There's always more to write

By Cheryl Murfin

These forests are a fairyland.

If you've been following my walking writing adventures on this blog, you've been with me along St. Cuthbert's Way before, perhaps several times. I've taken five groups on this 70ish-mile pilgrimage between Melrose, Scotland, and Holy Island, England. By this fall's walk, even I was wondering if there was anything new for me to write about it.

It was, of course, a silly question. There is always more to write on a road, no matter how many times you travel it. Not to mention, every group of adventurous wordsmiths that accompanies me is different. This time there were just four of us, which left me feeling far less the leader and more simply myself, a writer who loves to walk.

Beyond that, I realized I haven't tired of this path. Each time I walk it, I feel it seep deeper into my soles and into my heart. Each person who walks and writes with me influences how I see it, what I learn from it, and where it takes me. In this way, St. Cuthbert's has become an ongoing pilgrimage—my spirit and creativity satisfied not only in arriving at the end, but by returning to the beginning. 

Still, it gets a little old hearing about the same specific stops on a road. In truth, those things—a fighting woman's memorial, a holy cave, so many cows—don't really change. New to those I walk with, they are like old friends to me, waiting by the side of the road for me to pass by again. You may hear about some of them in the next posts, but mostly for this walk, I think I'll share the writing and let my compatriots share their experience.

Always on the first evening we gather together as a group, I asked my fellow writers—Fiona, Andrea and Barbara—to take a piece of clay and hold it for a time, eyes shut.

The prompt: Feel it, quiet the mind, ask the question "What are you carrying?"

I’ve spend much of the last year and a half untangling what I thought was a complicated relationship with my mother following her death in 2024. This "grief grappling" has been central in my writing during my last three walks—lots of reframing of old beliefs about who we were as a mother-daughter dyad and as separate women. Landing, finally, last Spring in a peaceful release of sadness.

So, I was surprised to see her that first night, ever so briefly, there in clay in my hand in Melrose, Scotland.

A memory surfaces in clay

Holding the clay, a memory surfaced. In it, my mother and lay on a bed watching a movie together. Shirley MacLaine and Debra Winger are on the screen, tearing us up with their "Terms of Endearment."

The film is about a mother and daughter's loving, but dysfunctional, relationship, but, far more it is about about letting go of control. Control doesn't beat death in this film. The end is sad and hopeful at the same time, and my mother and I lay laughing crying and laughing uncontrollably, snotty tissue covering the floor.

In the memory, we pause the film, hit rewind, and watch the ending again. And again. Then, on the fourth round, my mother, still watery, to say: "They are us."

"I don't understand," I say.

"One day, that scene is going to be us," she says.

As she looks at me, I wonder which one of us will be dying and which of us letting go of control.

Letting go is practice, not a destination

Of course, I know the answer now. And before we've even stepped on the path, I am full of gratitude for this opportunity to move my body, open my head and heart, and let go a little more. 

If there is one way I hope to honor my family —including my mother—it's to live a life unfettered by concern about what others think of me and the tightness and controlling behavior that stem from that fear. I hope that wherever my mother is, she has finally found that ease. I know she would want it for me.

I think that's what she was trying to tell me on that bed 40 years ago.

My companions

A leaderless band of wanderers

As we gathered in a circle to share our clay forms and the words that flowed through them, I felt a sudden and deep connection to the three women who joined me in Scotland.

There is Fiona, a fiery wisdom-holder with bright eyes and a heart broken open; Barbara, a bold seeker of few words, whose every word is a diamond; and Andrea, already a dear friend, whose humor and honesty get to the truth of her experiences so perfectly that I laugh and cry simultaneously. 

I am always nervous when I first meet writers before a walk. There are so many details flying through my head, so many worries about their comfort, and, of course, ample feelings of inadequacy. I am the facilitator, the data holder, and far too often someone will pull out the word "leader," a title I definitely do not claim.

Thankfully, looking at our small circle, it was clear that no one here was hoping for a leader. Instead, we were all in this equally, together.