Learn A New Word [on DR Thursday]

Call it a “happy accident.” Call it an unintended consequence. “I like this photo!” she exclaimed. “It reminds me of a Rothko.” A wrinkled brow and then, “I wonder when I took this?”

Last night we learned a new word that I love: Coddiwomple: to travel in a purposeful manner toward a vague destination. I’ve never heard a more appropriate definition for the life of an artist! My pursuit could not be more clear and the destination could not be any less attainable. It’s impossible to explain. Recently I tried – again – to clarify for a colleague that I know exactly what I want, I do not need career counseling or advice. I’ve always known what is mine to do. I’ve never been able to wrap words around it so it might make sense to others. An artist’s life is hyper intentional. From the outside it makes no sense at all. There is no 401k. There is no safety net. There is no certainty. Sometimes there is no shape. Always, there is no adequate answer to the question, “Why?”

There is a clear calling, an underground river running beneath how it is expressed – whether through paint or musical notes or pirouettes. My career, on paper, looks like a random romp through the woods. Galleries and symphonies and stages and boardrooms and classrooms and consultancy and facilitation and coaching (a word that still makes me wince). DEI and intercultural. Start-ups and SaaS. Canvas, all. Some of the best plays I’ve ever developed happened in cafeterias or a conference room. I knew exactly what I was doing. I was not “using improvisation” in a business setting. I wasn’t using anything. The work of my life has not been about translation or utilizing “the tools of art” in other settings.

Artistry is akin to stepping into a rocket headed into deep space for a journey of discovery. The only honest answer to the those who ask, “What are you doing?” is “I’m journeying.” Creating. Inventing. Innovating. Stepping purposefully toward a vague destination. Coddiwompling.

May You, 55x36In, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about ROTHKO PHOTO

may you © 2015 david robinson

Consider The Fact [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

In writing yesterday about the frogs arising from their eradicated landscape, I realized our front yard has become a bit of a metaphor. It, too, was eradicated. In the past two years it has been blasted to bits, trenched by too-large machines, huge mounds of earth and debris left behind to molder. After a prolonged battle, the digger of trenches and leaver of mounds returned with a different batch of too-large machines and quickly scraped away the mounds and all the living things, tossed some seed, spread some hay, and tacked some netting to the ground to keep the seed from blowing away.

A metaphor of our life. Eradicated landscape. Willy-nilly seed.

Yet, just as the frogs filled us with awe at their resilience, we are amazed watching determined shoots of hardy green reach through the disruption. Each patch of green perseverance fills us with giddy hope. New life is coming!

“We are like that,” we affirm.

We are not alone in our renewal. We are surrounded by a mighty community. Dan shares his grass-mastery and guides us toward lawn renewal. Dwight shares his wisdom and encourages us toward soul regeneration. 20 keeps us laughing and our hearts light. Brad and Jen walk each step with us. There is more support than we can count, more friendship than we can believe, both near and from afar. Abundance.

Abundance. Beyond metaphor, it is the fact of our life.

read Kerri’s blogpost about GREEN

Celebrate The Symphony [on Two Artists Tuesday]

The return of the frogs. No, it’s not the title of a b-grade-horror film. It’s one of our favorite rites of spring. Their chorus is deafening, a sound celebration of the season’s cycle into renewal. We look forward to and celebrate the day of their return.

A short month ago we walked across a snowy field, still a bit in shock at the scrape-clearing of the tall grasses and brush. Broken bits of stick and root poked through the snow. The picture of devastation. In just a few short weeks, the field became a bog – evidently the perfect performance hall for the musician-frogs signaling life’s return with their playing.

They’ve always played in this spot along the trail but this year their symphony is made particularly poignant by the seeming wreckage of their environment. This year, to our ears, they perform a rousing song of perseverance. A composition of resilience.

They’ve also awakened a question in us. We ask it every year but this time it is made more mysterious because the bog is exposed. We can see everything except the frogs. The air is alive with sound while the water is still. We’ve stood, awash in the noisy vibration, yet can see nary a ripple in the surface.

How is it possible to shake the limbs of trees with joyous sound without disturbing the fen? The musicians are invisible.

There can only be one explanation: They are magic, these frogs in their spring renewal, popple-free playing while stirring our hearts and imaginations.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FROG BOG

Choose A Double [on Merely A Thought Monday]

The storm that blew through last night was ominous. The thunder shook the house. I lay awake, marveling at the force of nature. And, while I lay awake, counting the seconds between flash and boom, I also counted myself lucky. I rolled gratitudes through my mind, enumerating all the things I was thankful for in the previous 24 hours. There were more than I could count.

It is very easy to get lost in despair. It’s very easy to count all the things that don’t work, go wrong, hurt a lot, and didn’t-go-my-way. It takes a bit more intention and effort to turn the eye toward the good stuff. Counting gratitudes requires aiming focus.

It reminds me of an exercise I used to do with groups, revealing to them how easy and fun it is to blame-the-universe or other people for our woes. Blame is like sugar. It’s addictive. The groups would tell outrageous blame stories and laugh. Blame lightens the load. It’s an easy answer to the mysterious question, “Why?”

It’s much harder to see and embrace participation and choice in a life path. Ownership comes with responsibility. There is circumstance – that which I can’t control. There is what I do within my circumstance – that which I can control. The moment I suggested to the groups that they transform their blame-story into a story-of-choice, they fell silent. Every group. Every time.

Blame requires allies and layers of story; it happened to me. Choice needs no audience. It is the story. I made this happen.

On any other night, between flash and boom, I might have tossed and turned and counted my woes. I am more than capable of diving into dark holes and indulging my blame story. I have and will again drown my sorrows in pity and it’s-not-my-fault denial. But, on this night, during this storm, I was filled with awe for the power of nature, for the abundant good that boomed through my life, for the chance to live another abundant day. A double double of appreciation.

read Kerri’s blog post about A DOUBLE

Note The Antidote [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

Master Marsh said it best: customer service is a firewall against serving the customer. Epically long hold times, hold-music meant to invoke a migraine, dropped calls, mixed messages…I have no doubt that the people attempting to serve the customers are good people caught in an inept system.

Kerri’s latest bout with service-less-customer-service had one hugely positive outcome: they actually managed to put her to sleep. Now, in the middle of the night, when she tells me that she can’t sleep, I have the perfect antidote. I dial customer service – any customer service – and hand her the phone…

read Kerri’s blogpost about CUSTOMER SERVICE

smack-dab. © 2023 kerrianddavid.com

Bonus. From the Flawed Cartoon archive: