Reconciliations?Penrhyndeudraeth is it!

The airplane flights and the rail rides, combined with the thousands of steps taken daily put the visuals into motion. Something is being weaved between the larger-than-life San Pancras International Train Station in London and the modest stop in bucolic Penrhyndeudraeth, Wales. Visions of the elaborate tapestry in the making materialize mentally, as I rely on angels along the way when internet connection is not an option. I picture myself gathering remnants of the most variegated kinds. Is this how reconciliation could look? Bits and pieces of found materials giving new meaning to what is already here in place, and yet awaiting to be seen in its fullness– and in its wholeness as well. First of all, no matter how many times I try, I cannot not get myself to pronounce Penrhyndeudraeth, so I pull out the printed confirmation of my train ticket to inquire about directions. I make peace with the realization that I will not always be in control of my destination, call it destiny if you wish. An elderly Welsh couple sitting a few rows behind me make sure that I change trains at the right stop, otherwise I would easily end up in an unknown town or find myself back in London. I thus become aware of the collective, almost cosmic, effort that my visit to Liz Munro entails. Each person helping pave my arrival to this friend I had only communicated with through email, and who I was introduced to by performance artist, mentor and friend, Linda Mary Montano several years ago. The reconciliation as it pertains to the first leg of this journey involves bringing together elements that are not necessarily visible, and takes shape as I practice trust in the act of asking for help. HELLLLLLLP, as Linda Mary Montano taught a group of us to articulate at a symposium in Manhattan a while ago. Therefore, asking for help is the very first step in getting there/here, figuratively and literally. Were it not for the young train ticket collector, I would not make it to Penrhyndeudraeth as he hurries me to step back onboard and exit at the next stop. Liz’s cottage appears as described in our online correspondence, on a gentle hill.

I spot Liz waving from one of the windows high up and I know that I have arrived. But is it I or we? Haven’t we arrived concomitantly? The detailed emails, the folded printouts of Google maps, the photographs of the cottage, and the directions shared by those I encounter on the road and who I might never see again. These are all strange strands of reconciliation, if I can entertain uncertainty for more than a few minutes and imagine a meeting of these seemingly unrelated parts. Liz and I greet each other. I then put the weight of my bag on the bedroom floor to befriend my surroundings, including a promontory populated with a crowd of youngsters having fun in the mild Sun. They are teenagers having a blast, I tell Liz, referring to the hundred or so Daisies in back of her cottage from where I can take a glimpse at the estuary far in the distance. Rosita (Linda Mary Montano), as Liz affectionately calls her, sits with us for salad at the table. She looks at us from an open book I have brought as a present: Life as Material for Art and Vice Versa. More reconciliation over time, through space, even though both of these concepts are a construct. Liz and I use time and space as a container as stories emerge anew from many corners of our pasts: betrayal, greed, abuse, separations, and reconnections. Women dressed as nuns Upstate, New York, wander in our conversations side by side with memories of forged documents. Instead of needles, crochet hooks, or looms we find ourselves mending fabric scraps with tears and laughter. One to soften the material and the other to bring some of the colors back. Mist and drizzle. The weather in Penrhyndeudraeth joins our sewing circle. All of these images are to be approached figuratively with a pinch of the celery salt that Liz hands me to season the greens.

An aimless walk in Penrhyndeudraeth yields a lost magic wand that I retrieve from the wet streets. I opt for taking this with me after reconciling my urge to leave it behind. After all, what is the purpose of an inactive magic wand? The stroke of it to restore health, to rewrite violated agreements, to address ancestral trauma, to delete the abuser from the picture, to bring ease and to efface the collective evilness that cloaks us at this moment. But no. The magic wand can serve to offer the unconscious a tangible image and yet the work must be done for the magic to take affect–so to this extent magic is not void of effort. I allow my walk through the almost empty sidewalks of Penrhyndeudraeth to assist me in metabolizing these concepts at a somatic level. The light rain prepares the ground for this journey. I purposely leave the borrowed umbrella unopen and reconcile with the elements at play.

Liz’s neighbor has a beautiful Welsh name, Aneurin, that like Penrhyndeudraeth I am unable to pronounce. I let it remain a vocal mystery and remember him by his hospitality. He tells me how to get to the estuary. He checks on his cell phone for the train schedule. The train is rather quiet, he expresses to me. I breath in then hold my breath as I look left and right of the train tracks. I make it to the other side in one piece, a bodily reconciliation of faith, my mother’s prayers from afar and the curiosity for life that drives me forward. The lambs part ways as they see me traverse their territory. Some try talking with me and I respond to the best of my abilities. Small clumps of wool hang from wire fences. I find a handful of plastic debris that I collect for recycling. Expansive stretches of sand, big formations of rocks, water molded into undulating sculptures. I ponder on reconciliation as a planetary process. The gusty wind connecting. The same wind threatening to bring it all apart. No idea of when the train will reappear on the tracks, as I cross again. I experience a life review in a matter of seconds as I leap over the tracks. I reconcile with death and dying, for the time being.

Vegetable soup for dinner. I save half of the bread topped with kimchi for my trip back to London the next day. I plan for a second walk to the estuary. However, I let go of this idea upon waking up at 5 AM. A premonition. A one-time experience. I hear an internal message telling me to be grateful for what has been given instead of trying to replicate the gift. I reconcile with the voice of fate. My realization is that there is no way back to places or situations. While I am more familiar as how to return to London by train, I know that I am embarking on a whole new trip. Liz helps me assemble a care package: fruit, vegetables, bread and water. I fetch the magic wand from the bedroom and invite Liz to think of a wish. I tap her head as she bows. She brings her hands together in prayer/thankful position. My turn comes to ask for a wish and Liz touches my head with the wand. We vow not to disclosed what we asked for. It continues to drizzle in Penrhyndeudraeth. The town looks like a flower in bloom, welcoming each tiny drop of rain like a blessing. I let my face get wet and join the place in a symphony of the gratitude that comes with the ongoing score of reconciliations experienced.