Kevin of the Valley, Kevin of the Birds

 

Today (June 3) is St. Kevin’s Day. My name saint. St. Kevin of Glendalough.  Not a figure from obscure Irish hagiography, but a presence who has, over time, shaped how I imagine attention, how I hold questions, how I understand stillness.

There’s no grand sermon in Kevin’s story. No fiery conversions. Just a man in a stone cell, one arm outstretched through the threshold, and a blackbird that comes to nest in his palm. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t shake her off. He stays—long enough for the eggs to hatch and the young to fly.

What kind of listening does that require? What kind of patience?

Seamus Heaney turns this moment into something more than legend. In his poem St Kevin and the Blackbird, he wonders whether Kevin is “self-forgetful or in agony all the time.” Whether he still feels his knees. Whether he’s praying—or simply becoming the prayer itself.

“To labour and not to seek reward,” Heaney writes,
“he prays, a prayer his body makes entirely…”

That line gets me. Not because I think it’s something to achieve, but because it names something so few of us are taught: that attentiveness—costly, embodied, quiet attentiveness—might be the most necessary thing. To let something land. To let it stay. To not flee discomfort or mystery. To become hospitable, even to the wild.

The miracle, if there is one, is not in the bird. It’s in the stillness. In a form of presence that does not insist or interpret, but holds. Not grasping. Not passive. Just utterly available.

I think that’s why I walk(ed) as a pilgrim to Glendalough. To Kevin. Not as a seeker of escape or sanctity, but to be in the presence of a witness—one who stood for a way of being: the long patience of love, the unshaken hand, the refusal to close.

Today, I say his name with quiet reverence. Kevin of the valley. Kevin of the birds. Not a figure to admire, but a silence to be met. A name to carry. A story to return to.

Perhaps I shall walk the valley of the two lakes again—with a bird in hand.  Again.  And again.  

A Word a Day Keeps the Doctor Away

A Word a Day Keeps the Doctor Away

Today, I guessed the Spanish Wordle in just one turn–something I have never done in my native English. My heavy-vowel, go-to starter word, AUDIO, turned out to be the solution. It was a moment of sheer luck, of course, but it also felt like the perfect time to reflect on something I’ve been noticing for a while now: I might be better at Spanish Wordle than English Wordle.

Wordle has been a daily ritual for me going on three years now. I was a second-wave adopter, not getting hooked until after the quarantine(s) of COVID. Early on, I started to notice a pattern—my Spanish guesses were consistently more successful. I could regularly solve Spanish puzzles in four or fewer tries, while in English, I’d often need five or six. This was surprising to me, especially as a native English speaker who learned Spanish as an adult.

What could explain this unexpected trend? Does playing Wordle in a second language activate different cognitive processes that give me an edge? Could my streamlined, immersion-driven Spanish vocabulary help me focus on common, high-frequency words? Or does the predictable structure of Spanish make its puzzles easier to solve than English’s more irregular patterns? I set off to explore the differences in how I approach Wordle in my two languages. Here’s what I’ve discovered.

Cognitive Processes in a Second Language

Playing Wordle in Spanish activates a different part of my brain than when I play in English. As a second-language learner, I approach Spanish puzzles with heightened focus and logic, applying patterns and rules I’ve consciously learned over time. This deliberate process contrasts with the intuitive approach I often default to in English. While intuition can be quick, it isn’t always precise, especially when sifting through the vast pool of words I know as a native speaker.

In Spanish, my more methodical strategy seems to pay off. I’m forced to think critically about each guess, and this focus helps me make better decisions. Solving puzzles in a second language also feels like a challenge, one I approach with enthusiasm and motivation. This heightened engagement keeps me more alert and careful in my guesses, compared to the more relaxed way I tackle English puzzles.

Vocabulary Size and Active Usage

Another factor is the difference in my active vocabulary in the two languages. In English, I have a massive vocabulary that includes countless words I rarely, if ever, use. This breadth can actually work against me in Wordle because my brain has to sift through a much larger pool of possibilities. I often overthink, considering obscure or overly complicated words.

In Spanish, my vocabulary is more streamlined. It’s made up of practical, high-frequency words I’ve learned through study and immersion. These are the same kinds of words that tend to show up in Wordle, making it easier for me to zero in on likely answers. My familiarity with commonly used words in Spanish gives me an advantage, even though I’m not a native speaker.

Immersion and Context

Living in Spanish-speaking environments has further enhanced my ability to play Wordle in Spanish. Daily exposure to the language has given me a deep sense of its rhythms and patterns. I instinctively know that Spanish words often end in vowels like “a,” “e,” or “o,” and that plural forms commonly end in “s.” These structural tendencies are deeply ingrained in my mind from years of immersion, and they help me quickly eliminate unlikely combinations.

In English, however, the variety of words I encounter is broader and less predictable. English draws from a wide range of linguistic influences, making its word patterns more diverse. This diversity, while fascinating, can make it harder to anticipate solutions in Wordle.

Word Formation and Orthographic Regularity

The structural differences between English and Spanish also play a role. Spanish is highly phonetic, with a consistent relationship between sounds and letters. Once you know the basic rules, it’s easier to guess how a word is likely to be spelled. Spanish words also tend to be more uniform in structure, which helps when narrowing down possible answers.

English, by contrast, is full of irregularities. Silent letters, unpredictable vowel sounds, and an abundance of short, monosyllabic words add complexity to the puzzle. The inconsistency of English spelling means there are often multiple valid guesses for a single set of clues, making the process more challenging and time-consuming.

Emotional and Psychological Factors

Playing Wordle in Spanish also feels different emotionally. There’s a sense of accomplishment in solving puzzles in a second language, which makes the experience more enjoyable and rewarding. This added motivation might be part of why I perform better in Spanish—I’m simply more invested in the game when it’s in a language I’ve worked hard to learn.

In English, I sometimes take the game for granted. As a native speaker, I approach it more casually, which can lead to mistakes or missed opportunities. The novelty of playing in Spanish keeps me engaged and focused in a way that English doesn’t always manage to do.

What I’ve Learned

Wordle has taught me a lot about how language shapes the way we think and solve problems. My success in Spanish Wordle highlights the benefits of immersion and the power of focused, logical thinking. It’s also a reminder that sometimes, working with a smaller, more curated set of tools—in this case, my Spanish vocabulary—can lead to better outcomes.

This experience has even influenced the way I approach Wordle in English. I’ve started borrowing some of my Spanish strategies, like prioritizing vowel-heavy guesses and focusing on high-frequency word patterns. These adjustments have made me a better player in both languages.

Performing better in Spanish Wordle has been unexpected but fascinating. It reflects the unique ways that language learning and immersion shape cognitive processes and problem-solving skills. For me, it’s a reminder of how enriching it is to learn a second language—not just for communication, but for the surprising ways it changes how I think and engage with the world.