The Gateway [David’s blog on KS Friday]

An unlikely heart. Or, a heart in an unlikely place. Or, a bit of bread crust that brings heart-to-mind.

Tomorrow is a very significant day. Eleven years ago, at exactly 11:11am, we stood before our friends and families, told our story, and said, “I do”.

1111 in numerology is “believed to mean that an energetic gateway has opened. Alignment. Amplification.”

Sometimes, for fun, we try and calculate the odds of our having met. Impossible. Impossible odds and yet, here we are. It is why we refuse to allow ourselves to take for granted our good fortune. It is why we refuse to relegate anything into the box of “impossible”.

Anything is possible. We are the proof. Every day.

Eleven years. 11:11. A celebration of the impossible. Unlikely hearts met in an unlikely place. In such a magic remembrance, even a bit of bread crust brings heart-to-mind. Each day, we mind our hearts, never taking for granted the impossible story that is us. Amplification of all that is good. Alignment as we walk this path together. The gateway opening anew each day.

Kerri’s life’s work is available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART

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Every Ounce [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

I have known a very few people who came into this world with enough natural confidence and inner strength to meet any chaotic circumstance with calm. Most of us do not have that innate skill. We must gain it through life-experience.

Horatio made me laugh when he told me that confidence was a fake-it-until-you-make-it affair. Confidence, he explained, is never a matter of knowing what you are doing; it is knowing that you have the capacity to figure things out – no matter what. The faking-it-part is more than a performance. It is muscle building. It is exercising and strengthening belief in the capacity-to-figure-things-out. For most of us mortals that workout never ends.

Sail toward the horizon. Take a chance. Do anything else. Try it. Try it again. Step into it. It will all work out in the end. You can do it.

My mentors, brilliant men and women who wrestled with their own unique doubts and fears, taught me that confidence was not something gained; it is what happens when a moment is fully occupied. To be fully in the present with what-is and not lost in a sea of what-should-be; presence is the muscle to develop. Confidence, like happiness, follows. It’s a paradox as all truths are paradoxes: you cannot control the circumstances but you can control how you are within the circumstances. So, be in the circumstances. The image that comes to mind is from Forrest Gump: Captain Dan lashes himself the a mast in the roaring storm and roars back-at-it, “Bring it on!” The inner storm meets the outer storm.

On a rainy Saturday afternoon we watched The Art Of Racing In the Rain, narrated by Enzo the dog. Enzo is in his last days and reviews his life because he believes that, if he can integrate life’s lessons in the short bit of time remaining to him, he will come back as a human We sobbed and laughed at Enzo’s life review. With our aging Dogga asleep at our feet, it struck a nerve.

“Dogga is preparing us,” Kerri said, her eyes filling with tears. I nodded. He is a magic dog and has been our teacher all along.

“We’ll be okay,” I say, not knowing what to say, wondering how we will be able to get through it.

And then I remember…the journey to “okay” will hurt, yet we will step into what-is-to-come as we did so long ago when we saw a sign that said, “Aussie pups,” and stopped “just to take a look”, not knowing that life was throwing us into a curve. We stepped into it fully, all the chaos and joy and love that came with the Aussie pup that stole our hearts and made us a family.

Staring down at Dogga, asleep at our feet, I have no confidence that I will be graceful in the hurt-that-is-to-come. I am confident that we will hold hands and feel it. All of it. All the gratitude, all the grief. Every moment. Every last ounce of the enormity.

read Kerri’s blogpost about COURAGE

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Keeping Vigil [David’s blog on KS Friday]

I’ve read that mourning doves are “strongly monogamous and often mate for life.” I’ve also read that, when one of the pair dies, “The survivor often sits in a nearby tree or roof and coos repeatedly, calling for a partner that will not answer.”

Lately, each afternoon, the mourning dove arrives to hold its vigil. It sits on the same wire in the same spot. Each day we watch for it and when it arrives, we hold vigil with it. We watch. We know that its partner will not appear. We wait for it to know. It is silent.

“It’s so sad,” Kerri whispers. I nod.

This dove reminds me of the last time I saw my great-aunt Dorothy. Del had died suddenly and she was heartbroken. It was the first and only time I saw this powerful mountain woman wearing a dress. Emerald green. I almost did not recognize her. As a boy I’d followed her up mountains, unable to keep up. In her grief she was barely standing. She passed a few months later; a broken heart.

I had my annual physical yesterday. The doctor asked me if I had a will. Then, she asked if there was someone who knew my wishes. I thought of Kerri waiting for me in the reception area. I answered easily, “Yes.” For a moment I was overcome with gratitude; I have not always been able to answer, “Yes,” so I repeated my answer, “Yes.”

Yes.

Sitting on the examination table, I shifted my weight, the paper crinkled. I thought of the mourning dove, the weight of grief sitting on the wire. Dorothy. Loneliness. Heart break. Gratitude. Kerri waiting for me. The paper crinkled. The doctor listened to my heart.

Today, the mourning dove did not return. We held our vigil for it none-the-less.

WRITTEN IN YOUR LIFE on the album AS SURE AS THE SUN © 2002 Kerri Sherwood

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE MOURNING DOVE

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Life Carpentry [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

I teased Kerri that this morning that the first thing on my to-do list was to build the ark. It rained again last night. It’s raining now. I’m not talking about gentle downpours; this is an Alabama rain, tropical, an incessant dumping after yesterday’s dumping preceded by the dumping of rain the day before that. Kerri reminded me that my carpentry skills are lacking so, even if I built something that resembled a boat, no animal with good sense would get on it. I have to admit it, she’s right. I’d never set sail on a boat of my own construction.

A few days-that-feel-like-months ago, the sun came out. In the early evening we sat outside so Dogga could sniff the fence line and bark at random sounds. He’s an old dog now so it makes him feel good to bark into the universe. While he investigated the backyard and the greater galaxy, we sat in our Adirondack chairs and watched the clouds. They glowed, putting on quite a show for us. While the beauty of this world evokes a rowdy bark from Dogga, it does the opposite for us: it invites quiet appreciation. It was one of those rare moments when I knew to my bones -at least in that moment – that all was right in my world.

In that moment. Every spiritual tradition on the planet warns of the folly of trying to hang onto the feeling of a moment. The best we can do is savor and move on.

It is good practice to regularly step back from a canvas and from a distance look at the painting. It brings the whole composition back into focus. Stepping back exposes what is invisible when working close-in. “What’s next” becomes readily apparent when standing back. It’s route finding.

The same thing is true in life. It’s why people take vacations or go on retreats or simply take-a-break. To get some distance from our close-in lives and feel what we do not allow ourselves to fully feel, to re-consider, to open the door and invite in the dreams that have been waiting patiently in the lobby.

Sitting in the Adirondack chair, watching with awe the cloud-spectacular, I heard Joseph Campbell in my mind, saying, “No one lives the life they intended.” Had the younger version of me actually built the boat of my intentions and successfully sailed off toward the horizon, I would have missed this moment, Dogga bark-communing with the universe, Kerri and I reveling with the sun on our faces after days of rain, holding hands, shaking our heads at the impossible beauty of the glowing clouds. I thanked all the powers-that-be that my carpenter skills were-and-are lacking, that my life-ship sank in the bay and required me to step back, take a look and live a life of route finding. My path meandered to a place I never imagined, to a moment I did not think was possible. Simple awe. Had I been a better life-carpenter I would have missed it.

Canopy, 48″x48″, acrylic on canvas

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE GLOW

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Something More [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

A silver lining to the cyclospora, eColi, salmonella…currently running amok in our nation’s-now-unregulated-and-oversight-free food supply, we’re buying our produce from local farms. Not at the local farmer’s market but directly from the farm. It’s something we’ve talked about doing for years and the daily dose of recalls finally gave us the shove we needed to buy-and-eat local.

In addition to the obvious health benefits, I can safely say that I am learning anew how food is supposed to taste. What I thought was a tasty tomato, arriving on the grocery store shelf after a two week journey from the field, cannot compare to the tomato picked this morning, still sporting the sun and dirt from the field just-over-there. We’ve eaten more tomatoes in the past two weeks than in the past several months. And then there are the sweet peppers. And the cucumbers and zucchini. I’ve learned about Brussels sprout toppers and Delicata squash. Later this week I am planning to stuff and bake a Poblano pepper, something I would not have considered had I not been utterly captivated by the basket of gorgeous peppers.

And then there is Cheri and Chloe. The farmer and her niece. We now know the people growing the food we are eating and we like them. They are generous and kind. And funny. They are proud of the food they grow. They protect it and, therefore, they are protecting me. They welcome all of our questions and meet our curiosity with recipes. Holding aloft what I thought was a tiny squash, Cheri pulled a small knife from her pocket and sliced it, proclaiming, “That’s the best cucumber you’ll ever eat.” And it was.

There’s something more. The people shopping to the stand actually talk to each other. Easily. They tell stories. They offer recommendations. They do not pretend that they do not hear or see you. I find that intensely nourishing.

Climbing back into the truck with our sack of fingerling potatoes, squash, cucumbers, eggplant and peppers – our third trip to the farm in less than two weeks – flush with laughter and advice from the farmer and people-no-longer-strangers, we looked at each other and asked, “What took us so long?”

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE FARM STAND

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Too-Small-Of-A-Pot [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

We love our licorice plants so it was with great sadness that, after watching it struggle and become entangled in a mysterious webbing, that we decided it was time to start over. I removed it from its pot, noted how root-bound it had become and dumped it by the garage, our graveyard for withering plants at seasons end. A week later, while emptying grass clippings into the bin, I noticed that the licorice plant was showing signs of life. The mystery web was gone. The color was coming back into its leaves. I moved it into a spot where it would get more sun and decided to check in with it every few days. Out of the confinement of its pot, it thrived. A bigger pot, new soil, a different spot in the yard, and the licorice plant was in full resurrection-mode.

Not to stack metaphors but the new place for our rejuvenated licorice plant is on the old wicker chair that found a new home at the garage-end of our driveway. It has become a resting place for birds, squirrels and baby raccoons. A second chance rests on a second chance in the home of two people who each day are grateful that life somehow brought them a second chance.

In second chances, not only is there more appreciation for the day-to-day, the capacity to see the extraordinary in the ordinary, but there is a sense of deep gratitude – a source of deep gratitude – that was not available in the first go-round. Second chances verify that the impossible is possible. Second chances affirm that there is another side to even the most dire of circumstances; today’s tragedy is tomorrow’s boon so why not live it all as a boon?

I have been a plant that was de-potted and tossed by the garage. As it turns out, the problem was the pot. Being tossed was the best thing that could have happened although it felt devastating at the time. A little air, a little sun – and someone paying attention – it’s a magic formula.

Isn’t that the magic path for anyone in too-small-of-a-pot? And who hasn’t at one time or another been in too-small-of-a-pot?

read Kerri’s blogpost about A SECOND CHANCE

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Give Time [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“Nobody sees a flower – really – it is so small it takes time – we haven’t time – and to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.” ~ Georgia O’Keeffe

I am fortunate. I have good friends. Really good friends. We give our time to each other. We’ve given each other our time for a very long time.

Time is not something marked by a clock. It is a decision. It is attention given with intention. Giving time is not as sterile as it sounds. It is not bookkeeping. It is generous.

At the end of the day, attention is all I have to give.

At the end of each day I give some time and attention to gratitude. I review my day. I give attention to what I gave my attention during the day. Kerri and Dogga are always in my review. My friends. This house that keeps us safe and warm. The list spirals out from that constant center. The orange day lilies that brought a smile. The sunrise. The slow evening walk that we enjoyed. The enormous hibiscus that stopped us in our tracks.

It is an important question to ask at the end of each day, “To whom or what did I give my attention?” I wish I would have asked this question of myself earlier in my life. I would have seen many more flowers. I would have been a better friend. I would have spent less of my limited time on earth giving attention to abstract futures or nonsense achievements.

No matter. I cannot go back in time. And that is precisely the point. I have attention to give and rather than look in the rearview mirror, how much more satisfying is it to give it to this moment, to today, the first sip of coffee in the morning, the clicking sound of Kerri’s keyboard as we perform our morning ritual, writing posts together, about the marvels that we experience, like an enormous hibiscus that caught our attention and shared with us a little bit of its time.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE HIBISCUS

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Be Eccentric [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

When she chose them to decorate our table I remarked that they looked like plants from the sea so I was delighted to learn that Eryngium is commonly called Sea Holly. Other common names include Rattlesnake Master and Miss Wilmott’s Ghost.

Behind each synonym is a good story. For instance, I just learned that Rattlesnake Master comes from a mistaken belief in traditional medicine that the root could prevent and cure rattlesnake bite. My favorite, because it is a historical story of mischief, “…an eccentric British horticulturist named Ellen Willmott used to secretly scatter its seeds in other people’s gardens.” (Wikipedia) “If she felt a garden was poorly designed or lacked character, she would surreptitiously sprinkle the seeds when her hosts were not looking.”

I guess the moral of the story is that if you invited Ellen Wilmott to afternoon tea you’d better expect to find Eryngium popping up in your garden. My bet is that she thought every garden but her own to be poorly designed.

Tom Mck told me a story of a woman in the early part of the last century, named Sally, who was a writer. She believed the letter “e” was a government listening device. She never used the letter “e” but replaced it with something less capable of spying. If you gave her an article to read, a newspaper or a novel, she would cross out the all the offending letters before she would read it. She would caution people to be wary of the letter “e”.

There is a single rule to eccentricity: the truly eccentric person does not recognize their behavior to be eccentric. “Normal” is in the eye of the beholder.

Kerri, having just cut the stems, arranged and placed the Eryngium in a Ball jar and positioned it on our bistro table, asked, “How many other people would put this spiky purple plant all by itself on their table? I just love it!”

“Not many,” I replied, also admiring the prickly purple-blue flowers that seemed more at home under the sea than on our tiny table. For a moment I was awash in gratitude. How is it possible that in all the world I found the only other person who appreciates the stand-alone-sculptural-spiny-beauty of Miss Wilmott’s Ghost?

read Kerri’s blogpost about ERYNGIUM

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Be In It [David’s blog on KS Friday]

It is tempting in times like these to just-try-and-get-through-it. I daily remind myself to not throw away my limited time on this earth. Rather than just-get-through I want to be fully-in-it.

No matter what devastation, what havoc and chaos the current administration wreaks on the nation, the ugliness of ICE, the incessant assault on our rights, the sunrise is not to be missed. Dogga wakes us each morning at first light. We hear his gentle clackity-clack, paws on the hardwood floor when he is awake and ready for his old-dog breakfast.

The smell of coffee brewing. The sun on my face. The taste of a tomato plucked from our vine. Fresh cut basil leaves. An evening walk through the marina. A day that I will never ever live again. I do not want to get through it. I want to immerse in it, all of it.

I want to feel enraged at the corruption and abuse. I want to feel shocked at the hypocrisy. I do not want to delude myself that it cannot touch me. Other people’s pain.

I want to fully appreciate the person who reached the top shelf in the grocery store for the elderly woman in the scooter. I want to savor the music in the park and my community that gathers to enjoy it. The extraordinary in the ordinary. The message, a reminder, chalked on the path adjacent to a bench, “Sit down and enjoy the view.” Don’t fall into the trap of just getting through. Sit down. Feel the cool breeze coming off the lake. Allow yourself to marvel at the color of the sails glowing orange and pink in the sunset.

THE WAY HOME on the album THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY ©️ 1998 Kerri Sherwood

Find Kerri’s albums here or streaming here

read Kerri’s blogpost about ENJOYING THE VIEW

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Become Softer [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

If you’ve not yet seen Cooking with Carter on Instagram, youtube…, I suggest you drop everything and find him, this young boy who delights in cooking. His enthusiasm is balm for the weary soul. As Tyler Merritt said in his lovely rant about Carter, in this dark time, this small boy reminds us that there is still joy, “There’s still softness in the world.”

Carter not only reminds us of our better angels, he inspires us reach for them. And my favorite part? Carter is a child. He’s not trying to rack up followers or look good on camera. He loves food. He loves to cook. He is having fun with his dad and mom.

In our mad, mad, mad selfie-and-sound-byte driven world, where everything is a performance, Carter does what he loves to do because he loves to do it. He is not at all concerned about controlling what other people see or think. He’s too young to be lost in his image.

His joy is pure. His purity melts our hard armor and helps us, even for a moment, open our hearts and become softer in the world.

Nap with DogDog and Babycat, 36″x48″ mixed media on canvas

read Kerri’s blogpost about SOFTNESS

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