sadly) about how she just hadn't grown like them and how, she wasn't even coming to Growth Club any more.  If you don't grow, you'll slide backwards they agreed sadly. Polly had backslidden, but then... what would you expect of a snake?