Where do I even begin? It’s been a long, challenging, strange year for everyone in this world. Looking back and, even, looking ahead, it all still feels surreal. There have been many lessons in every fold, but every fold has also left us with deep scars and, for some, even deeper revelations. A year ago feels like a lifetime ago, but there are moments within that year that also feel like yesterday. Time—a fleeting conundrum and precious, nonrenewable resource—how I savor, worship, and fear you and your ephemeral, quantum ways.
As a publication, we’ve been silent for more than a year. The last story we published was in May of 2020. We’ve spent every month since thinking about our mission and who we’ll be as a publication and brand once we reemerge from this window of time. Our two-year anniversary, June 4, 2020, came and went as we quietly sat in the shadows, contemplating our purpose, our vision, and our responsibility. It felt tone-deaf to continue publishing stories when the world was in such chaos—living through a global public health crisis and very necessary revolutions catalyzed by racial inequality and inequity here in the U.S. Earth was crying, and her inhabitants were too. So we took a vow of silence.
Y’all, we’ve gone through so much—together. Through these collective crises, we’ve grown more resilient; we’ve been awakened, recalibrated, reshaped. We are now on the cusp of significant change. And we can decide who we’ll be on the other side of this tumult. Will we recoil into a comfortable state of shelter, or will we expand? I hope for the latter.
While our core values remain intact, we’ve expanded upon the beliefs from which Pilgrim was born and take a vow to always seek stories with purpose—that encourage mindful journeys, respect local cultures and communities, cultivate awareness about and lessons in conservation and sustainability, and restore a sense of humanity. We vow to relearn and share hard truths, give voices to marginalized people, be allies to those who need us, and become advocates for change. We also vow to diversify our contributor base, which, upon studying everything we’ve published thus far, we realize is not very diverse—certainly not by design, but by remorseful oversight.
Our three-year anniversary is upon us. So, today, we are reemerging with stories from nine writers, from all over the world—eight of which are first-time Pilgrim authors. We’ve also launched two new sections: Portraits of Humanity and (Found) at Sea. After more than a year of admiring her work from afar, we’ve finally welcomed Kelli Radwanski aboard as a writer and photographer, authoring the first Portraits of Humanity piece about unintentionally finding God in India. Her photos are deeply, incredibly, beautifully human. Meanwhile, Trevor Ritland is our first (Found) at Sea author, writing about the collision of tradition and conservation in a stunning piece about seafaring night patrollers with a commitment to educate and convert poachers in Costa Rica’s Isla Chira.
Earlier this spring, we welcomed Rachel Estes to the team as an editor, and her rich love of storytelling makes working with her a dream. As part of her anniversary work, she penned a beautiful piece—an ode to the Blue Ridge Mountains, where we both have roots. For now, she’s in Arizona. And after a year on a little island called Faial in the Azores, I’m in the middle of the very mountains she wrote about, calling a little white farm cottage at Cunningham Creek Winery home. So this piece speaks to my heart all the more, as most every word unearths a deep sense of nostalgia for the landscapes I first discovered as a child and have found solace in as a woman.
Strangely enough, however—aside from this letter—I haven’t written a single piece for our anniversary. The past year has been unusual and transformative and, at times, crippling, making any sense of creativity difficult to access. But I’m working on reclaiming the sense of prose that lives deep within because I have so much to tell you.
Since I last wrote one of these letters, I’ve discovered so many places and fostered so many relationships with people that deserve stories. I’ve had love affairs with landscapes that are worthy of novels; and I’ve fallen completely apart within those same landscapes.
In honor of this spectrum of being, I had the word mosaic tattooed upon my right hip last August—a surprise, long-distance gift from my childhood best friend—with the company of a woman I adore named Valentina—on that little island called Faial, which I called home until October 2020. On that day, Valentina had loba, which translates to wolf in Spanish, tattooed on her back. With a shared love of Women Who Run with the Wolves, loba is a sacred word to both of us—and a reflection of our sisterhood.
But like most of the world, I was still for most of a year. I was fortunate, though, as I spent much of my stillness in Faial—a North Atlantic island 1,000 miles from the Portuguese coast. I was living in a little cottage beside the sea, overlooking a bay called Porto Pim. And because our airport and harbor were closed as the virus spread westward, we were able to live somewhat normal lives.
I spent most mornings barefoot, collecting sea pottery, picking white lilies, having coffee at A Padaria, and smiling at the joy of Jack Cousteau (the dog) running wild and free. There were picnics in front of Pico, days spent swimming with whale sharks, and afternoon descents of the island’s caldeira. The blue and white hydrangeas bloomed all over the island as summer set in, and the adventures grew as the fear of the virus ceased, with no cases on the island. We relished wood-fired pizza nights, evenings spent ordering takeout pizza from the inside of a volcano, a four-day camping trip to the westernmost island called Flores, and one magical house party with an improv band in my front yard.
But come October 30, I was en route back to the United States, back to the Blue Ridges, with a broken heart, too much luggage, and Jack Cousteau in tow. Until then, I had never cried over a passport stamp, but as I left Ponta Delgada, the grief hit me like a tidal wave; I’m certain I cried the entire ocean crossing, landing during a snowstorm in Boston with chapped cheeks and tired arms. Still, I had a 13-hour drive south before I could collapse and curl myself into the comfort of a bed I could call my own—a place I spent most days and nights upon my return.
By winter, a harsh depression set in. A state of fog replaced philosophy, and no pen touched paper in the house for months. The sense of freedom I lost was replaced by solitude and stillness. I was proximally close to people I love, but we could not see one another. My jeans got tighter; my soul got sour. The sea was so far away. And I missed the volcano. Good god, I was lonely.
But time marches forward, whether we like it or not. Seasons change. And we do too.
As I write this recollection, the hydrangeas outside the farm cottage in Virginia are about to burst with their deep blues and violets and greens, common summer colors in the heart of Appalachia. And I know once they do, being reminders of Faial, they will haunt me. Someday, I will return to the island to continue pursuing that dream of having a house by the sea, overlooking Pico, where I can welcome all the folks I love to come and sing and feast and absorb the endemic sunsets of the North Atlantic. But for now, I’m home in Virginia, celebrating the newfound freedom that vaccinations and a just-around-the-corner summer have brought.
The daffodils and tulips have come and gone. The fireflies and magnolias have arrived. And the honeysuckle will be here soon. I’ve finally been able to reunite with some of my loved ones, though there are many, many more to see. I cooked filet mignons for seven people I adore a few weeks back. And I hosted a steamed-clam and three-piece-bluegrass-band soiree in front of the farm cottage for the same friend’s birthday who gifted me the tattoo last August—on the first day that I was officially fully vaccinated.
We’ve livestreamed jam band shows on a backyard projector, planned camping trips and riverside shows and autumn festivals, and, once again, there are hugs. Some days, I cozy up in Baine’s in Scottsville and sip on lattes and listen to locals talk about Aldous Huxley and Ram Dass; others, I drive out to The Batesville Market for impromptu bluegrass jams and BLTs, singing out loud with the windows down, hands dancing in the wind. The in-person songs bring me to tears every time. I even took myself out for a Turkish dinner a few nights ago, sitting inside, watching the sun set from a window table, like all those nights at Canto da Doca and Genuíno back in Horta. The gratitude that these dire times has brought forth is beautiful. I am grateful for every second.
I’ve said it before, and I stand by it today more than ever: We are all mosaic beings.
The summertime and autumn calendars are filling up quickly, with the overwhelming sense of freedom and eager desire to cheers and love all the folks I’ve been missing since I left for the island back in 2019. I’ve been missing the open road, though I don’t know if I’m still as seasoned at long-distance drives after spending a year in a place that was just 67 square miles, a place in which most of my journeys were on foot. So, I’m easing back into the freedom of the highway with a journey to the Catskills in July—during a particularly sacred and symbolic week. The roadtrip itinerary is winding and curious, with planned visits to Red Rose Motel & Tavern, Phoenicia Lodge, Menla, Catskill Pines, and Levon Helm Studios.
Come August comes the Smokies in Tennessee and the Tetons in Wyoming. And come September comes a sacred cosmic journey in Oregon, a wedding in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, and as much knee-slappin’ fall music as I can fit in between all the above. Needless to say, I have a feeling this sense of gratitude will be the momentum my weary hands need, and I’m feeling an inbound renaissance in which the words and stories and poems pour out of me.
Pilgrim is awake again. We have so many ideas, which we’re eager to bring to life now that the world is beginning to stir. More than anything, though, we cannot thank our readers and supporters enough for being by our sides since the beginning. We hope you’ll reach out, share your ideas, pitch stories, or simply say hello. On a personal note, I have so much gratitude and love for everyone who’s been part of this journey. Pilgrim is, after all, the greatest dream I’ve ever had.
With love, with a revived spirit, with gratitude, with dreams brighter than before,
Ashley
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