Mo Kendall

Mo Kendall is a homemaker and mama from south west Britain who loves crafting with wool and words. Share her passion for creating simple celebrations for the seasons around us and within us by following:

Twitter: @pixie_mo_k

Diary 2023

It’s not quite dawn, but there’s enough light to see that dense mist hides the fields in the valley. It looks like carded, unspun sheep’s fleece, spread over today’s light frost. The cows must be huddled in their barn. I huddle my mug into my jumper, sipping hot tea down to cold toes, bridging mittened hands and full heart. Full of awe and thanks for this moment. Only empty hedges and spidery trees defy the thickest mist, their coal- black forms jumping out of the smudgy-white as if someone drew them on it in charcoal. Steam from my drink rises, dances, dissipates, perhaps eventually entwining with the wisps climbing the hills. Muted colours show through it here and there: mossy green on the nearest slopes, greyish lilac on the ones beyond, soft smokey blue of the sky. They’re gentle on my eyes, like watching a slow and lovely dream. A dream of a dreaming land, with a promise of crops and flowers that are tucked under soil tucked under frost tucked under mist. Awaited and expected – with love.

Hidden © Mo Kendall

The forest dances bold in its Autumning, twirling its rich-coloured leaves, showing off its shiny hips, gaudy haws and fat blackberries. The busy squirrels tell me, the sumptuous mushrooms tell me, the acorns fallen in the now-paler sunlight tell me: “Here is Autumn!”. My heart applauds, wanting to see more. The forest tells me how it is drying now, and ageing, through the crunchings and rustlings of its crisp carpet: the leaves that would have twirled down last week. The twigs tell me this too, filling the air with sharp snapping under my boots. My youngest son appears, hands full of forest treasures. He sets out a few beech nuts on a stump for squirrels or fairies to feast upon, stuffing the rest of his finds into my pockets. At home they fill our nature table, reminding us of all the things falling to the ground in this beautiful season. Some conkers get given cocktail-stick spokes; white yarn is wrapped around these to look like spiders’ webs. We hang them up, my sons remembering that they are specifically orb webs, as opposed to other types. Some pinecones, upside- down, get wooden beads pushed onto their little stalks, a flared-open beechnut case glued on top of it for a hat, sycamore helicopter wings: a family of autumn fairies. We are busy with gathering and treasuring.

Treasures © Mo Kendall