Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall · 4 Comments

The Way We Were

It was summer of 1974 and I was almost 12.

My family had just moved from a small town to a bigger city. I was a new kid in 7th grade at the big junior high school.

Maybe a little bit immature for my age, certainly not sophisticated or destined for popularity.

But luckily, on the very first day I made a new best friend – Jules.

But the biggest thing I remember about that time was that I was completely boy-crazy.

Not for any boy in 7th grade, but for the film legend Robert Redford.

I had just seen The Sting and it was all I could talk about. Analyzing every scene, every line, swooning over the star. And I was just so desperate for his next movie to be released.

And I remember going to a sleepover at Jules’s house and bringing along my signed studio glossy of him. I propped it next to me on the pillow of my sleeping bag.

Forget about 12 year old boys – I knew what I wanted and it wasn’t them.

It was Redford.

He had it all – golden good looks, charm, a cinematic smile and that indefinable cool guy personality.

I had seen all of his movies and had a huge poster of him on my bedroom door.

What an innocent I was, what little I knew about boys and men.

But I’ll say this, I had good taste.

Handsome, articulate, politically active, Redford was the consummate Everyman.

He was, quite simply, a decent man.

And as I look back at that young girl in her pink bunny slippers, I think about how much she had to learn.

But also how much she already knew.

When I went to my high school reunion this past summer, it brought back some of these old memories. And I was reminded of things about myself that I had long forgotten.

The awkwardness of those moments. But also the grace.

My friends tell me they remember me as being bouncy and bubbly, floating down the halls at school with a smile.

And this was so healing for me to hear. I really couldn’t remember the way I was.

Because I tended to see the old frames in black and white – to ruminate over the struggles, the loneliness, and the depression.

I thought I was such a loser.

But now I see that maybe I wasn’t just the dark, depressed girl back then.

Maybe I was the sunny girl who just happened to get depressed.

Funny how we write a script about ourselves and we never quite re-write it, or even try to edit it very much over the years.

Anyway, after graduation, when I went off to college, I ditched that image of myself and in doing so I threw away the entire script.

And only now, years later, can I see that most of the pages were actually pretty decent, even true.

I was innocent. I was fun. I was loved.

I was just me.

Part of the appeal of Robert Redford, or any other star crush, is that you have complete control over the narrative. You can close your eyes and see the actor in a perfect incandescent light.

He never screws up, loses his temper or messes up the house. He delivers all of the best lines. And he doesn’t take up too much of your personal space.

But I think Robert Redford took up a very distinct space in my 12 year old world.

He was there when I was hitting all of the adolescent milestones. The awkward chapters – wearing my first pair of panty hose, buying my first bra, and finally getting my period.

He was a stand-in when I wasn’t ready for a real boyfriend. He buffered the fear and trepidation of first dates, kisses and whatever else.

He was a sure, safe thing – what you saw was what you got.

And he served as a boost to my self esteem all though those school years. And then, of course, I grew up, and he bowed out, gracefully, fading into the floodlights of my imagination.

Every once in a while I think we all stumble across a person, or a caricature, or a figure that sort of redeems us.

A personality that fulfills some core need in us that is longing to be met.

For me it was safety – the basic need to feel secure in my changing world – with the upheaval in my friendships, in my home and even my own body.

A place in my mind, in my overactive imagination, that I could go to and have all of my stories play out just as I wanted them to.

Where I could be creator, director and star of my own life.

It might be an overstatement to say that Robert Redford was a template for my marriage, but I think it’s a little bit true.

I just know that I will always take seriously the tastes and aspirations of young girls.

So thank you, Mr. Redford.

You helped me dream. And to see that there were higher ideals out there if I stayed patient and kept my options open.

And you helped me not to settle for what the world offered, but to shoot for something more.

You helped me write and re-write my own script, and for that I am forever grateful.

Always and forever.

xoxo

Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall · 1 Comment

Object Permanence

The fat bumblebees bump against one another as they search out the remains of the coneflower pollen in the yard.

They’re after the last drops of golden summer.

I wonder where they go now – do they migrate?

It seems like they are trying to hold on to the summer.

And now I think about things that I try to hold on to – safety, security, love.

I close my eyes and make a wish upon these falling leaves – I’ll see you next year.

See you next summer.

So much is uncertain in our lives these days, and even the seasons can’t be relied upon.

But I want to hold this moment in time forever.

These days, my 2-year-old grandson is mastering the art of object permanence. He is learning to say goodbye to us without crying and thinking that he will never see us again.

And he is also able to leave his toys at our house and say “I’ll play with you next time” and it breaks my heart just a little.

Because he is learning the art of letting go. And the faith that the world will be the same when he comes back.

Yes, it is a milestone to know that fundamental things will remain in tact in our universe.

But also, there is the trade-off – one must first learn to say goodbye.

And I’ll never get good at this, I swear.

To be in the present moment and also know that it is already past.

All I can say is that my grandson’s developmental milestone is also a life lesson for me.

Like the bumblebee, I chase the pollen and try not to worry about what happens next.

Faith and hope, I guess.

A bumbling proposition.

To trust in a world that is dying all around me, but one with seeds prepared to sprout when the coming days grow longer.

Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall · 3 Comments

Owl

Last night while lying in bed, I heard an owl hooting in the yard.

Its call was so plaintive, so clear, it cut through the hot, thick night. It was calming and soulful.

It soothed me as I struggled to sleep.

I pictured it swooping from the pine tree down into the yard, hunting for voles, and then gliding back up to its nest.

Hidden and safe.

Something in that image quieted my spirit, and cooled my brain.

I think we all long for certainty, for stability, for an assurance that all will be well.

We want a safe nest to fall into.

But the news in our country, like the weather, is hot and unbearable, a mess. It’s difficult to feel any sense of national security.

Many days I don’t read beyond the headlines – why dip into that madness?

And yet, life goes on.

And death.

My father, at 89, is struggling with congestive heart problems. Yet I watch him still fighting to do good in the world, and it gladdens me.

He keeps his eyes open, his brain engaged. Frankly, I don’t know how he can care so much about the world, now, at the end of his life.

Why does this planet still matter to him?

He’s leaving it.

So last month he participated in a sit-in at the WV Senator Shelly Capito’s office – to protest the repeal of the Affordable Care Act.

He pushed his walker, with a water bottle in the cupholder, and got himself up to the Capitol. And he sat, along with five others, in the reception area – long enough for the aide to ask them to leave.

And then when he refused to go, the police were called.

They escorted him out and took him to be processed and then released.

I know all of this because it’s a familiar drill.

He did this during Vietnam, the Iraq War, and during the vote to repeal Roe v. Wade, and on and on.

He’s got a pretty nice police record.

But I think this latest arrest has been the most impactful for me.

Something about having your elderly father rise up in righteous indignation at the end of his career in activism, at the end of his life – it pulls you up short.

And I can’t say I’ve picked up his mantle.

I’ve been to the last three protests here in Durham, but I’m not kidding myself that that has real teeth.

And now the President is violating human rights.

How will this end?

There is this despair I feel on nights like this, thinking about how fortunate I am, but how my good life has come at such a price.

The capitalism that shaped my childhood, my values, my experiences, all came from privilege.

And when I let myself feel it, it shames me.

The life I’ve built has been at the expense of others. And our President is the result of this.

But I can’t dwell on this reality; I try to focus on the present.

To be the best grandmother I can be.

To listen to my kids.

To be kinder, less quick to judge.

To be a friend.

To help someone out when I can.

I don’t do enough, by far, I know that.

And the guilt lurks.

Midsummer musings.

Scratching like cicadas, not pleasant to the ear:

insistent, complaining, aggrieved.

My damp skin against the cotton blanket – to sleep now would be a blessed forgetting.

Still, I listen for the owl, and for the solace of the call.

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Three Houses

The house key sticks in the unfamiliar lock of the door. Finally, I find the perfect jiggle and then use my shoulder to push it open.

I look around at the empty space and feel the urge to cry.

It’s been a mind-bending weekend away, and now I’m back home.

Or rather, I’m back in my third home.

You may remember that my husband and I sold our big old Southern home almost two years ago, now. And then we downsized to this new neighborhood in the same town.

Less than 1,000 square feet now – we were so proud of ourselves.

And then, of course, we needed elbow room, and decided to remodel – just add on a little bit.

Which brings us to now – having to rent a house down the street while the new construction takes place.

And I’m having a surreal moment where the old house, the new one, and this rental are all super-imposed on my brain, and it’s really unsettling.

Never before have I felt so strongly that a house is really a soul.

And my soul feels empty now, I’m a little sad and off-balance.

It’s a hangover of grief from saying goodbye to my high school friends after a small reunion last weekend.

A group of 20 from our class planned a gathering and it turned into the most meaningful, healing time.

Talk about surreal.

And today, it comes to me that each of us live in the house of the present, and we have a past house and then a future one down the road.

And we live in all three at the same time.

I definitely like to compartmentalize things and keep it all separate, but right now it all comes together.

For 45 years I had little to no contact with my old friends. It was a painful time, and I tended to write it all off as – I was a mess, a failure, I left no mark.

But of course I did.

And this past weekend my friends embraced me and reminded me of that old person I used to be – bubbly, expressive, caring.

You see, I fled my hometown, and never really looked back.

I struggled to mature and figure things out – to heal from some pretty tough memories.

I learned how to take care of my mental health.

I learned how to be a partner and a parent.

I’m still learning.

Anyway, I can’t adequately express what this past weekend meant to me, except to say that I’m so grateful I went back to that house of the past.

It is where I learned to live in this one, and it’s given me a little bit of courage to move on to the next one.

These days, I’m scared to drive down the old street in town where I used to live. But I make myself do it every now and then.

I watch how the new owners are tearing the walls down, and renovating.

New paint colors. Ripped out landscaping.

And what happened to my chicken coop?

I don’t know why I torture myself like this but maybe it’s this need to keep the past with me.

To lay out all of the puzzle pieces to make it complete.

I’m taking a new meditation class, and my favorite practice is Lovingkindness. In it, we focus on extending goodwill to our selves.

We open our hearts to generosity, forgiveness and compassion.

It is an ancient practice that guides you to affirm yourself. And then you extend your thoughts to a loved one, and then to a neutral person and then to a difficult person.

And then to the whole world.

But a key concept is that we cannot love the whole world without loving ourselves first.

We cannot love the whole world without loving ourselves first

A part of my soul was missing before I went back to my hometown. It’s the part that I’m now sending lovingkindness to over and over again.

Because what I had forgotten was the love.

The love that was shown to me back then.

I tended to dwell on the pain, as if it was a solo experience. I didn’t look up to see the friends that cared for and wanted to stick by me, even when I walked away from them.

And so, too, when I drive past our old pink house, I’ll try to remember the love, not forgetting the struggles and pains that inhabited that place too, but all of it.

And I’ll try to use the meditation as an investigation into all of it – the past, the present and the future, and always keep opening my heart up to the love.

Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall

Crushed rosemary

Life is not hurrying 
on to a receding future, nor hankering after 
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you. 

R. S. Thomas, The Bright Field

My last post was the final travel entry from the trip to Wales.

Today, I look over the notes, and I see just how much I’ve left out.

How many memories that couldn’t make it to the page.

The small things:

E. wearing a bright smile every single day, as big as her sun hat.

Quiet, all-knowing M.

Talks with R. on the bus – about Catholicism, inclusive language and music.

D’s compassionate nursing of my ailments.

S’s birds-eye view: spotting the commonplace as well as the rare, and sometimes even the magical.

The resilience of P, after a rough walk.

H’s violin.

C’s gentle hands blessing my forehead at the well.

Being a part of a church community, for just a while.

The nuns waving goodbye with such hopeful expressions on their faces.

Feeling uplifted about the world for the first time in so long.

Our leader Tony, the way he circled among us for private talks by the bus, as we set out on the next pilgrimage.

And his leadership during morning devotions with Celtic poetry and personal thoughts.

His expert planning and then his flexibility when needed.

Being guided and cared for.

Sidling up to the hotel bar in St. David’s town, waiting for a few others to chuck their backpacks and join us.

My sister over her martini, so classy and smooth, reviewing the day.

Being included.

The ancient chapel where our guide walked us through the riotous gardens, beckoning us to pick stalks of overgrown rosemary and sweet bay leaves.

Rosemary for remembrance ~ Bay leaf for wisdom, peace and protection.

And once inside, scattering them in the aisles then crushing them with our shoes.

Adding to the thick layers of herbal compost from previous pilgrims who had also traveled there.

Each had carried their own joys, hopes, and sadnesses, like me.

And the sweet aroma mixing with old incense and damp, inviting me to pause, to take it all in – to find worship.

The smell of the humus on top of the old flagstones welcoming me in some deep, earthy way.

To be my whole self.

To be an organic element of that timeworn chapel – my body, my doubting heart, all of it.

Sensing the humble presence of God.

So many little gifts, and now I just have to say goodbye.

To each pilgrim, to both leaders, and especially to my sister, who invited me on this adventure –

Thank you.

I hold my shell and countless memories from our journey together.

Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall

Mother’s Day at St. Non’s

Here is holy water
Old stone and a sky
that is limitless. 

R. S. Thomas

This morning, a group of us rise a little bit early, eat breakfast, and meet up with our leader, Tony, in the lobby of the hotel.

He has told us about a sacred well nearby, and I’m eager to go explore.

St. Non’s Well lies two miles south of St. David’s Cathedral, one of the most beautiful stretches of the Pembrokeshire coast in West Wales.

It is another thin place where the spiritual world is tangibly present in the physical landscape.

And according to legend it is where St. Non, a young noblewoman who had been raped by a local prince, gave birth to St. David in a thunderstorm; it is said that she clutched so hard on a rock during her labour that the rock split in two, revealing a well with fresh water for her to drink.(1)

Our small group, made up of mostly women, walks quietly down the coastal trail.

Surrounding us is lush, green pasture, with buttery yellow gorse popping up here and there, everywhere.

It is a fertile May in North Wales.

And the backdrop, as always, is the ocean with its otherworldly blue and an immense clear sky.

There’s just something about a well.

You come upon it and it just naturally feels so mystifying, even cryptic.

Right there in the pasture, hidden by the thick grasses it sits, down a gully, quiet and dark.

These waters are said to be among the most sacred in all of Wales, and believed to have healing properties to cure sore eyes – perhaps referring to the deeper reference of insight and wisdom. (2)

Pope Benedict XVI used water from St Non’s Well during his pastoral visit to the UK in 2010, and votive offerings are still placed there: ribbons, children’s shoes and rosaries hang near the statue of Non in the nearby grotto.(3)

St Non and her story have a resonance for all victims of violence or assault, and for all those who feel excluded from their communities.

She must have been cast out by her wealthy family – presumably the rape and resultant pregnancy would have made her an object of shame – otherwise she would not have been giving birth alone in such inauspicious conditions.(4)

And it just so happens that today is Mother’s Day.

And of course, the women among us who have children, we are thinking of them today – they are out of touch, in another time zone.

I step over to sit on a stone bench, squeezing in with two other moms, and we look at each other and we wipe the tears from our eyes.

Silently, and without knowing each other very well, we can read one another’s faces.

They tell our stories – the joys and struggles of raising our families, the labor of nurturing and guiding our kids.

The way we still worry.

The sheer effort and strain of being a mom.

The indescribable way it breaks your heart.

Today we honor one another.

And we remember our own mothers – those who aren’t with us anymore, whose legacy we carry.

There is something about Non’s Well – it seems to catch our tears, but also rinse them with a sweet renewal.

Life goes on.

And our pilgrimage resumes.

Each of us climbs down the mossy furrow and stands at the well to receive a blessing on our foreheads from our leader – and we each offer up a specific request.

What to ask for?

My heart and mind are too full.

I pray for insight and wisdom, and for the gift of community.

And for a blessing from a God that is always present and available to me, when I am mindful.

And I pray for a renewal of that faith.

And of course blessings for my daughter and son – who make me a mother in the first place.

Near the well, among the giant calla lilies, there lies a rock with a cross etched into it, from the 6th Century – it is a memorial to Non and her newborn son, David.

And there are what is thought to be handprints in the ancient stone, where it is believed she held on during her labor.

I imagine her as a pregnant woman alone, in a thunderstorm, cold and terrified, exposed in this windswept field, in such very dark times.

And still she birthed her son, St. David.

On our way back, I turn to look at the tiny grotto, and if you didn’t know of it’s existence, you would see nothing at all – nothing but open pasture and a few sheep.

Like so many profound and impactful events, it takes a slowing down in the moment to glean the significance.

It requires me stopping and looking closely and bending down (figuratively) to pay attention – to cultivate a kind of reverence in my soul.

To allow a space in my heart to open up and be vulnerable – and to accept the healing that arises from the mystical deep.

footnotes: Catholic Herald, Camilla Harrison

Posted on by Elizabeth Kendall · 1 Comment

Tidal Island~Ynys Llanddwyn

Today we are traveling to Ynys Llanddwyn, the small tidal island that sits off of the West Coast of Anglesey.

Before we get on the bus, our leader Tony has given us a few instructions for the day:

He would like us to have a silent day, with ample time to walk without talking, and lots of opportunity to explore the island solo.

And we are to use our journals.

It is to be a meditative experience.

We have been told that this land is part of a Welsh National Nature Reserve.

And I have read that the island is geologically rich with pillow lava and complex aolian sand deposits.

And I read about the legend of the young woman Dwynwen, the Patron Saint of Lovers.

One of the stories says that she was another of the female hermits whom God released from an arranged marriage.

And when she was released, she traveled to the solace of this remote locale.

It is in gratitude, that she spent the rest of her life here, all alone, until her death around AD 460.

So much to think about and to take in, the stories, the nature.

Anyway, this morning’s hike will be during low tide – when the island is temporarily attached to the mainland.

We will traipse across the rocks to the very end. And once at the edge, we will see the historic Twr Mawr lighthouse, with the sprawling backdrop of the glorious mountains.

And so off we go.

Out of the parking lot we make our way through a few miles of the Newborough forest trail, a part of the Anglesey Coastal Trail.

The towering pines and silver birches line the sandy trail, as we tread silently. The breeze smells of dried grasses and salt.

I feel a gentle ease in the rythym of the pilgrim’s feet as we step out together, our little troop of spiritual soldiers.

I feel like a real member of this team.

We each tote our beliefs and queries in our backpacks like they are essentials – like our water bottles.

What weightier, more significant trek can there be?

And after several miles, when we emerge onto the hoary rock, we are met by a spectacular 360 degree panorama of the ocean.

And the stout white lighthouse in the distance, set against a tableau of the purple mountains of Snowdonia.

So, at this point, we pack up our things, and each of us set off to explore the entire island.

Some head toward the grassy space with the wild ponies, others trek to the ruins of St. Dwynwen’s Church.

And some go to Dwynwen’s holy well. This is the Medieval shrine where pilgrims would come to read their love fortunes in the movements of the sacred eels that swam in the black waters.

I shuffle along on the path for a while and then stop to watch my sister as she climbs down the high rocks and perches on a smooth rock, starting to journal.

Yes, journal.

That is the last thing I want to do, but I know I’ll eventually have to get to it.

Instead, I want to soak up the entire island.

The sun glinting off of the little waves, the ancient iron Celtic cross in the center of everything.

The expanse of cyan sky.

The shaggy ponies chomping on grass.

But mostly, I want to observe my fellow pilgrims make their way as they meander.

Or as they pause and gaze out at the sea.

Some sit and write.

And some simply lie down to rest on the ledges.

Each person seems to find a safe space in which to nestle themselves, in a spot where they can take in the richness of this experience.

Where they can be alone, but not alone.

Islands but also peninsulas.

I think about how this pilgrimage has been a bit challenging for me, being the observer, introvert, non-joiner that I am.

I am more comfortable being on the outside of the circle, rather than being at the intimate center.

I was a tiny bit nervous about fitting in with these folks, yet here I am.

On this Welsh isle, with strangers, on the edge of nowhere.

And I can sense the other pilgrims also making their way – taking it all in, experiencing, and writing about who they are and how they think and feel.

And I think about the connections in my life, my friends, my family. Those who hold me close, without question, who make me feel safe no matter what.

So as I begin to journal, I only write two things:

I write that I feel empty and alone, and I want to connect with my heart, to my center.

And I write about how I long for a community. Because when I go home, I will have no church or spiritual group like this.

And I will miss the balance of silence and intimacy we have established on this journey.

Anyway, I also write that my overactive mind, this brain that is so integral to my personality and ego, often gets in the way of reaching out, connecting and sharing, with others.

And at the same time, my words, even spoken carefully, can fill up a silence that is oh so necessary for being awake to my own body, and to others.

And now, this tactile practice of quietly writing out my thoughts and emotions, feels right.

My brain quiets, I listen to the crash of the sea ebb and flow around me.

I feel grounded.

And through the silence I can feel this island in my soul, this grandeur that stretches out to embrace and claim me.

And off the coast, I spy the stout little lighthouse – Twr Mawr.

It’s glass glints in the sunshine, it is fixed – stubborn and undaunted – in the breakers.

Almost knowing, that come high tide, this entire territory will be washed clean, engulfed in water.

Still, I am like this venerable spit of obdurate rock.

I am this unyielding, yet still gracious, expanse of land, the welcoming arms that prostate travelers can come home to.

To find serenity and rest. And some kind of wholeness.

Steady and resilient, sturdy and true – I feel inexplicably connected to both this land and the sea in some primordial way.

Today, I think I am both an island and a peninsula.

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