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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Live In The Lull [David’s blog on KS Friday]

We’ve written about the lull, the precious days with nothing-but-open-space on the calendar and our intention to not-fill-them-up. A moment to pause, to quiet our minds. And, as good fortune would have it, right smack-dab in the middle of the lull, the opportunity to go “up north” with friends to a cabin on a lake. Sweet serendipity.

On the first day of the lull Kerri’s computer died. We decided to let it be dead. Resuscitation, if possible, would have to wait. Then, on the drive up north, little-baby-scion struggled and almost didn’t make it. Hectic circumstances. It seemed like this great big universe was testing our resolve, tempting us to exit the lull or to fill it up with angst.

We decided to stay solidly in the lull. We decided to only make decisions that required immediacy, to cross the bridges as we came to them and not before. We certainly felt angst and frustration but opted not to inflate it or hang on to it or rage at it or weave it into a woe-full narrative.

We weren’t avoiding or denying the inevitable. We simply refused to magnify it. We honored our intention to keep the lull unencumbered – knowing we’d have clearer minds, more capable minds, when the time came to address the list.

We suspended the story.

After a consultation with our mechanic, after hatching a safety-net-plan with our friends, rather than fret, we stepped into the canoe and explored the lake.

The next morning there was barely a ripple of breeze on the water. It was like glass. We paddled gently, not wanting to interrupt the stillness. In the middle of the lake we stopped all movement, rested our paddles, and listened. Far away the loons called. We turned our faces to the sun, took a deep breath, and settled into the lull.

At that moment we realized (again) that we could make the same choice, the same decision, every single day, no matter the state of the calendar or the circumstance of the moment. We could choose to live in the lull.

Joy © 2005 Kerri Sherwood

Kerri’s albums are available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora and iHeart Radio

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE LULL

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The Natural Course [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

We’ve no idea how to grow peppers. And yet, here they are, red and ready for harvesting. I’ve just decided that our peppers are a lesson in the Tao: do nothing. Wu wei. Water the peppers when they need a drink. The natural course will show the way.

Is it any wonder that people avoid me at parties? “Gear down,” Kerri whispers when I find myself suddenly abandoned and standing alone in the kitchen. And what if I like being alone? What if my natural esoterica acts as a people-at-the-party-repellant? For an introvert, party-small-talk is exhausting, the empty kitchen a safe haven. The natural course shows the way.

I just read that striving for happiness is predicated on the belief that happiness is somewhere else, not here. Let go the striving and, perhaps, a different belief will enter. Perhaps happiness is here already. Or, as Viktor Frankl famously wrote that “happiness ensues.” It cannot be chased. Stand still and perhaps it will bump into you.

Sometimes, no matter where I am in the house, I know that Dogga wants to come back inside. He makes no noise. I can feel it. When I arrive at the backdoor he is standing there, open face, bright eyes, wagging wag-a-wag. He is certain that I will be there, joyful in our greeting. Happiness is nowhere else. No striving necessary.

The natural course shows the way.

[Kerri just said this post is a “random-thought-pie”! A perfect description of the inner workings of my noggin. I love it!]

read Kerri’s blogpost about PEPPERS

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Magic Is Found There [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Noah Lyles, in an interview after winning the gold medal in the 100m, asked a question meant to inspire all dreamers to ask of themselves, “Why not me?” He has worked hard to arrive at a place of confidence and self-belief.

I appreciate a sentiment shared by free-solo climber Alex Honnold when asked how he handles fear. He said that he never attempts to conquer fear, rather, he expands his comfort zone.

Expand your comfort zone. Ask, “Why not me?”

Like almost everyone I know, I have had my bouts with imposter syndrome. I’ve filled my cup with self-doubt. I’ve been certain of my unworthiness. I’ve run from the magic.

To ask, “Why not me?” is to let go of the comparison with others. It is to set down the never-win-self-measuring stick. It is to run your race, paint your painting, play your song…love your gift.

To expand your comfort zone rather than fight your fear is to shake hands with yourself. To stop the inner fight and work with your magic instead of running from it. It is to make a friend of fear, to understand its value, to retire the inner-foe so you might place it in the proper perspective. Fear dances in a made-up future. An ever-expanding comfort zone guarantees presence in the moment. Magic is found there. You are found there.

There have been many loud voices in my life (inside and outside my head) telling me that I can’t. They are the voices of mediocrity. The voices of fear. And then there are the few precious quiet voices that say, “Yes, you can,” or ask “Why not…?” Those voices, both inside and out, are the voices of magic. They are the voices of joy. Listen to those voices. Unlike the others, they will never lead you astray.

read Kerri’s blogpost about MAGIC

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Steep! [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“The beginning of love is the will to let those we love be perfectly themselves, the resolution not to twist them to fit our own image.” ~ Thomas Merton, The Way of Chuang Tzu

After I finish reading my latest book, The Denial of Death by Ernest Becker, I have decided to steep myself in life-affirming reading, the likes of John O’Donohue, Philip Gulley, Pema Chödrön, Mary Oliver, Krishnamurti, Rilke, Rumi, Thomas Merton…I meditate on what I read -whether I want to or not – and in our angry chaotic times I’m feeling the need to wrap myself in the warmth of poets and other lovers of life. People who’ve transcended their small lives and looked into deeper space. I will begin my steeping with Thomas Merton’s The Way of Chuang Tzu – a Catholic Monk translating the voice of the Tao.

I read the quote above and wanted to alter it slightly: “The beginning of self-love is the will to let ourselves be perfectly who we are, the resolution not to twist ourselves to fit into another’s image of who we are supposed-to-be.”

The real challenge in letting ourselves be perfectly who we are is that most of us have no idea who we are. Few of us fit into a box called “me.” Who we are is dynamic and ever-changing. Self-discovery is a life-long affair and we are most fortunate if it is a life-long love affair.

Kerri says that we don’t really-really change as we move through life, we just become more of who we are. The outer layers of illusion and social concoction drop off until the core is revealed. I don’t know if I agree but I love the image. And, I confess that these past few years have felt like a ferocious layer-stripping. If she is right then I have to be…we have to be…close to the core.

In the wake of the layer-stripping I’m finding that the simple things in this life bring me great satisfaction. We found the old sun-tea jug in the cupboard. With the mint growing in the yard and slice or two of lemon, each day we smile and drink the summer sun from a jelly jar. We tell stories of sun-tea from the past.

It’s the sensual things, like the taste of tea brewed from the sun. On a hot humid day, the sudden shift of cool wind off the lake. The sound of cicadas. Fireflies. Laughter at dinner. The taste of good wine. The stuff of poets. The witnesses of “the eternal now.”

It’s as simple as sun tea, this desire to steep my thoughts in the awe-of-life (as opposed to the awful). And, as the ancient saying goes, as I continue the quest to discover myself: where I place my thoughts my life-energy will follow.

read Kerri’s blog about SUN TEA

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