On Boxing Day evening angry words were exchanged between me and one of my adult children.

Despite all my efforts;

Despite all my attempts to accept things as they are rather, than how I wanted them to be;

Despite all my longing to be seen and acknowledged for who I am;

Despite it all, I momentarily lost control and I was angry and I said what cannot be unsaid in a moment of madness.

Later in the week, my wife said she was surprised (disappointed being her meaning) at how quickly I appeared to have moved on from my damaging outburst.

I simply answered that I had not, and that I never quite would.

No further words were spoken by either of us.

She cried and I held her close waiting for her emotions to calm.

No words could soothe.

No words could undo.

No words could put it right.

No words, in that moment was my strength.

No words to defend or to explain or to complain or to justify or to contextualize.

And yet, through her tears, and through my silence and by holding her close, all was said that could be said, no words were said.

My next blog will be: German Guests

William Defoe

At this time of year in  the UK, the sun sits low in the sky.

On a clear, cold, crisp morning last week I was temporarily “blinded” by the winter sun.

The sun was sat on the horizon as I turned round a sharp corner in the road, which rises on an upward curve to a very narrow part of the road where drivers need to show courtesy to let each other through.

Not an ideal place then to lose complete sight of the road, however momentarily it was.

In the moment I was aware of the shape and feel of the road, the extent of its curvature, and the proximity of parked cars along the kerb outside the church on my left.

I had to hold a steady course, slow down, but push through to overcome the “blind spot” until it passed.

How often have I been able to do that when provoked or challenged by a situation in my life?

Have I been able to hold a course through a difficult patch, drawing upon my own knowledge and love of self to see me through without reacting in ways which make a bad situation even worse?

Sadly, despite my efforts, sometimes I fail.

Perhaps the winter sun in my life, occasionally has the power to cause me to actually stop, however briefly, on my journey to be calm.

The winter sun on the horizon, may temporarily take away my vision, but it illuminates the wider landscape around me.

It’s sepia light, on the forms and shapes of both my inner and outer world, provide me with what I need to find within me, to push through.

My next blog will be : No Words

William Defoe

I have a vague recollection of posting a blog with the same title last Christmas – Descant!

I haven’t checked!

It is of interest to me at least, that the themes which come up, on which I feel compelled to write, will re-surface from time to time.

The blend of voices, in Christmas choral music speaks deeply to me of the power and authenticity of the range within the human voice.

From the angelic soprano voice of the choir boy (or girl) through the range to the deep bass tones of the men, blending to make each Christmas Carol sound rich and full and giving.

I have noticed the absence of voices in certain sections of the music, which enable the remaining participants to stand out and shine in the glow of their special contribution.

The descant, be it high or low, shrill or deep, beckons my ear to the depth and peak of the range within the performance, and it is those voices holding the melody, those voices doing the seemingly ordinary part, which give the descant its special place – without them, the descant would be out of place.

I have tried to think about my own voice being part of a choral piece in the everyday reality of speaking.

Can I be satisfied with being silent while voices around me engage in conversation?

Can I be satisfied in participation through listening, rather than speaking?

Can I be part of the melody, part of the crowd, blended in, so to speak, in my interactions with others without needing to be centre-stage?

Can I play the part of the descant, when called upon to do so, exhibiting my special skills in my areas of expertise, whilst recognising the support given by others?

Silent, listening, participating, descant – this is the range in which my voice should find a place within the world, be it speaking or singing.

My next blog will be: Winter Sun

William Defoe

On Thursday morning last week, I set off for my morning run in the normal routine which I have established for myself.

At approximately halfway round the circular route, I began to feel dizzy.

I noticed the sensation of light-headed-ness and I experienced a growing sensation of detachment of my mind from my feet in this dizzy spell.

I began to fear that I would fall, or worse faint onto the hard pavement.

These fears at first had no hold on my intention to finish the run which I had embarked upon, however, a little later, the feelings of detachment grew so strong, that my own concern for my safety compelled me to stop running and to walk back.

I was in the fortunate position of being able to explain to myself, what had caused these bodily sensations, without having to consult a doctor.

I had taken a sleeping sedative to calm my mood the evening before, in an effort to relax and the effects of the medication had obviously not finished their course within me.

It made me think how I often want to rush on to the next thing in aspects of my life without dealing with the here and now.

The here and now craves my compassion both for self, and for others, and it is from that deep formed well of calm, that ultimately my feet will remain in a rhythm with my head.

My next blog will be: Descant

William Defoe

I would like to wish my dear friend and life-coach a very happy birthday today (which is St Stephens Day) and to thank her for illuminating my journey with a profound sense of hope, an intense sense of what it is like to be (who we are); and a growing sense of the depth of my capacity to love.

I have grown a beard.

It feels like a rebellious act because I know my wife doesn’t like it.

I can’t say that I set out to upset my wife by having grown my beard, but I can’t absolutely say that I have not.

I think a part of me is experimenting, and as I have not had any big public meetings this week at work, I have indulged myself in growing facial hair.

I think my beard makes me look quite distinguished, perhaps it is because it has quite a few grey flecks in its array.

My beard has attracted notice and a few comments and a few observations of silence.

This range of feedback ranging from silence to ridicule at the very extremes and polite banter, has stirred up within me, a sense that any change is met with diversity of opinion both from the self within, and the world without.

My beard, I think will have a short existence, I don’t think it will see in Christmas with me.

I will miss its warmth;

I will miss its courage;

I will miss its rebelliousness;

I will miss its colours;

I will miss its smile, yes, my beard has made me smile.

My next blog will be: Dizzy Spell

William Defoe

I seem to have been in a continual state of flux this last few weeks.

I have this gnawing, aching sensation that I am craving for change in my life and I feel desolate and empty inside.

It is a kind of depressing disillusionment with the  present, together with a hopeless feeling of futility of prospects for happiness in the future.

All this untamed visceral want, pre-Christmas, has somehow knocked the lustre out of the season of goodwill to all men.

I have learned to be patient with myself when I feel like this – I’ve been here before – It is an unpleasant means to an end, which ultimately adds value in my life – something constructive will emerge from it, I am sure.

The strangeness of my demeanor makes it a difficult time to actually initiate any change, so I already know, that while I am in this semi-depressed state, it would be truly foolish to try to react to it.

• Am I really going to leave my wife, leave my job, travel to Europe’s southern coasts in search of love and casual work and casual sex and then come back and re-train as a teacher?
• Am I really going to live off the state and wander the canals of Britain?
• Am I really going to  walk the Camino on my own and flop to my knees in a penitential act of sorrow for my past mistakes and appeal through St James for clemency?
• Am I going to find a little nook and paint the landscapes and sell my wares in the markets of Europe?
• Am I really going to buy a cottage on the edge of a remote Scottish loch and live a life of solitude working the land?
• Am I really going to invest more of my life in serving Christ and the community as a church minister, tending to the needs of my fellow parishioners?
• Am I really going to jet off to California and become a coach to the those whom will be inspired by story?

No wonder, it is not a time at present, during this period of craving for change that I should make a decision!

But words have emerged into my consciousness and left an indelible imprint – teacher; canals; camino; painting; solitude; minister; coaching which may form a fuller part in my future life when I become more lucid and calm.

I know that gradually the gnawing, clawing, fawning craving for change will subside, and hopefully out of the myriad of want, something useful, something constructive will take shape, which I can embrace as part of my future life.

My next blog will be: Beard

William Defoe

The annual exercise of writing and dispatching Christmas cards to family and friends has just ended.

The process involves digging out the tattered Christmas Address Book which contains too much information to lose, and yet too much effort to transfer onto digital media at the moment!

The Christmas Address Book has a poignant effect on me, because it has various crossings out where acquaintances have died, or where relationships have ended or started or been replaced.

The Christmas Address Book tells me that relationships are not necessarily permanent, they have changed and evolved, ended and started in a variety of ways which have been accompanied in the lives of my acquaintances, in situations of intense pain and overwhelming joy.

The Christmas Address Book does not provide a narrative on the stories, it just provides the brutal facts, with a crossed out name, and an added one here and there.

The Christmas Address Book does not tell of the struggle some of us undergo to maintain our names side by side, to avoid the fatal or crushing stroke of the pen, which signals that a marriage has ended naturally or by law.

At this time, I ponder over and over with renewed anxiety the fate of my own name in the Christmas Address Book of my friends, and pray that I will find the courage to take the path best suited for all concerned, for a happy and fulfilling and loving onward life .

My next blog will be: No Photograph Taken

William Defoe