Windhover diary entry: Walking when you don't know the way
Pilgrimages, making homes of refuge, and the beauty of unintrusive whatsapp voice notes.
Hello friends!
I write at the Just Beautiful Newsletter about making more space for beauty and justice to meet - and often I’m looking at that in my right-now space of motherhood and creativity. I’m also slowly working on a book proposal about historical mother-writers, and I love delving into their author backstories – how did they write before washing machines?! But today, we are going to swerve into new territory, as I share a little bit more about moving out of our tinyhouse on wheels and into an old farmhouse on 3 acres called Windhover.
Sometimes, perhaps especially with something new - like signing up for a class, or traveling to a new place, or stepping out on a pilgrimage – you don’t know why you’re doing it when you do it. You may have a vague notion of course. But often with these things, especially if they are done in a spirit of openness, of curiosity and adventure, you don’t. They are so big, and the living of it so fills you up in the moment, that it is not until it is all done and the experience has had time to work its way down into your bones, and eyes, and worldview, that you realise what it has done to you.
It is like that with having children. It was like that with hiking El Camino de Santiago. We could have hiked anywhere in beautiful South Africa, but we were at a transition point in our lives and marriage, and we didn’t just want a hike, we wanted a pilgrimage. We wanted to be open to whatever was there for us. It was a bit hard to explain before we left.
“Yes, we’re quitting our jobs to hike 500 miles across Spain. No, we are not Catholic. No, we don’t know where we will live when we get to the States, David is still waiting on his masters programmes to get back to him. No, it’s not a mission’s trip….”
It wasn’t until we sat with people who had gone that pilgrim way before that the anxiety of what this will mean fell away, and we were assured we should set out. The way would become clear as we walked.
Seven years ago, we finished our pilgrimage. Two years after that, after walking for a month with only 2 pairs of socks, a change of clothes, garlic and a bottle of olive oil on our backs, after depending on others for community and hospitality, after meeting people who deeply cared about their connection to the earth and to a more just world, we started building a tinyhouse. When people asked us why, we didn’t have a good story. It was just something that felt right. Something about the freedom, the simplicity, the community, the quest to find alternative solutions to the unjust way the world works called out to us. The idea that we’re all travelers, that we come with nothing into this world and we leave with nothing, the love of people and experiences and time over possessions made sense to us.
And now, four years later, we are in a (massive to us) old farmhouse on 3 acres, flinging whatever energy we have into what feels like a vast void of decay and neglect and brokenness, and hoping that we can see some part of it restored. And when people ask why, when we were so happy with our freedom and tinyhouse, why we would bind ourselves to some land on an apartheid fault-line, and a house missing part of its foundation, and a bathroom that is going to slip off the edge into the field with the septic tank, and asbestos in the ceiling, when they ask what we are going to do with 3 whole acres, we don’t quite have the story yet. (Which is a polite way of saying, Are we crazy? Maybe we are crazy! We don’t know what the hell we are doing!) We are living it up to our ears at the moment. We’re putting one foot in front of the other, trusting that the way will become clear as we walk. The way is made by walking. That is what they say on Camino. And I think that must just be how it is, always, in whatever you do in life. We are just setting out, hoping we will quietly hear the voice of the Spirit behind us saying, “This is the way, walk in it.”
We know some things, though. We know that if the tinyhouse reflected the simplicity of our pilgrimage, that this house should reflect the hospitality. That when you are walking, every day, carrying all your worldly possessions and your feet are chafing in your boots and your pack feels much heavier than you could imagine, that when you see the sign of an albergue, you feel a burst of hope. A pilgrim inn, a doorway next to an old church that promises food and bed and a chance to take off your boots – but more than that, it promises a prayer, a peace, laughter, a very long table of strangers-become-friends, piles of pasta, a home for the night - when you see it, you feel it is possible to keep going.
To experience that unconditional welcome, to be told, “Welcome home,” from a stranger who is bringing you a glass of water in Jesus name, to be nourished in body and soul for the long journey ahead- that is what we have experienced, and that is what we want to offer.
So really, we are doing nothing grand. We’re just doing the often mundane work of home-making. Trying to create a space of love and welcome on this sliver of land in-between apartheid’s shadows, trying to tell our neighbours – all our neighbours, on all sides – that this is home. There is food here. (Actual food! Not a metaphor!) There is coffee. There is beauty. And laughter. And friendship. And the spirit of God. Do we know how to do this? No. Not yet.
A friend lent me The Pilgrim Inn by Elizabeth Goudge a couple weeks ago, and I devoured it in a weekend, mostly in tears. While I really don’t love the reference to the historical crusades in this quote, I do love the battle-cry. It may seem silly to need an epic warrior cry for doing things like stripping paint off of windows, or figuring out if you can get a water pump working so you can actually bathe your children - but maybe the making of home for the weary in a fallen world is a battle.
The book is set in post-World War two England, and main character’s family has just bought an old Maison-deiu (Pilgrim Inn, or Alburgue) and is converting it into a home. The main character had at first felt defeated with
… “everything to do and feeling herself without the strength to do it, she had bitterly hated its body, the house, and it had suffered her hatred with the gentleness of an old dog who knows he gives offense with his matted coat, yet cannot unaided mend matters though he would die to please you. But her hatred had not lasted long, for the response of the house to her onslaught upon it had been so swift that the bitterness had ebbed away, and in its place had come the deep companionable love of those who strive together for the glory of God.
That had been Ben’s phrase, “For the glory of God!” he had cried as he stripped the almanacs from the paneling, and he had shouted it again at the top of his voice when he and Tommy had torn away the terrible overmantel and surround in the drawing room and revealed behind it a perfect Adam mantelpiece. George had protested at this battle cry, but Ben had stuck to it. This house was a maison-dieu, and the stripping away of all that was unworthy and the building up of the new beauty was in the nature of a crusade.”
I am not always hopeful. I am still not sure if our house has a good angel responding to our onslaught of energy. We are not in a novel. We have not discovered any glorious Adams mantlepiece or hidden frescos behind hideous wallpaper, only a whole wall stuffed with newspaper and dirt and tiled over with cheap yellow tiles. But, of course, we are only three months in. There is still lots of time for these things to be found, or perhaps even created.
So, wherever you are stripping away unworthy carpets, wherever you are planting flowers, pulling weeds, wherever you are writing poems, tending to whines and snacks and scrapes and bruises, wherever you are making a table of welcome for your family and your neighbours, or even wherever you are submitting to the capitalist grindstone to get the money for all these good things – I hope you will feel the energy of a fellow pilgrim saying, “Keep walking. To the glory of God!”
Just Beautiful Links
The world at large has been quite heavy lately, yes? Here are some links giving me hope.
Everything Sad Is Untrue by Daniel Nayeri, best book I have read in a long time and how pleasant to unpack it over a video call with my writer friend Elizabeth and then read her reflections on it.
This clip shared by Shannon Martin (who also writes about being a neighbour). This is like a picture of insane hope right here. Imagine being a victim of the US’s crazy criminal justice system and yet having hope.
I got to help in a small way with a qualitative interview study on hope a friend was working on. Here are some of the things I learned. People whose life options and experiences are x100 more dire than my own, yet are hopeful.
VOICE MESSAGES AND WHY CAN’T AMERICA CATCH UP WITH THE GLORY OF THE UNINTRUSIVE WHATSAPP VOICE NOTE, AM I RIGHT?! This article.
Mothers + writing+ spirituality: Friends, it’s all the things in one place and they even have RETREATS. Check out the work of Wellspring and if you are in Minnesota, get thee to a retreat since I can’t! :)
Musing on limits, and the incarnation. For some reason, limits sound… meh. Limiting. The opposite of freedom. But the power of the incarnation and loving the particular, not the universal. I can get on board with this. “The proper use of vows of fidelity is to bind oneself to particular loves: committing to love another person not only with a general charitable disposition but with the specificity of deliberately weaving your lives together. We are finite beings, and there are infinite things in the universe worthy of affection, attention, and care. Instead of trying to embrace, say, every woman in the world (the approach of Zeus and other mythical men on the make), the husband embraces the world in the person of one woman. With children, too, we have the opportunity, in loving particular people, to express our orientation towards the broader universe. Abstractions like posterity, legacy, and the future become incarnated in tiny human beings we get to care for and raise.” More here.
We hosted some foodie friends for this documentary about the intersection of food and spirituality, and it was actually very cool! The preview was a little weird, to be honest, but the documentary was really profound. The screening times have been extended through July 4th, so hop on and make yourself some fancy food and enjoy! Any of you who are into beauty+justice will relish it. (See what I did there??)
✌️ Peace out, friends!
I will be taking the month of July off of newsletter writing, but I have LOTS of recommendations on substack (I love that feature!) so be sure to check out my recs if you are stuck for something to read. Also, I think another seasonal series is coming up on this substack which I am really looking forward to, since I loved the last one.
And you should email me! I don’t always reply! I want to be better at that. But I love hearing your thoughts. Even more, you could comment on this post, and other like-minded people who read this newsletter can join in.
As always, thanks for reading along, and if you know someone who would enjoy this work, share it. It’s the best way to support my writing habit right now.
x Steph
Beautiful, and poignant, as always. I found myself with tears hovering in the corner of my eyes at your comparison of your life seasons with your season walking El Camino. May the Spirit show you the way.
Oh Steph, thank you for this. That image of working big questions out through walking, and through a belief in their value (simplicity, hospitality) - that is an image I will hold on to as I navigate the 100 big life questions that I am holding right now. It is such a gentle + compassionate approach. And I am curious to see what will be revealed to your family as you keep walking this new adventure in your new home! (This is the first thing I read this morning, and what a beautiful start to my day!!)