Learning to See Again

Posted on November 3, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”
—Marcel Proust (1871–1922). French novelist, essayist, and critic, best known for In Search of Lost Time, his monumental meditation on memory, perception, and the passage of time.

In my mind’s eye—somewhere on the outer edge of memory—I can still see the garden in all its pristine beauty, bright but fading at the edges, a photograph rather than the living scene.

What I’m seeing had to be a few years after I bought my cozy weekend cabin—in a clearing in the midst of a forest. The lower yard was little more than red Virginia clay speckled with red ant hills–a blank canvas waiting to come into focus. And I was determined to have some plants that would add a touch or two of civilization.

My neighbor, though, was amused by my vision:

“Only a city-slicker,” he quipped, “would move to the mountain and then decide to tame the wilderness.”

His ridicule didn’t bother me one whit. I kept my sights on turning the lower yard into a garden–something bold enough to make even the wilderness take notice.

I started with Paeonia lactiflora–the common garden peony, ironically crowned the King of the Flowers in eighth century China. It seemed perfect and impervious to ants. I triple dug curved beds in the midst of clay, lightened by little more than hope.

But what I’m seeing in my memory’s eye must be after those peonies that became the garden’s backbone were in place. Maybe, even, after I had incorporated into the landscape a triumphantly angled row of three Norwegian Spruce, their weeping branches cascading to the ground. It seemed to me that my mountain needed evergreens every bit as much as it needed civilization.

While that’s close, what I’m seeing must have been a few years later, still. The weeds and briars are gone, and in the very middle of the garden where an oak once stood is a totally civilized black pine, pruned into a cloud-like form, in Japanese niwaki-style, with a stone wall surrounding its stateliness.

And the entire garden is mulched o’er with crisp and clean pathways connecting mulched beds, edged with stones, suggesting order and intention. Even the trees are well-mannered—young and small and respectful—never daring to cast shade on the glamorous peony blooms below.

That vision was when it was new, and so was I, in more ways than the calendar would show. Helping me fulfill the grand design sketched in my head was Allen—my partner at the time and also an avid gardener. We worked together to turn that wild slope into something neighbors would praise as a “mountain oasis.” We hauled soil, set stones, and dug hole after hopeful hole, seeing nothing but promise in every shovel of dirt and imagining a garden that would last forever. It did. For a while. Allen had an artist’s patience, and, together, we believed we could hold beauty in place—keep it from slipping away.

I guess I believed that if I worked hard enough, beauty would freeze in place. I believed I had carved something permanent out of the slope. Something ideal. Something that would stay.

But here’s the truth. Time has a wicked sense of humor, and nature doesn’t do nostalgia. Its light keeps changing; the old scene grows dim, and new growth blocks the view you thought you’d always see.

As the years slipped by—teaching, conferences, a pandemic, Zoom, and Allen’s unexpected death—I realized that just as the seasons kept on turning, the garden kept going, too. The dogwoods shot skyward, spreading like ballroom skirts. The Weeping Spruce filled out and took up more space: “We live here now,” they said with every widening limb. And the weeds? They formed a governing council. They didn’t just visit. They settled in until the once-clear paths vanished from sight.

Every spring, Ruby and I would gaze down from the deck into the garden, and I’d make the very same promise, always aloud:

This year. This is the year I’ll restore it to my original vision.

Restore—it’s such a loaded word. It assumes the past was correct and the future is suspect.

Each year I’d march into the mess with gloves, tools, and determination, trying to resurrect a moment that existed only in my mind’s eye on the outer edge of yesteryear. But no matter how many briars I hacked back or weeds I shamed into submission, I could not get back there. Because there no longer existed.

Somewhere between one spring and the next, I realized the harder I tried to resurrect the past, the less alive it all seemed. And get this. The garden wasn’t asking to be restored. It had never asked to be restored. Instead, it was begging to be reimagined.

Reimagined. Imagine that.

I thought that insight would vanish by morning, but it didn’t. It lingered, like a seed waiting for rain. And sure enough, a few years later, when time seemed to have stopped, I found myself on the deck no longer alone with just Ruby, but now with Gary. We stood there, staring down at what had once been a garden and now looked suspiciously like wilderness—three slightly bewildered land barons trying to determine where the paths used to be.

I announced, with calm and certain confidence, that maybe the best plan was to clear almost everything except the evergreens that had stood their ground—cut it all back, seed grass, and mow it like a civilized lawn. Ruby, ever hopeful, wagged her approval. Gary nodded, already thinking his way silently through the logistics. We were so certain that grass was our destiny that we went ahead and bought a lawn mower—because when you’re unsure what to do, the obvious step is to buy machinery. And we already had a head start: the area below the old peony bed was grass-ish, though it had only ever known the loving snarl of a weedwhacker. We had already agreed that patch would become a smooth little lawn—with a small croquet court, because if we’re going to reinvent life when we’re 78, we might as well do it with wickets.

The next thing we knew, we were down and dirty, creating a free-form stone island in the middle of it all, moving the peonies there where the sun could find them again. So we grabbed gloves and energy—fall being the perfect time to transplant—and began laying stones without anything resembling a plan. What we did have was a revelation. The garden could never be what it once was. And even if it could, it needed a new vision.

When I stopped staring at the old picture in my mind, the living landscape came back into view. What needed restoring wasn’t the garden—it was my way of seeing.

The more I looked and the more Gary and I talked, the more I realized that my original vision wasn’t wrong. It was perfect for then. Yet what once made the garden beautiful cannot make it beautiful now. The land, like life, grows up and changes.

As soon as I accepted that reality, I began seeing the truth elsewhere in my life.

Take my body, for example—it’s demanding a new vision, too. My Fitbit still dutifully tracks every bell and whistle, but these days I’m more interested in a restorative night’s sleep and a decent HRV score. I once carried a vision of myself as a younger man, more muscle, thinner waist. Now I’m content to watch the numbers on the scale edge downward even a little and not have to suck it in quite so much when I button my pants. I used to set goals to prove something; now I set them simply to be a healthier me. Even the mirror reminds me that the younger man I still hope to see there has already faded from the frame.

And my love life? It needed the power of a new vision, too. For years I thought restoration was the aim—to recreate what once was. Now, I know otherwise. In this new season, Gary is beside me — patient, steady, and speaking with a modest, humble confidence that somehow makes even weed-pulling feel like hope. Together we’re designing a new garden and a new future without trying to photocopy our past lives.

Then there’s faith—perhaps the deepest shift of all. The God of my childhood was one cool dude who loved and accepted everybody, including gay guys, even if others didn’t always see His capacity for love. I’m amazed, though, at how He’s grown up, down through the years. These days, He gardens. He celebrates the wild mountain yeasts that make a potent sourdough starter—proof that transformation still rises from what’s alive. He lets life spill over boundaries. He shows me that when I put doctrines, certainties, and old visions aside, mysteries will magically razzle-dazzle me with their brilliance.

Maybe that’s the real work of life: learning to see with new vision, not old memory. When the past dims, the present comes into focus—and as the old hums behind us, it rides in the backseat—useful for perspective, not direction. What matters is the focus of the lens we hold today. To honor what has endured while daring to imagine what might be next. To let our roots deepen while our dreams stretch further.

This isn’t just about one garden, one man, or one patch of earth. The truth keeps repeating itself—in every life, in every heart still clinging to an old picture. And maybe—quietly, gently—we begin to ask ourselves:

● Where in life are we still trying to restore something that has already grown up?

● Where do we need to let go of how it was so we can finally see what it could become?

I’m still sitting with those questions, letting them settle like morning light—revealing what I need to see, one truth at a time.

The garden that once blossomed when I was younger has had its day, and what a day it was. But now, it hums with a new rhythm, a new vision—one taking shape right here, right now. It’s rooted in what has endured, but it’s alive with what’s possible: the life Gary, Ruby, and I are growing into, one season, one heartbeat, one sunrise at a time.

The view keeps changing. So do we. And thank heaven for that.

Potluck: The Final Course

Posted on August 4, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“To live in this world you must be able to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.”
— Mary Oliver (1935–2019). Pulitzer Prize–winning poet known for her luminous reflections on nature, love, and loss. With clarity and grace, she reminded us to notice what’s beautiful, to cherish what’s mortal, and to let go when the time comes.

It arrived in a box the size of a dorm fridge—bulky, over-taped, and shipped all the way from upstate New York. Inside, cushioned among layers of newspaper and that crinkly brown packing paper that never quite dies, was one of the first gifts Allen–my late partner–ever gave me: a hefty, cream-colored chamber pot. Topped with a crocheted collar that looked like it belonged on a Shaker bonnet, and packed—ironically, perhaps even poetically—with potpourri.

The scent, when I opened the lid, was a clash of lavender and artificial pine, the kind that tries too hard to smell like memory. I laughed, of course. How could I not? A poo jar filled with petals. Humor as a cover. Humor as a calling card. I appreciated the gesture more than the object. Still do. But the truth is, I never liked the pot. Not even a little. It sat in a corner for a quarter century, quietly collecting cobwebs—and stories I never much wanted to dust off.

And now? I’m finally throwing it away. Guilt-free. It did its duty—delivered its laugh, carried its little memory, sparked a story. That’s enough. I’m keeping the crocheted collar as a relic, a threadbare nod to the better parts of our history. The rest can go.

When I made that decision, I actually chuckled. After all, while I like to think that I’ll be around forever, realistically I’m nearing 78. Why not get rid of the stuff now, while I can decide?

I’m not thinking about dying, but this sort of cleanse exists in lots of cultures.

In Sweden, it’s called döstädning—“death cleaning”—a gentle, forward-thinking ritual of clearing out what no longer serves, so your loved ones don’t have to.

In Japan, danshari encourages letting go of clutter—and the emotional baggage that clings to it—in pursuit of a simpler, freer life.

In the Jewish tradition, it’s the ethical will, where elders pass down their values and stories—sometimes alongside their belongings—so nothing meaningful is left unsaid.

Indigenous communities often give things away before the end, weaving stories into every shared object, turning parting into a generous act of connection.

In Tibetan Buddhism, simplicity before death is a form of spiritual preparation—phowa as a practice of unclinging, both to life and the sock drawer.

Even in Iceland, there’s an unspoken elegance to giving things with meaning—fewer objects, deeper stories.

And down here in the South? We just start handing out heirlooms with a twinkle in our eye:

“You’ve always liked this gravy boat, haven’t you?”

Trust me. I’m trying that. But guess what? I can’t give it away, try as I will—not even to dear friends and kinsmen.

Who knows. Maybe they’re Zoomers or Millennials who don’t want to clutter their lives like I’ve cluttered mine.

Turns out, a lot of folks under forty don’t want stuff at all. They want experiences—trips, concerts, quiet hikes, a really good latte in a beautiful cup that isn’t part of a 16-piece set. They lean minimalist and value sustainability. Their souvenirs are screenshots, playlists, and the occasional tattoo. Unless my keepsake comes with a story or a strong aesthetic, it’s probably headed for the thrift shop.

A lot of it has found its way there already. More will follow. The initial shock of letting go isn’t as painful as I expected, and I’m discovering that the pain lessens the more I give to Goodwill. I keep reminding myself that the stuff I’m giving away brought me joy for years and years. Now, it can bring others joy at a far lesser price than I paid.

Aside from recycling joy, I have other reasons for embracing what I think I’ll call giving away the Southern-Comfort way.

For starters, the executors of my trust will thank me in advance for doing now what I had no right to ever expect them to do later. Chances are that you’ll need to give that sentence another read or three. Once you do, move on to the next paragraph, where you’ll find a fact that will brighten up your next cocktail party.

Did you know that the average executor spends 100 to 200 hours just sorting through someone’s personal papers and possessions after they die? I’m not talking taxes or legal work—just the business of sifting through the drawers, the boxes, the files, the “I might need this someday” pile in the hall closet. If the estate is disorganized—or, let’s be honest, lovingly chaotic like mine—it can balloon to 300 hours or more. That’s weeks of someone’s life spent decoding your filing system, hunting down life insurance policies, wondering if a particular shoebox full of rubber bands means anything to anyone. And that’s assuming they live nearby. If they don’t? Add plane tickets, time off work, and emotional exhaustion to the tab.

Well. My executors know what I’m doing, and they’re messaging me their effusive thanks already, along with full encouragement to keep right on gifting in my Southern-Comfort way.

It gives me great pleasure, of course, to extend to them a cheerful “You’re welcome” now because by the time they’re empowered, my power will be limited to what I’ve written. The more I think about it, maybe that’s powerful enough.

But I have another reason, too. Doing what I’m doing lets me be in control. I can make sure that my “gravy boats” are repurposed in a way that lets the gravy keep right on flowing the way that I have in mind.

It makes perfectly good sense to me. Let me pause here to say one more thing. Aside from my Southern-Comfort way of gifting, I had the good sense ages ago to get other parts of my house in order: my will and trust.

And here’s another tidbit you can toss around with the olives and maraschino cherries at your next party.

Did you know that nearly 2 out of 3 Americans die without a will? That’s right—despite all the ads for online services and fill-in-the-blank templates, most folks still manage to ghost the Grim Reaper without so much as scribbling a “To whom it may concern.” And when that happens? The Judge Judy drama begins. We’re talking frozen accounts, snarled inheritances, court-appointed strangers making decisions, and families brawling over Grandma’s gravy boat like it’s the last crouton at Sunday brunch. Honestly, dying without a will is the messiest group project you’ll never get any extra credit for.

Guess what? That 2 out of 3 number I gave you includes the rich and famous, too. When I share some of the details with you, you’ll see for yourself that nothing says “let go of your crap now” like the chaos of dying with no will.

But I’m only going to clue you in on a few. After all, you don’t want to be the center of attention at every cocktail party you won’t get invited to if you keep on talking about things everyone needs to do as part of their own death cleanse ritual. Besides, I only had a little time between Goodwill trips to do my research on famous folks without wills.

But here’s three or five you can work to death.

Can you believe that Honest Abe Lincoln himself never got around to writing a will? Try smoking that in your pipe! The man who preserved the Union didn’t preserve a single line of legal instruction. His estate had to be handled by a probate court, and his son Robert had to manage the distribution. It wasn’t exactly messy, but it was embarrassingly ironic.

Or what about the Queen of Soul herself? Aretha Franklin. Well. Yes and no. Initially, she was thought to have no will—until not one but three handwritten wills were found in random places, including under a couch cushion. Say whaaat? Yep. Wedged in a spot where even a remote shouldn’t go. Her family ended up in a nasty legal fight to determine which scribbled version was valid. Talk about a long-winded story. Not here. Not now. Maybe another time.

And while we’re up in the clouds hitting these high notes, let’s not leave out Prince who–you guessed it–had no will. Nope. Zero. Nothing. But he had lots of estate, estimated at over $150 million. It triggered years of court battles among six siblings (some full, some half), and other people claiming to be heirs. His music rights and assets were tied up in legal red tape for six years.

Then, of course, we have the eccentric billionaire Howard Hughes who died with no will that anyone could prove—was real. But then again, was Hughes real? He must have been because what happened after his death was like a three-ring circus. Over 600 people filed claims as heirs, including strangers and distant cousins. One “will” was found in a Mormon church—allegedly leaving money to gas station attendants. Fake? Indeed!

Let me share one more example so that you’ll have five in your repertoire.

It’s my very own Dolly—Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, the writer I’ve studied and loved for decades. How on earth could the writer who was, in terms of dollars and cents, America’s most successful nineteenth-century businesswoman not have had the good sense to have her will in place when she died. It’s strange. She had told many people that she had left them money in it, and she referred to a will as late as August 10, 1929, in a letter to Grace Davis Vanamee (American Academy of Arts and Letters):

“I am returning the letters. It will give me much pleasure to have them placed in the museum.

“They naturally would not mean much to my legal heirs, and The Academy honors me by accepting them. I wish there were more.

“Anything else I have of more intrinsic value, is included in my will, for the Academy museum.” (Letter 506. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions by Brent L. Kendrick, 1985).

Yet when she died in 1930, no will was brought forward. According to one source, she tore it up the day before. At any rate, her two first cousins renounced their rights of administration and requested that Freeman’s attorney handle her estate. He did.

What gets me is this. Freeman wasn’t careless. She was thoughtful and deliberate. Still, her wishes went unrecorded, or at least unhonored. It stays with me, that quiet unraveling of a life so carefully lived.

Maybe that’s part of why I’ve started sorting now—because legacy deserves more than good intentions. I’m not just making lists. I’m making sure the meaning behind the things—and the things themselves—end up where I intend.

Freeman’s didn’t land with intent. Others were writing her final chapter, filled with unexpected characters. The next of kin list grew. Three other first cousins came forward, plus four more relatives with legal rights.

Suddenly, what might’ve been simple became crowded—with claims, questions, and confusion.

Freeman’s personal property was auctioned, with people flocking to the sale and leaving with prized treasures:

● four-poster bed belonging to her grandmother;

● all the books that she had penned and then inscribed, “To My Dear Husband”; and even

● the William Dean Howells Gold Medal for Distinguished Work in Fiction, awarded to her as its first recipient in 1925.

You may be wondering as I have often wondered. What happened to those and other treasures from her estate? Did they survive? Who has them today?

And into that mix of wonderings let me add that I would perhaps gladly sigh my last breath to touch the volume of Rudyard Kipling’s poetry that she held when she lay down on her bed on the evening of March 13 and died at 7:45pm of a heart attack.

What happened to it? Did it survive? Who owns it now?

So there. Now you have it. Five cocktail snippets. Rich and famous folks who bit the dust without a will and left a dusty trail behind.

As for me, I have my will in place. And just as I’m doing my best to give stuff away in my Southern-Comfort way, I’m doing the same with special collections I’ve spent decades curating—Shenandoah Valley pottery, Freeman books, and Freeman letters. My executors know where they belong, but I’m finding unexpected joy in trying to place things myself. Knowing they’re landing where they’re wanted? That will bring a kind of peace no estate plan ever could. Sweeter still, I’ll know they’ll be where I want them to be—and when it’s all said and done, I won’t be lying there wondering.

With any luck, my last course for this potluck called life might be an extra helping of joy for the journey.

“Stop Looking, So You Can See Where You’re Going.”

Posted on December 30, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”
—Stephen Covey (1932–2012; leadership expert and author of the bestselling book The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.)

All couples have a courtship phase, I suppose, and Allen and I were no exception. At one point, he was a traveling surgical technologist in upstate New York. We connected midway in Hazelton, PA, for long weekends together. One stands out in my memory as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. We were exploring Ricketts Glen State Park, home to the Glens Natural Area, a designated National Natural Landmark. Our plan was to follow the Falls Trail System so that we could take in the glens, where a series of untamed, free-flowing waterfalls tumble through rocky chasms carved into the hillside. Towering old-growth trees and a variety of wildlife enhance the natural beauty of the area. The crisp autumn air carried the faint roar of distant waterfalls, hinting at the adventure ahead.

The rumble of my two-door Jeep Wrangler echoed through the park as I navigated the winding roads, though “navigated” might be too generous a term. My hands rested lightly on the wheel, but my eyes were far from the road ahead. I was preoccupied by everything around me—the way the sunlight pierced through the canopy, dappling the ground with shifting patterns; the flash of a deer darting between the trees; the ripple of a stream running parallel to the road.

Every turn seemed to unveil something new—a stand of old-growth timber with gnarled branches twisting skyward, a cluster of huge rocks that looked like they’d been placed there deliberately, and the ever-present cascade of waterfalls, their spray catching the light like shards of glass. I felt my gaze wander again and again, lingering on the sights rather than the road. It wasn’t long before I realized that I wasn’t looking. I was losing track of where I was going, as if the Jeep were steering itself, and I was merely along for the ride.

I turned to Allen and exclaimed:

“I have to stop looking, so I can see where I’m going!”

“Say whaaat?”

“Yes. I have to stop looking, so I can see where I’m going! You look at the sights. I’ll focus on the road.”

Allen thought my comment was the funniest–and most ridiculous–thing that I had ever said. Throughout our twenty years together, he would look for any and every opportunity to teasingly remind me whenever I got distracted:

“Maybe you need to stop looking so you can see where you’re going.”

I laughed along with him, but over the years, I’ve come to realize that moment held more truth than I understood back then. That moment in the Jeep was more than a funny memory with Allen. It’s become a metaphor for how I approach life, especially at this time of year. The end of the year is like the winding road ahead of us, a time to pause, take stock of where we are, and decide how we want to navigate the twists and turns of the coming year. It’s easy to get distracted by everything around us, to try to take in too much at once. But clarity and focus—learning to “stop looking so we can see”—are the keys to achieving the goals that matter most. With clarity, we can set intentions that range from simple joys to profound transformations.

Let’s start with the simple goals, the ones that remind us to savor life’s small pleasures. These might seem minor in the grand scheme, but they ground us in the present moment and remind us of what it feels like to truly enjoy living. For me, this might mean experimenting with my sourdough pizza recipe to get that perfect balance of crisp and chew or revisiting my recipe for Sourdough Double Chip Crunch Cookies to enhance their texture. These pursuits are not about achieving perfection; they’re about immersing myself in the process, enjoying the creativity, and sharing the results with others.

Another source of joy for me is my garden. Whether it’s marveling at the tenacity of roots as I rework my peony bed or taking a step back to admire how my Koi Pond complements the Japanese-inspired landscaping, these moments of connection with nature remind me to slow down. Clarity here means carving out time for what nourishes the spirit—no matter how small or ordinary it may seem. These lighthearted goals are about reminding ourselves that life is rich with opportunities to pause and appreciate beauty.

Moving deeper, we come to goals that ask for more of us—those tied to our relationships, community, and self-care. These require intentionality, balance, and, most importantly, focus. For me, that might mean thoughtfully cultivating connections, such as inviting a neighbor to join me for dinner or reaching out to a friend to share a memory, a laugh, or a little gratitude. It’s about being present for others and making sure they feel valued.

At the same time, balance is key. I’m reminded of my online dating journey this year—how my profile reflects my true self while staying open to the possibilities ahead. It’s about embracing vulnerability while maintaining authenticity. Goals like this require clarity about what we value most in our relationships, whether it’s empathy, honesty, or simply the joy of shared experiences.

Self-care is another aspect of connection—this time with ourselves. It’s not just about routines but about listening to what we need to recharge. For me, it might be my daily biking to clear my head or listening to Black Gospel to feed my soul. Clarity here means recognizing that we can’t pour from an empty cup. These goals challenge us to strike the delicate balance between giving to others and nurturing ourselves.

And then there are the serious goals—the ones that stretch us, challenge us, and ultimately transform us. These require a willingness to dig deep and reflect on what truly matters. For me, this might involve continuing my exploration of “roots”—how the unseen foundations in our lives anchor us through uncertainty. This year, that theme surfaced in my writing and my gardening, reminding me that superficial fixes rarely work; it’s the deep work, often unseen, that brings lasting growth.

Another area of transformation is spirituality. Whether it’s reflecting on my Judeo-Christian principles or universal truths, I find that clarity in this realm often comes from leaning into questions rather than rushing to answers. I think, too, of the DNA test I took this year and how it invites me to explore not just where I’ve been but where I’m going. The results remind me of the rich identity that we each carry, and they prompt me to think about how we honor and build upon that in our daily lives.

Serious goals like these demand that we stop looking in every direction at once. They ask for stillness, focus, and trust. They require us to let go of distractions and be fully present with the questions, uncertainties, and hopes that guide us toward becoming our truest selves.

No matter the scope of the goal—whether it’s perfecting a recipe, strengthening a relationship, or embracing personal transformation—clarity of focus is what makes it possible. In the Jeep all those years ago, I realized that I couldn’t take in everything around me and still stay on the road. The same holds true as we navigate our lives. At times, we need to pause, set our sights on what truly matters, and let go of distractions to see the path before us.

As we stand at the threshold of a new year, I find myself reflecting on the power of clarity. It’s not about seeing everything—it’s about seeing clearly. So, as we step into 2025, I invite you to join me in setting goals that align with what matters most. Let’s stop looking in every direction and focus on where we’re going, one thoughtful, intentional step at a time.

Here’s to clearer roads, steady hands on the wheel, and the courage to keep moving forward. Happy New Year!

“Warn’t No Accident”

Posted on December 16, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“When you come to the edge of all that you know, you must believe in one of two things: there will be ground to stand on, or you will be given wings to fly.”
–Patrick Overton (b. 1948; American poet, author, and educator whose work explores faith, creativity, and the resilience of the human spirit.)

It wasn’t by chance that I found myself in a booth at a local diner one morning, sipping a modestly strong cup of coffee. A group of farmers crowded the table next to me, boots dusty from the fields, their voices low but carrying the kind of weight that makes you lean in without meaning to.

One of them, a man whose face looked like it had been sculpted by weather and years, paused, letting the heft of his story fill the air.

“Biggest snappin’ turdle I ever seed,” he declared, his voice carrying the awe of the moment.

“She was stuck in a pond, thick and still with mud, scorchin’ sun beatin’ down. Musta come up from the Shenandoaher to lay her eggs, but thar she was. Stuck. No way out.”

He stopped, shaking his head as if the memory had hold of him.

“Took me a 2×4, went in slow, pried her loose, gentle as I could. Watched her crawl off on her way back home.”

Then, with a solemnity that could rival any preacher’s, he took off his cap, held it tight, and looked at the others. His voice rose just enough to mark the words:

“It warn’t no accident I was thar when I wuz. Nope. Warn’t no accident.”

And in that moment, you’d have sworn the diner itself leaned in to listen.

I’d been leaning in all along, drawn by his words. How well I could relate. I started thinking about various times in my life when something seemed to magically reach out, take hold of me, and point me in the direction of home.

My mind slid back to 1965 when I was a senior in high school, beginning my college search. I applied to the University of Richmond and Marshall University, my first choices, but then Tom Bee from Alderson-Broaddus College (A-B) visited my school, and everything changed. He encouraged me to apply, I did, and the college offered me a scholarship package too attractive to resist, though I tried my best to do so. As if to convince myself that I would not pursue my education at my third choice, I decided to prove the point to myself by making a college visit.

I will always remember that summer day when we drove on campus. I’d arrived determined that A-B wasn’t the place for me. But then I saw it—Old Main, its stately presence rising over the hilltop plateau.

I stood there, framed by two Civil War-era cannons, gazing down at the winding Tygart River, its covered bridge linking the campus to the little town of Philippi. The scene was simple but breathtaking, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Beneath the expansive sky, surrounded by the campus’s serene beauty, a profound peace washed over me. In that timeless moment, as the sun cast a warm glow on the college, something deep within whispered: home.

It warn’t no accident.

That same sense of being guided resurfaced when my career path took an unexpected turn, thanks to a serendipitous nudge from someone who believed in me.

During my final summer as an A-B undergraduate, I interned in Washington, DC, at the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare’s Division of Two-Year Colleges. My supervisor, Dr. Roger Norden, was so impressed with my conscientious and dedicated work ethic that he initiated paperwork to appoint me to a full-time position. I extended my apartment lease, bought some new clothes, and basked in how well my education was paying off. A few days before my appointment was to become official, Dr. Norden called me into his office to share the sad news that I would not be appointed to the position after all because a hiring freeze was in effect.

His news hit me hard—I’d planned my future around that job. But seeing my disappointment, Dr. Norden offered a lifeline:

“Take your résumé up to the Library of Congress. It might be just the place for you. It’s a Legislative Branch agency, not impacted by the hiring freeze. With your degree in English, it might be the perfect place for you to work as an editor.”

That nudge led to a 25-year career at the Library of Congress, where I served in roles as an editor, training coordinator, and advisor to two Librarians of Congress. Each position deepened my connection to the Library’s mission and allowed me to contribute in ways I never imagined.

Looking back, I realize that moment in Dr. Norden’s office wasn’t just serendipity—it was part of a larger pattern of guidance, shaping the path I was meant to walk.

It warn’t no accident.

Looking back, each step seemed to prepare me for the next, even when I didn’t realize it at the time. When I turned fifty, I took an early retirement from the Library of Congress and relocated to my weekend home in the Shenandoah Valley. One dream, though, had lingered since childhood—the dream of becoming a college professor. That dream began to take shape one day as I was driving back from a consulting gig in DC.

I saw a sign that I had no doubt seen many times before, but this time, as the “Lord Fairfax Community College” exit drew near, I decided to stop and see whether I could talk with the head of the English Department about a teaching position.

To my surprise, the Dean of Humanities, Dr. Sissy Crowther, was free to meet with me. Impressed by my Ph.D. in American Literature and my editorial experience at the Library of Congress, she offered me the opportunity to teach Technical Writing and American Literature.

That meeting opened the door to a series of opportunities I could never have imagined. I became a full professor, fulfilling my childhood dream, and was challenged to teach in ways I never thought possible—dynamic Friday and Saturday classes, Virtual Learning, and even free Open Educational Resources I designed and curated myself. I co-advised an honor society, co-authored the college’s accreditation report, and worked alongside brilliant colleagues from throughout the commonwealth to redesign developmental English education across the Virginia Community College System.

Each of these opportunities built on the last, guided by mentors and colleagues who believed in me.

It warn’t no accident.

Looking back, I see how every step led me exactly where I was meant to be, and not just in my career. Sometimes life’s most unexpected gifts come when we least expect them.

I certainly never expected this gift. I was traveling and decided to stop for a bite at the only restaurant in town. Suddenly, across the parking lot, my eyes met his. In that moment, time stood still. There was a spark, an inexplicable connection that swept me off my feet and left me breathless.

That’s precisely what happened when my late partner and I met at Applebee’s. Our eyes locked, and in that instant, the world around us faded. There were no words, no explanations needed—just a clarity that this was it. Allen and I knew, without question, that our lives were meant to be shared.

Our twenty-year love story began with that electrifying connection, the kind that transcends logic and reason. Some might call it serendipity, others destiny, but I know this much:

It warn’t no accident.

The love Allen and I shared was a guiding light in my life, an anchor that grounded me and a compass that pointed me toward home. Even now, I can look back and see how every twist and turn in my journey brought me closer to him.

That sense of guidance has stayed with me, extending beyond love and career, to moments of quiet reflection in the natural world.

My mind is drifting back to one of my hiking adventures right here in Shenandoah County. As an experienced hiker, I knew all about the thoughtful process of placing trail markers to guide hikers without detracting from the natural beauty of the wilderness. Trail blazes are there to ensure hikers stay on course, marking key points such as the beginning and end of a trail, turns, and intersections along the way.

I had decided to hike Big Schloss, a popular trail in George Washington National Forest, where orange blazes guide hikers along the Mill Mountain Trail from the Wolf Gap Campground to stunning views at the summit. The trail begins steep, then narrows along the ridge, leading to a wooden walkway and the iconic rock outcrop—a perfect spot to pause and reflect.

As I hiked, I realized that I hadn’t been paying attention to the blazes, completely swept away by the terrain, the breathtaking views, and my own reveries. Just as a flicker of panic about being lost began to rise, I spotted a blaze not far ahead, quietly assuring me that I was still on the right path to my destination.

It warn’t no accident.

Looking back on these moments—some planned, others entirely unexpected—I see a pattern too intricate to be coincidence. Each twist and turn, each nudge and connection, feels like a deliberate part of a greater design, one I didn’t always see in the moment but have come to trust over time.

Some might call it luck, others fate, or even divine intervention. For me, it’s an Unseen Hand, guiding, steadying, and pointing the way forward.

Whether it was choosing a college, finding a career, falling in love, or hiking a winding trail, that presence has been there—quiet but constant, assuring me that I’m on the right path, even when I’ve felt lost.

It warn’t no accident.

Beauty in Brokenness

Posted on October 21, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“You can’t break something that’s already broken, but you can always build something new.“
–Yoko Ono (b. 1933; best known for her avant-garde art and her influence in the peace movement alongside John Lennon.)

The pieces are on top of a bookcase, and they’ve been there for a month or so. Every time I walk past, I see them, five torn pieces of paper boasting blue, picked up from the floor after my dog finished her clandestine mischief.

Once upon a time, I would have just thrown the paper scraps away. This time, I didn’t. This time, I’ll take my time to put the pieces back together.

Here’s why. What Ruby tore apart and left behind for me to find was an important family recipe. Imagine an exquisitely moist applesauce cake replete with raisins, pecans, and candied cherries, baked in a pressure cooker. My mother made the cake every year a few weeks before Christmas, and it was one of my favorites. I haven’t had one of those cakes in decades, maybe longer.

Lately, I’ve had a hankering for that cake, and I’ve searched all over the Internet for the recipe, not remembering that I had it already. My mother had given me the recipe. One day, while looking for something else, I found the full-page recipe with ingredients and instructions, all in her gentle cursive.

I’ll do my best to piece that page together again, hopefully with enough precision that I can read the full recipe. The page, of course, won’t be the same. It never can be. Ironically, it will take on even more meaning because I cared enough to mend it and put it back together. Even though it will always show its brokenness, it will still be my mother’s recipe in her handwriting on her paper. I’ll bake the cake when Christmas nears, and I fully believe that it will be the best one ever because it will have an extra scoop of love.

This is not the first time that I’ve mended the broken.

I’m thinking of a sculpture in my living room. Its earthy tones reflect seamlessly into the highly polished cherry coffee table. The sedimentary rock reveals the raw beauty of erosion and time, with jagged edges and smooth, wave-like ridges suggesting years of elemental force, reminders of the rock’s enduring strength. The fissures, winding through the top, were not there when my late partner gave me the sculpture. But a month or so before Allen’s death, he stumbled against it, and there it lay on the coffee table, shattered brokenness. It stayed there, a daily reminder of fragility and brokenness. Time passed, and I mustered up the courage to artfully glue it back together, its fissures now seemingly an integral part of the rock, adding an almost mystical feel. It’s still on my living room coffee table. It’s still very much alive and reminds me of Allen’s presence.

I had another encounter with the beauty of brokenness years earlier. I had built a graceful, curved walkway on the east side of my home, near the Koi Pond. I wanted to maintain a natural rustic look, so I made the walkway out of large, rectangular natural stone pavers, stabilized by the very earth itself. I leveled the ground as I put the pavers in place, making sure they didn’t move when stepped on. When I finished the 60-foot stretch of walkway, I decided to test its stability by jumping on each paver. When I landed on the second paver from the end, I heard a crack. I looked down and could see a fissure running through the center. I looked beneath the two pieces and discovered a rock, small enough to escape my searching eyes when leveling the paver but large enough to cause brokenness. My immediate reaction was to replace the paver. But I had second thoughts. It still functioned as an integral part of the walkway, and if I widened the fissure just a little and filled it with soil, it might even add a sense of age and character, especially when small patches of grass and weeds started to grow through the crack, proclaiming nature’s power to take back what we think is ours.

My decision to repair what was broken in these three instances was influenced directly by Kintsugi, the centuries-old Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the breaks with a lacquer that’s mixed with silver, gold, or even platinum. The intent, obviously, is not to disguise the brokenness but rather to celebrate its repair and survival, believing that the broken can be mended, made stronger, and remain useful and purposeful.

It seems to me that we can all benefit from an important lesson, whether it be found in broken Japanese art, a broken paver, a broken sculpture, or a broken recipe. The essence of being is being broken. The strength of being is the power of repairing the broken. The virtue of being is valuing and celebrating brokenness.

Let’s face it. As human beings, we are all flawed and broken. It seems to me that if we can repair our broken objects and continue to see their value and their beauty, so too can we repair the broken parts of our own lives.

In our personal lives, we’re destined to encounter moments of fracture—relationships that crack, trust that falters. It’s easy to walk away and to discard the pieces. But when something matters—when love, friendship, or family is at stake—mending becomes an act of grace. It is in the careful work of rebuilding that we find deeper connections and more profound love.

Similarly, in our professional lives, we are not immune to failure. Our careers break under the weight of expectations, and our ambitions sometimes shatter. But brokenness does not mark the end of a career; it marks a turning point. The effort to repair, to rebuild, to piece together what once was, shapes not just our work but our purpose.

And in our spiritual lives—our most intimate, vulnerable selves—there are moments of doubt, of disconnection, of feeling broken. Yet, like ancient pottery, our spiritual cracks are not meant to be hidden. They are to be filled with light, with the gold of wisdom, faith, and renewal. It is through our brokenness that we find our way back to our wholeness.

What is broken can be mended. What is flawed can be made beautiful again. The cracks, the breaks—they are part of the story. And for the things that matter most—our relationships, our work, our spirit—they are worth every moment of care, every act of patience, every effort to repair and restore so that we can celebrate beauty in brokenness.

We Are Such Stuff as Dreams Are Made On

Posted on October 7, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”
—William Shakespeare (1564–1616; an English playwright, poet, and actor, widely regarded as one of the greatest writers in the English language. The quote is Prospero reflecting on the fleeting nature of life, The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1.)

Raindrops had been falling steadily all day, but I was determined to get a better glimpse. I pulled safely off the road and parked in a grassy area, hoping to turn my drive-by impressions into something more tangible.

Right across from me stood the nearly remodeled house at the corner of Gateway Lane. Its fresh gray siding gleamed against the misty afternoon, and the neat white trim on the roofline and windows gave it a crisp, modern edge. This clean contrast seemed to soften against the backdrop of the old, towering trees surrounding it. A small front porch, still under construction, wrapped around to the side, its bare framework waiting to cradle the entryway that would soon welcome visitors. The simplicity of the single-story structure was anchored by the earthy lawn and the gentle curve of the road, reflecting a quiet transformation. Even the steady rain couldn’t dampen the renewal unfolding before me.

But this remodeling was more than just a surface change. It had been going on for over a year, maybe longer. The house wasn’t just getting a facelift; it was being rebuilt from its very foundation. This wasn’t simply a matter of adding a porch or changing the siding from white to gray. The work was deep and structural, and that’s what had taken so long.

I remember when it all started. The house was suddenly surrounded by the relentless growl of a backhoe, its sharp metal teeth tearing into the earth around the foundation. Day by day, the trench grew deeper and wider, as if the house itself were being uprooted, its very stability pulled into question. Dirt piled high, and the house seemed to brace itself for the transformation ahead.

Then came the cinderblocks, stacked in neat, heavy rows, patiently waiting to reshape and fortify the foundation. The windows—the house’s eyes to the outside world—were ripped out, leaving dark, hollow spaces. They were hastily covered in sheets of plastic, which flapped and snapped against the wind on gusty days, as if the house were drawing deep, ragged breaths during its lengthy transformation.

Through it all, the house endured quietly, as if preparing for a rebirth beneath the dust and debris. The process dragged on, perhaps because the crew was never more than one or two people at a time. Sometimes, I wondered: Why not tear it down and build anew? Other times, I thought: Were the owners tied to the house by more than just bricks and mortar? Were they new buyers, envisioning profit from this modest fixer-upper?

Now, on this misty afternoon, as I admired the nearly completed house from my Jeep, I knew that soon—perhaps by Thanksgiving or maybe before the joy-filled month of December—someone would move into their new home. Someone had a dream, and now it was realized, born not just from superficial changes, but from all that’s required to make dreams come true.

As I became transfixed by the modest transformation in front of me, my mind’s eye gradually faded into a sharp focus of me, myself, chasing my own lifetime of dreams.

My dreams have been few in number but big in size. They’ve been big because I see dreams as different from the gazillion goals that I’ve set for myself down through the years, the things that I knew I could achieve in a day, a week, a month, a year, or even longer.

For me, dreams go far beyond goals. They overarch all else. They serve as a life-compass. They keep me oriented and aligned with my true North, my own authentic self.

From as early as five years old, I started dreaming on clouds, and my first cloud dream was bigger than my home, bigger than my coal camp, bigger than West Virginia, bigger than anything that I knew or could comprehend. I knew then something about myself that would shape my entire life: I was drawn to men, though I didn’t fully understand the depth of that attraction. Growing up in the late 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s in the Bible Belt South, with a fundamentalist minister for a mother, I quickly recognized that this truth about myself would be a challenge to navigate. In a world where the church preached that men like me were sinful, and where societal norms pressed in from every side, my dream was simple: to move forward, to stay true to who I was as a person, and one day, to live an openly gay life, free from ridicule and condemnation.

Back then, the idea of living openly wasn’t even something I could articulate fully. Yet the desire to live authentically, without having to hide a core part of who I was, remained my compass. I was too young to understand the full scope of what it meant to be gay, but I already knew that the road ahead wouldn’t be easy. All around me was the conflict of sin and salvation. Even as a child, I had a hope, a dream, that someday, the world, however big it might be, might allow me to live openly as myself, without fear.

That was my first big dream. One day, it came true. One day, though it was decades in coming, I was able to live openly as a gay man. One day, when I met my late partner, I discovered the power that two people experience when they surrender fully to true love. One day, Allen and I said our vows, exchanged our rings, and went on living our lives together, openly, as all people should be allowed to do. Through it all, my dream empowered me to maintain my authenticity.

My second cloud dream wasn’t as big as the first, but it was bigger than my home and bigger than my family. Influenced by my mother, the minister, I fell in love with language as a preschooler. Her sermons were magical, and I came to believe that her words held great power. Her Biblical research also fascinated me, as I watched her thumb through multiple Biblical commentaries, especially her treasured Matthew Henry Commentary on the Whole Bible, originally written in 1706. Her quiet, unseen research brought informed clarity to her interpretations, helping her with her sermons and helping her help others navigate their own spiritual journeys through the Bible. Without knowing it, her unpretentious research revealed to me the joy of discovery and exploring comparative meanings in a text. By the time I reached third grade, I had a dream not only that I would become an English professor but also that I would earn my Ph.D., become a published scholar, and make learning my lifelong companion.

Today, that’s not an unusual dream, but for me, the son of a coal miner and the first in his family to go to college, it was extraordinary. Even so, extraordinary dreams come true. One day, I earned my Ph.D. One day, I became a college professor. One day, I became a published author, not only of scholarly works but also of creative nonfiction essays. Who would have dreamt that my dream would have allowed me to fulfill all of those things and, in addition, have a distinguished career at the Library of Congress? But it did. For a kid who grew up in a home with just a handful of books and in a town with no library, it was beyond imaginable that I would spend a quarter of a century working in an institution with “all the books” and giving human resources advice to two Librarians of Congress. Who would have dreamt that nearing eighty, my dream would still be propelling me toward learning? But it does. I’m as turned on now by learning as I was turned on by words when I was a child, but these days I’m hyped by Artificial Intelligence (AI) and my belief that we can harness its power to make us better than we are. Who would have dreamt that my dream would have allowed me to taste “the good life” without ever making it a priority? But it did. The material comforts, joyful and meaningful career engagements, loving relationships, physical and spiritual well-being, and belonging to rich and diverse communities fell into place.

My third dream was bigger and billowier than the first two. Although I never made a conscious effort to live “the good life,” I did resolve from childhood that I would live “a good life.” I’ve always taken the moral high ground, based on justice and goodness rather than personal gain or self-interest. I’ve always stood up for the underdog, knowing that I’m standing up for everyone because somewhere along our journeys, we’re all underdogs. I’ve always shared my plenty with those whose want brings pain and suffering not only to them but also to me. I’ve always accepted people for who they are and where they are, believing that their blood pulses through my veins and mine through theirs. I’ve always been grateful for what I have, celebrating that my meager mite, regardless of its manifestation, is my lot. I’ve always tried to make amends by the end of the day for words harsh-spoken and feelings ill-harbored, knowing the wisdom of my mother’s teaching:

“Never let the sun go down on your wrath.”

I’ve always seen every day as a brand-new day, giving me one more chance to “get it right,” whatever the “it” might be. I’ve always tried to live every day so that at the end of each day, even if it should be the end of my life, I am at peace with myself and with my soul, being able to slip into slumber, sighing the words of that great gospel song:

“It is well with my soul.”

As I reflect on the three dreams that shaped my life, I know now what I never knew as a youngster starting out on my journey. It’s clear to me that without even knowing what I was doing, my dreams aligned with key stages of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, illustrating how my pursuit of a fulfilled and meaningful life followed a path of human development that is universal. We all pursue our physiological needs of food and water. We all pursue our need for safety of person, employment, family, and resources. We all pursue our need for love, belonging, and sexual intimacy. We all pursue our need for self-esteem gained through achievements as well as through respecting others and being respected by others. We all pursue the most important pursuit of all, our need for self-actualization, of discovering, developing, and celebrating our own authentic self.

And you? What about you and the life dreams that you are chasing? Whatever they might be and wherever you might be in seeing them through to fulfillment, let me offer a few words of encouragement based on where I’ve been and what I’ve experienced on my journey.

● Above all else, dream. Dream big, bigger than the bounds of your imagination, and perhaps even bigger than what you think possible. The greater the strive, the more likely the achievement.

● Wake up every day to your dream, letting its brightness surround you and lead you throughout your day. The more beaming the vision, the closer the reality.

● Work tirelessly and endlessly toward achieving your dream. The greater your grit, the more triumphant your victory.

● Expect setbacks, reminding yourself that life often leads us two steps forward only to thrust us one step back. Turn every setback into a comeback.

● Keep an eye open for naysayers, realizing that you yourself may be the chiefest among them. Transform traitors of dooming doubt into warriors of powerful prayer.

● Surround yourself with supporters, those who believe in you and your dream. The stronger your circle, the more robust your resolve.

● Validate yourself, but never forget to validate others, knowing that each of us is enough. The more you uplift others, the more we rise together.

In the end, what matters most is not the size of our dreams, but the dreams themselves and the heart and grit that we pour into them. In the end, we need to be ever mindful that we are all such stuff as dreams are made on, constantly rebuilding our foundations, striving toward fulfillment, and learning that the journey itself is the real victory. Dreams are not just distant destinations; they are the roadmaps guiding us toward our authentic selves. Whether we stumble or soar, each step along the way is a testament to our perseverance and our determination to not let go of what we hold most dear.

Whatever dream you are chasing, know that it is not the finish line that defines you—it is the striving, the growing, and the becoming that shape who you are. Keep dreaming. Keep reaching. Keep believing that every effort, every setback, and every triumph will bring you one step closer to your truest and most authentic self.

The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road

Posted on September 23, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.”
—Oscar Wilde (1854–1900; Irish playwright, poet, and author known for his wit, flamboyant style, and sharp social criticism as well as for his role in the aesthetic movement, which emphasized beauty and art for art’s sake.)

Sometimes, I wonder when a routine in our lives becomes a ritual. They are different, of course. Routines are often performed out of necessity or habit. Rituals carry a sense of purpose, mindfulness, or emotional significance. I suppose a routine can turn into a ritual when its meaning grows beyond its original purpose—when the participants become more conscious of the act itself, savoring it, reflecting on its importance, or incorporating personal values into it.

I’m thinking, for example, of an afternoon drive that my late partner and I used to take daily down a nearby country road meandering along the banks of the Shenandoah River. It started as little more than a way to while away the time between Allen’s arrival home from his 7a.m. to 3p.m. shift at our local hospital until the start of our 5 o’clock cocktail hour and dinner prep.

We always took my Jeep. Allen didn’t like its bumpy ride, but since I was willing to drive, he put up with it. It didn’t take long before we both realized the routine had shifted from its original intent. It became a time when Allen could share the highlights of his day as a surgical technologist, and I could share highlights of mine as an English professor. Then, we savored being with one another, moving along, cocooned in quiet.

Now, heading out for that same drive feels different. I’m alone, but the road is still filled with echoes of those drives with Allen. The gravel crunches beneath the tires, a reminder that I’m traveling at a slower pace—though I still catch myself thinking in we. As I drive down our rutted road, the bumps and jolts are as familiar as ever, almost comforting, as if the past rides along with me into the present. I’m never in too much of a hurry. After all, I know that venturing down means that I’ll have to come back up eventually.

Fall has arrived. The goldenrod along the roadside catches my eye because it often made its way back home into floral arrangements. The landscape changes as I transition from the gravel onto the hard surface of the county road. It meanders along steep banks, the guardrails dented woefully from cars that couldn’t quite manage the turns. The sound of the tires shifts too, now whirring on the pavement as the engine hums along at a modest speed—never more than thirty-five, even though the road stretches out ahead.

Leaving behind the George Washington National Forest, I see the Shenandoah Valley open up into a vast, sweeping view of mountains—beyond them, West Virginia. Mailboxes line the road, clinging to its edge like sentinels. The curves of the road feel like a roller coaster, and I slow down as I near the North Fork of the Shenandoah River. It’s instinct now, my pause to check the depth of the water below, watching as it glides under the bridge.

I pass through Edinburg, a town where unoccupied buildings look as cared for as the rest. I find myself wondering what brought people here in the first place and what keeps them here now. Stony Creek runs by Edinburg Mill, built a decade or so before the Civil War. Just beyond is the cemetery, always a reminder, as if I ever needed one, that a little ways further is where we always used to turn left onto Palmyra Church Road.

I turn there today. This stretch is all too familiar. It’s paved but without markings to show the center of the road, the travel lanes, or the road’s edges. Massanutten Mountain looms straight ahead. I slow down even slower, savoring the ride, stretching out the trip as long as I can. I realize that I have no compelling destination. This trip is about the road itself, the memories, the connection to this place, and the quiet reflection it brings.

The speed limit drops to 25, and the road stretches out ahead. For now, it’s just me and the country road. There’s nothing behind me that I can see and nothing ahead of me but that same winding road.

Soon, I approach a grassy field stretching along the banks of the Shenandoah River. The grass, tall and dry, ready to bow down for a twin-engine plane’s landing. Small cones dot the nearly invisible runway, glowing at night like distant stars, guiding the landing, and then leading to a small, weathered hangar. In times past, we would sometimes glimpse a small plane resting at the far end of the field, its presence quiet and still. We never saw the pilot, if one ever existed. These days, the plane is gone, as if it never was. The field lies empty, waiting.

A little further along, I do a double take to my left as I see Palmyra Church of the Brethren. I’m not sure that Allen and I ever saw it on any of our drives. If we did, neither of us commented. I’m not surprised. It’s a modest church with white wooden siding, a metal roof, and a small steeple that adds a traditional touch. A brick chimney on one side adds to the rural charm. The front entrance is simple, with a door accessed by steps and a metal railing, alongside a wooden ramp. No one is there. The absence of people turns quiet into stark, making the church feel even more secluded if not abandoned.

I pause and cannot help but wonder why a road meandering along the mighty Shenandoah River would bear the name of a church so plain and inconspicuous that it’s easily unseen. Yet, even as I wonder, I know. For the dwindled few, it’s still a house of worship. And then I pause again. Seeing no cemetery. I wonder: where do they bury their dead?

I leave those wonderings behind me as I start looking ahead, hoping to see the small, thin woman that Allen and I used to see as she walked the road, her steps so soft they seemed to barely touch the ground. She was always beneath a large, open black umbrella, shielding her, sometimes from sun or rain or snow, but more often than not, from nothing more than open sky and passersby. Her pace seemed slower than the passage of time itself, as if she were floating rather than walking. Her face leaned down toward a cell phone held delicately in one hand, her eyes locked on its screen. She appeared ethereal, her presence more like a drifting shadow, but there was an undeniable humanity about her—fragile and real.

Allen and I worried about her. We broke our quiet to talk about her. Where was she going? Where had she been? Where was her home? How far away from home was she? Who was waiting there for her return? She seemed so other-worldly that I started calling her The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road. We always wondered whether we would see her on our next drive. We always did, every time, though in a different spot every time, always somewhere further back or somewhere further ahead. Over time, we warmed to her, and we waved softly. It took her longer, but the time came when she warmed back, shyly and slowly, as if to freeze time itself with the lift of her mittened hand.

Something about her presence always felt timeless. Today, she’s not here.

The rumble of tires against the pavement breaks the quiet as I approach a small bridge to my right, spanning this narrow section of the Shenandoah River, connecting to Old Valley Pike. Sometimes, if we were pressed for time, Allen and I would turn here and head back home.

Usually, though, we weren’t in a hurry, and we’d continue down the road where, from this point, it became Red Bank Road. Expansive farmlands open to my right, framed by wooden fences holding on to the Civil War. These fields, too, are dry and dusty.

To my right, I catch glimpses of the Shenandoah River through the sycamore. Rounding the last turn, I’m aware that the speed limit rises to 45 as I approach Mount Jackson. I could easily turn around and retrace the drive as Allen and I used to do as part of our ritual. But I don’t. I know that The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road is no more likely to appear than the plane that’s disappeared from the field. They coexist with the church that has no people and no cemetery–echoes in my memory.

As the landscape shifts and as the signs of the times creep back in, the quiet truth shatters my silence.

This time, I’m driving alone, my right hand resting on the Jeep’s console, no longer holding Allen’s hand in mine.

This time, I realize. Allen is gone.

This time, I realize. The ritual is gone.

This time, I realize. I’m driving home.

This is just another country road.

Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life

Posted on August 5, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.”
–Albert Einstein (1879-1955; KNOWN FOR HIS MONUMENTAL CONTRIBUTIONS TO PHYSICS AND OUR UNDERSTANDING OF THE UNIVERSE WITH HIS THEORY OF RELATIVITY, E=MC².)

Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” a shocking celebration of sensuality and self, is one of my favorite literary works. I especially celebrate the spirit of the poem’s ending:

“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.”

I can relate. Under your boot-soles is exactly where you’ll find me after my time has come and my ashes are scattered.

Until then–hopefully far, far into the future–if you’re looking for me, you can find me outdoors, more likely than not weed whacking or working in one of my specimen garden beds.

Looking back, it seems to me that since early boyhood, I’ve been a wild child, outdoors communing with nature, usually in the garden, so much so that my family always knew where to find me. Even on the rare occasion when someone bruised my young, fragile feelings, I retreated quietly and without fail to the garden. My youngest sister’s high-pitched taunt still echoes in my ears as I recall stumbling over my lower lip while heading out the door:

“Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, going to the garden to eat worms.”

At that tender age, I learned that being outdoors comforted and healed. It is one of my most important lessons, ever. Emerson expresses with eloquence the truth that dwelt within my young boy’s soul:

“In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, — he is my creature, and maugre all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad with me” (“Nature,” 1836).

Down through the years, I’ve learned many other life-lessons in the garden, and from time to time, I’ve shared those lessons with you here.

I’m thinking especially of posts like “From Stars to Soil: Embracing My Family’s Gardening Tradition” (celebrating the interconnectedness of all life, a steadfast belief in the power of hope and renewal, and a deep-seated reverence for the sacredness of the natural world); “A War on Weeds: What the Heart of the Garden Said to the Gardener” (reminding us that the love of gardening never dies); and “The Joy of Weeding” (discovering what my late partner Allen experienced when he weeded).

Other posts about gardening can be found, too. If you unearth them, you will see that they all sprang up from the same celebratory soil. As we garden, we cultivate not just plants, but also the very qualities that enrich our lives: resilience, interconnectedness, patience, and mindfulness, reminding us to tend to our own growth and flourish in harmony with the world around us.

On the surface, it seems that I have nothing more to learn from gardening. However, as a lifelong learner, I know better. This spring, for example, I had a new epiphany while gardening. It wasn’t anything monumental upon which cults and sects are built. But it was significant enough that I want to share it with you.

I was working in an east-facing garden bed, running the full length of my home from the kitchen door, past the guest bedroom, the master bath, and the master bedroom.

The garden is 70 feet or so long and 30 feet or so wide. It begins with a small patio beside a waterfall cascading into the Koi Pond, and it ends with a towering granite Pagoda. Half-mooning its way between these two focal points is a flagstone walkway. On the narrow upper side is a bog garden, originally showcasing Pitcher Plants, Sundews, Bog Rosemary, Cardinal Flower, and Pond Sedge. On the wider side next to the house is a specimen garden with Clumping Bamboo across from the Koi Pond, a tall Hinoki Cypress, a Flowering Crabapple, a disappearing polished-stone fountain, an Alaskan Cypress, and a columnar White Pine.

It’s all that anyone would ever want a small garden to be.

But here’s the thing. When Allen and I put in the plants, we had no idea that the Pond Sedge, over time, would not only take over the bog garden but would also pop up in the specimen garden on the other side of the walkway. To make matters worse, we had no idea that the Clumping Bamboo would run wild all over the wide part of the garden.

It took many years before these two plants started popping up here, there, and everywhere. In fact, it wasn’t until this year that I had to own up to the harsh reality: the Pond Sedge and the Clumping Bamboo had invaded the garden so extensively that they threatened the well-being of the other specimen plants.

I bolted into action by mustering up my resolve to cut back all of the Pond Sedge and all of the Clumping Bamboo that had sprung up everywhere.

“There,“ I thought. “Not so bad after all.”

Wrong! It was worse than bad. Two weeks later, everything that I had cut back had popped up all over again, seemingly even stronger.

“Fine. I’ll cut it back again.”

In my mind, I thought that if I continually cut off the tops of the invasive plants, they would die because they would no longer have the source of their food supply.

Guess what? I was wrong once again. It’s now August, and I’m still cutting away the tops.

I’ve got options, of course, other than spectracides, which I loathe because of environmental impacts. I can put down barrier plastic, top it with mulch, and, eventually, the roots will die. Candidly, I don’t like that choice because I will be mindful that the roots are still there, lurking beneath the surface. That leaves me with one course of action: go ahead and do the back-breaking needful and dig up the roots now.

It’s sad, but it’s very true. I can cut back the tops over and over again, but the roots will still be there, not only spreading and intertwining but also running deeper and deeper.

As I tackled my gardening problem, I had a realization. To get rid of my invasive Clumping Bamboo and my invasive Pond Sedge, I have to get to the source of the problem. I have to find and remove the roots.

I chuckled–perhaps you will too–because I had not actually had a realization at all. I had simply had a gardening reminder of a concept that I learned decades ago.

You’re probably aware of it, too. But in case not, brace yourself. I’m not making this up. It’s a concept called Root Cause Analysis (RCA).

It’s not a new concept, either. Identifying underlying causes–root causes–dates back to ancient Greece, with philosophers like Aristotle who discussed the idea that fixing a problem requires identifying the fundamental causes.

Today, RCA is widely used across industries to find and resolve the underlying causes of problems, errors, and incidents, rather than just treating the symptoms. For instance, in healthcare, it’s used to analyze medical errors and improve patient safety by identifying systemic issues. In manufacturing, it helps pinpoint the causes of defects in production lines to enhance quality control. Similarly, in information technology, it’s employed to troubleshoot recurring system failures, ensuring long-term solutions rather than quick fixes.

If it works in industries, then it seems to me that it can have powerful applications in our personal lives as well. Actually, it seems to me that it can be applied to every area of life. It’s about digging deeper to uncover the true sources of our challenges rather than just addressing superficial symptoms. When we understand the root cause, we can make real, lasting changes.

Take health and well-being, for instance. When we feel run-down or stressed, it’s tempting to just blame it on a busy schedule. But what if there are deeper issues at play? Maybe it’s a lack of balance between work and rest, or perhaps unresolved emotional stress. By identifying the root causes of our health concerns, we can make more informed choices—whether that’s changing our lifestyle or seeking support—and improve our overall well-being.

Or what about our relationships with others? When tensions rise or communication breaks down, it’s often because we’re reacting to surface-level problems without understanding the deeper issues. Maybe there’s an unspoken fear or past hurt that’s influencing our actions. By addressing these underlying issues, we can build stronger, more authentic connections with those we care about.

We can even apply the concept to our professional lives to help understand why we’re not feeling fulfilled or why a project isn’t succeeding. Are we in the wrong role, or is there a lack of support in the workplace? Understanding the root causes of our career challenges allows us to take steps toward greater satisfaction and success.

On a broader scale, what about using the concept to tackle societal and environmental issues. Complex problems like poverty or climate change can’t be solved with quick fixes. They compel us to look at the underlying causes—like systemic inequality or unsustainable practices—and tackle them head-on. It’s only by understanding these root issues that we can create meaningful change.

Even in our spiritual lives, the concept can help us understand why we feel disconnected or adrift in our beliefs. Are there doubts or unresolved questions that need exploration? By examining the root of our spiritual struggles, we can embark on a journey toward deeper understanding and connection with our faith or spiritual practices.

These are just a few ways my gardening lesson of getting to the root of the problem can be a powerful tool for uncovering the truth behind life’s challenges. Whatever you are facing–and, at any given time, I’m confident that each of us is facing something that we want to fix or improve–I urge you to be determined enough and bold enough to go beyond the surface. But be forewarned. When we go beneath the surface into nooks and crannies where we’ve never gone, we find darkness darker than any we’ve ever experienced. But confronting the darkness in life is the only way that we can shine light on solutions that are not only effective but also lasting. Whether it’s our health, relationships, career, societal issues, or spirituality, dealing with the roots of our challenges allows us to live more intentional and fulfilling lives. Cheers to the hard work of digging deeper and making changes that truly matter in our lives.

“Always Done It This Way.”

Posted on July 15, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The most dangerous phrase in the English language is: We’ve always done it this way. It raises the question, ‘Are we doing this because we always have, or because it’s the right thing to do?‘”
–Grace Hopper (1906-1992; Pioneering computer scientist and Navy Rear Admiral who revolutionized programming and inspired generations to embrace change. The quote first appeared in Computer World, January 26, 1976.)

When I converted my weekend cabin into my permanent home by tripling its size, I knew the focal point of my downstairs office would be an expansive, floor-to-ceiling window covering a significant portion of the wall. The view it provided far surpassed my wildest visions, offering varied vistas. Right in front was the patio. Just beyond was the peony garden with evergreens. Beyond, across the valley, were the mountains. I positioned my desk directly in front of the window, with my computer on top, and for twenty years, I sat there day after day, week after week, gazing at my coveted views.

Something happened, though, a month or two after my partner Allen died in early 2021. A day came that Spring when I was sitting at my desk, looking out, and I suddenly realized that my computer monitor was blocking a large part of my view. In fact, it had been obstructing my view for twenty years.

I decided to shift my desk to the window’s end, with the monitor facing the French doorway into the adjoining rooms. This minor adjustment immediately revealed the full, expansive window view. I could see things that I had not seen fully before. The Adirondack chairs inviting me to come sit on the expansive flagstone patio. The massive garden with perhaps 60 stately peonies, a Peeve Minaret Bald Cypress dancing giddily, and three Weeping Norway Spruce standing solemn sentinel, calling me to meander. Beyond, the Shenandoah Valley, and beyond that Big Schloss, peaking at the top of George Washington National Forest, beckoning me to come back and hike once more.

Fast forward, if you will, to this Spring. I decided that one of my major projects would be straightforward: clean and paint the deck that stretches across the front of my home and wraps around to my bedroom on the side. I discovered quickly that this project was anything but straightforward. It required power washing, scraping, wire brushing, sanding, and priming. It was day after day of elbow-grease drudgery, but I didn’t mind. Proper prepping always makes joyful painting.

After the paint had cured for several days, I started putting the Adirondack furniture back in place. Two chairs up close to the house, at an angle to one another, in front of the dining room windows. Table between. On the other end of the deck–the wider section–two chairs, at an angle, in front of the living room windows, but up close to the deck railings. Table between. Then, on the bedroom side, two chairs at an angle, in front of the smaller living room window. Table between.

I could have arranged everything blindfolded because Allen and I had done it that way for years. I was about to do it again when what ifs suddenly popped into my head.

What if I arranged three of the chairs in front of the dining room windows in a semicircle with a table on each side? Perfect for a relaxed, intimate trialogue, looking at one another and, to the West, the majestic Shenandoah Valley.

What if I bought an Adirondack chaise lounge and positioned it on the wider end of the deck, facing not only the three chairs but also the morning sun. Perfect for soaking up those early rays.

What if I reversed the arrangement on the other side of the deck? Chairs at an angle facing outward toward the living room window and the western side of the deck? Perfect for watching the evening sun go down.

What if I grouped all of the usual plants around the chairs and tables in such a way that it gave the impression of three separate areas? Private. Secluded. Surrounded. Musa bananas, elephant ears, Macho ferns, jade plants, Bougainvillea, pineapple sage, Cereus night-blooming cactus, golden barrel cactus, Emerald Giant euphorbia, coral geraniums, and ruffled pink tuberous begonia.

I put those what ifs into action, and I loved the magical results. Candidly, however, aside from “loving it,” I didn’t give the transformation any more thought than I had given my office makeover.

But then last week, something happened that made me see in a nanosecond the significance of what I had done with my office and my deck.

Let me explain.

I was getting ready to enjoy my dinner in the kitchen at the same table where Allen and I had often eaten. Allen always sat on the fireplace side, giving him a view of the dining room and the living room. I always sat on the opposite side, facing him and the fireplace. I have no idea how the two of us ever arrived at that seating arrangement, but we had always sat that way.

I started to sit in my usual spot, but I had put something on the table there, so I decided to move to the other side where Allen had always sat.

And so I did. I had never sat there before. I was amazed. I had no idea how limited my view had been. I was no longer looking at the fireplace. Now I could see into the dining room. Porcelain and brass parrot candlesticks on a cherry Queen Anne dining table, centered on an immense Oriental rug. Long, glass-top side table with Chinese cloisonné vases, marble Laughing Buddha, and a hand-painted Budgies lamp with tan, rectangular silk shade. Cambodian, bejeweled wooden Buddha surveying the room from beneath a Victorian gold metal floor lamp with silk shade and dangling vintage tassels. A quartz crystal singing bowl sitting atop a primitive two-door, Shenandoah Valley chestnut buffet, with blue milk paint fading on the side panels.

Beyond I could see the living room fireplace built by the original owner with rocks dug out of the ground right here on my mountain. I could see the entire expanse of the living room, filled with all the antiques and treasures collected down through the years, flooding me with memories that made me forget all about dinner.

There I sat, realizing I had gained a brand-new perspective on my world by sitting on the other side of the table, by rearranging the deck furniture, and by moving my desk. I was swept away by the simple epiphany: change the point of view and gain a new outlook.

More important than that truth, perhaps, is this. I came to realize that I had fallen into the trap of doing things a certain way simply because I had always done them that way.

Don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing wrong with doing things the same way if it works well. But reflecting on my habits, I can’t help but wonder:

● What daily routines am I stuck in, and what new possibilities might emerge if I shook things up? Do I hit the virtual snooze button every morning out of habit, or could I start my day with a refreshing walk or meditation? Are there tasks I’m doing out of obligation, rather than purpose?

● What areas of personal growth are waiting to be explored, if only I dared to challenge the status quo? Are there skills that I still might learn that I’ve always wanted to learn, but never made time for? Are there parts of myself I’ve neglected, or dreams I’ve put on hold?

● What relationships in my life are stale, waiting for a fresh perspective to revive them? Conversations I’ve been putting off or assumptions I’ve made about someone without really listening to their side of the story?

● What decisions am I making out of habit, rather than intention or purpose? Am I choosing the same options, the same paths, the same solutions, without considering alternative possibilities?

● What beliefs or assumptions have I held onto for too long without questioning their relevance or truth? Are there opinions I’ve inherited from others rather than forming my own? Are there ways in which I’ve limited myself, simply because I never thought to challenge those beliefs?

I won’t answer those questions here. Instead, I’ll carry them with me, letting them whisper gently, inviting me to explore, question, and shift my perspective. Who knows what new possibilities might emerge if I’m bold enough to change my old familiar ways and wrap my arms around the bright and shiny newness of what might be?

Falling Faster, Growing Stronger: The Dynamic Duo of Love’s Beginnings

Posted on March 25, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.“
–Dr. Seuss (Theodor Seuss Geisel, 1904-1991; American author, political cartoonist, poet, animator, and filmmaker, best known for his beloved children’s books, especially The Cat in the Hat AND GREEN Eggs and Ham.

Can you feel it? I can. It’s in the air. It’s everywhere. As the gentle Spring breeze carries the scent of blooming flowers and the melodies of birdsong fill the air, I feel the stirring of something magical. Yep. It’s love. It brings a lump to my throat, and I have to spell it L-U-V.

I’m spellbound. The whispers of renewal make me want to embrace new beginnings and the promise of blossoming romance. I can’t help but think of love, from the budding of tender feelings to the full bloom of enduring connections.

You guessed it. I’m a hopeless romantic. I believe in love at first sight. I believe in falling head-over-heels in love. I believe in being swept off my feet. I believe in being thunderstruck by love. I believe in one true love, love of a lifetime, the perfect match, my other half, my kindred spirit, and my soulmate. If you know of other similar clichés, I probably believe in them, too.

The expression “Love at first sight” has been around for thousands of years, going all the way back to literature and poetry from ancient times. One of the earliest recorded instances is from the Greek philosopher, Plato, in his work “Symposium” (ca. 385-370 BCE). In this dialogue, characters discuss the concept of love, including the idea of “falling in love at first sight.”

Love at first sight–soulmates, if you will–is still very much with us today, so I’m not alone in my love notions. In the United States, for example, the belief in soulmates is fairly common. In fact, I read somewhere not long ago that anywhere from 50% to over 70% of Americans believe in the existence of soulmates or the idea that there is one perfect match for each person.

But what about the rest of Americans who don’t believe in love at first sight? What kind of love do they believe in?

I think I know. Apparently, some people believe in “Growing into Love.” Maybe you’re one of them. I had never heard tell of such a thing until recently when I was scrolling through Facebook. I stopped. I stared. Two men were kissing passionately. (Both were extraordinarily handsome lookers, I might add.) But what made me stop and stare was the caption beneath this super-hot Mr. & Mr. duo:

GROWING INTO LOVE GETS BETTER EVERY DAY

“Growing into love.” That’s pretty new to me. I mean, I had to Google it just to wrap my head around the concept. Apparently, it kicks off with basics like mutual respect, understanding, and emotional connection. Starts off all casual, you know. Like, it could stem from friendship, shared values, or just a good old-fashioned sense of compatibility.

But let me pause right there. Honestly, at first glance, this whole “growing into love” idea seems a bit, well, textbook-ish, if you ask me. Like something straight out of a clinical relationship guide or a self-help book.

But hey, let’s soldier on. So, diving into the nitty-gritty, we’re talking about that initial phase where you’re just getting started with this whole “growing into love” deal. It’s all about that spark, that fluttery feeling in your stomach. Yeah, those butterflies. They’re part of the package.

Then, as time goes on, you start building on that initial attraction. Shared experiences, heartfelt conversations, and quality time together deepen the connection. Trust starts to bloom too, thanks to reliability, honesty, and support.

Sure, there might be bumps along the road—disagreements, conflicts, life throwing curveballs your way. But hey, you’re facing those challenges together. Right? It’s like relationship boot camp, strengthening the bond and making it all the more resilient.

As things progress, you might decide to take things to the next level—getting exclusive, maybe moving in together, or even making long-term plans. But hey, let’s remember, it’s all about choice here. No pressure.

And here’s the kicker. Love? It’s not some static thing. It’s a living, breathing entity that needs constant care and attention. You’ve got to keep those lines of communication open, be ready to compromise, and adapt to each other’s ever-evolving needs and desires.

So yeah, call me clueless, but I’m trying to wrap my head around this whole “growing in love” concept. I mean, it’s pretty cool how it acknowledges that building a lasting relationship takes more than just initial attraction. It’s about putting in the work, day in and day out, to nurture something real and meaningful.

I get it. I understand. But I’m still stuck way back there in Spring with love in the air and with love at first sight–the sheer poetry of it all. There’s a romantic allure to the notion of love at first sight that simply can’t be matched by any other approach to love. It’s like stumbling upon a rare, exquisite flower in the midst of a sprawling garden, instantly captivating your senses and drawing you in with its beauty and mystery.

Imagine this: you’re going about your day, minding your own business, when suddenly, across a crowded room your eyes meet theirs, and in that moment, time seems to stand still. There’s a spark, an inexplicable connection that transcends rationality and sweeps you off your feet in an instant.

It’s as if the universe has conspired to bring two souls together, weaving a fate and destiny together and binding you together in an unbreakable bond. There’s no need for words or explanations; the language of the heart speaks volumes, echoing with the resonance of shared dreams and desires.

In that split second, you just know—know that this person is meant to be a part of your life, know that your paths were always destined to intersect, know that you’ve found a kindred spirit who complements your very being in ways you never thought possible.

That’s precisely what happened when my late partner and I met. Our eyes locked, time stood still, and the world faded into the background, leaving only the two of us in a moment of perfect clarity. In that instant, Allen and I both knew our lives were meant to be shared, and our twenty-year love story began with that electrifying connection.

Sure, it may sound like something out of a fairy tale, but isn’t that the magic of love at first sight? It defies logic and reason, transcends the boundaries of time and space, and unites two souls in a symphony of passion and longing.

As much as I appreciate the gradual unfolding of love, my heart will always be drawn back to that fleeting moment of enchantment, where love blossoms like a flower in the springtime, filling the air with its intoxicating fragrance and leaving an indelible mark on our souls.

And you, Dear Reader? What about you? What about your love? Whether it unfolds gradually like the unfurling of a delicate Spring blossom or strikes suddenly like a bolt of lightning in a stormy Spring sky, always remember this: love, in all its forms, is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, the capacity for connection, and the enduring power of hope.

The Wired Researcher

Brent L. Kendrick's Blog on the Joys of Writing and Research

Category Archives: Allen Duff

Learning to See Again

Potluck: The Final Course

“Stop Looking, So You Can See Where You’re Going.”

“Warn’t No Accident”

Beauty in Brokenness

We Are Such Stuff as Dreams Are Made On

The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road

Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life

“Always Done It This Way.”

Falling Faster, Growing Stronger: The Dynamic Duo of Love’s Beginnings