Making and Unmaking [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Barney-the-backyard-piano is disintegrating. His shiny facade has long since faded and now peels away, revealing the underlying layers. Those, too, are fragmenting. The textures of a lifetime exposed and made beautiful in contrast. The story of his making fully revealed in his unmaking.

We spread birdseed on Barney’s lid so he plays host to the black-capped chickadees and cardinals. The squirrels sun themselves on his disintegrating keyboard. His keys are almost unrecognizable, a comment my grandmother once made about her hands. “Almost unrecognizable,” she said and laughed, holding her hands to the light. She marveled at her translucence.

On a rare day of warmth, we sat in front of Barney in black plastic Adirondack chairs soaking in the winter sun. Dogga circled the yard barking at the gusts of wind. “This will carry us a long way,” I said, feeling the warmth reach all the way to my bones. She nodded. There is certainly more winter to come.

I closed my eyes and was suddenly lost in thought about the tears-in the-rain monologue: “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe…All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.” Someday I will hold my hand up to the light and marvel at the story of my making revealed in my unmaking.

PEACE on the album AS IT IS © 2004 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about BARNEY

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Once Again Walk [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

What is the truth of it? It is the question of our times, isn’t it?

We walked this path through our beloved Bristol woods a million times in the past. Always in the daylight. Rarely at sunset. Since they built a ropes course that cut through a significant portion of the woods, a course that draws rowdy crowds, we stopped hiking there. Too many people. Too much noise. We walk our trails to get away from the chaos. We mourned it.

A candlelight Valentine hike enticed us to return to our woods. We signed up for the latest possible slot, knowing there would be less people later at night. We almost didn’t go. We felt exhausted from the day. We ran through our list of reasons why we should stay home but rallied, tied on our boots, and drove to the woods.

The Pringle Center at the head of the trail was buzzing with activity. People who’d finished their trail walk made valentines, ate cookies and drank hot tea. We passed through long enough to check-in and then stepped into the quiet of the night.

The muscle memory was surprising. I believe we could have walked the path blindfolded. The trail was like an old friend celebrating our return with luminaria. It was as if we easily picked up a conversation after years of absence, as if no time had elapsed. Our feet knew where to go.

There was no hurry. We lingered. We stopped and gazed at the stars. We listened for deer. We had time to walk a second loop. We were the last to leave the trail.

We sorted through many of life’s trials and tribulations walking this path through Bristol Woods. We’ve made significant life decisions on this trail. We often began our walks with troubled hearts and left the woods with quiet minds, ready to live another day. On this night, the eve of my 65th birthday, walking our second loop, all alone, the last people on the trail, we talked of what we are learning as we age, what illusions we are no longer chasing, what simple abundance we find ourselves embracing, what freedoms we find as we put our lives into perspective. We talked of gratitude for each other and reveled in the opportunity to once again walk in quiet through our Bristol woods.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE WOODS

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To Be Home [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Until I was 52 years old I did not know what the word “home” meant. I understood it abstractly, as an intellectual concept, as a hypothetical place of belonging…I just did not know what it felt like to be home. I was a wanderer.

I remember a moment, many years ago, when my pal Robert gave me some wise cautionary advice. I was footloose and flirting with a woman. He said, “Be careful. You don’t get involved with a woman like her unless you are ready to settle down.” I thought his caution was about the woman but later realized his wise words had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me. My friend knew me. I was restless. A wanderer.

There is more to the word “home” than a pin in a map. Google can give me directions to a location but can never show me the way home.

Home is the way Kerri and I start each day. It is different than the way others start their day, recognizable only to us and Dogga. Home is the tiny generosities that we offer each other, unique to us, unlike the considerations others offer their significant other. Home is knowing what she is feeling before she does. Home is sensing where she is in the house or in the world even when I cannot see her.

Home is knowing that she reads my mind and not minding.

I knew I was home the moment we met. I knew I was home when home had nothing at all to do with settling. I knew I was home when my wandering had a clear direction, a daily destination, a vibrant space between us that only we are capable of creating, a space that Google Maps or AI is incapable of finding or replicating or pinning down.

I now know what it feels like to be home and that feeling travels where ever we decide to wander.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE MAP

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Two Sacred Objects [David’s blog on KS Friday]

There are two sacred objects in the life of Dogga: snowman and candy cane. Both are cheap plastic squeaky toys that he carries from place to place, repositioning them throughout the day. His ultimate safe spot, the most sacred space for his most sacred objects, is in Kerri’s studio, either beneath or positioned close to her piano.

I believe her studio has become his sacred place because it is her sacred place. Her piano is her most sacred object. When she enters the room and plays he always joins her. He walks loops beneath the piano. The Dog Whisperer says that dogs are human-energy-readers and I think it is true. Kerri’s aura changes when she plays her piano. When she plays her energy brightens; it becomes pure. Dogga senses that. He sees it. Is it any wonder that he would bring his sacred objects into this sacred place?

Yesterday she sat down to play. I heard the clackety-clack of Dogga’s nails on the wooden floor as he scooped up his snowman and headed for the studio. I stopped what I was doing and literally absorbed the profound beauty of the moment. A pure moment. Two sacred objects, piano and snowman, brought together by the love shared between two sacred beings.

LEGACY on the album RELEASED FROM THE HEART © 1995 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about PIANO AND SNOWMAN

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Join The Work [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

We’ve had more snow in the past two months than in the past three years. I am getting reacquainted with my snow shovel who, I imagine, is delighted to finally have some actual purpose in life. My shovel is not old enough for retirement and would rather work than play golf.

I just personified my snow shovel.

I also just betrayed a bit of insight into myself. I would rather work than retire so I’ve projected that onto my shovel. That is how projection works.

It’s an easy leap for my brain to make and I know the same is true for all of you out there. Personifying a snow shovel is only slightly different than investing in a conspiracy theory or embracing a big lie despite an overabundance of facts. Personifying my snow shovel is less destructive than storming the Capitol.

Personifying my snow shovel is all for fun and is far less ruinous than gulping an obvious misdirection narrative that claims poor-Black-women-are-taking-your-tax-dollars, all the while the wealth of the nation is actually, factually, picked out of the pockets of the middle and lower classes and stuffed into fewer and fewer morbidly wealthy pockets. Robbing Medicaid to fund a massive tax break for the already-wealthy is how an oligarchy is created.

I know I am personifying my snow shovel, I know I am projecting and playing make-believe. Can the same be said for maga-nation or all the AWOL republicans out there? And, of course, their projection onto we-the-woke is that we are trying to destroy democracy. They betray a bit of themselves. That’s the way projection works.

It’s also worth noting that my newly personified snow shovel is equally adept at clearing paths through heaps of bullsh*t as it is mounds of snow. I know the same is true for most of you out there. Every time you clear a path through the lies or shovel out the inanity, you give me hope. It’s how a democracy is restored. You inspire me to grab my shovel and join the work.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SNOW

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Push A Limit [David’s blog on KS Friday]

In one of the more absurd chapters of my life I was awarded a full-ride scholarship to a graduate program in costuming. As an undergraduate student in the theatre with a focus on acting and directing I’d spent a goodly amount of time in costume shops, sewing buttons, repairing shoes, badly hemming pants. It is fair to say that anything that involves fabric makes little to no sense to me. Many dear and patient costumers kept me busy during my required costume hours with tasks that I could not bungle. They found my level of competence (very low) and helped me succeed there.

My capacity to draw opened the door of costume absurdity. While interning at The Walden Theatre in Louisville, Kentucky, the director cast me as Oberon in a production of A Mid Summer Night’s Dream. She also asked me to design the costumes. She’d seen my drawings. I was delighted and drew characters with absolutely no idea whether or not my drawings could be translated into actual garments that people could wear. The very gifted head of the costume shop recognized my vast limitations and gently helped me make fabric decisions. I learned the art of the question from her. She knew what was best – and I knew nothing at all – so her questions were precise with the correct answer baked into the framing of the question.

One day a man came to audition actors for a graduate program. The audition room was lined with my costume designs. After the auditions he found me and asked me to interview with the tech faculty of the university. It was a crazy idea, a wild hare, but I did it anyway. At the time my ship had no rudder and there was nothing on my horizon following my internship. Plus, I believed there was no way, given my very very low costume competence, that they’d offer me a spot. But they did. And I accepted.

When Kerri resurrected her box of clothes-patterns it surfaced my long forgotten time in graduate school as a costume designer. I could draw and design everything. I couldn’t construct anything. More than once I reduced my professors to tears of laughing-disbelief at my attempts to sew. More than once I stopped them in their tracks with my capacity to imagine and paint. I began that year believing I was on the wrong path – I knew I was never going to be a costume designer – and I ended the year having learned that there is no such thing as a wrong path. Those good people, the incredible artists that surrounded me each day, helped me see and embrace my gifts. They helped me laugh at my foibles. They helped me understand the great creative power – and necessity – of pushing on a limit and stepping into an unknown. They helped me find my way.

LEGACY on the album RELEASED FROM THE HEART © 1995 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PATTERNS

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Even To The Point [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

I lay awake last night and listened to the chimes. They are a great source of comfort to me. There is something eternal in their sound which calms my busy mind. Guy gifted the chimes to us and I wonder if he knows what a enormous gift he gave to us: a soothing sound, a calm mind. In the warm months I sit close to them because I can feel the sound.

The earring stand belonged to Kerri’s mother. It stands on her dresser with a stuffed gingham heart at the base. Sometimes wandering through antique malls I am overwhelmed. The “things” have lost any connection to their storyteller, to the person who used them each day, and so are reduced to merely objects. Their value is no longer in their story but in their stuff-ness. The earring stand inspires a story, evokes a memory.

We’re slowly going through our stuff. There are piles in the basement. Each item in every pile has a story. The stories requires us to move slowly, deliberately. Sometimes the story requires us to hold on. Sometimes the story requires us to move it out as soon as possible. Sometimes the story has run its course and it’s time for us to move on. We need to break the connection. Sometimes we find pieces that we know would be meaningful to others, connections to lost loved ones or to long-ago cherished places. We box and ship these surprises, facilitating a re-union.

When my dad passed I wanted a few of of his shot glasses. He kept a collection, a shot-glass record of his travels and of ours since we always brought home a new addition to add to his collection. They were on shelves all over the house. They lined the mantel. My few shot glasses are prized possessions. If we had to pare down our world to the bare minimum the shot glasses would make the cut. Someday they will likely end up in an antique mall. People will see them as stuff, mere objects, and I suppose that is okay. The connection, the story, will disappear with me when I go. It will be lost to others because the connection is within me, I carry it, not the shot glasses.

That micro-revelation is the gift of cleaning out the house: I am – we are – keepers of connection. We are story collectors. Story weavers. Our possessions ring through us like the wind through the chimes, making us resonate with all that we hold dear, memories that define us even to the point of needing to let them go.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE EARRING STAND

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Our Way Home [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

I bought the chair in the early 1980’s in a mountain town. It was the very first piece of furniture I purchased. I don’t remember the details except how odd it was that I was buying a chair. I was more-or-less a gypsy and moving a chair to-and-fro was out of character. It was an antique, mission style with a cane back though the caning had an imperfection, a slight tear. Even though it made no sense I had to have it.

It became my studio rocking chair. It was a fixture in every studio I’ve occupied – and there have been many – positioned directly across from my easel. I’ve spent countless hours of my life rocking in that chair, staring at works-in-progress.

It was the only piece of furniture in the truck when we closed my studio in Seattle for the move to Wisconsin. Paintings. Clothes. My easel. The chair. I had another rocker in my Seattle studio but gave it to PaTan. Her studio was across the hall from mine.

In Kenosha, my studio is in the basement of our nearly 100 year old house. One night last year, in the middle of the night, a water pipe broke directly above my chair. My hardcover sketchbook was on the seat of my rocker. By the time we heard the waterfall in the basement, the next morning, the sketchbook was literally mush. The original straw stuffing in the seat, older than our house, was sodden and ruined. The force of the water blew out the caning in the back.

At first it felt like a gut punch. We salvaged the pieces, storing them in a corner so we could clean up the mess and decide what to do. The chair sat in the corner for a year before I knew it was time to let it go. Someone out there, with the right skills, could properly repair it and bring it back to life. They would love it back into existence. I would open space, let go of the old and welcome in a new era.

When we brought the pieces upstairs to photograph, Kerri found the stamp from the original maker. It stopped us in our tracks. The chair was was made in Wisconsin, just up the road from where we live. It had traveled with me all of my adult life from Colorado to California to Seattle and places in between. And, in the end I was startled to discover that I’d brought it home – just as now I believe – it brought me home.

It makes sense why that younger version of myself had to have it. That chair understood my destiny and somehow knew that sooner or later, together, we’d rock our way across the country and, someday, find our way home.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CHAIR

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For Every Little Thing [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

If you came to our house over the holidays you’d find trees, trees, trees everywhere. Trees of all shapes and sizes. Some wrapped in lights. Some adorned by a single silver ornament. Some without adornment of any kind. The outside invited inside. Until recently, when we moved it to the back deck, a large tree-sized branch wrapped in happy lights dominated our living room, 24/7, 365 days a year.

It should not then come as a surprise that last year we moved the aging wooden glider from the deck into the living room. It now sports fuzzy white pillows. Dogga knows that when we say, “Let’s go to Minturn!” it means we are headed for the glider. He meets us there.

Our most recent outside-in addition is the chiminea. It was a wedding present and over the past decade we’ve loved it and used it often. Sitting on the deck one night this past summer, Kerri was eyeing the chiminea. “What?” I asked.

“In the fall, when the weather turns cold, I think we should move it inside,” she said.

And, so, we did. The chiminea now lives in our sun room with a plant sitting atop the chimney. Happy lights pop on within the burn chamber at sunset. Each evening at snack-time we sit at our bistro table and enjoy the warmth of the light glowing from within the natural clay.

20 recently said, ‘I hope you two appreciate each other.” We laughed and reassured him, we literally recounted for him, the many ways that we, each-and-every-day, express our appreciation for each other. She thanks me for making breakfast. I thank her for washing our clothes. We have, in our past lives, taken for granted the daily kindnesses that others offered us and that we offered to others. We’d somehow allowed the myriad tiny-generosities of our past relationships to lapse into the mundane. We learned from our mistake.

In this, life’s second chance, we take advantage of every opportunity to express our appreciation.

In fact, the idea behind our Minturn, the force that brought the chiminea inside, is the creation of opportunities for appreciation. They are spaces we create, places we stop so we can sit solidly in the moment, sharing a simple snack of bread and cheese, sipping a glass of wine, and feeling the full abundance of our lives. And, the greatest abundance of all is the conscious cultivation of appreciation for every-little-thing, especially cherishing the time we have together on this earth and the opportunity to fill each moment with appreciation for each other.

*****

about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – whether or not any absence of the happenings of the day, whether or not the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CHIMINEA

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Drop Into The Moment [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

In the summer months the deer trails are difficult to spot. In the winter, the opposite is true. With the absence of foliage and a clean canvas of snow, while the deer remain elusive, their well-traveled pathways are easy to see.

In mythology, deer are often messengers or guides. They call us to kindness, presence and remind us to trust our instincts. I especially appreciate the call to presence since it is there that kindness and the purity of instinct can be found.

Retribution is about past grievance. Fear is a monster born of an imagined future. Both retribution and fear would have us turn our backs on the present moment. They would have us ignore the deer because they cannot survive in the present moment. The present is, after all, the only place that is actually real, substantial. It is in the realm-of-the-real that kindness abounds; it is the only place that the quiet voice of intuition can be heard.

It never fails. When we see a deer on the trail our laundry list of woes immediately evaporates. The deer calls us into the present. We stop all movement just as the deer has stopped. It models presence for us. We drop into the moment with it. We feel. We listen. We meet its eyes. It senses us and we sense it. There is no past grievance or future fear. There is nothing more important to do or a place more compelling to be. Time suspends. We fill ourselves with the awe of the relationship-of-the-moment.

And then, just as quickly, the deer leaps and is gone. It releases us. We reenter time. Refreshed. Giddy. Light of spirit. Reminded once again of the power of living in the present.

In the presence of the deer we are no longer lost in our minds. That is its message to us, its encouragement for how to best live our lives.

In the summer months we convince ourselves that they are rare, hard to spot. In the winter months, we are reminded by their tracks that, although we may not see them, these guides are all around us. Their message to us is always available. Always.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE DEER

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