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Our homes are metaphors. They are statements of our being in the world in much the same way as our clothes are or our habitual facial expressions or our stance and gait. As a parish priest I liked to visit people's homes because I learned far more about people in the first five seconds over their threshold than I would in five years of conversation over coffee after church. It's not about judgement, it's about revelation. It's incarnation, which is the immaterial self finding expression in the material world. Ah. So this is who you are! The one who would live in this place and surround yourself with these things and arrange them in this way. My house at the moment is swathed in scaffolding.  There are guys clambering over our roof and through our doors, changing things and fixing stuff and painting it. It's their music and their conversation which engulf us, and very informative it is, too. The metaphor is perfect. Perfect. Our houses and clothes define us no...

Autumn and Spring are the best times in Dunedin. The sun is always low so it perpetually feels like it's 9 o'clock in the morning. The light is clear and our place is sheltered from most winds. I make soup and bake bread and we sit on the deck to talk and look out over our lovely city. I have bought a diary, an actual one made of paper and cardboard with a little white pen to replace a plethora of cleverly interconnected apps. I have moved my cellphone charger away from the side of my bed and into my study; my phone is charged only once a day,  overnight, and  most days it's still more than half full when I go to bed. Life has slowed. Or rather, life has cleared, like the autumnal fog which is lifting from the harbour beneath me. **** We have been watching Ken Burn's documentary series on the American Civil War. There are 9 episodes, each about 70 minutes long, and consisting entirely of old photographs, interviews with historians and readings from documents - let...

Sitting in that chair before the service began. Photo (c) Audrey Whittaker My family have gone and the house is quiet and tidy and spacious once again, and I'm kind of sorry about that. I had the best weekend ever. On Friday evening Dean Trevor James and Rev'd Michael Wallace were responsible for a wonderful farewell service. Two of my brothers and my sister were present with their spouses, as I expected, and in the weeks leading up to it Clemency had arranged, unbeknownst to me,  for my daughter Bridget, my son Nick and their respective families to be present. I realised this only when my bit of the procession got to the front pew and I saw Noah sitting on his Amma's knee. I heard the clang of my own jaw dropping on the floor. After the service Trish Franklin MCed a session at which people said some very pleasantly surprising things about me. The Selwyn men presented me with a spine tinglingly formidable haka and the women, a waiata. I was given some chairs for o...