That’s how the light gets in

And so the 10^th BASPCAN child protection congress is over. The banners have come down, the delegates have gone their various ways, and the PowerPoint slides deleted from the desktops.

It has been an incredible four days: a time of inspiration and challenge, of hard grind and relaxed friendship, of shared laughter and shared tears.

I have been inspired by meaningful research, emerging ideas, and examples of innovative practice. I have had some of my own perspectives challenged. I have been encouraged equally by young and enthusiastic researchers, and by committed practitioners who have walked many years. I have been overwhelmed by the generosity, commitment and hard work of all those who have contributed to the congress, and the feedback and encouragement of so many participants. And I have been amazed at the vigour and resilience of children, young people and adults – survivors in the fullest sense of the word.

For me, though, the essence of this congress was captured in the fragile, vulnerable daffodils that decorated our plenary lecture hall. In spite of all our efforts, they kept flopping over and looking muddled. And yet, they continued to bloom, bringing their bright colour and life into that hall.

Perhaps we are all a bit like that – fragile, vulnerable children; wounded, hurting survivors; struggling practitioners and academics – dependent on each other for encouragement and support; and yet, in spite of all our limitations, bringing hope and life. And united in our longing for a world in which no child ever has to experience the terror and pain of abuse or neglect, and where each of us is valued as a unique, wonderful and beloved person.

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There’s a crack, a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in

– Leonard Cohen

February 10, 2018

Love as a Yoga Class in Bradford

Clare Shaw, Poet in Residence for the BASPCAN 2018 child protection congress reflects on Yoga, social connection, and safety…

You can find out more about Clare, and read all her congress poems here

Love as a Yoga Class in Bradford

I believe that knowledge is power

I believe that social connection is as vital as food and shelter

I believe that when you bend the front knee and bring the fists down

you feel like a warrior

I believe there’s a lot of bollocks out there

but yoga provides tangible relief

and we breathed and moved and made shapes together

and the women lay there in a line under blankets

and some of them fell asleep.

I believe that what I’m doing has a lineage

at least three thousand years old

I believe that when people breathe together, their hearts synchronise.

It transcends language.

I believe that when you’ve lost everything

to rebuild your life here

along with a house, a visa, safety,

there’s also being so fucking alone

I believe that in none of my training

did anyone talk about love –

I mean, all of these women

who’ve been through horrific stuff

– beyond comprehension horrific –

felt calm enough to lie down, rest,

even safe enough

to fall asleep –

I believe that however shit we’re feeling

connecting to someone we feel safe with

is so unbelievably precious

I believe that when I started going to yoga classes

in a small room on an island in Hong Kong

it changed my experience of life,

it felt like hope

and when I think about what the system does to those women

and all they’ve been through

I’m a she-wolf

and it feels like this gentle fierceness

on their behalf

because I believe that ‘yoga posture’ is a weird word

and I like the word “shape” better

I believe in the neurophysiology of trauma.

I believe that when you stretch

the belly of the muscle begins to pull on the tendons

they release a neuro transmitter that makes that muscle relax

I believe that to be trusted to hold that safety

it’s a total honour.

A group of women under their blankets.

I’ve been thinking, is it okay –

is it weird that this feels like

love?

March 28, 2016March 28, 2016

On seeing my daughter in her wedding dress

Two days ago I walked into our lounge to see my beautiful daughter, Esther, standing in her newly-bought wedding dress. Radiant.

And I had to leave the room.

Overcome by crushing emotions.

Does every father go through this intense turmoil? What a mix of feelings: pride; incredible joy; hope; fears; love; nostalgia; wonder; sadness; love. Above all, love.

I thought back to that moment, 23 years ago, when I had helped ease her into this world; to the many times I had sat with her on my knees, gazing into her eyes, or holding her close in a loving cuddle.

But that, my dear Esther, was nothing compared to the wonder of your birth: to help ease you out into the world, watch you fill your lungs and let out your first cry, cut the cord that had kept you alive those nine months, and pass you up to your mum, knowing that you were my daughter. Growing up to be a child, p3

I pondered in wonder how I had watched her grow and develop: taking her first hesitant steps; learning to use her hands; chattering away in beautiful baby babble; giggling in delight at games of peek-a-boo and round and round the garden.

And now, my little child, no longer a child, stood before me, resplendent. A stunning, grown woman, soon to be a bride.

She could have been her mother. Twenty eight years ago Helen, unseen by me, had tried on her wedding dress and no doubt brought tears to her father’s eyes. Perhaps Helen, too, in a greater light, is joining her heart with mine: filled with hopes for our daughter’s future; knowing that it is her journey now, with Rob; that it will have its share of joy and pain, laughter and tears; trusting that they will learn to love and cherish each other even more as the years go by; and blessing them with our undying love.

Six months from now I will walk down an aisle, my beautiful daughter on my arm. And once more my heart will be torn: filled with that incredible jumble of emotions, and that painful privilege which is to be a father.

August 10, 2015

Love: a contemplative companion to chapter 3 of Growing up to be a child

Our world is fragmented:

creatures disconnected from creation,

nations torn by powerful interests,

families broken by arrogance and addiction,

children crushed by violence and abuse,

nature spoiled by thoughtless consumption.

In this contemplation, while receiving God’s love for ourselves, we cry out to God – Earth Maker, Pain Bearer, Life Giver – for all those who do not or cannot feel that love.

Click here to go to the contemplative companion to chapter 3 of Growing up to be a child