Rock to Sand

The Beach at Hulopoe, Lana'i Hawaii

Gillian Cornwall, c. 2012

I was born a rock, projected into this world, whole, a unity of DNA from all of those who have passed before me in the paternal lines of Cornwall and the maternal lines of Jay. I am searching back through these lines, searching for the end of the strand, knowing it lands in the cradle of the world from whence each one of us has risen at the dawn of humanity. 

I was born a rock and at 55 I am eroded to sand, but sand is a beach and everyone loves a beach, right? Tell me it's true, please? I search for worth amidst the grains remaining as I am gradually washed back to the mother ocean, wave after wave, pulling me home. 

Cornwall, Kernow - likely my father's people arose from here, as many of that name have done. I am drawn to the shores of this southwest peninsula of England. A place that has held its own culture and nationhood in its soul since first inhabited in the Palaeolithic and Mesolithic periods. I am spending time learning the language and the ways of the people to gain a better understanding of that which is likely the birthplace of the paternal side of my family. 

Jay, the bird, in English etymology, and "joyous" from the French "gai" or Roman "gaius." My mother's side of the family hails far back in England and, before that, French. It is much harder to trace the maternal line as men have held power and, in their self-importance, power over record, for ...well, forever I suppose - at least in Western culture. 

As the beach, how does one remain strong? How does one stay strong when the rock is hollowed out and the last of us crumbles to join the rest of the sand? Is there strength in simply letting go? Is there strength and hope in knowing that each grain of sand is unique and each piece of us is unique? Together, we stretch out to the mother ocean united as a place between land and sea. Like I describe myself always, I am a conduit, a bridge, between people, places, and times. A conduit is not an easy thing to be because one is not seen so easily when broken down to sand or stretched between this and that. One is a road rather than a destination and often forgotten when the journey ends. 

I am something. You may not remember me, but I have been here and remain, like the via of Roman times, the scar of me remains, the lines in the landscape and long after you have passed along me or through me, I remain. I am the journey you have made and the place between places. I am Kernow, kernou. I am Jay, duGai. I am one with the mother and a strand in the colourful blanket of humanity - strong, unique, worn, fragile. I am the sand beneath your feet when you stare out to sea, on the edge between land and water, masculine and feminine, here and not here. I am.

Meur ras.

Vyaj salow!

-Gillian Cornwall, c. May 21, 2017

Dedicated to my friend, Nadita Beauchamp

Thanks for inspiring me, for seeing me and for lifting me up

St. Ives, Cornwall (Kernow)

Photo by: Sheila Jeffries (author extraordinaire)

(used with previous written permission) 

Revisiting Routine

 Oxford University, Oxford

Gillian Cornwall, c. September, 2015

I have been back home from my trip to the UK for a week. Some friends have asked me, "So are you back to the old routine yet?"

I have happily replied, "No. I've decided not to return to my routine. It wasn't really working for me and I've been able to adjust my thoughts enough to try something different." 

It's true. Things are different for me since my trip. I'm different since my trip. I walked through so many archways and doorways over the course of the last month, perhaps walking into new ways of being has become my new normal. 

I am not feeling the need to people-please as much as I did and I believe I am more confident in myself. I was suffering somewhat from my own thoughts before I left. I was torn, tired, and frustrated. I didn't like it. I wanted it to be different. I don't think I realized it then, but I wanted to be different with myself. I was afraid to take the long flight because of the physical pain it would cause (back injuries). I was afraid of the unknown - what might happen.

Yep. It hurt, but I did what I need to do to ease the pain as best I could on the flight and I was open with my fellow passengers and the flight crew that I needed to stand as often as I felt necessary and they were all very understanding. Before I left and when I arrived, I was clear with my cousin about my physical limitations and what it meant with respect to what I could or couldn't do. She was very kind to me and I haven't felt so pampered in ages. I am eternally grateful for her care and it helped me find my way.

My experiences on this trip - the people with whom I spent time, walking every day, being on the land amidst the history and among the people who make up my culture - this fed my mind, body, heart and soul. I went to a salon (discussion group in a person's home) where we discussed the power of our own thoughts, our control / lack of control over them and the impact our thinking has on our behaviour. It offered me some insights into my own "routines" and how I might like to take a different approach to my thinking. 

I have no new doctrine, no elevator pitch, no cloud-parting heavenly statement nor blanket solutions and I have no need to lay out a master plan; rather, I have a renewed commitment to being, without apology or need to fit. This is interesting in itself when one considers the propensity to apology in both the British and Canadian cultures. 

Perhaps it is true that when things are no longer working for us, a shift of position or a departure from routine can be revitalizing and offer a new path or perspective on an existing path we choose to travel.

Keep walking. Keep exploring - with your head up and your eyes open. Enjoy the journey without apology. There is a change of season around the next bend. 

With love to each of you on your adventures. 

-Gillian Cornwall, c. October 18, 2015

 Walking my path through Wigginton on a 

tempestuous day.

Gillian Cornwall, c. October, 2015

of here, from there

Canadian Embassy - Trafalgar Square

Gillian Cornwall, c. September, 2015

I came back to England after 32 years away. I came to see my family, to follow the path of my mother before, during and post-war, and to find my own place on this land - the land of my people for generations. I have been told that on my maternal grandma's side, the Jay's were French and that we are related to the author and playwright, Daphne du Maurier.

On my father's side, we hail from England for a number of generations. Before that, it is said we are Spanish.

Basically, I am of European descent. I am of this place but from Canada. My parents moved to Canada for the second time, to stay, when my mum was 3 months pregnant with me. I was raised in Canada in the days of the original six hockey teams. It was a time in which kids played outside all weekend as soon as the chores were done. We rode bikes through neighbourhoods and into the countryside. we knew not to talk to strangers but it didn't stop us from doing anything or going anywhere. I grew up with summer camp, cottages and canoeing. I went to middle class schools with a mediocre education that was supplemented by my parents love for the classics. We knew of the great European artists and writers because of our parents, not because of our national culture and education. My cousin is brilliant in her knowledge of European artists and writers - I am abysmal by comparison in that I have either forgotten or I never knew. I do know my Canadian artists and writers somewhat...

What I am getting at is that I remain divided between my past and my present and between where I am of and where I am from. Maybe I am the best of both worlds with a great deal more to learn and share from my dual heritage. I must remember to tread lightly on both lands and listen more than speak - with my heart as open as my eyes and ears.

"To see the world in a grain of sand

and a heaven in a wildflower

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand 

and eternity in an hour." 

-William Blake, "To see a world..."

(on Blake's stone in St Paul's Cathedral)

-Gillian Cornwall, c. October 4, 2015

On the Thames heading toward Tower Bridge

Gillian Cornwall, c. September, 2015

Bridging the Gap

Sunny Afternoon - Karen's garden

Gillian Cornwall, c. September 2015

There are 7,6165 km (4,734.741 miles) between the city of Victoria, British Columbia, Canada and Tring, Hertfordshire, UK. No matter the technology and tools at our grasp, it's a long distance. 

This is the distance I have travelled to reach the home of my cousin with whom I have felt a closeness beyond description for most of my adult life. There are so many miles but only a few years in age between Karen and I. We grew up in the same era but in a completely different area of the globe.

My cousin, Karen, at Waddesdon Manor

Gillian Cornwall, c. September 2015

I have come back on a kind of pilgrimage, to retrace the steps of my family, to reconnect with my beloved cousin, to walk the path of my ancestors and, perhaps, to gain an understanding of what I hold as nature and what of nurture in my make up. 

My cousin and I are daughters of sisters. One sister, Marjorie, remained in England with her husband, Edward, and raised her two children, my cousins, Nick and Karen. One sister, my mother, Eunice, emigrated to Canada with her husband, Brian after having two of their children, my brothers, Chris and Bruce, in England. My parents moved to Richmond Hill, Ontario, Canada and had my youngest brother, Philip, in 1960. They moved back to England when Philip was still a babe in arms. When Phil was about a year old, they came to Canada again on the ocean liner, The Empress of Canada. Six months later, my mum gave birth to me, the fourth and last child, who was made in England and born in Canada. 

During my childhood, we travelled back to England several times - my parents having their parents and siblings here and the parent company of the business they eventually opened in Richmond Hill. We have always remained connected to this land. 

My mum's ashes are here, at Harrow on the Hill. See my article on my mum and F/O. Richard N. Foster, to gain insight into part of the reason I came back to England now. I want to further explore who my mum was before she was my mum - when she was stationed at Biggin Hill Fighter Station during the Second World War. I want to stand where she stood, to walk in her footsteps. My grandma and my Auntie Marjorie were laid to rest here.

The Church Spire at Harrow on the Hill

Dated 1047

Gillian Cornwall, c. September 2015

Part of my heart and soul are here, in the air, the soil and the people of this land. This is my first time back here in 32 years - since we brought my mum's ashes back from Canada. Like I said, it's a long way from my Victoria home. 

I'm sure this is all more than enough family history for you. What I really want to touch on is that despite the discomforts that travel unto itself can bring (right now my back is exploding in pain spasms) and the difficulty in adjusting to a new place - the differences in water, jet lag and ways of being and doing, there is greater comfort in being here with my cousin, Karen. I have longed for years to be back with my blood, my kin. There is nothing that can take the place of this relationship in my life. She and her daughter, Tess, are the only other women in my direct family line with whom I have an attachment. My cousin, Nick, has two daughters but I have not seen them since they were tiny. 

It means so much to me to be here and that Karen has welcomed me into her home. We are already saying the same thing at the same time. We eat the same types of foods. We are both strong advocates for human rights. We are different from each other as well. She knows more about our family history on the Jay side and I have this wonderful opportunity to learn from her. She is incredibly strong - physically and intellectually, with a phenomenal and admirable emotional intelligence. She has shown an enormous capacity to deal with difficult situations. I love her to the moon and back and admire her for all she has done in her life and for all she teaches me through the example of her life.

 

 My temporary home - Wigginton, near Tring

Gillian Cornwall, c. September 2015

I am grateful to be here, to have created this opportunity to walk in the path of my ancestors. There is so much to do and so many kind people who are inviting me into their lives and homes here. I wish I had the strength, ability and time to do it all! 

If there is something like this in your life that you have wanted to do, then do your best to find a way. I set aside a bit of money every month. I sold things I no longer needed nor wanted - books, jewelry, collectibles. I went into a bit more debt because I thought, if not now, then when? Also, I know I am privileged to take this journey. I am getting older and my body is weaker (trying to make it stronger!). We have this life and these people. Every day is a gift of possibility. Embrace it. Do what you can and go after your dreams and desires. 

I am so happy to be here in the midst of this adventure with the most beautiful woman - learning, growing, laughing and sharing with incredible people. 

This is The Art of Life.

-Gillian Cornwall, c. September 20, 2015

Me - Waddesdon Manor

Photo Credit - Karen Jay, c. September 2015

Historia magistra vitae est

Great Grandparents, Edward Henry and Charlotte Anne Cornwall

Photographer unknown - England

Historia vero testis temporum, lux veritatis, vita memoriae, magistra vitae, nuntia vetustatis, qua voce alia nisi oratoris immortalitati commendatur?

- Cicero, De Oratore, II, 36.

By what other voice, too, than that of the orator, is history, the evidence of time, the light of truth, the life of memory, the directress of life, the herald of antiquity, committed to immortality?

History is the light; it is life's teacher. The older I get, the more I find myself looking back, at times, comparing the lives of my elders to my own. Running their experiences and lessons up against my own meager accomplishments. Perhaps it is a sense of life now passing too quickly, perhaps there is now less than more remaining to me in this earthly realm. 

Normal behaviours begin to feel like a waste of time when there is so much to see out there, so much to do. I know what you are thinking: Hello, Mid-life Crisis!

You may be right. I don't know. If this is mid-life, I'm stoked. If that means I get another fifty odd years ahead of me, I'll take it. I don't want to be near the end. I feel like I'm just hitting my stride. It's taken me this long to untangle the web, to dismantle the demons of the past, to understand and, mostly, forgive. 

I write to shed light, selfishly and, hopefully, for others to gain insight. I find as more time passes, I want to reconnect with my past. I am intending to travel back to the UK and France this year, to walk the footsteps of my mother during the second world war, to visit the grave of her lover in France - he was shot down over Bretagne. He rests in Guidel. I want to visit to honour his life - that which he gave for his country and the heart that he gave to my mother. I know I come from a long line of warriors and mine is the first generation not to fight in many, many generations.

I want to listen to the stories of my cousin, to learn the past of my family and to understand myself better through this search, for I do believe that history is the light, that each story is a line on my face, a glint of colour in my eye and a beat of my heart. Listen. Listen to the elders, to our families and friends as they age and prepare to move on. This is the greatest inheritance we can receive and share. 

May history teach us and guide us forward with love and compassion for our fellow beings. 

-Gillian Cornwall, c. January 11, 2015.

 Edward Henry Cornwall Circa 1870

I believe this is my paternal grandfather's brother, Francis, at age 18

Great Grandmother Wilkins pre-1920

 Grandfather WC Jay circa 1912

My paternal grandfather, Albert Cornwall - Home Guard,1940, front, third from the right