<![CDATA[Beautiful Tendings - Ponderings Blog]]>

<![CDATA[Beautiful Tendings - Ponderings Blog]]>Mon, 13 Apr 2026 07:39:17 -0700Weebly<![CDATA[We are not so Different]]>Sun, 18 Apr 2021 12:45:08 GMThttp://www.beautifultendings.com/ponderings-blog/we-are-not-so-differentCows are a part of my ordinary life.  They are neighbors whom I chat with on my walks and who make me laugh when they all decide to come to the fence to hear my jokes.  I pass them in fields everywhere as I drive about running errands or seeking the season’s roadside wildflowers.  I love seeing them graze, nuzzle each other, and roam in that slow, steady fashion that reminds the rest of us to take it easy, to slow it down, and to seek out the good that is present.

Delilah and I have grown accustomed to walking alongside of fence rows when we take our big hikes in the countryside and watch the cattle watch us.  Sometimes, Delilah will pull me to the fence and beg me to let her scurry under the wires so she can be her full beagle self and play tag.  The cows will have none of it, of course, so I keep her close and we simply watch and chat from afar.

Recently, we were passing a familiar field full of cattle, but they were making sounds we had never heard before.  Delilah stopped first and looked up at me.  What was that noise?  She stood there with great concern.  Were they giving birth, I wondered?  Were they hurt or chanting some strange mating call?  I kept saying to Delilah, “What are they doing?  What are they crying about?”  We stood there a long time feeling such a sense of concern.

The next day, we were on a morning walk near a completely different field miles away from the other one, when we heard the same sound from cattle in that field.  They seemed to be lowing a song of despair.  It literally sounded like mourning.  And that afternoon, a neighbor told me that the young had just been weaned from their mamas... and that the cows were, indeed, grieving.  As I write these words before bed, I can still hear one lone cow crying in the darkness for the young she has lost.

What strikes me about all of this is that I’ve lived here in the valley for years, and I’ve never heard the cows bellow like this before.  Have I not been paying attention?  Or is it that all of the broken pieces of my own heart can finally hear their wailing?  Or could it be that they cry not just for themselves, but for the humans who have faced so much loss in the past year, who are struggling to live peacefully in their own fields and who spend night and day tending what cannot be repaired or replaced?

We are not so different, the wild ones and the human ones... the cows who are mourning, my little dog who senses their loss, the vastness of sky, the solidity of earth and this tender human heart giving thanks for each breath.  Let us not grow weary in loving.  Let us bear one another’s sorrow.  Let us fully show up for the beauty and the pain.

]]><![CDATA[Shrouds]]>Sun, 07 Mar 2021 12:34:24 GMThttp://www.beautifultendings.com/ponderings-blog/shroudsWhat is this?
I'm so restless and content.
I'm so happy and sad...
lost and found,
thankful, yet mad.
Sometimes, I am swirling in the sparkle
while the drab grabs at me saying,
"You know, you can't really dance."
Spring is bursting
yet the dirty piles of snow linger
by the side of the road.
My nieces are learning to drive
as my father tries to remember
how to tie his shoes.

There is every reason to celebrate
and
every
reason
to
mourn.
People say,
"You can't fully know joy
without sorrow."
I never bought that.
Joy is really great without the sorrow,
but sorrow is miserable without the joy.

Today,
the vastness of layers
feels too much
and all I know to do is to
lean against this winter tree
so it can feel me breathe
and I can feel it
trying to bud...
because
the shrouds
hang
heavy
with hope
and tears.

]]><![CDATA[Unabashedly 60]]>Sun, 20 Dec 2020 15:45:25 GMThttp://www.beautifultendings.com/ponderings-blog/unabashedly-60

This is me on my 60th birthday.

What you see here is a life poured full with love and kindness,
with heartbreak
and the brokenness fused back together
by God’s grace and mercy.

What you see here is hope rising up
and dreams still awaiting their births.

What you see here is longing and melancholy
for what is yearned for in this world of hurting people.

What you see here is strength, tenderness, and courage...
all encouraging the
truest self, the purest essence to step forward
unapologetic of the imperfections
and past insecurities, while also
extending forgiveness to harsh self-judgements.

What you see here is a woman coming into her own
skin, body, wisdom, and spirit.

The embers are unabashedly hot.
Let the party begin.

Kathy Fuller Guisewite
December 20, 2020

]]><![CDATA[Birthright]]>Mon, 07 Dec 2020 13:01:13 GMThttp://www.beautifultendings.com/ponderings-blog/december-07th-2020

All of my life, there has been a voice inside of me that is always demanding that I do more, be more, be a leader, for heaven's sakes. Don't slack! Can't you see this life is a competition? You're not going anywhere if you don't step it up! I've tried to appease that voice. I've tried to follow the patterns and platitudes of what it means to be accomplished, but it rarely fills me.
This morning, as I made my breakfast, a quiet voice said, "You were born for simplicity." And with that, I have decided to claim my birthright in my 60th year of life and to yield to what makes me alive. I will lay down the wrestling of all that I am not and welcome my own beauty in the calling of simplicity. Let the shrouds of over accomplishment be lifted. Let the meek sing.

]]><![CDATA[What Is]]>Sun, 22 Nov 2020 12:00:13 GMThttp://www.beautifultendings.com/ponderings-blog/what-is

In summer’s glory, the sunflower field was full of bees and goldfinch.
Monarch butterflies perched daintily as
hummingbirds darted from flower to flower.
And people came, too.
The warmth of the sun,
the blue mountain backdrop,
and the vivid cheer of bright yellow sunflowers
delighted children and elders alike.
It was a place of joy and hope,
of wonder and freedom from any sorrow,
from any fear.

In time, the upward-turned sunflower faces
tilted forward and
then soon downward.
Petals,
once bright and full,
shriveled and dulled.
And as the autumn frost moved in
and time moved on
the hues of the sunflower field became
solemn in their browns and greys.

Yet, the stalks remained strong,
and the heads of the hundreds of steadfast sunflowers
remained bowed in reverent prayer.
The ground more sacred.
The sky wider.
The echoes of whispered yearnings
are still safe in this field.

If you go there now,
if you wander the rows until you find
a small patch of grass
and you rest there
with the dry, grey sunflowers looking down upon you,
might you discover
something in you
changed?

Could beauty
that is not beautiful
and wonder
that is not wonderful
teach us to love
our lives as they are
where we are
as we are?

Even now,
the wind is shifting
and that which was silent
is full of song.

]]><![CDATA[Steadiness]]>Sun, 01 Nov 2020 13:58:45 GMThttp://www.beautifultendings.com/ponderings-blog/steadinessAs October turns to November,
Delilah and I roam where the quiet
rests with ease
and the glorious pencil-legged heron
moves at tai chi speed.
We smell the summer wildflowers
(some that still fiercely bloom and some already gone to seed)
so that our senses can hold tight to
light and warmth in the dark days to come.

What we cannot change, we cannot change.
Our hearts are heavy with awarenesses
of the the inhumanities of humans and the toll
life’s harsh edges can take on a soul.

So, we walk to calm down, to let go,
to unteather ourselves from the
unhelpful side of struggle, sorrow, and pain
so we might find ouselves strong enough
and tender enough
to return to the work of kindness.

We walk. We pray. We laugh. We sing.
We look,
and in looking,
we are renewed by the lessons
and beauty all around us.

When we return home,
we gather a bouquet of marigolds still
dazzling in their orange and gold attire.
We fill the bird feeders.
We light candles, and
we give thanks...
that God provides,
that God is present in all and through all
as we watch the autumn leaves turn and tumble
and the morning sunlight fill the sky.

]]><![CDATA[Tender Grace]]>Fri, 28 Aug 2020 11:43:21 GMThttp://www.beautifultendings.com/ponderings-blog/august-28th-2020Soul sick from way too much late night RNC, this morning I fixed a cup of tea and headed to my art room. Before entering, I just said, "God, please meet me here." Eager to lose and find myself in my morning meditations, I sat down to clear my art table for what Spirit might have to offer. As usual, there were birds at the feeder outside of the windowl... about three when I first sat down. Two flew away and one lingered. She sat on the edge of the feeder perfectly still, and she continued to sit there without feeding. It was a bit odd, so I watched her. It was then that I realized she was sleeping. Perfectly at ease, she slept on the edge of that feeder for about five minutes. No other birds came to feed. She had no disruptions and she slept in utter peace.

I took her photo and continued to marvel at her peace. The tender part of me worried that she was ill, but in time, her little friends returned and she woke to join them in their morning breakfast. Before I knew it, she took flight refreshed and full of dew kissed seeds.
Since that sweet encounter, I've been humming, "His Eye is on the Sparrow." I am on an edge these days. My heart is tight, and my soul is weary. I don't have assurances that all will be well, but this morning, God has assured me that we are not alone, that when we seek God (and even when we don't seek) God waits for us with the purest of love. I stand amazed and thankful that God's care is present and true.
"Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heaven and home,
When Jesus is my portion? My constant Friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me."

]]><![CDATA[Sunflowers and Mary]]>Mon, 06 Jul 2020 20:59:14 GMThttp://www.beautifultendings.com/ponderings-blog/sunflowers-and-mary

My art room has been a space of solace during these pandemic days. As I live alone and now work from home, I sometimes get too much in my head. There’s so much to think about and pray about these days. There’a a laundry list of things I worry about. So, when I need to come out from under the weight of thinking, I go to my art room. I’m often there first thing in the morning and at the very end of the day. Sometimes, I just walk into this space to look, to grow calm, or to become more steady. It is a haven in these times..

I’ve positioned my art table so that I can look outside as I create. I have a good view of the mountains and sky and neighborhood trees that always seem to be reaching towards both. I love seeing kids on their bikes and new moms strolling their babies in the fresh air and dogs walking their people. I put a bird feeder right outside of the window, and that has it’s own share of delight. Sparrows. Doves. Cardinals. Wren. The feeder is their local diner where they swap stories, learn to share, and receive sustenance.

On my windowsill, I have a collection of treasures that also catch my eye and soothe my spirit. Seashells, feathers, a Native American rattle, and a little angel from my brother. Back in the fall, I was shopping with friends in a thrift store, when I found this ceramic figurine of the Virgin Mary. I brought her home with me, and added her to the windowsill. She watches over me as I invite God’s spirit to be with me as I stir the creative waters and seek the peace that passes all understanding.

An unexpected joy has also come to this window during the pandemic. There are two volunteer sunflowers cheerfully blooming in the flower bed outside of the art room window. I like to think that the warmth that rises from all the love in my art room spilled out on the seeds and encouraged these sweet friends to rise up. They stand there each day as reminders that possibilities abound and goodness keeps on flowing even on the hardest of days.

Today, I noticed how sweetly the sunflowers seemed to cup Mary. They encircled her with their warm glow… so much so that I had to grab my camera and kneel down to take the photo. So, there I was in this dear sacred space kneeling with Mary and the sunflowers, when low and behold, a goldfinch arrived. He perched on the stalk of the sunflower and nodded to all that was holy in that moment… and there was so much that was holy. The distance between heaven and earth eased, and I could feel God’s assurance embracing me with love and care.

I am reminded today that while this pandemic is awful, rending our minds and bodies and spirits, it is also creating spaces that invite us to lean our heads on God’s heart and rest easy in that love. So much is beyond our control and so much is within our reach. Let the veils be lifted. Let the downhearted, sing.

]]><![CDATA[Sole to Soul]]>Sun, 07 Jun 2020 22:51:44 GMThttp://www.beautifultendings.com/ponderings-blog/sole-to-soul

Sole to Soul
Kathy Fuller Guisewite
June 7, 2020

I am a walker.
Short walks are fine,
but those long walks out in the countryside
open me.
Thirty minutes out
and my mind is still busy
with top layer thoughts.
An hour into the walk,
my breath and my feet are finding
synced rhythms
and my brain is beginning to dig
deeper, leaving what is surface
and meandering down into
feelings and understandings.

Walking enables my body
to take the lead,
to silence what is unnecessary
and welcome mystery and wisdom
that are both beyond
the confines of my mind.
Here,
in these walking shoes,
under a sky so full of hope,
truths find me,
truths that remind me of
the steadfastness of all that
God created as good.

Air. Light. Fields of gold and green.
Mountains. Valleys. Wildflowers.
Deer. Cattle. Birds and Bunnies.
We are all right here,
looking each other in the eye,
and standing present to this day
as we are.
They are not me.
I am not them,
and yet we arrive to ourselves
and our interdependence daily.

At an hour and half in,
I arrive to the Healing Tree.
She’s just an ordinary tree by
the side of the road.
but when I see her,
when I lean on her and look out on
the mountains as she does all the time,
I feel stronger.
I feel like maybe we humans
will figure out how to be at peace
with one another just as the
fence is at peace with the field
and the breeze is at peace
with the summer maple leaves.
Maybe we can come to know
ourselves fully
like the creek bed knows her whisperings
and the lone hawk knows his callings.
Maybe once we know ourselves
beyond our surface layers,
we can also grow to value
the goodness inside of us.

I feel this nudge while under
the Healing Tree…
that we shall always struggle with
peace among humanity
until we each make peace
in our own hearts…
that peace that believes
we are here by love and for love...
and that we are, truly, created in the image of Love.

After I place my hand on the
Healing Tree and bless her
and our God for the visit,
I journey on for the next thirty minutes.
I hear. I see. I smell. I breathe.
I walk.

Soon I hear a runner coming up
from behind.
It makes me smile to know
someone else
just passed the Healing Tree,
that someone else
is finding joy in this blue sky morning.
He comes even with me
on the opposite side of the road,
makes eye contact, smiles, waves
and keeps on his way.
His brown skin was glistening
in the sun.
His young body was full of energy
and zeal.

Soon after this exchange,
I turned down the road
that leads me back towards
my neighborhood.
The honeysuckle was in
full blossom, and I breathed
deeply to honor such a sweet gift.
Again, I became aware of a runner
coming from behind me.
The pace and gait were different from
the first runner.
I guessed it might be the gentleman
I often encounter on my
early morning walks.
He is much older than me,
and his beautiful eyes
remind me of my own daughter’s eyes…
dark and almond shaped.
Sure enough,
it was him.
He delightfully came up beside me,
pointed to the heavens,
and said,
“Looks like we are in for a
beautiful day.”
“I do believe you are right,” I responded
as he went on his way.

As I rounded the woodland knoll
that takes me to the hill
that winds me around to my own street,
that concludes my morning walk,
I prayed blessings upon those two
kindly runners...
blessings upon their stories, their lives,
and their own quests
towards love and healing.
And I prayed that God would keep
carving out in me
a path that enables me to
work and walk and live
and dream and love
in the ways that make for peace.

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night.
Take these broken wings and learn to fly.
All your life. You were only waiting for this moment to arise.”

]]><![CDATA[The Day Between]]>Sat, 11 Apr 2020 14:10:35 GMThttp://www.beautifultendings.com/ponderings-blog/april-11th-2020

There comes a time
when we are close…
close to an understanding
or forgiveness or
healing or hope.
We aren’t quite there,
but close.
Like those marigold seeds
we planted, and we
see the ground just
beginning to crack open or
like the olive-colored goldfinch
who are no longer brown but
not yet golden…
they still need time in the
spring sun before their
brilliance steps forward.

And here we are, too.
We’ve cried through Good Friday,
and now we’re hanging out
in this quiet space,
this day before Easter.
We’re also in this pandemic,
where we are waiting…
waiting for cures and vaccines and
safety that
will return us to what was so familiar.
Like seeds and goldfinch and Easter,
we are waiting for the joy of what we trust
is coming…
something sacred that will
renew our living and our lives.

But here, in this day
of waiting,
there is something
sacred as well.
There is the questing
of who we are
and who we hope to become.
There is the anticipation
that something here
will carve
a pertinent lesson
into our hands
so we come to new
understandings
that put flesh
o our doctrines
and actions of love
to our words.

Here is a dreaming space,
a space where we
can lay down the
shallowness of what binds us
and open our arms
to the wondrous vision
God has always held for us…

that we are beloved,
that we are created for each other
in the image of the Divine
all covered in clay
and warmed by the
spring sun…

Here in this day of waiting,
we are
ripe with promise.
Let us lean in and let go
that we may rise with the
resurrection morning...
made ready
for such blessing.

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