Meditate On It [on Merely A Thought Monday]

I was struck by how important it felt. How could something so routine seem like such a big deal! We used to do it all the time. Without thought. Nothing special. Now, it felt like a significant passage. A step toward “normal”: we took the train to Chicago.

Covid was the great disrupter. Daily patterns exploded. Social norms obliterated. It changed us in ways that we are only now beginning to comprehend. To this day – without thinking – if someone stands too close to me in the grocery store I adjust, creating distance. A dance of protection. That small adjustment away from someone is a titanic statement about how I approach social situations, about how I feel about being with others. Keep-them-at-arms-length.

In other words, I’m meditating on safety all of the time.

I don’t think I’m alone in my meditation. I believe the central meditation in my nation is safety – rather, our lack of safety. We wouldn’t be arming ourselves to the teeth if we felt safe. We wouldn’t be ripping at the seams or tolerating corrupt bullies or gobbling up conspiracies if we felt secure. People do not willingly plant their heads in the sand when times are good. In good times, people look up, people reach toward each other. Generosity of spirit engenders generosity toward others. A poverty of spirit engenders animosity toward others.

In other words, no one meditates alone. The big meditations are shared.

Of course, it is also true that people rarely make significant change when times are good. The gift of disruption is progress though the first phase is often nasty and necessarily looks precarious. I suppose we are in the nasty stage of change.

It was not so long ago that a gathering with friends began with testing to make sure no one was carrying the virus. Testing became the norm. It was routine. Am I safe? Are you? Do you remember washing your groceries or isolating your mail for 24 hours when we did not yet understand how the virus was passed? It fundamentally reoriented our experience of being with others.

I think about my safety when I enter a crowd. I look for exit routes when I enter the grocery store. And, last weekend, we stepped onto a train for the first time since the great disruption. It felt momentous. A marker in time. Rather than taking a step away, we took an intentional step toward.

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step and ours was a step onto a train. Each small step toward others, each reach, each moment of listening…matters. It creates the progress borne of the disruption. I look forward to taking many more small steps.

I don’t know about you but I’m more than ready for a different meditation.

read Kerri’s blogpost on THE TRAIN

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Read It [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

I can’t complain. I had perfect eyesight for most of my life. And then I didn’t.

I wear glasses to drive at night. The first time I put them on I was astounded, not because I could see but because I was so completely unaware of how I’d adapted to not seeing. With my new glasses firmly hosted on my nose, I proudly read aloud every road sign until Kerri said, “Stop,” in that quiet voice that let me know I was skating-on-thin-ice.

It’s the ends of the visual-pole that go blurry. Very far. Very near. Grocery shopping is a riot. We do all kinds of contorting trying to read labels. “I’m going to take this can to the end of the aisle where the light is better,” she says.

“Wait. You’re supposed to read the labels?” I ask, just to get a rise out of her, adding, ‘I’d help you read-the-can but my eyes are crap. Can’t see a thing.”

And then, there are menus. We’re not yet at the large-print-stage of life but, let’s face it: although blurry, we can see it from here.

read Kerri’s blogpost about READERS

smack-dab. © 2023 kerrianddavid.com

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Eat And Wait [on KS Friday]

“Neither the hummingbird nor the flower wonders how beautiful it is.” ~ unknown

Jay, Gay, and Kerri are waiting. They are watching for the return of the hummingbirds. The anticipation is palpable. Each day I come upon Kerri, staring out the kitchen window at the untouched feeder. She turns, and, mimicking a voice-over from a commercial for the television show, Wicked Tuna, she asks “WhehAuhThey?” I shrug. She returns to her watch.

A line from a book flashed into my mind. “I can think. I can wait. I can fast.” Siddhartha replies to the beautiful Kamala when she asks what he can do. Hold on! Waiting is a marketable skill! Of course!

Inside my mind, I practice my answer in an imaginary job interview: “Now, tell me, Mr. Robinson, what are your most valuable skills?”

“I can think. I can wait.” I say to the too-serious-HR manager. Note how I cleverly omitted the part about fasting. As a rule I’m hungry all of the time. I want to create the illusion of value without having to outright lie. If I don’t eat, I can’t think. Period. And, if I can’t think, waiting-to-eat is virtually impossible. Just ask Kerri about that day in Minturn, Colorado. It was almost ugly. I have a long way to go before I add fasting to my short list of valuable skills.

In my mind I don’t get a second interview. “We want someone who can fast,” the too-serious-HR manager smiles thinly.

“I’m certain I can work on my delayed gratification skills,” I say as I’m escorted to the door. Wow. Another lie. I’ve been working on delayed gratification for a lifetime and have made very little progress. “I didn’t want that job anyway!” I declare as I stumble onto the noisy street-in-my-mind.

All of this fantasy lying to myself has made me hungry. “Do you want to eat something?” I ask Kerri who’s keeping her hummingbird vigil. “I’m starving.”

“Yes,” she says. “When do you think they’ll get here?” she asks, suddenly becoming a 5 year old. “How will they find us?”

“They’ll be here soon,” I say, perhaps telling another fib. I have no idea when they will be here. “All we can do is wait,” I offer, quickly adding, “So, what do you want to eat while we wait?”

Kerri’s albums are available on iTunes or streaming on Pandora

read Kerri’s blogpost about HUMMINGBIRDS

waiting/joy! a christmas album © 1998 kerri sherwood

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Return To The Nest [on DR Thursday]

In a few weeks we will travel to a small town in Iowa for my dad’s inurnment. It is the town of his birth. Although he never lived there during his adult life, it is the place he called home. It is somehow appropriate that we will take him home in spring.

I’ve had plenty of time to think about the coming ritual. It’s now associated for me with the birth of the bunnies in our backyard. We watched the momma-rabbit dig the nest but thought she’d rejected the spot once she’d experienced our enthusiastic dog who regularly terrorizes critters in the backyard. She knew what she was doing. We discovered the truth the day we caught Dogga proudly carrying a baby bunny around in his mouth. He dropped the bunny, unharmed. We went on a 24/7 backyard bunny watch.

Once, sitting on the deck watching the terrorist Dogga run circles, I decided to check out the nest. I stopped in my tracks when I realized two babies were gnawing on grass just inches from my feet. They hopped back to their nest. I watched as they disappeared into the safety of the dark void.

The dark void. The safety of the nest.

Years ago I started a painting. My dad emerging from a field of corn. Or returning to the field of corn. I’m not sure why I painted it. He often talked of his desire to return to his hometown but he could never find a way to make a living there. His yearning seemed profound. I suppose my painting was an attempt to understand the anchor of “home”; I have been a wanderer so his longing seemed incomprehensible.

Watching the bunnies race for their nest and disappear into the comfort of darkness sent a shock of recognition through me. It helped me understand. Away from his nest, he felt like an alien in a confusing frenetic world. In that place, he felt safe. Known. He understood the rules. He knew the stories. He was attuned to the pace.

It is somehow appropriate. We will take him home, return him to his nest, in spring.

I’m still working on my site...go here to see my continued indecision

read Kerri’s blogpost about BUNNIES

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Make A Unique Mark [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Take a moment and write your name on a piece of paper. Your name, captured in lines made by your hand. No other hand in the universe will make those lines in exactly the same way. No other hand will have the connection to the scribbled name quite like you do. It’s yours. It’s you, expressing your unique signature, done so often as to be unconscious. Do you remember the first time you made those lines?

Expression. That connects. You.

My parents kept a box for me. It has samples of my first quaky lines. It has crayon drawings, scribbles that had yet to meet the notion of containment. No knowledge of should.

I have many, many times been asked to make a case for the arts. Make a case. Amidst the assumption of no-value. I ask the people sitting behind the big table if they have children or grandchildren. I ask them if they ever giggled with pleasure to watch their child smoosh paint with their fingers. Why? Did they tape the smoosh-mess to their refrigerator? Why? Did they store the first scribbles, the first crayon drawing, the first finger painting in a box? Why? Are they hoping that their someday-or-now-adult children will remember their march to unique expression? What price would they, sitting behind the big table, place on those little hands making prints on paper? What is the value of the infinity that those little hands find?

The freedom of expression. Yet unhindered by a life-message that your unique and personal expression must achieve some-thing. What is the value of finding that freedom again, as an adult? Expression sans hinder. No fences. No expectation. What is available when adult fingers are free-like-a-child to wildly smoosh through paint or sing with abandon? What is the value of expression?

I remember the first time I sat in the audience of a theatre and sucked back my sobs. I was so deeply moved by the performance yet aghast at how freely (and loudly) I was about to express my feelings.

I remember the day the woman came into the gallery, saw my painting, and stood before it as if slapped. She cried. And cried. And cried. I cried seeing her see me-in-my-painting.

Have you ever stood on a mountaintop and felt a part of something bigger? Have you ever closed your eyes and let the aria wash over you? Have you ever, driving to somewhere, turned up the volume and sang loud and passionately, the song stirring your soul? Have you ever watched a child play with abandon and feel with utter certainty life stretching beyond your time-on-earth?

Have you ever not given voice to your questions? Silenced your thoughts? Withheld your voice? What would you give, in those moments, to understand the power of playing the fool? The necessity of not-needing to-know-the-right-answer? What would you give to know the courage of taking a step simply because your footprint, your unique print, might help someone, someday, do as you are doing, take a new path that will guide them back to themselves? Back home? What would you give to smoosh your hands with abandon through the metaphoric paint?

What exactly is the value of making the unique mark on the page? Yours? Or the song played that lifts you out of your despair and fills your heart with light and hope?

read Kerri’s blogpost about ART

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Reach Beyond [on Two Artist’s Tuesday]

Red Rocks amphitheater, Colorado, 1979. Tie-dye and flannel, a heavy cloud of pot and patchouli wafts over the crowd. The band begins playing. People stand and cheer. And then they dance. And dance. And dance. Strangers dancing with strangers.

The Riverside Theatre, Milwaukee, 2023. Tie-dye and flannel, a heavy cloud of pot and patchouli wafts over the crowd. The band begins playing. People stand and cheer. And then they dance. And dance. And dance. Strangers dancing with strangers.

United through music. Barriers drop. Inhibitions fall. The revelers are of many ages, grey heads and baby faces. The faces are many glorious colors: shades of black and variations of white and nuances of bronze and rich sienna. I suppose they, too, are wildly varied in belief. Yet, in the dance and through the music, none of it matters. They reach beyond. They are one.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CONCERT

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Together Thrive [on Merely A Thought Monday]

“Art is an illusion that can convey the truth.” ~ Alex Grey

The little boy who was obsessed with drawing eyes – for hours on end – was not attempting to perfect the drawing; he was trying to reach beyond the visual and touch what was inside. Beyond. To the place of joining.

That motive has never wavered. I have always been at-service. For Kerri and me, art-as-service is the impulse behind our blogs. It’s at the center of our many cartoons. It’s the driving impulse in the plays I have yet to write and the few books that haunt me at night. It’s in the music Kerri amasses in her mind and hums when she’s walking down the trail.

We understand art is essential. That’s not an abstraction. Look into the abyss of your death and tell me where you go to wrap your mind around it? Politics? Business publications? Software? My bet is you read the poets. You listen to Arvo Pärt. You stare at The Sistine Chapel. You walk a labyrinth. You read the words of Anne Frank or ponder a psalm. How do you reach beyond what you can see and touch the essence of what is inside? Infinite? How do you make sense of the big questions? If we do good in the world, what does it inspire you to see? If you do good in the world, what does it help us to see?

It’s hard to put a price on it. It’s impossible to put words around it. And it is our reason for being.

Without you, we cannot thrive.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THRIVE

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