Month: November 2015

If You Need A Gun To Make People Do It Your Way…You’re Doing It Wrong.

If You Need A Gun To Make People Do It Your Way…You’re Doing It Wrong.

In a bit of tremendous foreshadowing, I have a line in my third book:

“It’s naïve to think any peace gained by such means would be a lasting one.  It is like holding someone under the point of your sword, and declaring him willingly obedient, when he is simply too afraid to move.”

The same, I think, works with religion. If you point a semi-automatic weapon at me, and tell me to obey, then I will. I am no hero, for all I would like to be. I have no religion; I am not ashamed, or fundamental, about my Atheism. I think believing in a monotheistic sky-god is weird, but it’s not my choice what you want to believe.

You want to think the son of a god came down from Heaven? Great! You do you, and I will do me (that sounds bad, but we’ll run with it). You want to think there are aliens, or prophets, or a being watching you from the sky? Cool. You think that.

But your beliefs are not mine. They should have exactly zero impact on my life. They should not rule my uterus. I have four surviving children, all grown nicely, thank you, and I did that without religion telling me how to go about it. I have had early miscarriages, and lost a child, late into pregnancy, and I did that just fine without a Bible in my hand. If I found out I was pregnant tomorrow, I would be at the clinic on Monday to deal with it. My husband has had a vasectomy, and I do not want another child.

It is my right to have autonomy over my own body.

Your beliefs have exactly nothing to do with how I live my life.

But, and here’s the thing…I want to live, and let live. I want to enjoy the fact I am a Godless Heathen. I love believing that when I die, I will be dead. There will be no other life. There will be nothing beyond this existence. I will have lived and, much like a hamster, I will have died and be remembered by a few people. In a hundred years, there will be no one speaking my name, and I will be gone. That’s comforting to me. It’s what I believe. I am a card carrying paid up member of the British Humanist Association. My body is going to science. Do not pray over my corpse. Do not throw holy water at me. That is YOUR belief. It’s not mine.

Yet I will go to your funeral. I will bow my head, through your prayers. I will be respectful in your churches, and respect your mosques. I will enter your temple softly, and leave it as I find it. Your beliefs deserve my respect.

And my beliefs bloody well deserve your respect.

You will not find agreement, or belief, by firing guns into a crowd. You will not find converts at sword point. You cannot police the mind, you cannot tell us what to believe. You cannot kill swathes of people, and make us all join you in your demented war against rationality. You cannot make me become like you. You cannot make me think what you want me to think.

Honestly, I think you’re not helping your own cause, really. You want to rule. What you desire has nothing to do with religion. It has nothing to do with belief. It has nothing to do with a ‘Holy War’ or anything ‘Holy’.

Holy is something found when human loves human. When we embrace our world and care for it, and each other.

And peace will never be found at the end of a sword. Submission is not permission. You will not win this war. We don’t believe in you.

We don’t believe in you.

You will not win.

New House, New Life, New Start

New House, New Life, New Start

It’s been a while, and I am sorry. I meant to write. I thought, repeatedly, “Today, I will write, and say thank you. Today, I will sit down and find the words to say thank you. Today I will not sound trite and find a way to say thank you!”

There were simply no words I could use. None that sounded real, genuine, and considered. Everything I wanted to say seemed to ring hollow when I read it back, and like a bad Christmas ‘thank you’ note, time passed, and I hadn’t sent it, even though it had a stamp, and was right there, ready for the post box.

I moved house. A stranger, now a friend, Zoe Gray, saw what was happening and set up a GoFundMe account. She literally saved us from a bedsit & temporary housing. There was no WAY we could have found the £3k needed to move. You donated. You spoke to me, and let me know again that I was not alone. You helped me, my husband, and my children (the 3 at home) to find a house.  You gave me the belief that it would be okay. You messaged me and talked to me, asking how I was. You gave advice, and you helped financially.

There is no way to say thank you. I have tried, so many times, but there’s no way to say thank you for something this big.

Instead, I will open a door onto my life, as I did back in January. It’s the least I can do – I owe it to you…all of you.

I am sat at my desk. We brought one desk, three beds, and a bookcase when we moved. Everything else was ruined and lost to the black mould creeping like a cancer across the outer walls of the old house. So, here I am, sat at my desk, in the dining room.

We have a dining room.

My son is behind me, sat at the table my friend, Dawn, gave me. He has his girlfriend and 6 friends sat around the table, celebrating a birthday. My husband is in the living room, through the archway, laid on a carpet, drawing an outline for a painting for our youngest daughter’s Xmas gift. The washing machine, kindly given to me by a friend of my friend, Lisa, is washing clothes out in the conservatory (we will bag them later, ready for the dryers at the launderette tomorrow – I hate rain because it means I can’t use my clothes line!), and the back door is open, letting in air from the (bit too big) garden.

The cooker works. The kitchen isn’t falling apart. The walls are clean and don’t run with water from hip-height down. We have more toilets than we know what to do with. My son can fit his bed in his room. My youngest has a place she (and her Aspergers & ADD) can escape to, that my 16yr old doesn’t have to share. I have a room without damp.

I sleep through the night, almost.

I can ask friends round, without wanting to crawl into the ground and hide from shame.

And it’s all thanks to you. People I don’t *know*, but owe everything to.

It’s hard, it’s a struggle, but it will always be a struggle. That’s okay. Struggling for something worth loving is a whole new ballgame to struggling to meet the rent for a hovel last featured in a Charles Dickens novel.

So, thank you. A million times, I thank you. This house is a home – and I haven’t had a home in 12 years.

Thank you. From us all.

(Picture is my son, girlfriend, and friends, enjoying ramen…because who doesn’t like ramen!)