Listen To You’re The Wind [A New Song on Not-So-Flawed Wednesday]

In our house we mark significant and auspicious dates (actually, we think all days are auspicious). Today is one of those. I never knew Kerri’s father. Her mother, Beaky, had a profound impact on my life during the 18 months that I knew her. Beaky and I united in two common causes: 1) To convince Kerri that her naturally curly hair was beautiful and to stop blowing her curls away, and 2) To convince Kerri to share with the world her music, those incredible unrecorded pieces – some of her best work – that live only in a notebook by the piano. Today is an auspicious day! It would have been Beaky and Pa’s 75 anniversary. It is also the day that Beaky gets one of her wishes  (hint: Kerri’s hair is still straight so…more work to do).

 

 

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read Kerri’s blog post about YOU’RE THE WIND

 

 

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you’re the wind ©️ 2005 kerri sherwood

 

 

 

 

Stand In A Greater Story [on not-so-flawed Wednesday]

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Three years ago today Kerri and I were married. It was the single best day of my life. We were married on 10/10 and the ceremony began at 11:11 exactly. Our friends tease that the reception started, not mysteriously, at 12:12.

The great advantage of a second marriage is that you feel no obligation to meet expectations or obey any “should-dos.” It was a blue jeans wedding. We wore black (like we do every other day of the week) and matching Frye Boots. Our ceremony was a storytelling. Kerri wrote a song for me. There were lots of hugs. A ukulele band played us out and we spontaneously skipped down the aisle just like we’d skipped out of the airport on the day we met.

At the reception (12:12 on the dot) we had a food truck serving burgers and sweet potato fries. There’s a back story to burgers and fries but I’ll save that for another day. It’s enough to note that the food truck wasn’t a random idea but part of a greater story – as with everything we planned for our passage ritual into togetherness. We had Yamaha’s daisy cupcakes and MaryKay’s brownies. We had hula-hoops and kick balls. We danced until after dark and moved to the beach for a bonfire. So many special people came from all over the country to celebrate with us. A legion of friends and family helped us make it happen; our wedding was (and still is) the love equivalent of a barn raising.

A greater story. Second chances do happen. Broken roads sometimes lead to vibrant gardens rich with lessons, endless appreciation of the small things, and a sense of utter amazement that this is where life brought me. Brought us. I was wrong to write that 10/10/15 was the best day of my life. In truth, it marked the source of a river of best days. Each an anniversary, a day of life in the story of ‘us,’ a greater story.

 

read Kerri’s blog post about FRYE BOOTS ON A RED CARPET

 

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Appraise It [on Flawed Wednesday]

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The first time we visited Hippie Tom’s Serendipity Farm, Kerri said, “It’s like being inside someone’s disease.” The farm is a hoarder’s dream. Stuff piled upon stuff. Stuff packed into corners, hung from rafters, tucked under shelves. Most of the stuff is exposed to the heat and cold, rain and snow. Having the stuff is more important than the caring for the stuff, a 3-D philosophical statement. Certainly there are treasures to be found, curiosities that are heartier than the mildew and rust or perhaps have not yet been on the farm for a cycle of seasons.

In the barn there is a room for chairs. Chairs stacked to the ceiling though I use the term ‘stacked” loosely. Piled, perhaps. It reminds me a scene post tsunami, what remains after the waters have retreated. The artifacts of lives-now-gone. It would be a brilliant set for a play, metaphors abound. The sickness of acquisition. Or, perhaps it is not sickness so much as the inevitable destination of stuff after the story connection is lost.

The power of story. The value is never in the stuff, it is in the shared narrative invested into it. A diamond has no value without people to appraise it.

Once, I visited Georgia O’Keeffe’s home and studio in Abiquiu, New Mexico. It was spartan. And I loved it. A few chairs. And, oh-my-god the paintings. The view and vibrant connection to the natural world. It was like being inside someone’s happiness. So many years after her passing it felt alive – a place of life. That’s my appraisal.

Hippie Tom loves his farm, I’m sure. As for me, I think I’d rather walk the path with Georgia. Less stuff. More life.

 

read Kerri’s blog post about STUFF

 

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Look For The Exit [on Flawed Wednesday]

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Two decades ago, living in Los Angeles, on a beautiful crystal clear morning, I walked to the corner market to buy a Sunday newspaper and milk for coffee. With my milk and newspaper in hand, I circled the store pretending to shop with the rest of my fellow shoppers. We delayed checking out because another customer, enraged, was having a heated argument with the cashier.  We were afraid and unwilling to step in the way of an escalating confrontation. When the angry man slapped the counter, the rest of us – the entire group of shoppers – spontaneously hit the deck. We thought it was a gun shot. Laying on the tile floor looking at the panicked faces, I had a realization. I must be afraid all of the time; low-grade fear. Gun violence was so prevalent that it was my first thought, my first expectation, not the last.  And then, the most remarkable thing happened. We slowly stood up, brushed ourselves off, picked up our items from the floor and put them back into our baskets – and never said a word to each other. We paid for our purchases. We pretended it didn’t happen. Fear is like that.

“California is ten years ahead of the rest of the nation.” At the time I heard this sentiment often. “If it’s happening here it will be happening in the rest of the nation within a decade.”

I am now twenty years beyond my corner market floor dive. I routinely look for the exits when I enter a movie theatre. We avoided attending open air concerts after Las Vegas. School shootings and workplace massacres are more common than not. There is training offered by experts on what to do if you are caught in a mass shooting. The palaver rolling out of Congress is like a dusty old play. We know the script and it goes nowhere.

“There’s been another one,” we say and shake our heads, upset that a few weeks ago we’d walked the street where the latest young man was killed. He was going to the store. A student who needed to buy hangers. “It could have been us.” And, so, once again, we pick ourselves up, brush ourselves off, put the items of our day back into our basket, realizing, not too late, that it did happen. It is happening to us.

 

read Kerri’s blog post about ROGER’S PARK