Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall · 2 Comments

The Sea


after long journeying where they
began, catching this
one truth by surprise –
that there is everything to look forward to.

R.S. Thomas, Arrival

So, my sister and I got it into our heads that we had to take a dip in the Irish Sea on this pilgrimage together.

Especially after watching the tv series Bad Sisters.

And this feels like the day for it.

The weather is perfect, and it’s right before dinner.

So we pull on our suits and furtively sneak away from the hotel.

We feel like if anyone knew about this beforehand, we’d feel pressured, and then there’d be no way we could chicken out.

So we have to sneak.

Anyway, we begin our hike down the sandy path to the jagged bluff.

We are up pretty high on the rocks and the view is a gorgeous tableau of kelly green fields set against a swathe of bright blue sea.

I imagine Ireland across the ocean.

And as we wind our way down the cliff, we pass a local woman on her way back up.

Hello! Are you two swimming? she asks

Oh yes! we say

It’s absolutely lovely out there, the woman says

It’s about 68 degrees or so – really nice – enjoy!

Great, thanks – see ya! we reply

You know, you reach the other side of 60, and all of the sudden, you look around and you start to see so many of your selves out there in the world.

In the neighborhood, older women walking with sticks, women wearing wide brimmed hats and stretch pants. Women with the same telltale hair as you.

So many lined faces, and bifocals, and all of us with our NPR tote bags.

Women of a certain age, as they say.

And this woman that we meet on the path, she is definitely one of us.

But anyway, her sensible demeanor and optimistic attitude when she chats with us, it is so open and generous.

It’s like meeting another sister.

And so with her energy to billow our sails, we practically skip down that sandy embankment.

And below, we discover a deserted cove, with a gentle tide – all of it shimmering before sunset – and it is simply pristine.

Soft white sand, and in the valley around us, white puffs of sheep on the hillsides.

And near the water, there is even an ancient rock cave, that yawns wide with neon moss and a trickling spring inside.

Scary …

Should we go in?

No, stay focused – first order of business, get out of our clothes.

Meanwhile, the wind whips at the towels around our legs, and my sister’s lips are turning blue.

Then goosebumps.

If the air is this damn cool, how cold will the ocean be?

Now I’m wondering if my sister will bail, she looks dubious.

She’d better not.

Finally, we fling our clothes onto a huge rock and make a run for the waves.

Slashing out into the frothy surf, with our arms held high, we have no feeling in our legs.

Woo hoooo!

but, oh my God – –

what the –?

my heart seizes *heart attack * this is it – this is the way I’m gonna die.

My breath is caught somewhere in my upper chest and everything below that is numb, paralyzed.

I manage to dunk my head under the surf and it feels like being stung by a million bees.

But here we are, we are swimming.

And then, out we sprint, gasping for air.

What the hell was that old lady thinking?

Was she wearing a full wetsuit?

Anyway, I love this jaunt, I love egging my sister on, and being faux wild.

And now we have a new chant, a private footnote to this pilgrimage: We can say we did this. We swam in the Irish Sea.

And it’s clear that this activity is all the more special because we are women of this certain age.

And the simple ritual of this, this pact between us on this Welsh coastline – it marks a milestone in time, in some way.

This being in our 60s.

We recognize all of the decades of watching each other grow and change – with all the struggles, the secrets, the hurts, but mostly, the closeness and camaraderie.

And even the times we’ve been distant, and not as connected, we always circle back to the fact that we are sisters.

And we are so grounded in that.

And now, this pilgrimage has brought us to this tiny beach, in a wee country far from home – to a place outside of time, really.

A sacred place, where we are living fully in the present moment and at the same time witnessing our aging bodies being mirrored back to us.

Yet when I look at my sister, with her wet hair and chattering teeth, I see the same girl I’ve grown up with – and her clear blue eyes are laughing – so alive, so beautiful.

And I just want to have more crazy moments like this – the two of us – for as long as I can.

But what a risky thing to look forward to, to expect, or to even ask for, really.

Still I offer it up, like a tentative prayer:

why not?

Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall

Beginning

Not conscious that you have been asking
suddenly 
you come upon it 

the village in the Welsh hills
dust free
with no road out
but the one you came in on

R.S. Thomas

There are 18 pilgrims.

The majority of our group is from St. David’s Episcopal Church in Minneapolis. And then there are a few people from Pennsylvania, and then there is me – the lone one from the South.

My sister is the rector of the St. David’s congregation, though she’s not one of the leaders of this trip, she’s one of our group.

I am here because she invited me.

Right away, these church folks are so welcoming to me, and easy. They’re like a close, extended family.

But me? I’m not part of this family.

Still, I would follow my sister just about anywhere.

Last year, when she asked me to go to Wales, I said yes without hesitation.

Wales, I thought, a wild place.

Wales, a place I know little about, and a country that fell through the cracks of our time in Europe.

Images of bright green fields, and massive stone fences.

Wild ponies?

Mostly I think about tired farmers living out hard lives. And mutton.

And I’m a little curious about the pilgrimage part in the travel description.

It kind of made me wonder, but hey – the reading list was poetry – and books on Celtic meditation!

And paganism!

And so I imagined windswept cliffs and foggy days.

A scrappy, rural place. A mystic place out of time (time travel!)

A place of deep folklore and tradition. A wee country far away from my own, thankfully – what a relief.

A place of peace and healing, perhaps.

Don’t we all need that?

Anyway, of course, I say yes.

It is the second day, and already my body feels like it is forgetting the familiar routine of home.

I am letting go of the outside world, specifically, my cell phone and the U.S. news media.

Like shrugging a backpack from my shoulders, I feel instantly lighter.

I am a seeker now. And I recognize that my fellow travelers are the same.

Jet lagged, rumpled, away from our small creature comforts, we come together as fellow wanderers, to walk away from regular life for a while.

To explore a new place.

We are open, and curious, and intentional.

Still, I am a little self-conscious about being identified as a pilgrim – I’m not sure why. It just sounds a little self-important, or pious, or maybe just too churchy.

It doesn’t matter.

Because I really like this whole group and the wonderful leaders.

And I’m sure the community will evolve to include me. With all of the bus time, and hiking time and time in the pubs.

Each of us is curious – we are seekers.

And already, I sense that each of us will find our own path to pilgrimage.

Some will choose hard hikes, others might rest.

Some will do yoga on the mat, and others from a chair.

Some will journal, others would rather not.

Some will travel slowly, others will be brisk.

And it doesn’t matter, we are together.

We are all passengers on this one bus – all heading down a dusty road to the next Welsh village.

We are en route to an ancient place – with no road out but the one we came in on.

Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall · 3 Comments

Thin Places

A bird chimes
from a green tree
the hour that is no hour
you know. 

R.S. Thomas, Arrival

Today we will be traveling to the Pennant Melangell Center to visit the shrine and sacred grounds of the 7th Century abbess, Saint Melangell.

The legend goes that Saint Melangell fled from Ireland to escape an arranged marriage, running to this place to seek sanctuary.

Then one day, the royal Prince Brochwel, who was on a hunt, rode in on horseback with his dogs, in pursuit of a hare.

The hare took shelter under Melengell’s skirts, and the dogs froze, unwilling to continue the chase.

The prince, recognizing the entrancing power of this girl – and the shield of protection surrounding her – granted her the title to this large tract of land.

The Prince, witnessing this, recognized the girl’s power, and the shield of protection surrounding her – and subsequently granted her the title to the large tract of land in this valley.

And it is believed that this property is one of the earliest protected land trusts in the UK. Saint Melangell is now recognized as an iconic early environmentalist.

Today, she is an emblem for various ecological and environmental foundations – a symbol of inspiration for the preservation and protection of Welsh land.

I love this story, so this morning, climbing off of the bus, I take particular note of the blue hills that ring this green valley.

The air smells sweet.

Once again, the sun is bright and there is a riot of color from the Wesh poppies and vetch.

We are nestled in the fertile foothills of the impressive Snowdonia Mountains.

The view is bright green- stunning.

Bees crawl, heavy with pollen, among the bursts of pink orchids and mallow, and there is a vigorous stream running past the old church.

It is May, and everything is in a fertile frenzy: knapweed, enchanter’s nightshade, and wild thyme sprawl down to the stream.

There is a wildness here.

I notice that back behind the cemetery there are small cottages, cabin-like accommodations for guests.

This will be an unstructured, quiet day. We are free to move about the land and reflect.

I watch the others find their steps around the cobbled churchyard. I keep on walking, up to an old fence, where there is a handwritten sign that says prayer walk.

I open the gate and there is a dirt path that forks off through a meadow and another driveway that leads up to a house.

Suddenly, a car pulls up and a man jumps out, with his engine running, and car wheels stopped in the shallow stream.

Oh no, maybe I’m trespassing.

But what a friendly guy – his face is beaming and he’s extremely excited that I’m on his little prayer walk.

I explain that I am with the larger church group.

He smiles.

Do you feel the energy is this valley? he asks

Um.

It’s a feminine energy, he continues.

This whole valley, this stream, it has an ancient feminine quality.

It’s Pennant Melangell.

Do you sense it?

And then he invites me to hike up to his property and to explore beyond, into the meadow, and up through the grove of trees. He encourages me to wander wherever I want.

He literally says, take your time, go slowly, and, look at the small things.

He informs me that every living element here holds Melangell’s beauty.

I thank him, and he drives off, with a big wave.

At this point the meadow just looks like a good place to lie down and nap.

If I can make it over there at all.

I may just sit down here in the road, it’s a peaceful spot lined with red and yellow foxgloves.

The birdcalls, the lapping stream, and the lazy bees, all of it is hypnotizing me. I slip off my pack and wedge it under my head as I lean back into the grass.

Feminine energy, yes.

I’ll sign on for that.

Part of a pilgrimage, in my mind, is surrendering your complete boxed set of faith. It is letting go of musty beliefs, making room for something fresh, something revelatory.

In this magical, verdant valley, it is so easy to do. There is a nurturing, creative spirit at play here.

I think of Melangell’s story, whether it’s true to the letter or not – it feels true to me – in the way of most legends.

In the way that we tell stories, down through the ages, and how they capture the original truths and then double down even deeper, over time.

Like the heavy soil that sinks this church foundation, and the white headstones that pop up around this holy place – all of it seems to be shifting, and alive.

Retelling a story that is ancient, yet evolving.

And I sense a kind of wild silence in this valley – a reverence and quietude that has a pulsing heart beneath it.

The lush environment feels laden with the care and nurture of all that is engendered in this land.

I think about religion, and how this, right before me, this is the earliest religion of all.

This connection between a brave young woman taking shelter in this valley. Her pact with the land.

And then risking her life to build an abbey for other contemplatives Perhaps women who were also searching, maybe fleeing, but certainly vulnerable.

In very dark times.

And here, the body of this anchoress, buried in the sanctuary of this small Welsh church.

What is this place saying to me?

I rest my head back and watch a huge black bird circle high over the meadow. It flies nearer and I notice that it’s enormous wingspan has a striking pattern.

It has one bright white oval underneath each black wing. This creates the illusion of two disc-like eyes looking down on me.

I later learn that it is a red-billed kite, a glossy black raptor, once hunted to near extinction in these parts.

But it feels like more than just a bird to me. It feels like a presence – I’d like to think a female one – with its wide-eyed feathers hovering over me.

In Celtic spirituality, they talk about thin places- places where the veil between the physical and spiritual world seems to thin, opening up a sense of sacredness, and allowing for a connection between the human and the divine.

Like heaven and earth, I am in two places:

Cradled within the sacred haven of a feminine spirit from another century – and on a dusty lane with a sore hip that’s scraping against the rocks.

Like heaven and earth, I am in two places:
Cradled within the sacred haven of a feminine spirit from another century, and on a dusty lane, with a sore hip that’s scraping against the rocks.

And so I pay homage to the fierce commitment of this saint.

A woman ahead of her time.

And as I lie here today, I imagine myself as brave too.

And I summon Saint Melangell’s courageous spirit to be my own shield as I move forward on this mystical pilgrimage.

cover photo: Ann Carda

Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall · 2 Comments

The Mirror

The river dawdles to hold a mirror for you
where you may see yourself
as you are, a traveller

R. S. Thomas

How do you talk about a pilgrimage?

It feels like uncovering a sacred relic, or like exposing something too personal, too tender.

If I write about it, will the sweetness fade – like a plucked magnolia blossom that bruises within hours?

I’ll try.

The route we are traveling on this tour will be following the ancient pilgrim’s path from the coast of North Wales to the stunning Llyn Peninsula. We will visit ancient churches and various holy sites.

These sites will be hosted by local guides. From them we will hear some of the old Celtic legends and we will visit sacred shrines and wells. And we will finish our journey at the venerable St. David’s Cathedral.

Today, on our drive, bright yellow gorse lines the pathway across a landscape that is rugged and windswept. But the flowers are thriving – so many varieties – who would think they could survive this harsh environment?

Stone walls divide the fields everywhere, keeping the sheep with new baby lambs safe within. Ancient divisions of properties.

The roads are crazy – just narrow cow-paths, really. Our driver, Steve, has to back up and give way constantly along the winding drive.

This afternoon, we are headed to the Island of Anglesey to visit the Roman fort town of Beaumaris, where the church and monastic ruins of St. Seriol stand.

When we arrive, we meet some church members, and have a brief prayer service. Then we are free to explore the 12th century ruins.

These rocks, this old church foundation, it is so ancient it blows my mind.

Some of us meander across the medieval cemetery, others take sips from the well. No one speaks.

The wind gently tousles the grasses and wildflowers in the courtyard. I feel the spirits stir – whispers from either a pilgrimage made centuries ago or maybe just yesterday?

What is this place?

I follow my sister across the timeworn path to the healing well. Under the rock archway, the black water sits in a deep pool – it is shiny with bright green moss, and very still.

I ask her to offer a blessing.

So she pours a cupped handful of the cold water on my head, and she sprinkles a little on my hands.

My head and my hands, to heal my addled brain and my insecurity.

Then she dips her own sore ankle into the deep, icy cold water.

My eyes fill up at her reverence and care. I feel such grace – a lightness, and a shining.

She is a mirror.

And today, her presence reflects the sunlight from the churchyard, the bright stones, the buttery yellow gorse.

Her gentle way allows me the space to breathe in deep and to open up my chest.

I pull back my shoulders and find my balance on the cobblestones.

Today I feel solid and steady, like the timeless yew trees pushing up their roots beneath the graves here in the churchyard.

I feel free.

There is something to this place, something about unburdening, something about letting go.

The limpid well, my tired brain – all things muddled just want to run clear.

photos: Ann Carda

Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall · 2 Comments

Pilgrimage ~ Intro


               

In April the sweet showers fall,
And pierce the drought of March to the root,
And all the veins are bathed in liquor of such power
As brings about the engendering of the flower.

Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales

One schedules the family reunion. The trip is planned for the summer so that they can watch the loggerhead turtle eggs hatch.

Drawn by the moon’s light, the hatchlings will struggle from their nests and toddle towards new life at the ocean’s dangerous edge.

One muses through an ancient graveyard looking for a relative that no one really knew much about.

One journeys to a far-flung Celtic island to see where her ancestors began a family.

One makes the effort, every Sunday, to put on nice clothes and greet her church family. She makes her way with a cane, to the Communion rail, to receive a blessing and some validation for her effort.

One walks the overgrown labyrinth that is paved with gravel and scraggly herbs. She pads quietly over the wide outer circles that curl into the tight inner nucleus.

Once inside, she holds her breath and makes a wish and begins to cry, then blurts out an apology to no one.

What is this?

She quickly retraces her footprints and exits the garden.

One travels to a hometown high school and gathers with a few friends. Over 40 years of remembering depression and trauma, she now finds a communion with her fellow pilgrims who have brought complicated burdens and bittersweet joys from the past, too.

She feels the healing of this reunion.

One visits a columbarium where a brother’s cremains are kept. What is this pilgrimage? What healing is she seeking?

Unknown.

One hikes on the famous El Camino Trail over many long miles and rough terrain. But oh, so many exotic birds!

Binoculars at his chest, he is alert and ready. He ticks off the new species with relish, and wakes each day, excited to add to the years-long list.

One jogs the urban trail, trying to get fit. She fights the repetitive voices in her head that tell her she is too old, too big, just too, too much. She takes another lap and heads back to the car.

One drives cross-country to camp in the National Parks, but is waylaid by a horrific accident on the highway. She seeks to recover, to heal, so to plan other camping adventures without fear.

One makes a journey to and from a retirement home.

It is a loop, and a twist in her gut, a car trip on a road that has no beginning and seems to have no end.

But she knows that there will be an end.

All of us are pilgrims.

Whether by plan or intention, or naturally, in our regular tasks and routines, we each make pilgrimage.

On our daily rounds we meditate on our predicaments.

Sometimes we count out the rosary beads of anger or anxiety. Or we tally the happiness and pray for more abundance.

We worry over the past. We think of our children. We obsess. We mourn.

And in doing this, I think we simply crave to slow down and to simply feel.

To listen to the ache in our hearts and ask why?

We want to be healed. And in the end we long to thrive.

We want permission to open up our tender senses to the sweet showers of the natural world that is spurring us on.

And we want to bloom.

And so we make pilgrimage.

And so we hope.

Earlier this month I made a pilgrimage to Wales. I want to share some of it with you … more next time!

Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall · 4 Comments

The Thread

When one tugs at one thing in the universe, they find that it is attached to the rest of the world

John Muir

I lead a little life. A little life that I love and one that fits me just right.

But I try to pay attention to the wider world around me. I try to see beyond my own backyard.

And like you, I scroll through the unbelievable hellscape of news on the internet. Sometimes, I get angry. Often, I am disillusioned. Mostly, I feel disconnected to the larger social problems that feel impossible for me to fix.

Still, I run my errands. I do the laundry, fix meals, and I exercise. I try to stay positive, I try to see the good.

But today, I was anxious and teary and couldn’t stop looking out the kitchen window.

Because deep in the yard is our bluebird house. And for the past 3 weeks I’ve eagerly watched a pair of them build their nest in it, and fill it with five perfect eggs. And yesterday they hatched.

But overnight the male and female abandoned them. They just flew away and never came back. And today, the babies are slowly dying.

So I’m obsessively watching and waiting for the mother bird to return to save them. I can’t stop hoping that she will fly back home to nurture the hatchlings.

I’m fixated on this, I’m anxious, and I’m unable to concentrate on anything else. Even though I know it’s futile.

And I am heartbroken.

Eventually, I curl up on the bed with my cat, hoping the little things die quickly.

And then, I think it’s crazy that I am grieving so deeply over these tiny birds. And I feel a tiny bit of shame in this. Because in the scheme of things – with all the rest of the world’s suffering – what does it matter?

In the Celtic world, they believe that there is a specific sacredness to all of Nature. And they believe that humans exist in a seamless universe, bound together through every rock and tree and human and wild thing – as if by an invisible thread.

But the challenge is that we have forgotten this interconnectedness – we are alienated from one another and from the natural world.

We have failed to honor and nurture the relationship – and we fail to recognize the sacredness in one another.

And I believe that it is this rendering that is destroying our world.

But the thing is, we are all connected.

To the refugee, the trans person, the poor, the outsider – they are all me. And the bluebird in the yard, it is me, too.

I remember one time my father saying that, pain is pain, it doesn’t matter where it comes from. Whether it’s the death of a pet or a loved one, we experience the grief and loss all the same.

In other words, human pain is indiscriminate – it touches each of us, individually and collectively. For big things and for little things.

And I think mostly we don’t want to linger on this pain – the suffering that we witness all around us – because it’s too hard, too excrutiating, too incomprehensible, or too close to the bone.

But I feel as if the whole world is grieving right now. And our planet is crying out for healing. And our hearts are breaking at the destruction we’ve allowed to happen.

An El Salvadoran, waiting in prison, the bleaching of the coral reefs, a neighbor struggling with bone cancer, and a small bird calling out in the backyard.

Yet, we are all one. And we all hold the thread.

And so, later tonight, I will dig a hole and bury the perfectly woven birds nest, and I’ll place it deep into the cool dirt of the backyard, and maybe I’ll say a prayer.

Perhaps I will pray to find answers, answers to the questions of the Spirit. And pray that I might open my heart to the universe.

Maybe I’ll pray for how I might feel the Divine force that wants so desperately to hold me.

And I’ll pray to find ways that I might awaken my senses to the sacred in everything, in all of creation.

Simply, how I might find the holy thread, and hold it tight.

For, as the great environmentalist John Muir once wrote, “In God’s wildness lies the hope of the world”.

Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall

I dream of chickens

“Spring, summer, and fall, fill us with hope; winter alone reminds us of the human condition” — Mignon McLaughlin 

Ah, February.

February is my little black cat, draped across my chest like a furry scarf. He is like a weighted blanket, holding me down, keeping me swaddled up tight.

February.

February is gravitating to the sunny windows in the house and trying to call up the feeling of the unrelenting heat and humidity of our summers.

February.

February is my UV lamp, propped here next to my laptop, and fantasies of a tropical beach somewhere.

February is rolling over in the morning, after a deep sleep, for just a few more precious minutes.

February is wondering what the hell to write about.

These days, the grey sky outside my window casts a thin light on my bed, but, like my spirits, it is weak and insubstantial.

I think in life we have this balance of levity and gravity. Darkness resting and sunshine rising. We can’t spend too much time in either arena, it is always a balancing effort.

It is the lesson of the seasons.

And in February, I need to believe in something bright and cheerful.

In February, I need to dream.

And so I dream of chickens. And on cold February nights, I lie awake and think of them.

My backyard chickens provide a silly kind of optimism to me. They are a daft distraction on a boring day. They can make me laugh, they can make me wonder.

And they keep their promises – to deliver a perfect egg – every single day, without complaint.

They follow the seasonal tug, molting and laying and just pecking about the yard – all in concert with the year.

And the care and keeping of them is an unexpected joy for me.

In my dreams, I am a sturdy Cornish countrywoman on a big farm, with acres of space for my hens. I sling chickenfeed from a huge gingham apron and I gather up the most perfect eggs.

So, the days are getting longer now, and here the temperatures are occasionally in the 60s. There’s this weird kind of double take we do – is it winter, or is it spring? Whatever – we’ll take the sunshine when we can get it.

But I still wonder if I am missing out on some true winter wisdom, as described by McLaughlin, above – the reckoning with the human condition, with all of the sadnesses and angst (you know, the things Minnesotans feel).

But, as it is February, I will put off these thoughts for another day (maybe July!) and simply keep looking for that earlier sunrise that is arriving every morning.

It’s the human condition.

It’s me in February.

And you?

What do you dream about in February?

Do you have dreams for the year?

Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall · 1 Comment

glean

I ran two miles today. It’s not that far, but I’m proud of myself because it’s been awhile since I’ve gone out. I’ve mostly been walking.

I think the thing that running teaches you is that no matter what distance you cover, the effort dissipates overnight, and the next day you are back to building up the distance you’ve lost.

It’s truly a Sisyphean activity.

But then this amazing thing happens – a few days or a week go by and you notice you feel better – your rear end is tighter and your thighs feel stronger.

It’s as if your body is saying, just be patient and the benefits will eventually catch up with you.

But mostly running builds mental fortitude in me. And it gets my creative juices flowing.

When I plod through the neighborhood, my mind is usually casting about for new ideas.

It’s poking around for something to look forward to, or just some little thing to get excited about.

It seems I have to do this in January.

This weekend, my husband and I drove down to the North Carolina coast. We were on a mission to scope out the perfect beach house for our yearly family get-together.

The landscape was a bit depressing.

We passed acre after acre of forgotten farmland, weathered farmhouses, and tiny, tottering shacks. There were rows of limp, muddy collards in the fields, and some rickety vegetable stands.

Tractors were stalled indefinitely in the deeply flooded trenches.

There were no people about – the only traces of life were farm tools and the children’s toys that lay abandoned in the front yards – and the Christmas lights that were still strung.

And I think, these people know patience and planning more than anyone. Because they, too, are fervently looking to the future.

Anyway, down the road, I noticed an entire field full of crows strutting about. With their jaunty heads cocked, they nimbly gleaned the leftovers from the past season.

And that is me, I’m looking to snatch up the one shiny thing or new idea that might kick-start my year.

Are you the same?

We look back on the past year and decide what can be dismissed. We sift through old activities and events – to see what to let go of, and what to expand upon.

We plan what new crops to grow.

Anyway, my husband and I finally met up with the realtor and we chat for a bit. She tells us that she loves this time of year – and I get it. No tourists like us.

But as she talks, my mind is already on fast forward:

I listen to the gentle waves of the October tide, and I picture my son napping under the beach umbrella.

I imagine my grandson, digging in the sand with his shovel, or maybe in the pool, kicking his little froggy legs.

I see a glass of white wine, sipped on our private deck. My eyes are closed, but I’m aware of my family all around me, making noise two floors below.

I watch the apricot moon dip into the water and disappear.

I am a lucky woman, this I know.

But in January, if often takes some imagination to see it that way, to see the coming year in full. To look ahead and believe.

To take the dry pits and plant them.

Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall · 4 Comments

waiting

The sky is puffed grey, pregnant with the possibility of snowfall.

On my walk, all around me, there is a sense of pause, of waiting.

The dogs in the yards are silent, waiting for me to pass.

Neighbors venture out, stepping carefully to avoid the slippery rime that has coated the black places on the road.

They wait for the forecast and the possibility of time off from work.

The children wait with their sleds, as they practice on the dry, grassy hill.

Even the birds are silent, waiting for the storm to pass.

And when I look up at the sky there is a blankness, with no mood or transience. Only a dull sameness.

The grey threatens to blanket my mood, too.

When my son was home, over the holidays, we went for a walk on a trail in Hillsborough. We were casually birdwatching and he showed me an app on his phone that helps identify bird species by their calls.

This particular day, there was a cacophony of birdsong – it was so loud I couldn’t differentiate a single bird. But that was the beauty of it – the phone could pick out one solo voice and identify it.

It was a dream for me, a person who gets overwhelmed with sounds. But I came away thinking of all the individual species that cross our ears, that we never identify. They are everywhere, thousands of varieties.

I think about this on my walk today, how easy and even necessary it is to sometimes block out the beautiful things in life. How easy it is to succumb to the vast grey, when there is something beautiful that can’t be heard.

For me, January is a month of waiting.

Waiting for the year’s schedule to flesh out.

Waiting to plant a garden, after the ice clears.

Waiting for the start of a home renovation.

Waiting for positivity and purpose.

Waiting in anticipation of what new things I can create this year. I don’t want to stagnate, I want to keep creating – to keep writing.

Life is about waiting, it just is.

And somewhere between the question and the answer is everyday life. As grey and dull and unremarkable as today, sometimes.

But today, it doesn’t bother me so much. I can pull the one birdsong from the sky.

I feel hope.

And now heading home, I am careful of the black ice on the sidewalk that could easily upend me.

A bird titters loudly in the frozen branches. I can’t see it, but it is so clear, so dissonant, that it pierces my thoughts.

The sky has darkened, and still the mood comes back to me, like a birdsong:

What will be? What will be? What will be?

Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall · 6 Comments

To go

This year, my son comes home the week before Christmas. And first thing each morning, we walk a mile to the neighborhood coffee shop.

One small oat latte, to go, please.

On the way home, he sips the hot drink as we talk. About nothing, really, just everyday bits and bobs. But I feel close to him during this simple ritual.

I know these walks will stay with me for a while.

Later, I FaceTime with my 89-year-old dad, and he is bright and upbeat. He tells me about all of his political activities and the goings-on at his retirement home.

His face is nearly unchanged to me, his energy is timeless, and his eyes are twinkling with humor.

I try hard to slow down and really listen, and to be present to the moment.

Because always in the back of my mind is the realization that these visits are finite, and I wonder how many we have left.

On another day, my daughter calls to tell me that her entire family has come down with a nasty stomach virus, and could we please come by and take our grandson out in the stroller.

So we bundle up and pull into their drive, making the transfer from house to stroller very carefully.

I notice how the rosiness in his cheeks is gone, and he seems a bit listless. But he brightens up when we put Bing Crosby’s music on the cell phone.

Then he starts to sing Jingle Bells, with a wide-open exuberance in that sweet toddler voice.

And then we are off – taking in the neighborhood lights and decorations. He is transfixed by the reindeer with mechanical heads that move side to side with beady, life-like eyes.

And when we take him home, he cries and says, go back!, meaning he wants to keep strolling. And who can blame him for not wanting to return to the boring, sick house.

But he finally succumbs to his mother, and goes inside, but not without a teary wave from the window as we drive away.

I want to remember the expression on that little pink face, and recall this whole, sunny afternoon, forever.

And finally, on Christmas Eve, my grandson insists that I pick him up to examine the creche on our fireplace mantle.

He is fascinated by the animals and the wee baby carved out of wood.

I let him play with the pieces on the floor. He has the donkey talking to the fox, and the angel hiding behind the barn, and little baby Jesus riding the sheep.

Watching him play makes me realize that these pieces were meant for this – they were meant to be brought to life by a little 2-year-old.

And so I savor this little scene of scattered mayhem on the rug.

Later that night, all my chores done, I lie on the couch, exhausted, with my little black kitty nestled on my blanketed legs.

It’s been over a year since we found him at the shelter, half-starved and with a cone around his head. And now he is my shy, but attentive companion, especially through these winter nights.

He stretches, then darts beneath the Christmas tree, making me laugh as he corners and chases a small bit of fragrant evergreen.

This past year I have loved his entertaining antics.

The holidays go by in a whirl.

In January, I always find myself wondering where the past few months went.

If you’re like me, you think in big strokes – cleaning and decorating the house, and putting up the tree, or trying some special new recipe for Christmas Eve dinner.

Choosing the right gifts, writing the annual card – all of these things are meaningful, but they don’t really leave an indelible mark.

Rather, it seems to me that it is the small act – the coffee run, the long phone call, the kiss of a tearful child – that will stay with me the most.

It seems to me that it is the small act – the coffee run, the long phone call, the kiss of a tearful child – that will stay with me the most.

So, I want to catch these ordinary moments as they fly by – because life moves so fast, and I want to pay attention to these small things that I love.

These poignant fragments of time, they are like the soapy bubbles that my son waves in a huge wand for my grandson to catch on Christmas Eve – they are so exquisite, so fragile, and so fleeting.