Return To The Most Human [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“Non-violence is the greatest force at the disposal of mankind. It is mightier than the mightiest weapon of destruction devised by the ingenuity of man” ~ Mahatma Gandhi

If you are like me you are seeing signs like this pop up everywhere. This version was posted in the elevator in a hospital. The first version I remember was posted at the drive-thru pharmacy. Evidently, we-the-people are angry and taking it out on each other. The collapse of civility. It’s not a surprise. Our elected leaders have always been a mirror of us just as we take on and mirror their attributes. It’s a bully feedback loop.

“Nonviolence is a way of life for courageous people” ~ Martin Luther King

Lately, I’ve been working on a new play. It explores the tug-of-war between our animal and human nature. What happens when consciousness meets impulse? What is possible when reason/thought grabs the shoulders of reactivity? We know what happens when conscious thought and concern for truth is nowhere to be found. We are living it. We are compelled to post signs in elevators in an attempt to reach through the animal to find the human. We attempt to legislate decency.

“An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind” ~ Mahatma Gandhi

20 told us a joke from a recovering Catholic comedian. The joke builds a hierarchy of sin as articulated by the church. The worst sin, the very worst sin? Critical thinking. It is a punchline appropriate for the white-nationalist-christian-clan, the Project 2025 crew, currently spreading fear and creating scary boogeymen across the land. In the name of smaller government they poo-poo learning, ban books, outlaw all forms of critical thinking like DEI, critical race theory, the constitution, the rule of law, you know, things like checks-and-balances…

“Nonviolence seeks to defeat injustice or evil, not people” ~ Martin Luther King

In a recent podcast Ezra Klein said that, despite their bully-posturing, the current administration is weak. They know that they can’t move their agenda forward through congress so they are doing an end-run around congress. And, apparently, congress is too frightened to challenge the bully. Brute force – animal nature – is capable of dominating reason and heart for a little while. Right now, congress lacks courage. Courage comes from the Latin, “cor” which means “heart”. Our congressional leaders lack heart. Congress comes from the Latin “con” which means “together” and “gradi” which means “walk”.

It is something to hope for: Our elected leaders walking together. With heart. That’s the whole idea behind democracy. From the Greek, “dēmos”, meaning “the people” and “kratia” meaning “power” or “rule”. Rule by the people as represented by their elected officials. Not the oligarchs. Not a spray-tan-bully. Walking together. It takes courage.

“In its earliest form, “courage” meant “to speak one’s mind by telling all one’s heart”. ~ Brene Brown

In a single month, we have been witness to incredible violence inflicted by the current administration, both on our system of government, on our citizens and the citizens of the world. Jane Goodall tells the story of a little ape who learns that banging gasoline cans together, making violent noise, would scare the other apes, momentarily making the little ape appear to be alpha. In time, the illusion faded. The community caught-on, saw through the noise. They regained their courage and stopped the little-noise-maker.

We could learn a thing or two from Jane Goodall’s story.

Do you remember a time when we had no reason to post signs in hospitals, fast food joints, and other public spaces pleading with the public to act with common courtesy? It was not so long ago that we had courage. It was not so long ago that we lived from the heart, taught our children to respect others – to respect difference. It was not so long ago that our elected leaders, despite their policy differences, had courage and fiercely protected our democratic convictions.

If our leaders no longer have the will then we must have the courage to save our democratic conviction. Walking together. Rule by the people. Courage. Telling all one’s heart.

“Return to the most human, nothing less will teach the angry spirit, the bewildered heart; the torn mind, to accept the whole of its duress, and pierced with anguish… at last, act for love.” ~ John O’Donohue

read Kerri’s blogpost about AGGRESSIVE BEHAVIOR

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Everything There Is [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Sometimes she takes pictures when she is driving. “What are you doing?” I cry, my life flashing before my eyes.

“It looks like a feather!” she retorts.

“Oh, great” I say, reciting the last line of my obituary. “If only the cloud had not looked like a feather, he would be with us still.” She rolls her eyes. Apparently she survived the imaginary crash and went on to build an extensive catalogue of interesting cloud photographs. For all I know, having perished for a feather cloud, she gained world-wide fame for her interesting shots of condensed water vapor.

As I lay in bed last night, the window opened ever so slightly allowing the cold air to circulate above the warm-warm quilt where we lay pretzeled, Dogga sleeping at our feet, I had a single moment of presence. I know it because I was completely overwhelmed with intense gratitude. Falling out of the moment, I took a snapshot in my mind and heart so I would never forget how profound life is in each and every passing moment.

This was the thought that washed over me: Beyond the dance of giving and receiving, there is only this: being-with. That’s all there is. That’s everything there is.

read Kerri’s blogpost about the FEATHER CLOUD

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Our Moment [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

At the top of the stairs on the second floor of our house is a bulletin board of photographs. We assembled it in 2019 when we took a job on Washington Island. We would be far away from family and friends and hoped the photo-board would help us stay connected to home. It’s funny to me now, I rarely looked at the bulletin board when we were on the island but five years later, firmly ensconced back at home, I pause on the stairs every single day and study it.

It’s the photos of my dad that stop me. In order to function on island we needed a second vehicle. My dad was no longer able to drive so he gave us his truck. The photos were taken when we flew to Colorado to get the truck. We call it Big Red. It was a blue-blue-sky day. Kerri and I were just about to begin the long drive back to Wisconsin. Kerri took some pictures of my dad and me standing next to Big Red.

He died in 2021. Those few photos are among the last I have of him. They are certainly among the last taken when he knew who I was; he was far down the road of dementia on that blue-sky Colorado day.

I stop on the stairs and study the photographs because I knew on that day that I might never see him again. I knew that his time on earth was short. I was fully and completely present with him when Kerri took the photographs. It was sublime and painful. And, I can access the fullness of his presence the moment I look at the photograph. It never fades.

I stop at the top of the stairs to hang out a few minutes with my dad but there is a greater gift in that blue-blue-sky photograph: it is a reminder that those moments happen every day. It is a reminder not to miss it, that these moments are also fleeting. Cooking meals together. The way the Dogga parading with his candy-cane-toy every time we dial the phone. Our slow cleaning out of the basement, playing Rummikube with 20, sitting under the quilt writing blog posts on a cold Wisconsin day, the chimes calling us back to this, our moment. It’s what we have. It’s precious. It’s all we have.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE NOW

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Happily Blank [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Rob gave us the perfect word to describe our passage through COVID. He called it stubborn. It does not easily let go. Fortunately, we’ve been having brilliant autumn days so we entertain our stubborn guest by sitting in the sunshine. We have the energy for sitting and not much else.

Sitting in the sun for days on end has afforded ample time for reflection and random rumination. My thought-trail returns again and again to our southwest trip-COVID combination and how it feels like the end of a chapter. A portal into the new. I recently wrote about the number 9 – spurred by our 9th anniversary – as a significant number of completion. Our anniversary came the day after we returned home and neither of us remember it because we were both fevered, achy, and miserable.

Life passages are often marked by liminal spaces. Neither here nor there; in-between places. My favorite words associated with liminal spaces are uncertain, insecure, unsettling. They can be dreamlike. All are perfect descriptions for how we feel in our seeming eternal COVID zone. Life has stopped. I can no longer remember if I once served a purpose or not. It all seems made-up. The fever zone was preceded by a journey into sacred land, dreamscapes. I dare anyone to visit Goblin Valley and not feel as if they’ve entered another dimension.

A younger me would have tried hard to get grounded, to force a move beyond the discomfort of disorientation – essentially reaching backward to grab hold of what was known. This older version understands the wisdom of insecurity. It is a mistake to reject the liminal. Any significant step into the “new” chapter requires a loss of the known. An open hand, a blank slate, is sometimes uncomfortable.

Holding on to what is no longer useful will in the long run prove to be much more uncomfortable; this amazing universe is in no hurry to deliver its lessons and is quite capable of amping up the discomfort until letting go is recognized as less painful than holding on.

We’re moving on to the next…and, from our chairs in the sun, with achy bodies and no energy to speak of, we have not the first clue what will be written in the next chapter. For now, we do not need to know. In fact, we need to not-know. For now, the blank page will remain happily – if uncomfortably – blank.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TUNNEL ARCH

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What Remains [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible in us be found.” ~ Pema Chödrön

The super moon called us out into the night. We ran-walked to the grounds of the Anderson Art Center so we might get an unobstructed view of the giant moon perched just above the horizon. Later, we walked the streets and paths that followed the shore so we could watch the moon shrink as it journeyed higher into the sky. An illusion.

My favorite part of our stroll was finding that we weren’t the only people called into the night. People – many people – gathered along the shore, some quiet, some giddy – all attending the march of the moon. “This is just like the old days,” Kerri said. A community joining together to share a common experience. No one cared about the politics or issues of the day. There was a common agreement as we passed others: “Isn’t it beautiful!” Strangers so moved by the enormity of the moment, so connected to this ancient traveller, that they were compelled to speak to each other.

Think about it.

The little stuff disappears in the face of the transcendent moon. I felt as if we were participating in a ritual that is as old as humanity. And, more to the point, this ancient ritual, the awe of the moon, invoked our humanity. We were, to a person, benevolent. In the timeless moon there was no space for the petty. There wasn’t a hint of righteousness or prejudice to be found. We waned in the face of the eternal light of the moon. What remained was a basic impulse to share the moment. To join. Primordial generosity. Kindness sublime.

It’s a Long Story/ This Part of the Journey © 1998/2000 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE KEYS

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A Silhouette [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

A confluence of impressions.

Susan just sent a song by James Maddock. Beautiful Now. “You were beautiful then. But you’re way more beautiful now.”

And, at the very moment her text came in, this quote rolled across my screen: “The world does not give us very much now; it often seems to consist of nothing but noise and fear, and yet grass and trees still grow.” ~ Hermann Hesse

I looked at the quote as I listened to the song.

Sometimes it is simply a matter of scale. The current noise and fear seems so immense and yet the river keeps rolling. What seemed immense 20 years ago? 200? We hold hands and look into the night sky. “We’re not all that,” she said.

After her brother passed, Kerri asked, “How can the world go on if he can’t perceive it?” The world will go on after we can no longer perceive it. All of our current noise and fear will wash away with us. Yet the grass and trees will continue to grow. The more we understand our actual size in the vast universe, the more beautiful we become. We’re not all that.

It was a brilliant day. Hot. The water sparkled. The rocks of the jetty were made a silhouette by the glistening. I was suddenly filled to the brim by a brilliant poem that Horatio recently sent. The River Flows Into The Sea. “I could feel the truth of it in my hands,” he wrote. The mystery. I watched Kerri snap her photo and was completely overwhelmed by her shimmering. Sometimes what I feel is too large for the universe to contain. I am made a silhouette. This amazing life! Here for a moment, all that.

Embraced Now, 48″x36″ mixed media on canvas

read Kerri’s blogpost about GLISTENING

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Nothing More Beautiful [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

I make it a practice to take notes when I have calls with Horatio. He says the most extraordinary things. This morning I search-and-rescued this Horatio comment about aging: he said, “It only felt like an ambush because I hadn’t been paying attention.”

I went looking for Horatio’s quote because Kerri and I had a spontaneous-hysterical-conversation about the abrupt changes in our bodies over the past five years. “Look at this!” she bellowed, “It just happened!” Of course, I was too invested in horror at my own creeping-decrepitude to notice what part of her body she was disparaging. “It never used to be this way!” she muttered, spinning slowly so her disdain was a full 360°.

I made the rookie mistake of asking what age she was comparing herself with. Because her glare signaled that I was about to spend the rest of the day in the doghouse, I quickly added, “I don’t look like I did when I was thirty, either.” Rookie mistake number 2. Dumb. Stupid. Brainless. Dense. Not to mention dangerous. Had she killed me in that moment, no jury in the land would have found her guilty; “Her act…,” the jury foreman would report to the judge, “…was justified”.

We make a practice of paying attention. It’s why we often choose to walk slowly. Rather than walk through the woods, we try to be in them. To notice. The consistent miracle when walking slowly is that there is always something new to discover, something that we’ve never before seen. For instance, the portal in the ancient tree. We’ve walked past and admired this tree a hundred times. We’ve placed painted rocks in its nooks. Kerri’s photographed it dozens of times; age has made it beautiful. Photogenic. And, today, for the very first time, we noticed the portal, a peek through the tree to the other side. “How did we miss that?” we exclaimed.

“It only felt like an ambush because I hadn’t been paying attention.”

Horatio, of course, is right. There is no ambush. The river keeps flowing and somehow we are surprised to find ourselves in places we’ve never before imagined. New stages of life. All the time I tell Kerri that she is beautiful. She cannot hear me because she expects herself to be in another part of the river entirely. I am guilty of the same false expectation.

Looking backward in life is like looking through the tiny portal in the ancient tree. The view is blurry and limited. Ask me if I would like to go back to the time when my body was thirty and I will howl with laughter, “No way!” This day, this moment, as hard as it can sometimes be, is the best time of my life. I am learning to appreciate my aches and pains, my ever-changing-body, to pay attention to where I am and not where I imagine I should be.

Here and now. There is nothing more beautiful.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PORTAL

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Witness The Impossible [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

We heard, in some locations this summer, people experienced a veritable plague of cicadas. They shoveled them off of their driveways like so much snow. Not here. We finally heard their song late in the season. We found a few empty shells floating in the pond or attached to fence, evidence that they’d emerged and transformed. They were present in vibrational rhythmic sound. They remained invisible to our eyes.

Sitting quietly on the deck one evening in August, enjoying the cicada symphony, Kerri said, “It’s not summer until I hear the cicadas.” Markers of our passage around the sun. Symbols of the cycle. The first color on the leaves. First snow. The first dandelion of spring. The first turtle emerging from the muddy river. Cicada song.

Last week we talked about stew and soups rather than watermelon and burgers on the grill. In this way, in old and new recipes, we chase the coming season. Anticipation and imagination.

We found the cicada on the driveway. It was in its last minutes of life. Crawling like a drunken sailor, it could no longer fly; one wing undamaged but seemingly useless. “It’s so sad,” she said as she knelt to take a photo.

Reverence overcame the sadness. “Look at the color! How beautiful!” she whispered, showing me the photo. We knelt again to witness the dying cicada.

Appreciation. Sometimes I think our only purpose on this earth is to cherish its treasures, to recognize something so small and impossibly grand as the movement of life.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CICADA

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How To Harmonize [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“Nature, in the intimate and in the vast, is not designed. It is designing. Our own nature confirms it.” ~ N.J. Berrill, You and the Universe (via The Marginalian)

 In one of our famous conversations, Horatio suggested I read Ernest Becker’s Pulitzer Prize winning book, The Denial of Death. So, I did. Horatio has never led me astray. Boiled down to an essence, as a unifying principle for religion and science, it unpacks the human dilemma of being a finite animal with an unlimited imagination. We are unique among creatures because we know we will die yet we have the capacity to imagine ourselves infinite. And so, to live beyond the veil, we think we must leave a mark, to serve a greater purpose. We must seek or give meaning to our limited time. No other animal carries so great a burden, this split-dance of separation and unity.

It is an understatement to suggest that it has set me to thinking. It is the ultimate in creative tension.

For ages, artists have painted the Danse Macabre. Some are a painting a warning: it’s coming so be ready! Some are painting an appeal: it’s precious so live every moment of it!

And this is what Horatio’s recommendation has me thinking: It’s a cycle of movement, like the tides or the cycle of the seasons, the movement of the earth, spinning around the sun…It is movement. Life is movement.

I was hired at the software start-up, not because I know anything about technology or coding, but because I see movement. Dynamic whole systems. In my brief foray into the start-up, I learned that, in order to be successful, software has no end. It is never finished. It must constantly iterate. It must never assume a completion. It is, in that way, like a human being, constantly becoming, cycling through periods of stability and periods of chaos, through lostness and found-ness, each generation supporting the cycle of the next generation.

We confuse ourselves by seeking an answer to our end, as if the design is finished. As if we are complete. That is a statement of our denial. We are movement. Relationship. Cycle. Never complete.

She knelt to take a photograph of the daisies, each at various points in their life cycle. A perfect visual for the single question-with-no-answer at the core of our short season on earth:

“…how to harmonize our cosmic smallness with the immensity of our creaturely experience…” ~ N.J. Berrill

read Kerri’s blogpost about DAISIES

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Open [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“Each of us is an artist of our days; the greater our integrity and awareness, the more original and creative our time will become.” ~ John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings

Divemaster Terry’s teaching was based on a simple principle: get neutral. In neutrality, there is no struggle. There is no fear. There is surrender to the movement of the ocean. The water cradles the diver.

The point? In the absence of struggle and fear, in the surrender to the natural movement of “something bigger,” only then is it possible to see. Only then is full awareness available beyond the control-story. Only then is it possible to experience the grace in the dive. To become.

Divemaster Terry was an artist. All the world was his studio. Every moment was his canvas. He was teaching me the essential lesson in artistry: surrender to the greater movement of the ocean. Flow with it rather than fight it. To fight the ocean is folly. And dangerous.

I thought of him as we harvested our peppers. We’ve never grown peppers before so this was new territory. Anything in the garden is relatively new territory. We do not know what we are doing. Our gardening is the equivalent of listening. She was giddy when she harvested the first peppers.

I recognized it. It was the same giddiness I felt the first time I understood – and lived – Terry’s lesson, “get neutral”. My eyes opened. My heart opened. I was inside the miracle, moving as the ocean, seeing without the obstruction of a story.

She plucked the first vibrant red pepper. For a moment she held the whole living earth in her hands. Eyes open. Heart wide open. No separation.

“Take time to see the quiet miracles that seek no attention” ~ John O’Donohue

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PEPPERS

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