Tacit Teachers [David’s blog on Not So Thawed Wednesday]

“Rilke recommended that when life became turbulent and troublesome, it was wise to stay close to one simple thing in nature.” ~ John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings

For my one simple thing this winter, in these turbulent and troublesome times, I choose icicles. Or, perhaps it is more accurate to say that icicles have chosen me. We are spending an inordinate amount of time together.

When one is as up-close to icicles as I have been in these past weeks, it is impossible not to notice their unique self-expression; each has an individual personality, a beauty all their own. They are sculptural wonders. And yet, follow them back in drip-time and they originate from a single formless origin.

With hot water or Dan’s heat gun I attempt to alter their form and they laugh. I call myself an artist but am no match for their sculptor. That is why it is wise to stay close to them. They are tacit teachers. They put me and these troubled times into perspective.

They are a temporary map of the path of least resistance. And they are gloriously impermanent. Even in seeming stillness, they are moving, changing. Worthy reminders and ample reasons to keep them close. I am glad that they chose me for remedial instruction.

read Kerri’s blogpost about ICICLES

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Low Cost Hilarity[David’s blog on Not So Thawed Wednesday]

“The fear of appearances is the first symptom of impotence.” ~ Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

“Never pay for car repairs again!” the spokesperson beamed. “Coverage is available on all vehicles less than 20 years old! Call now!”

“That leaves us out,” she said. “None of our vehicles is less than 20 years old.” Recently, she calculated that the combined age of our cars this year is exactly 100 years. We might not qualify for coverage but you may have noticed that we’re constantly whooping it up these days; our combined-car-centennial is reason to celebrate so we’re having 365 days of raucous festivities.

Craig once told us that LBS had “Milwaukee rims”. The faux chrome has long since peeled off and LBS now sports a mostly rusty-rim-look. “Are you staring at my car?” Kerri asked the young attendant at the recycle center who was clearly horrified with our rims. The poor guy sputtered. “We love our rims!” she smiled, putting LBS in gear and driving away.

In the late fall, when the sun sets early, if we time it just right, on the drive home from our trail, LBS casts a remarkable shadow on the road ahead: our silhouettes seated in a toaster-shape that seems to have enormous ears. Kerri always enthusiastically slaps my shoulder, “Can you see it? Can you see it?”

When I moved to the midwest I was amused by the ritual of the windshield wiper. When the storm is a’ brewin’ people run outside and stand-upright their windshield wipers. I learned the hard way that windshield wipers in the midwest, unlike windshield wipers in Colorado where I am from, freeze to the windshield. Now I have joined the custom. If you’re looking for me I have probably raced outside to spare the wipers from imminent freeze-ation. When LBS is covered with snow, the upright wipers make it look like a bug with cute antenna.

Milwaukee rims. Funny shadows. Winter bug cosplay. We might not have high priced insurance to protect against repairs, but we’ve mastered low cost hilarity and loyal love of our LBS, Big Red, and the ’71 Beetle nestled into the garage that will someday ride again.

read Kerri’s blogpost about UPRIGHT WIPERS

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If We Could See It [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

If we could see our souls I imagine they might look like the feathery phase of Sweet Autumn Clematis. Soft little shimmers that curl and twine so that there’s no way to tell which is yours and which is mine. It wouldn’t matter anyway since the spirals swirl and connect to a center spine that, in turn, winds, entwines and connects to other spines.

It’s snowing today so the world outside is quiet. We are waiting for the snow to get deeper before we tie on our boots and go for a walk-about. Dogga just came inside and was so snow-covered that he looked like an amber-eyed Samoyed. The quiet has me thinking about souls and time.

When I was a boy my siblings and I were outside having a snowball fight with my dad. He threw an errant snowball that widely missed its mark and shattered a window. We ran crazy uncontrollable loops in the snow not knowing if dad was in big trouble and wondering if dad’s-big-trouble would catch us, too. It’s a memory that makes me smile. I imagine our crazy-excited-running-in-the-snow is exactly how a soul moves – if we could see it.

We just watched a very moving video of late poet Andrea Gibson performing their piece, MAGA HAT IN THE CHEMO ROOM. Andrea recently died from cancer. When a soul wants us to know what matters and what does not, it looks for a poet. Souls know words are powerful magic that people mostly take for granted. Poets use words to reach-in-and-touch the essence of life so souls are careful when selecting the deliverer of their essential messages. Andrea Gibson was an awe-inspiring choice. Their words are like crazy kids running in the snow, the way a soul moves, swirling and winding and connecting and, in Andrea’s performance, soul shines so bright that we can see it.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SWEET AUTUMN CLEMATIS

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The Evidence of Love [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

The evidence of love is all around us. Sometimes it’s easy to recognize. For instance, Dogga’s toys are scattered around the house. We track the movement as he daily re-positions his toys according to imperatives that only he understands. I imagine he practices his own version of sacred geometry or perhaps his toys are akin to chess pieces he adjusts in a game he plays with himself.

Sometimes, to the outside eye, love looks like poverty or an accident waiting to happen, furniture on the verge of collapse. This is the case with the BabyCat chair. BabyCat mostly ignored any other version of scratch post or scratch pad that we offered; he adored this chair. So we adore this chair.

In recent weeks we’ve entered a new phase in our epic house-purge-of-stuff. After BabyCat died Kerri moved the chair into her studio. I found her staring at the BabyCat chair. She said, “I think it’s time to let go of the BabyCat chair. I don’t need it anymore to remind me of BabyCat,” she said, pointing at her heart, adding, “He’s right here.”

After breakfast each morning, Dogga and BabyCat would retreat to the kitchen and nap together. It was their ritual. Although BabyCat has been gone for five years, Dogga continues to retreat to the kitchen after breakfast and settles into the same spot. We say to each other, “There he goes. He is communing with the BabyCat.”

The evidence of love is all around us. Sometimes it is easy to see. Sometimes it looks to others like a ruined wicker chair. Sometimes it looks like a dog sleeping in the middle of the kitchen floor.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE BABYCAT CHAIR

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Return To Zero [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

In college, I learned from our technical director, Steve, to thoroughly clean the shop at the end of each day. Every tool was put back in its place. The floor was swept of sawdust. Brushes washed and paint cans sealed and re-shelved. The shop was returned to zero so we might start afresh the next day. We learned that taking care of our space was an act of taking care of our art. Self care. I carried that lesson forward in my life, in the theatre companies I had the privilege of guiding.

I learned that it feels good to take care of your space. I also learned that it fosters something vital and often elusive for artists: ownership and a sense of responsibility for their artistry. It’s grounding. I’ve had the unhappy experience of witnessing artists (and business leaders) who have a bevy of assistants follow them with brooms, like the guys with buckets and shovels following the horses in a parade. Cleaning your own space prevents the unhappy ego-ascension onto a personal pedestal; a guaranteed artistry killer. A guaranteed community killer.

I’ve also had the unhappy experience of witnessing artists in full fear of their artistry. Making a hot mess and cleaning it up is a great cure for even the most dedicated perfectionist. Instead of art, intend to make a mess. Then clean it up. Repeat. You’d be amazed at the impossibly beautiful work that emerges when the impossible expectation is put in its proper place.

The abrupt and abundant snow earlier this week brought an end to the plants on our deck and potting bench. We spent a good part of the weekend cleaning out and storing the clay pots, raking the leaves, clipping the peonies and containing the tall grasses. Readying the yard for the return of spring. While clipping the plumes I was for a moment thrust back into the shop in college. Steve walked by, the keys on his belt jangling. Time to clean up and close up for the night. I smiled. I doubt that he understood how important his simple requirement of keeping the space clean would become for me, a north star for those moments when I was attempting to climb on my pedestal or was afraid of my gift.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE BENCH

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

Emerging from the grocery store the sky literally stopped us in our tracks. We weren’t the only ones; harried shoppers racing their full carts to their cars were paralyzed by the beauty. Perfect strangers actually spoke to each other. “Can you believe it?”

“Unbelievable.”

We joined the sky paparazzi and snapped photos, ohhing and ahhing with every click. “You just can’t capture it.”

People joined in beauty. For a few precious moments, people dropped their hurry and their politics, their worries and their angst, and united in awe beneath the fiery performance in the sky. The abstractions dropped away. The performance pulled us together. Pure art.

The moment passed. We can only give so much time to awe. The spell was broken and we each jumped back into our busy lists and went our separate ways. I imagine – or it is my hope – that we left the parking lot knowing that it only takes a wee-bit-o-beauty to pull us from our harried, divided and lonely minds and remind us that – in truth – we walk this miracle earth together.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SKY

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Now We Must Ask [David’s blog on Flawed Wednesday]

“The more you know yourself, the more clarity there is. Self-knowledge has no end – you don’t achieve, you don’t come to a conclusion. It is an endless river.” ~ Jiddu Krishnamurti

In these times it is difficult not to write about the ubiquitous inanity and daily horror show produced by the current administration. We are writing a few days ahead, so it has become our practice to acknowledge that we might have to dump our initial posts if the latest outrage, the intentional starving of citizens, the kidnapping of people off the streets, the dissolution of congress to protect pedophiles…is too much to ignore. In truth, it’s all too much to ignore and it’s too toxic to focus on all of the time. We look away to remind ourselves that the goodness in people far outweighs the malicious spirit that currently claims the national narrative.

To that end I have this paradoxical reflection to offer: to all of you out there who voted for this but now daily proclaim that this is not what you voted for, I want to 1) roll my eyes and shout, “While you were cheering and waving Mass Deportation signs, did you not read your sign?” Did you think this was a sitcom? Project 2025 explicitly articulated this horror show in minute detail; you have no excuse – other than laziness – to now claim that this is not what you voted for. Yet, 2) it is never too late to wake up. It is never too late to realize that you’ve been duped. Saying, “I made a mistake,” is a step on the path of self-knowledge.

In waking up ever so slightly, there are two questions to ask: 1) “How was I so easily duped?” And, 2) “What will I do with my new awareness?” Knowing that this is not what you voted for does not absolve you from responsibility. You opened the cage and let loose the monster. It is not enough to divest yourself of culpability. People in fishing boats are being murdered, people with brown skin are being beaten and disappeared, millions are losing their healthcare and it is estimated that 50,000 people will die each year because of this loss…Saying, “It’s not my fault,” is akin to sticking your head back into the sand. Saying, “I made a mistake,” needs to be followed with a second step: corrective action. Self-knowledge is a bit of a misnomer; self-knowledge is inert until activated when it becomes dynamic: responsibility.

This ugly white supremacy has been a part of our national identity since our inception. A few days ago I told Kerri that it is my belief that our national mask is slipping. This terror-face is not new, it is merely revealing itself (again). We are seeing this part of our national identity with renewed clarity. Past generations, having seen this part of our national face, have been successful at restoring the mask, suppressing but not eliminating the ugliness.

Now we see it. And the two questions to ask ourselves are akin to those who claim that this is not what they voted for. We see it. What will we do with our new awareness? We claim to be a democracy yet we are currently witness to our rabid inability to reconcile ourselves with our history of slavery, of the genocide of native peoples…We continue to entertain a political party that actively – and perpetually – suppresses the vote of people of color and of women. It is unmasked. It is in full view. It is fascism and has no place in a multi-cultural democracy. It is no longer enough to say, “We see it.” If we stop there the cycle will once again repeat itself. The ugly face will be driven underground until if pops up as the reincarnation of The Confederacy or Jim Crow or MAGA.

We see it. Now we must ask ourselves how we translate our seeing, our self-knowledge, into responsible action. We claim to be a democracy: how do we close the gap between our rhetoric – who we claim to be – and our lived actions as translated into policy and daily practice – and into history?

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE RIVER

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Metal Monster Box [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

In every great story there are trials to be faced, especially at the thresholds. A Sphynx with a riddle. An ogre with an attitude. St. Peter with a book. Boulders that smash. Forests that come alive. Guardians of the great beyond. I thought about the trials as we crawled for hours through traffic toward the George Washington Bridge. New York did not grant us easy passage home.

The riddle must be solved. The ogre defeated. A reckoning must be made. The trials on the journey provide valuable lessons and useful tools necessary to fulfill the hero or heroine’s destiny. She plucks a single hair from the breast of the Crescent Moon Bear. It is the secret ingredient necessary to cure her husband. He enters the Grail Castle for the second time, this time with no need to pretend. They are both transformed.

The two people who drove into the city, straight into winds and sheets of rain from a tropical storm, were not the same two people who left the city. They met this trial but the story is far from over. The destiny is not yet met.

Surrounded by giant metal monsters, trapped on all sides as we followed the asphalt trail, there was no escape. There was only one way and that was through it. Ours was a lesson in patience. Ours was a lesson in presence. We-are-here-so-enjoy-this-moment. The metal monster box reinforced tools that we already possessed but too often ignore.

Enjoy this day. Appreciate this moment. Faster forward movement cannot be forced. There’s nothing gained in the metal monster box of frustration. I know patience will come in handy in the next section of our journey.

The Balinese have a phrase I’ve long appreciated: Jom Karet: it will happen when it happens.

read Kerri’s blogpost about MONSTER TRUCKS! (TRUCK MONSTERS!)

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

“We forget that the soul has its own ancestors.” ~ James Hillman

A hard day driving, made three hours longer by traffic and incessant construction, we were bleary-eyed. There has never been a time that we needed respite more than at the end of this day. In the dark of night we almost missed the driveway into the farm. It was shielded from view by the fields of corn. At the back of the property we found the little cottage that we’d booked for the night. Upon first view, illuminated by the headlights of the truck, we released all expectation of comfort.

We couldn’t have been more wrong.

Entering the cottage was like walking into a loving embrace. It was beautiful, warm and cozy. Recently renovated, it literally sparkled. We wandered through its rooms saying, “Wow!” Baskets of snacks, thick plush towels, a bedroom that seemed made for a photo shoot for Grandin Road. The Andes candy on the pillow brought Kerri to tears. “These were my mom’s favorites,” she said, holding the small chocolate as if it was a precious letter, a message from Beaky. You could almost hear her whisper:

“Rest now. Everything is exactly as it should be.”

In fact, our entire journey seemed punctuated by visitations. Pa was there when, driving into a tropical storm, the rubber seal on our windshield failed. “Gorilla tape!” we heard the command from the ethers. There was a Home Depot at the next exit.

“I think your dad has our back,” I said as we taped the broken seal, a solution good enough to get us through our journey. The torrential rain was no match for Pa’s magic fix.

Big Red, our truck with Gorilla tape on the seal, was my dad’s. His truck came to us when he could no longer drive. We’ve always thought of Big Red as his truck, not ours. After he passed, Big Red was a notorious prankster, breaking down in the middle of Kansas, stopping without reason in rush hour traffic and then starting again only when the tow truck was on the way. Once, after prepping for a trip, an oil change, new belts, and service checks, we loaded up Big Red, jumped in – and it simply refused to start. “Columbus is playing with us,” she said as we transferred the suitcases and cooler to LittleBabyScion.

“Again,” I said.

As Kerri placed the gull feather and rocks from Crab Meadow Beach in the cab of the truck she turned to me and said, “I think Columbus is finally giving us Big Red. I think Big Red is ours now.”

I felt it, too. Columbus was laughing the laugh he saved for squirt gun surprises, his famous midnight raids when I was a boy. “You’ve got this,” he smiled, “And, don’t forget to have a little fun.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about ANDES CANDY

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But If I Had [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

I’ve never taught visual art but if I had, I’d have sent my students outside to look at color in nature. I wouldn’t spend a moment having them study an abstract color wheel or match paint swatches indoors. Together we’d look at light, the angle of the sun. We’d play with shadows and discover the changing hue of shadows; they are more full of color than we want to admit.

We’d bring-to-light, uncover, unearth…we’d learn to see, a skill much more valuable to the artist than merely looking. We’d walk through the world as if for the first time. We’d share our color notes. We’d tease and be teased by a full range of morphing value as the sun played with our perception.

We’d remind ourselves that our window on this life is only open for a short while. We’d saturate ourselves in the infinity of shapes and textures, the marvel of pattern and interconnection; the riches of diversity. We’d immerse-in-the-immensity and not pretend that we were in any way separate or better-than.

We’d stave off a world insistent that we live within the narrow strictures of black and white, bland cubicles of dulled minds. I’d have sent my students outside to wander into their thicket of questions and step boldly into a world without answers but alive in rich, vibrant color.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE LEAF

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