The Spoken Project

My super talented friend and neighbour, Sophie, has started a bold and brilliantly creative venture, called The Spoken Project.

Sophie was formerly a journalist/news reporter in Sydney, before moving down to Melbourne.

Here's what Sophie writes about the aim of her podcasts:

The Spoken Project is about learning through living. It’s about being human. It’s stories that will move your heart, and strengthen your faith.

The first podcast is about Kate, her housemate, who speaks about having an eating disorder.

I listened to it today, while preparing to go out (it's a little over 15 minutes long, so a perfect length!) I loved its honesty, its unpretentiousness, its backing soundtrack - another friend of mine, Sarah, composed the music.

I was humbled by the power of the Story, and warmth of the spoken voice. I was reminded, once again, of the deep, hidden things in each of our lives.

I am in awe of Kate's courage, and yet realise that she's the girl with the wind-blown hair, who I see walking along Brunswick Road, carrying a green Safeway shopping bag.

Kate's story is unique, but she's also someone just like me. And the powerful, redeeming God who has gathered her to him, and whom she loves, is the same one whom I love, and who makes everything new in my life.

Gaude! Gaude!

I fell in love with Latin as a teenager, because of sounds such as these. In the intervening time, the genitive absolute, Cicero, and cramming for Latin exams have made me forget.

It is, oh! so wonderful, to be reminded of an old, lost love.

A near perfect thing

Tis a rare thing to discover a Christmas Carol that I didn't know before, and in a beautiful arrangement.

This one is thanks to Something this Foggy Day.

Now we must praise

Edward Hirsch declared that English poetry began with vision:

" ... the holy trance of a seventh-century figure called Caedmon, an illiterate herdsman, who now stands at the top of the English literary tradition as the initial Anglo-Saxon or Old English poet of record, the first to compose Christian poetry in his own language."

According to Bede, the story goes that Caedmon, an old herdsman, would always flee when it came to his turn to sing during feasts. Being illiterate and unlearned, he was ashamed that he never had any songs to contribute. But one night, after he had once again left the banquet hall for the stables, a man appeared to him in a dream, and Caedmon was commanded to sing:

"Then [Caedmon] said: 'What must I sing?' Said he: 'Sing to me of the first Creation.' When [Caedmon] received this answer, then he began immediately to sing in praise of God the Creator verses and words which he had never heard."

English poetry also began with an imperative. A necessary urgency to praise. In this season of waiting, it seems good to be me to stave off the impatience with praise of God.

Here's someone reading Caedmon's Hymn. The Anglo-Saxon sounds are at once familiar and foreign.

Nu scylun hergan hefaenricaes uard,
metudæs maecti end his modgidanc,
uerc uuldurfadur, sue he uundra gihuaes,
eci dryctin, or astelidæ.

He aerist scop aelda barnum
heben til hrofe, haleg scepen;
tha middungeard moncynnæs uard,
eci dryctin, æfter tiadæ
firum foldu, frea allmectig.

Now we must praise The Protector of the heavenly kingdom
The might of the Measurer and His mind's purpose
The work of the Father of Glory as He for each of the wonders
the eternal Lord established a beginning.
He shaped first for the sons of the Earth
heaven as a roof the Holy Maker
then the Middle-earth mankind's Guardian
the eternal Lord made afterwards
solid ground for men the almighty Lord.


One of my favorite modern poets, Denise Levertov, tells the story from Caedmon's perspective:

All others talked as if
talk were a dance.
Clodhopper I, with clumsy feet
would break the gliding ring.
Early I learned to
hunch myself
close by the door:
then when the talk began
I’d wipe my
mouth and wend
unnoticed back to the barn
to be with the warm beasts,
dumb among body sounds
of the simple ones.
I’d see by a twist
of lit rush the motes
of gold moving
from shadow to shadow
slow in the wake
of deep untroubled sighs.
The cows
munched or stirred or were still. I
was at home and lonely,
both in good measure. Until
the sudden angel affrighted me—light effacing
my feeble beam,
a forest of torches, feathers of flame, sparks upflying:
but the cows as before
were calm, and nothing was burning,
nothing but I, as that hand of fire
touched my lips and scorched my tongue
and pulled my voice
into the ring of the dance.


A burning circle of joy and blaze. Be drawn in.