A Perspective Giver [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

I could have sat all day on the porch and stared at the sculpted landscape, the fingers of Lake Powell reaching into the canyon. My artist’s soul rejuvenates in the southwest. It excites my imagination while quieting my mind. Just as the high desert sun warms me to the core of my being, the geography invigorates the core of my artistry.

It’s been two weeks since I sat on that porch and looked with awe at the horizon and watched the colors transform from hot orange to dusty purple as the sun progressed across the sky. It was akin to looking at the ocean surf, a rolling touch of the eternal. A perspective-giver.

While sitting on the porch I pondered our nation’s inability to fully reconcile with its past. It’s impossible to drive through tribal lands and not consider the full history of our nation. It’s been much on my mind recently since it is a central theme of my latest play, Diorama.

Think about it: just this week the maga-candidate-for-president suggested he would stop funding schools that taught about slavery. Nikki Haley, while running for the Republican nomination for president, said that there’d never been racism in the United States of America.

I sometimes wonder in these divisive times if the USA is like an alcoholic that refuses to admit that it has a problem. Why so much denial? Why so many blatant lies? In fact, it’s not new. Take a gander at the Lost Cause narrative propagated throughout the south (and the nation) following the civil war, a tale of happy slaves and benevolent slave owners. You might recognize it as it has resurged as the official curriculum in the state of Florida (and other states) in 2024. Twelve generations of brutality white washed and to what end?

Of course, it is the white-washed America that the reds aspire to inhabit – and to achieve their fantasy they necessarily need to ignore the full scope of our history. There’s no responsibility in a white washed history. In cowboy brain there are only good guys and bad guys so the good guys need never question their actions or confront their shadows. It’s an infantile narrative, not only unworthy of a maturing nation, but crippling to its growth.

The fourth step in the AA twelve step program suggests that, in order to restore our sanity – in order to grow up – we must be willing to make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. We must not be afraid to admit when we are wrong or recognize when we have strayed from our ideals.

A fearless moral inventory. An honest look at our complete history, the good, the bad and everything in between. As Aldous Huxley wrote, we are in a race between education and destruction. An educated populace would never tolerate the lies of the would-be-autocrat and would easily see through the crazy revisionist history that he manufactures and spews. Perhaps that is why he vows to dismantle the Department of Education.

The question before us in November is whether or not our democracy will prevail and mature or will the white nationalist monster, in a celebration of ignorance, eat our collective freedoms and send us swirling into the immoral (and infantile) fascist nightmare outlined in Project 2025? A fearless moral inventory or the path of the Lost Cause cowards?

The choice is ours to make. The story is ours to tell.

Waiting & Knowing, 48″x48″ mixed media

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Nine [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Just as no photo can adequately capture the scope and grandeur of Bryce Canyon, no words can adequately capture the story of these past years. Nine years ago today, 10.10.2015 at 11:11am, we stood before our community, we told the tale of Erle meeting Earl, we said, “I do”. We skipped out of the church just as we skipped out of the airport on the day we met.

10.10. at 11:11. Significant numbers. We are more numerologists than I realized.

I Googled the numerology of the number 9. A longer view. It represents completion – though not as finality – rather, the end of one chapter and the initiation of something new. It represents growth; a journey of learning. I read that 9 is a powerful, positive and significant number.

We are certainly on a journey of learning. Powerful and positive. And so, we celebrate the number nine. Completion and the initiation of something new. Appropriately, the portal to our initiation was the canyonlands, vast in scope and grandeur, impossible to capture.

read Kerri’s blogpost about BRYCE CANYON

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Two Moons [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.” ~ Edgar Allan Poe, Eleonora

Looking back it makes me laugh. I advocated – more than once – with skeptical school board members that daydreaming was not only useful but a necessary activity. The inception of every worthwhile invention, every startling work of art, every passionate pursuit, begins with a daydream. An idea somewhere out-there. A student staring out the window is rarely wasting time. I wonder how much life Shakespeare or Einstein or Marie Curie spent gazing into imagination-space?

And what about the light of the moon? More than once we’ve chased the moon and stood at the shore in awe. Moonlight evokes a silent reflection. It pulls me into a different kind of imagination-space: not “out-there” but inside. “When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past…” (Sonnet 30, William Shakespeare) Things past. Memories.

Many years ago, deep into the night, I stood beside a backyard pool and gazed at the full moon. I knew my life was about to change radically. A leap. I was scared. I whispered, “I don’t know where you will lead me but I will follow you.” Recently, standing on the shore of Lake Michigan, watching Kerri snap photos of the brilliant full moon, for some reason I vividly remembered that long ago poolside moment. I smiled and whispered, “So this is where you led me!”

I couldn’t be more grateful.

Tango With Me, 36″x48″ mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE MOON

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The Reward Of Slow Walking [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Living so close to the lake our soil is sandy so ornamental grasses thrive in our yard. Each year, rounding the corner into fall, the grasses produce gorgeous plumes. The plumes catch the light. Amber and gold, purple and crimson. The plumes catch the wind, waving and dancing. The plumes capture my attention. I am each day mesmerized by the color and sway of the grasses.

Beyond their enthrall, I have another, perhaps more important appreciation for the ornamental grasses. They have become teachers of patience. They are reminders of right process.

Several years ago we transplanted grasses from our front yard to the back. The sandy soil and constant sun made it difficult for flowers and other plants to grow along our eastern fence line so we decided to give the grasses a try. We didn’t have the resources to buy new varieties so we split the grasses in our front yard.

The result was not good. I thought I’d stunted the grasses in the front. The first year after splitting, their usual exuberance was gone. To personify them, they seemed disheartened. The newly planted grasses in the backyard were gasping. The second year was not much better. I thought, rather than watch their slow demise, it would be better to pull them and start anew. I was mortified. I didn’t know what I was doing and it seemed I’d made everything worse.

Kerri told me to wait, to give them one more season.

In the third year, both front and back, the grasses exploded into life. Ebullient. Buoyant. Each day I’d stand in the middle of the yard and mutter, “I can’t believe it.”

Kerri watched my daily mystification and asked, “Aren’t you glad that you didn’t pull them?

Now, many years later, they are huge, thriving. Little volunteers have sprouted and prosper around the pond. In fact, I now work to keep the ornamental-grass-colonies from taking over the yard.

The grasses have fostered an environment of abundance: they have become safe haven for rabbits, DeeNCee Lullabaloo (the frog-in-residence) spends more time in the grass kingdom than in the pond. The chippies have established a protected highway running through and behind the grass-cover.

And I sit and marvel at their luminance and wind-choreography. Each year I await the coming of the plumes. They fill me with life. They remind me to allow for natural growth rather than push for a result. I hope that I’ve learned their humble lesson. No matter; they fill me with awe, the reward of slow walking, the gift of patience.

read Kerri’s blogpost about GRASSES

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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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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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In Friendship [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“Where self-interest is the bond, the friendship is dissolved when calamity comes. Where Tao is the bond, friendship is made perfect by calamity.” ~ Thomas Merton, The Way of Chuang Tzu

The basket of grasses has moved several times since I first set foot in this house, now my home. Our home. Kerri has a designer’s eye and the basket of grasses migrate according to her latest conception. Of late, they traveled to our bedroom and rest between the gingham chair and her jewelry box.

I know what you are thinking. As a dedicated wearer of black, a lover of earth tones, it is surprising that she has a gingham chair. Do not be fooled by her limited clothing color palette, she is eclectic. I am particularly fond of this unexpected chair since it was where she was sitting when we had our first phone call so many years ago. It all began in a the gingham chair.

I am not unusual in that the great changes of my life have been punctuated by the culling of friends. The forces of change topple the rootless relationships. Yet, while many drop away, a precious few transcend the moment. Not only do they endure, sinking deeper roots, but they grow in strength and fondness.

It is an understatement to suggest that, for us, these past few years have been rife with calamity. It is also not an understatement to say that we are emerging from the hot fire with a band of fast friends. Forged and polished. Beautiful.

Over time I’ve learned to read the movement of the basket of grasses. They are my personal Farmer’s Almanac, my home-decor-tarot. Kerri moves them after a life-storm has passed. She rearranges to re-ground. With every movement of the basket of grasses, I know we’ve come through the latest chaos. And, I know without doubt who stands with us, who we stand with, who will be with us no matter the circumstance or calamity.

In friendship, in our friends, we are the wealthiest people alive.

Helping Hands,
53.5″ x 15.25″

read Kerri’s blogpost about GRASSES

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Wonderland [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

And just how did the katydid get into the kitchen?

It sounds like the question at the heart of a children’s book to me! We have visits from flies and moths and the occasional ant or two. Never before has a katydid been in the kitchen.

Did it ride on the dog or sneak in the open screen door? It there a secret katydid portal, a wardrobe into our kitchen which, to a katydid, must have seemed like a strange new land? Did it wonder how to get back home?

How long had it adventured inside the house? Did it puzzle over inedible carpet and taste-test the plants-in-pots? Did it run from the giants who did not see it? Did it dance to the music that came from nowhere or was the noise thunderous, strange and unnerving?

Did it know it was learning inside from outside? Was the window glass a complete surprise? An impossible impediment to the known world?

Did it understand the giant lady when she marveled at its beauty? Did it pose for its picture? Did it show us its “good side” or did it not-care-in-the-least how it looked?

Was it terrified when the giant lady trapped it? What did it feel when constrained and rushed through the door? Was it disoriented, suddenly finding itself once again in the grassy world it recognized? Was it relieved? Did it think the adventure was a strange dream?

Will it seek the wardrobe again? Will it once again seek passage on the dog to confirm its peek into Wonderland?

The Storyteller emerges from the forest.
Lucy & The Waterfox

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE KATYDID

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The Pivot Point [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

There are many, many variations from many, many traditions of the concept of presence. My recent favorite is to “stand on the pivot point of the Tao.” No matter the name attached to “the now” there is a universal understanding: in presence – when fully present – there are no problems.

It’s easier said than done since fixating and worrying about imagined futures is what our brains are wired to do.

I thought a lot about presence during our epic drive home yesterday. The entire trip was an exercise in being-in-the-now. Of necessity we drove very slow, windows down with the heater on high. We stopped every hour, opened the hood, and let the engine cool down. We checked the coolant. And then, when certain that we could attempt the next stretch, we got back on the road.

I can’t report that it was stress-free but I can with all honesty say we made the best of it. We appreciated and enjoyed our stops. We discovered some new places. There was no rush or need to keep up with traffic. We kept to the right lane and let the-world-in-a-hurry pass us by.

We had friends on the road a few hours behind us; a safety net. They tracked and celebrated our progress.

When we rolled into our driveway, 20 had dinner in the crock pot and wine ready to pour. We laughed and told stories of the day.

We are unbelievably fortunate in friendship and support. All problems disappear in the presence of good friends. The pivot point is not a place. It’s a relationship.

We had an adventure with no problems. I’m certain that, even if the Scion hadn’t made it, we still would have had an adventure with no problems – because we decided to be present with and handle any experience that came our way. We decided to rest in the support of our friends.

It’s a decision, one we ought to make every single day.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE ROAD

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An Echo [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“…repetition as a means of physically marking time, memory, loss, transformation, and ultimately, transcendence.” ~ curator’s statement for the exhibit of Idris Khan at the Milwaukee Art Museum.

Repetition. A mantra. The hours of practice of a musician. A commute to work. Ritual. We walk the same looping trail again and again, season after season. The same is never the same.

We journey to the Milwaukee Art Museum to replenish our spirits. Mostly we visit Richard, Ellsworth, and Mark. I stop by and visit Georgia and Pablo. Not knowing much about him, we were for some reason drawn to the Idris Khan exhibit. Repetition. Stacked images. Words printed on top of words. Pages of musical scores layered and changed into a powerful visual statement. Symbols iterated until garbled and transformed; I leaned in close, then stepped back, again and again, becoming part of the repetition. A dance!

Such a simple star to follow, repetition. And yet…How many letters in an alphabet? How many notes on a scale? From the limited letters or available notes – symbols repeated and mixed and matched – an infinite array of possibilities. Every page of the Quran photographed and stacked. Bach’s Six Suites for Solo Cello.

Wandering through the galleries, his work made me ponder how our inner lives are entirely symbolic. Our days stacked one upon the other. We look though the stack called our past and somehow, through the noise, believe we arrive at understanding. Meaning. An echo.

Joy, 50″x56″, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE MUSEUM

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