Tonight, we walked together all the way up into the highlands. It was lovely even though I got a little dizzy walking in the darkness for so long. Our footsteps traversed uneven sidewalks where tree roots had pushed up to find space and new light. The strength of roots amaze me.

What are your goals for the next five years? They don't have to be cemented goals. They can just be ideas. Swinging both arms back and forth, eyes taking in each house and yard and driveway as we passed by, he told me his and I told him mine.

A peacock called from one street over. The lamppost's dull halo hung midair, dust and moths moving in and out of the light. And I wondered what pictures might make up these coming years together.

life picture boxes (reims, france)

© kimberly k. taylor-pestell, all rights reserved

I am trying to do things that are good for me. Like taking walks.

But, my feet didn't want to tread Monrovia's sidewalks today. So, I found myself in my old, childhood neighborhood nestled up against the foothills of the mountains in all their loveliness. Streets lined with old trees and one-of-a-kind houses with personalities and presence.

I recognized so many of them as I walked with my shadow along familiar roads and streets and courts and avenues. I remembered which houses had occupants who smiled at tiny uniformed Brownie Girl Scouts. I remembered the houses we avoided and the houses that scared me--they always had long, curving driveways with overgrown, unkempt plants or hedges that made it so you couldn't see the front door from the street.

I remember sweet Mrs. Moser with her cotton hair and her springed screen door that snapped back the second you let go. And the old man who lived on Holdman Avenue who had a really gruff voice and was missing two-thirds of his pointer finger. I remember watching his grease-covered hands as he gingerly filled out the cookie order form in all caps, wondering how he lost is finger and if it happened a very long time ago. I remember the family who had a lot of little kids and they were so busy that it always took at least 3 attempts before we found someone home in order to deliver their cookies. I remember the chipper elderly couple who ordered an entire case of Thin Mints every year. I remember how short she was and how tall he was, and how she always seemed to be wearing a teal velvet robe with a zipper that ran all the way down to the ground whenever we stopped by. And every year, they would tell us how they put the Thin Mints in the freezer and ate them all year long until we came back again.

I think I'll make a habit of these hometown walks. I expect they'll do me good.

walking memories

© kimberly k. taylor-pestell, all rights reserved

This week was sad and frustrating and hard, but I was overwhelmed by some of the most wonderful people, and the ways they show care. Jason, Bryan, Phil, Euria, Katelyn, Kristen, Janice. Lasting comfort and understanding can come in the simplest forms of intentional time, asking questions, listening, and affirming words. And together-apart, they entwine to lift my spirits.

I am so thankful for true community, and the peace it brings to the worn, troubled heart.

photo taken by jason taylor-pestell

Ink tree branches and swirling bark can be a sustaining retreat
to take you away from deep thoughts and sorrow for a little while.

This tree is slowly but surely becoming the piece that will be included
in the Via Crucis art show for the Tribe of LA next month.

sustenance in ink and trees

© kimberly k. taylor-pestell, all rights reserved

Sometimes, when your heart is breaking,

there is solace to be found in
turning colors into lines.

turning colors into lines

© kimberly k. taylor-pestell, all rights reserved

Have you ever wondered what it is like to be your friend? I was wondering this yesterday as I sat across a small round table sipping a late-blooming Winter's Dream tea latte in March, and enjoying a conversation with a lovely red-haired girl with happy eyes. Sharing an intimate space in the midst of strangers--and sharing our selves in simple ways--I know instantly what kind of friend she is to me.

She has a light about her, and a sweetened, gentle spirit. She makes you feel valid and important, because she thinks you are. She is clever and funny, and these traits usually present themselves in delightfully cute ways. She is an expert at active-listening, but I don't think she ever had to teach herself how. She just is. She asks the best questions and is the one of the best clarifiers I have encountered. And while she loves to hear and learn from others, she has bright passion of her own (it's more of that light I mentioned before). Her consistently brewing sense of focused drive and motivation always startle me at first because I don't always associate those traits with intentionality and warmth. But with her, they are not a dichotomy, but rather a pairing of two authentic parts of her self that come together to form a sort of ambitious humbleton. So, when you hear her talk about her goals and dreams, they don't seem selfish or short-sighted. They seem authentic because they reside in a good person who wants to see those around her succeed as much as she wants to succeed herself.

Sitting across from her and noticing all her mannerisms--her signature hair flick, the way she stirs her tea bag back and forth in a seamless motion, her identifiable light-filled laugh, how she readjusts her shoulders with a simple sort of settling motion... I know what it is like to be her friend.

So, it made me ponder to myself, what it is like to be my friend. And it was amusing to think about the irony of how your own self is the person you know best in the world because it's you--but you are the one person who can't really know what it is like to actually be your friend.

And it's funny to think in little reversals sometimes.

m.e.k.

© kimberly k. taylor-pestell, all rights reserved

I didn't care if it was cold in my office all day, because it was worth having the window open so that I can hear the rain better. Little pathway-streams all over the glass, and thunder in the distance.

So many reasons for loving rain.

// rain song
// reflections in the sidewalk
// wild wind and tree dances
// thunder rumbling, trembling windows
// being pulled away into daydreams when a cloak of water and sound sets the world apart
// lightning that divides the sky, but only for a moment, and never looking the same way twice
// how the sound of rain compliments every melody

It's our turn for loving our surroundings and soaking it all in to our selves (and our clothes).

a finally day

© kimberly k. taylor-pestell, all rights reserved

I brought my new laptop upstairs with me and for the first time, into my studio. It feels momentous, somehow. My fingers itching to type on clean, thin black keys, and exhale away all the long days and short nights.

Sitting here, I know that this little makeshift studio of mine is the place where I feel most safe. The most me.

I remember the empty space when we first moved in. This odd little two-and-a-half feet deep window inlet that seemed very impractical at the time, turned out to be the exact place where I would begin to self-identify as an artist. Somehow, we acquired a delightfully simple vintage table with a sweet character of its own that fit perfectly in the odd little spot, and it was as if they were made for each other--object and space. Object and space, together with a window. And it is here that I can sit for hours inventing things and letting home dream out of me in the form of words, ink and paint.

There are kind books here. There are uplifting colors. There are inspiring art pieces from my creative heroes hanging from an old over-sized cooling rack for baking pinned to the wall. There is Jason's wedding boutonniere lovingly handmade by a dearest friend; the one that went missing on our wedding day to go on some adventure of its own, but somehow made its way back to us months after we shared our vows.

There is whimsy clipped out of magazines--but not the kind you'd find here in our homeland--the kind that travel from Australia or New Zealand or Canada to find my doorstep and bring me calm and perspective and light. There are pressed leaves from the east coast and further. There are watercolors circles with their colors bleeding into different hues of themselves and paintbrushes standing tall nearby.

There are miniature colored pencils that I doubt I'll ever use because they are too perfect the way they are with their sharp little cheery tips showing off their personality. There are rows of Japanese washi tape and patterned strings of bunting that hang happily in the air reminding me that colors are a gift. There are stacks of instant film photographs of memories and scenes tucked away inside their charming little white borders. There are old letters penned by dear friends and the most beautiful mixed CDs one could hope to find, because Bryan orchestrated their existence with his heart.

Sometimes, I let purring Nadia join me for a while, but her curiosity always works against her and eventually, I have to kindly turn her out into the hall. But, she is a sweetened part of life, so she belongs here, too.

It has become a sacred space to me for it is where I express who I am and what I see in the world that is bright and sweet and real. And when I show someone this place, it is like sharing with them a secret, and trusting that they'll see something good and maybe even kind of beautiful in it. Sometimes, for the briefest of moments, I expect them to feel what I feel when I reside here. But that is silly.

Welcome, Nicodemus (for that is what Jason named my laptop). This is your new home. I hope you'll find it to your liking.

iphone | homespace

© kimberly k. taylor-pestell, all rights reserved

Even midnight coughing fits after long days can be redeemed

with echinacea tea seeped by a loving husband, and beautifully

written words with timeless photographs bound in heart.

echinaeca to sooth, words to light

© kimberly k. taylor-pestell, all rights reserved

In the early moments of the new morning, the sounds of the world awakening can be enough to make it worth leaving warm sheets and dreamy dreams. Life-poems are all around. To notice them, is to give them names and let them be carried off on moth wings.

We need places--spaces--for noticings. There is so much that we miss. People tell me that they like to be busy. And on certain days, that voice is my own. But, busyness for the sake of killing time (what an interesting phrase) or for the sake preventing boredom makes me sad.

I wonder if we've forgotten how to be present where we are. Sometimes, I think busyness is a subtly seeping illness that gradually takes us from intentional to task-driven and methodical... without any of the present-tense nature of living.

I want to learn from the elderly gentleman who sits on his porch with his hat and his wrinkles listening, watching, thinking, smiling, soaking in his surroundings. No teller-of-time is attached to his wrist and his only milestone comes with the mail carrier who passes by N. Sunnyside Avenue at eleven-something o'clock each day. He has nowhere to be to prevent him from being exactly where he is on a Thursday morning, and this is not a sad circumstance to him. There is something beautiful in his ritual and being.

I want to learn from little Lyra Moon as she pours over tattered pages of a beloved picture book from her great aunt's childhood. Finding new things to see in each illustration, hearing the story again and again until she has the words memorized, without even trying; she is present. Feeling the worn pages, noticing a torn corner, holding the edges gingerly in her hands, the book taking up all the space in her tiny, 3-year-old lap; she is in no hurry.

While the world still needs love, it also needs simplicity and quietude. Time away from smart phones, laptops and video games. Time where we can hear ourselves think and listen to the thoughts of others. Time to create beautiful things, make lasting memories, engage in storytelling. And, time to stand still to drink it all in.

Time to see what might await us in these lands.

maybe there is a home inside myself, in these lands

© kimberly k. taylor-pestell, all rights reserved

In the late night, all I wanted to do was drink cold water and let the tranquil darkness drink me. The pillow was too warm and the night shadows were too welcome, especially for fading away from them in sleep. My mind was awake and active, and I wanted to do something having to do with written words whether it be reading or writing or drawing.

Jason was sleeping and my cat was exploring somewhere downstairs. My stomach was uneasy. (I think I got seasick from all the cool drinking water with unknown time ticking by in silence.) The fan blurred out any sounds for imagining and tempted me to rise and dishonor the obligatory sleep-casting of the darkness for a spell.

But, I stayed beneath my covers and tried to lie still so not to wake Jason. I twirled the new shortness of my hair between the thumb, pointer and middle fingers of my left hand, feeling the silky texture of freshly liberated hair, and let it lull me to sleep.

iphone | ceiling beneath my feet

© kimberly k. taylor-pestell, all rights reserved

unsan musho

definition: scattered clouds, disappearing mist
meaning: disappear without a trace

what of the circlets spinning in the pond?

where have the ripples made their way, gone?

tunes steeling away fleeting melody songs

when we left all our words unspoken

what of the tabby cats lapping their drink?

where have the soft little paws last tread?

dreams spiriting into our canopy beds

where we last dreamt of our promises

what of the sweetened and upturning lips?

where have the stories fallen to rest?

scenes floating past as the landscapes blur

while we become who we are or were

unsan musho

© kimberly k. taylor-pestell, all rights reserved

For the last hour, I have been sitting in quiet, sharing a sofa with my husband and my calico tabby. And we have sat side by side working separately, together. Jason, on his lesson planning. Nadia, on a purr-song and then a nap. And me, on relaxing for the first time in an prolonged string of days.

I took up volume 8 of Kinfolk, an issue I hadn't yet a spare breath to take in. So, I drew up a moment, opened its pages, and found so much calm and light and inspiration. Within its pages are so many words that I adore. Ichi-go ichi-e ("one life, one meeting/party/gathering/chance"). Shakkei ("borrowed scenery"). Bramble and bounty and memory and pebbles and blur.

I am grateful for artists I will never have the honor of meeting. For the delight they gift to me and others in the world simply by existing in a true, honest way and being brave enough to share themselves.

I am searching for balance without losing myself, and contrastingly, without focusing on myself so much that I lose compassion, perspective and the awareness that there are others in need of my time, affection, ear.

Being overextended can alter who you are. It can make you resort to less instead of more because the mere idea of "more" or "better" or "best" feels overwhelming. It can cause integrity to fade in the face of the opportunity to rest, to be, to stop, to retreat. And, integrity ought never to fade because it is what makes what I do matter.

I want to grow into my thirties, learning how to succeed in dreaming and becoming more and more authentic and warm. And maybe, if I can manage this, I can continue to move until the various things around me tether together to make the truest home I can know.

iphone  | ichi-go, ichi-e

© kimberly k. taylor-pestell, all rights reserved

I am thinking about words, and composing much more than lines. I am remembering about the longest days, and how short they seem now. I am finding old bits of memories, and seeing if they still exist inside of me. I am drinking fruit juice, and guessing how many strawberries are in my glass. I am listening to the throbbing in my head, and predicting a long evening. I am switching back and forth between tired and energized, and trying to understand my body. I am dreaming about the next two weeks, and hoping that I will be able to do it all and be still at the same time. I am saying goodbye, and realizing how many ideas there are for starting. I am winning an argument in my head, and looking at overcast skies for appraisal. I am scrolling through seemingly endless entries, and contemplating deleting them all just because I can. I am thinking about saying "no" to something, and imagining what might come in its place.

iphone  | if you want to heal, heal others
Profound Thought No. 15 | The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery
© kimberly k. taylor-pestell, all rights reserved

I lost a race with my mind, and it seems I've forgotten how to fall asleep. The welcome rain-friend sings its perfect lullaby in gentle, soothing strains that match my heartbeat and connect me to this place. Chill makes a home in my toes despite blankets piled high, but I curl them 'round and 'round until they come alive again. My surroundings go missing every time my lids flutter to a close as I try to latch on to dreams and steady peace.

The sound of rain makes everything else disappear. I can not hear the cars driving past on their way to somewheres. I can not hear the neighborhood dog barking at nothing. I can not hear Nadia crooning and clawing at the carpet beneath our bedroom door hoping for a midnight confabulation. I can not heard the ruffle of the sheets when Jason stirs. I can not hear my own breathing.

Such poetry. To find quiet in the sound of rain.

iphone  | in lightened - hermonville, france 
© kimberly k. taylor-pestell, all rights reserved