Align With The Dream [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Even in its decline it is beautiful. A day lily rendered prematurely old by the storms that met its blossoming. Lately, much of what captivates me is the revelation of the support structure: the fibers that give shape to the petals and leaves. They are as aesthetically pleasing as they are functionally necessary.

If you are like me, you are both surprised and not-at-all surprised at the support structure that has become visible in our national decline. The racism, the misogyny, the xenophobia exposed by the current administration and their white-male-supremacy is not an anomaly; it is a norm. Unlike the day lily, this fibrous framework is ugly.

Currently there are several books hot off the presses and even more podcast pundits outlining a plan for what we must do to make sure this never happens again. I’ve yet to read them. I hope they are filled with good ideas and even better strategies for strengthening our democracy and eliminating once and for all the potential for authoritarian takeover by the monied elite who, let’s be frank, desire the return of indentured servitude and a slave class. Superiority needs inferiority. One need only look at the Epstein Class, read Project 2025, or listen for 10 minutes to fox news to see the machinery. Freedom and justice for all is nowhere to be found in their playbook.

Systems do what they are designed to do:

The fibers of the plant reach through the stems and uplift the petal to drink in the sun. The color attracts bees and insects to spread pollen, to spread life.

Our system, as we are seeing clearly, was designed to divide. Our founders, in their division design, unwittingly laid the groundwork for our demise – unless, of course, we are capable in this moment of full exposure to transcend our design. We must answer once and for all who we mean when we say, “We the people.” Do we mean everyone? Do we mean a select few?

We have bumbled along through history attempting to have it both ways. We have repeated this cycle over and over again. If, when we say, “We the people,” we mean everyone, then an entirely new and bold structure is called for, as divergent from our current framework as an the skeletal structure of an adult differs from that of a child. A bone structure that develops into maturity.

We are, in this analogy, as is evident in the current administration, a Peter Pan nation, resistant to reality and afraid of growing up.

The cross-purpose was baked into our nation’s foundation, declaring all men are created equal while simultaneously legislating that black Americans were only 3/5ths human, that voting is a privilege extended to white-male-landholders while proudly declaring “freedom and justice for all”. It is a polarization structure that guarantees the continued algae bloom cycle of attempted autocratic takeover. It’s predictable. It is structural. It is schizophrenic.

It’s not enough to vote blue in the midterms. It’s way past time that we looked in the mirror of our history and dealt honestly with the dysfunctional structure that produces division, exactly as it was designed to produce. Superiority for the few requires a structure that guarantees inequality for the majority; inferiority-by-design. Equality demands a structure that fosters equality.

No system can endure when serving cross-purposes.

Equality is built on an entirely different armature, as beautiful as it is functionally necessary. We know how to do it. It remains to be seen if we – as a diverse community – have the will to align with the dream of equality, the dream of democracy for all that we espouse.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE DAY LILY

likesharecommentsupportthankyou!

Hand It To Chance [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“Mark the mark on purpose, hand it to chance, and see what comes back.” ~ Nicholas Wilton

Quinn always said, “Cultivate your serendipity.” Allow luck to greet your ability. Or, as I am learning again (and again and again…), to grow, ability needs to let go of control.

The final lesson learned by a performer, perhaps the hardest lesson of all, is to let go of the work. All of the rehearsal, all of the study, all of the repetition, the preparation, the quest for perfection…needs one final action to fulfill itself: the performer has to get out of the way. Hand the good work to chance. Let it go.

After weeks and weeks of research, she chose the peony that she wanted to plant. The root arrived with specific instructions. She chose the best spot in the garden and the right day in the right season and planted the root at the right depth facing the right direction. And then she waited for spring. She fretted the prescribed amount, no more, no less.

The little green stem broke through the earth and seemed to stall. She studied appropriate amounts of water, she studied angles of the sun and questioned her planting placement. We put up a tiny fence to protect the tender shoot from critters and our Dogga who digs. I believe, although I do not know this for a fact, I believe she offered daily prayers to the peony-powers-of-the-universe. Her little stem, like the little engine that could, struggled and produced one tiny blossom.

She studied when and how much to cut back her peony, what to do over the winter months – namely, nothing – but sometimes arriving at nothing requires copious amounts of study. At some point, feeling as if there was nothing left to be done, nothing left to investigate, somewhere between the dark of winter and the return of the light, she surrendered. She gave over. The little peony was on its own.

Ability met luck. A wet spring with warmer than usual days had peonies a-poppin’! The little stem returned with some serious chutzpah, producing not one but many vibrant beautiful blossoms. It now stands in our canon as the single most photographed peony plant in our entire peony history. “I can’t stop taking photographs,” she said, “It’s so amazing!”

And, so it is. A performer’s lesson as played in the garden. And just look what came back!

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PEONY

likesharecommentsubscribethankyou!

The Third Line [David’s blog on Flawed Wednesday]

Our first guess, a Yellow Breasted Bunting, was inaccurate. It was an American Goldfinch. Our honest mistake did not short circuit a haiku.

Seven syllables, the second line of a haiku: A Yellow Breasted Bunting. What might be the first line of this haiku? A shock of color? Harbinger alights? An Omen arrives? What reconciliation or insight might this omen-Bunting bring to the third line? The messenger sings? Chirping the future?

An omen arrives/ A Yellow Breasted Bunting/The messenger sings.

All of this ran through my mind after scrubbing out the birdbath, refilling it with fresh water, only to find a few moments later a shock of feathered yellow perched on the rim preparing for a swim. The fourth line of my haiku, if such a thing existed, would be: Gratification. Or “pure bliss”. Or perhaps, “The oracle takes a bath”.

Canary in the coal mine. Their song an early warning system.

Maya Angelou wrote, “I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings”. The song of the caged bird is one of hope in the face of oppression. The song of a bird yearning to be free.

And what is the message of a mistaken Yellow Breasted Bunting/American Goldfinch perched on the rim of a newly refreshed birdbath? A new beginning perhaps? A fresh start? The necessity of chirping from the heart?

Or, perhaps, it wasn’t a messenger at all! Perhaps it was just an American Goldfinch, not an oracle, who simply stopped in to take a cool bath and sing.

American gold/finch, not oracle or seer/Singing just because.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE GOLDFINCH

birdwatching@www.kerrianddavid.com

likesharecommentsupportthankyou!

In It [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“As we grow older, we often cling to our past achievements or rigid ideas of who we are. True contentment comes when we release this need to be a “finished product”. ~ Pema Chödrön

Late at night, not able to sleep, I bumbled upon a Sounds True interview with Pema Chödrön. She shared her thoughts about the gifts available in aging. Slowing down and spaciousness ran through her comments. I found myself deeply grateful for Kerri since I doubt, if left to my own devices, I would have slowed down or learned to watch the birds. I would never have left the studio. It’s taken a Herculean effort on her part to help me “gear down”.

It’s not like I haven’t had teachers and mentors drop out of the sky to guide and help me live a less obsessive life. In Bali a man working his fields saw me walking in the American style – as if I had an urgent destination – and he joined me. We did not share a common language so without a word being spoken he helped me slow down. He helped me learn to breathe and walk in the world, not through it.

Dive master Terri taught me the same lesson. For him, diving was a meditation. Learning to dive was about learning to get neutral. Not to swim through the water but to be in it. To be it. To let it hold me. Only then could I see.

There were many, many brilliant teachers who crossed my path, each bringing to me a variation of the same lesson. Slow down. See. And, although I understood – and believed in – the repeated lesson, I had difficulty incorporating it. It was uncomfortable. It ran against the Puritan upbringing that tied my worth to my achievements. Achieve more = worth more.

It’s quite the conundrum to sacrifice self-worth for presence. Perhaps tossing away rigid value measurements is one of the gifts of growing older. Isn’t it true that, at the end of the day, the most treasured moments of life are about relationship and rarely about achievements? I’ve racked up many, many achievements, as Quinn would say, “Yet another certificate on my wall of respect,” but none of them are as precious as a phone call with a friend, a morning belly-belly with Dogga, a slow walk with Kerri. White wine on the back deck, Dogga asleep in the shade, a hummingbird at the feeder. In it. See it.

It is uncomfortable to slow down in a culture that values the race. It is uncomfortable to seek substance in a culture obsessed with appearances.

When I read this quote from Pema Chödrön I laughed. For me it is profoundly true:

“The interesting thing is that the more willing you are to step out of your comfort zone, the more comfortable you feel in your life.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about WHITE WINE

likesharecommentsupportthankyou!

A Growing Up [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“The role of the artist is exactly the same as the role of the lover. If I love you, I have to make you conscious of the things you don’t see.” ~ James Baldwin

It’s always been dangerous to be a jester. It’s akin to working on electrical lines in the rain. Rarely does power like to be contradicted or hear the truth or be the target of a joke – but it is never-the-less the role of the comedian, the artist, to strip away the illusion. To tease forward the truth. Throughout time despots have tried in vain to silence the voice of the jester, the song of the composer, the vision of the painter. Hitler. Pol Pot. Stalin. Kim Jong Un. And now? Sadly, we have produced one of our own. Take heart: artists are servants of love while despots are prisoners of rage, and, in the end, love is always bigger than hate. It is possible for a period of time to silence the individual artist but the love of truth always transcends the volcano of hate. “Truth will out.” (William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice)

Stephen Colbert and Jimmy Kimmel will be making us laugh long after this rage has burned itself out.

A truth? Our nation, my nation, refuses to grow up. It turns its back on its history. It runs from its shadow. It is like the spouse of an alcoholic pretending that all is good. It is akin to a parent who abuses a teacher who dared give their child a well-deserved failing grade. Appearance is all.

Love is substance.

Proof of our Peter Pan nation lives in the White House. He has surrounded himself with a band of lost boy pirates. The despot-wanna-be is not an aberration, he and his pirates are the ultimate expression of entrenched immaturity. They are boys who swear the dog ate their homework, responsible for nothing, responsible to no one. They do not care to compete, earn or work for betterment yet desire every trophy for their shelf. They gild themselves like the ballroom. They celebrate the vapid and court superficiality. They somehow believe 19th century nonsense that whiteness makes the man. They build their clubhouse high in a tree and post a sign: No Gurls Aloud! Their skins are thin, their intentions self-serving.

It is why artists are such a threat. They see the childishness and make fun of the lost boys vapid antics.

In such an immature playpen, there is no love, there is no capacity for love: only a competition for toys. “Mine, mine, mine!”

“Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.” ~ James Baldwin

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART LEAF

likesharecommentsupportthankyou!

Certain Distinctions [David’s blog on Flawed Wednesday]

There are certain distinctions that, although simple, reveal all you need to know. For instance, we sprinkle birdseed on the top of Barney-the-piano because we enjoy watching the birds. On the other hand, my maga-neighbor maintains a bird bath near a feeder, positioned low to the ground, to lure birds as bait for his cat. I am disgusted by his cruelty. He is disgusted by my empathy.

This is an irreconcilable difference. It is also a good shorthand metaphor for the contrast between maga and woke.

I visit this contrast every day as I try to understand the news-of-the-day. There can be no other explanation for the horrors of ICE, for the protection of the Epstein Class, for the bombing of fishing boats, for the dismantling of USAID, the incessant lies, the tax breaks for billionaires at the expense of Medicaid, SNAP and affordable healthcare…than this: cruelty is the republican drug. Like my neighbor who snickers every time his cat kills a bird, this confederacy of dunces gets a high with every atrocity.

And, to be clear, they are disgusted by democratic-woke-empathy just as we are disgusted by their maga-cruelty.

Here’s the problem: democracies are by their nature and definition empathetic. A government of, by and for the people is predicated upon the care and concern of elected leaders for their constituents. Service to the betterment of others. A capitalist republic such as ours cannot last when cruelty is in the driver’s seat. It collapses when elected leaders prioritize personal gain above the needs of the people they were elected to serve.

Autocracies, by definition, thrive upon the exploitation of the many for the benefit of the few. No brutality is too malicious. They applaud the “double-tap,” they cheer their leader’s swagger-brag that”A whole civilization will die tonight.” They protect the pedophiles and turn their backs on the victims.

It’s an irreconcilable difference. If you remain confused about what you believe. all you need do is ask yourself, “What is my reason for feeding the birds?” And then vote for what you believe.

read Kerri’s blogpost about BIRDS

likesharecommentsupportthankyou

Blue Blue Blue [David’s blog on Flawed Wednesday]

“The GOP is no longer made up of conservatives. It’s now wholly made up of (white) nationalists.” ~ Adam Kinzinger

“A one party system is authoritarianism.” ~ Heather Cox Richardson

If you are like me you spend a good part of the day looking to the sky for an explanation or some sense to be made of the madness plaguing our country. And, if you are like me, there is none to be found. Take this for example: the House Speaker in Alabama just called for a repeal of the 14th Amendment to the Constitution. Apparently equal protection under the law for all citizens is anathema to the Alabama GOP. They would rather go back in time and deprive “certain citizens” of life, liberty, property and due process. Those “certain citizens” are of course, black.

What is the matter with these people? Look to the sky for answers! Nowhere on earth is there sense to be found for the Alabama GOP’s desire to return to life before the Civil War (read: a return to slavery and a world in which only white male landowners have the right to vote).

Here’s another example of the priorities of the modern GOP: “As of March 2026, the Ohio House passed House Bill 249, the “Indecent Exposure Modernization Act,” which aims to restrict “adult cabaret performances” in public spaces, defined in part by clothing choices.” It essentially polices what people wear. If it passes the state senate, a woman could be arrested for wearing a sports bra or going braless. Kerri could be arrested for wearing her flannel shirt because it might be deemed too masculine for a woman.

I’m not kidding. Their national priorities include a ballroom, mass deportation of any person of color, and an assault on voting rights. The end of women’s rights. And a tax cut for billionaires. And the elimination of healthcare and the social safety net. And the protection of wealthy pedophiles from prosecution.

The sky is not big enough to explain such malfeasance.

Perhaps it is way past time to look to the sky for answers and we need to begin looking at each other. This modern GOP is less interested in protecting our rights than they are in stripping rights from us. They want to control the news, academia (what we learn or do not learn), what we wear, who can and cannot vote, who has rights under the law and who does not. They want politicians to choose their voters because they fear what will happen if, as is meant to happen in a democracy, voters choose their politicians.

Our choice in November now has little to do with democrats or republicans. It is not about policy choices. It is whether or not we will return to life in a democracy, if we will have representatives – that is, people elected to government that serve the will of the people rather than being exploited by the whims of a dictator and his enablers. The past year and a half has given us a glimpse into life in an authoritarian state.

There is no help or advice coming from the blue blue sky. We are our last, best chance. The only path forward, the only escape from authoritarian red, no matter where you live or how gerrymandered your district, is to vote blue blue blue.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SKY

likesharecommentsupportthankyou

A Sacred Thing [David’s blog on Flawed Wednesday]

I learned a new term that I wish I could unlearn. Sacrifice zone. Here’s the wikipedia definition: A sacrifice zone is a heavily polluted or environmentally degraded geographic area, often residential, where residents—typically low-income or minority communities—suffer severe health risks due to proximity to industrial, mining, or military sites. These “throw-away” communities are deemed acceptable losses for economic development or national industrial needs, resulting in high cancer risks and respiratory diseases.

I learned my new term from a documentary film, GASLIT, that we saw at The Downer Theater as part of The Milwaukee Film Festival. After the movie we had to take a walk. We were so disturbed, so out of body, that it was not yet safe for us to drive. The film encapsulates everything that I feel is wrong with my nation and the world: To justify personal gain, one group of people determines that another group of people are disposable; less than human.

Herein lies the cautionary tale. Watch the film and you will be astounded to learn of the amount of methane being dumped into our atmosphere everyday. You will see the wasteland, the environmental devastation created by the toxins pouring from the refineries. They not only kill people. They kill everything with an impulse to life. Plants. Rivers. Animals. Air. Play the story to its natural conclusion and the earth becomes one big all-inclusive sacrifice zone. We are, all of us – even the morbidly wealthy who’ve determined that a community of human beings is worth throwing away for profit – are rendering themselves throw-aways.

Scientists are screaming. Cash registers are ringing.

In feudal times a black plague ravaged the land. The aristocracy locked themselves in castles as protection against the riff-raff believing their privilege would save them. As it turns out privilege is an illusion in the face of a plague or famine or a hurricane. Stacks of cash are lousy protection against tornadoes and floods and forest fires. The methane trapping the heat in our atmosphere does not discriminate. Climate change is a pleasant term for something wildly unpleasant. It is a trick of language, similar to other phrases, like sacrifice zone or cancer alley or throw-away communities, to sanitize or minimize the horror unleashed when a dollar bill is placed higher in value than a human life.

It is a sickness, a mental-plague that runs amok through human history. What might it take for us to actually realize that life is a sacred thing that is far more precious than profit?

***

Bonus: Keep in mind that the Supreme Court just gutted the Voters Rights Act that guaranteed fair representation of minority communities. They determined that it was no longer necessary. Might I suggest that the Supremes leave their protected fortress and live for a year or two in a sacrifice zone? Perhaps they should drink the water in cancer alley. Perhaps they would learn what actually happens to a community when it has little or no fair representation. Perhaps they would learn how far we actually are from realizing the promise of equal rights or justice-for-all. Or, perhaps they already know and are giddy with the power to determine who is worth constitutional protection and who is easily thrown away.

read Kerri’s blogpost about GASLIT

sharelikecommentsupportthankyou

Tender Of The Garden [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

A week ago they were nowhere to be found. This week the peonies are poppin’! Kerri is the guardian of the peonies, the tender-of-the-garden.

My job is to clean out and prepare the beds for new growth. I love it. It is a possible analogy for what my work in the world has always been. Working with student actors or business-folk sometimes felt like clearing the thought-debris that choked their belief. Once the debris was cleared there was no stopping them. Nothing but potential. Peonies-a-poppin’! I loved it.

I usually wait until May to clean out and reset the pond but last week I had an overwhelming desire to DO IT NOW. It was the single warm day in a week of miserable weather. Before I knew it I’d pumped out the old water, removed the leaves and sticks, scrubbed and checked the liner, completely cleaned and restored the filters and the pump, and was refilling the pond with clear water. The fountain gurgled to life. It sounds like a bubbling brook. It is a sound that soothes us.

“So, today’s the day,” she said.

“Today’s the day.” She spied me eyeing the grasses and flower beds. She knows me. Once an impulse takes over I can be, well, obsessive.

“Too soon.” She said. “It’s too soon.” She pulled chairs into the sun so we might sit and watch the pond refill. She knows that if she can get me to sit in the sun and break the momentum then the impulse will abate. My obsession makes her nervous so she’s become expert at tempering my mania.

It occurs to me that she is clearing my heart and mind of debris. It is true, I am easier in the world. She is, after all, the guardian of the peonies, the tender of the garden.

read Kerri’s blogpost about PEONIES

likesharecommentsupportthankyou

The Simplest of Actions [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Every morning we have a ritual opening of the blinds. Each evening we have a ritual closing of the blinds. Most people would not call these routine actions “rituals” but I want to see them as such. I want to acknowledge the moment that we open our house to the light; it is the act of letting the world in. I want to appreciate the moment we decide to close out the world. The action is carried in the blinds. It’s a rhythm of life similar to the tides.

Our opening-of-the-blinds often corresponds to sunrise. Dogga is our chief priest of the coming day. He alerts us to the impending first rays of the light. We open the blinds, sip coffee, listen to the birdsong and watch the sunrise. I learned long ago that if I understand my actions as ritualistic, I would pay conscious attention. I would be less likely to reduce my moments to the ordinary. In my ritual of opening the blinds, letting in the light, I am aware that this day is unique, I have no idea what’s coming. I have never lived a day quite like this before. Open the blinds to surprise.

The same is true at the end of the day. The ritual of closing the blinds serves as a retreat to sanctuary. The darkness descends. “Are you ready?” she asks. I nod. I am ready to withdraw and retire. We close the blinds with gratitude.

Surprise and gratitude. Beginning and ending. I adore the cycles that punctuate our day. I’ve come to understand my appreciation of ritual as something that grounds me. I think this is true of all rituals; they ground us. They need not be religious yet they can’t help but elevate the ordinary to the sacred. The sacred is often nothing more-or-less than paying attention. Open the blinds. Welcome the unknown. Close the blinds. Appreciation for all that transpired.

Opening the blinds. Closing the blinds. Learning again and again that the littlest things, attention paid to even the simplest of actions, matter.

read Kerri’s blog about BLINDS

likesharecommentsupportthankyou