Their Zeal [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

This is a song of quiet astonishment, of the wonder that avails itself for a moment to those who know the full story, the origin tale of our day lilies.

To the casual observer, the everyday passer-by, the vibrant orange explosion in our yard might catch their eye. It’s hard to miss. They might experience a moment or two of fleeting appreciation as they wander on their way.

To us, the spirited line of wild marmalade blooms popping in front of our house represents the abundance that shows up in lean times. They are colorful symbols of generosity and friendship. They remind us of perseverance. They are the blossom of a memory that always makes us smile.

In the early phase of our relationship, we rolled our wheelbarrow to Sally’s house several blocks away. “If you want them, come get them!” she smiled. Her day lily and fern garden had to go away. She knew we were pinching pennies. She knew of our desire to someday have a thriving garden.

We made several trips that humid cloudy day, digging up plants, stacking them high and to the great delight of passing motorists, rolling them down the many streets to our home. Back and forth. Giggling. Covered in mud.

“Who else would do this?” we laughed.

“Where on earth are we going to put all of them?” I asked as we wheeled our barrow up the driveway for the final time. A bevy of uprooted plants stared at us, eager for an assignment, soil and water.

“Someplace,” was all she said. We had no plan beyond the wheelbarrow transport. And so, we started digging.

That was then.

A decade later our ferns and day lilies abound. They line a portion of driveway. They populate the backyard. They are the enthusiastic greeting committee in the front. I eagerly anticipate their return each spring. I am in awe of their zeal.

And…for me, they are living symbols. It is impossible for me to enjoy them without whispering a quiet thanks to Sally, to remember how it felt at the end of a humid day, covered in mud, holding hands, admiring all that we’d just planted, feeling like we’d struck gold.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DAY LILIES

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Joy All The Way Around [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Although he is mostly black, our Australian Shepherd, like most Aussie’s, is tricolor. In addition to black, he sports rich copper and white fur patches. His eyes are auburn, lively and penetrating. Again, like most Aussies, he makes great eye contact because is always on the look-out to be one-step-ahead of our next move.

One step ahead.

I grew frustrated when he was a puppy and we were attempting to train him to walk with us. He could not, would not, walk by our side. Instead, he pulled-like-a-sled-dog to be in front of us. He seemed impossible to train. And then, one day, on a walk in a forest preserve, we let him off the leash and he raced ten paces ahead of us. He was delighted and kept exactly ten paces ahead of us. The penny dropped in my slow-on-the-uptake-mind. His job, his very reason for being, is to clear our way. To keep us safe. It’s not something he thinks about or intends, it’s in his DNA.

It has become a source of great joy to open the backdoor and watch his delight, racing out in front of me to clear the yard of potential marauders. Taking out the trash has become one of my favorite things. My Dogga has my back. He has our backs. Being one step ahead of us is his job, his purpose, his reason for being. Our well-being is his well-spring of joy.

It’s funny to me now, how he has become one of my great teachers in the art of non-resistance. I thought I was trying to teach him to walk-on-a-leash and, in truth, he was trying to teach me how to better walk in life. How to get off my leash and out of my tug-of-war. How much better is life once I ceased trying to bend him to my will and learned to listen to and lean into his gifts!

This is what I’ve learned from Dogga’s teaching: there is joy all the way around.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DOGGA PAW

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How Utterly Good [David’s blog on KS Friday]

I’ve been pondering something Horatio said during our call yesterday. “Circumstances change but that doesn’t change how you have to live.” he added, “You still have to live a good life.”

It is not a new concept. How many times have I said to groups, as if I knew what I was talking about, “You are not your circumstance.” In the school of hysterical irony, I am constantly catching myself teaching what I most need to learn. I heard in Horatio’s comment something often spoken but discerned for the first time: You still have to live a good life.

What does it mean to live a good life? What does it mean to me? To you?

In a broad sense we were discussing the many changes we’ve experienced over the past decade. Decades. Aging. Climate. Loss of loved ones. Pandemic. The politics/division of our times. Technology. A flurry of fast moving circumstance. What seemed so important a decade ago is now barely a shadow memory. Aptly, an illusion.

You still have to live a good life.

Horatio spoke of going into his studio. “Immersing in the tangible,” he said. Painty fingers. Music. Charcoal dust. The smell of coffee and conté crayons. Exiting the noise and inhabiting the now. That’s a good life. I recognize that place.

Inhabiting the now. Kerri and I walk the trail arm in arm until she spots the next photo-op. “Lookit!” she chimes, showing me her new image-capture. “Green on green,” spoken with the enthusiasm of a five year old. Our walks are immersions in the tangible. We’ve had so much rain lately, there is an explosion of green in our world. We walk slowly so we might see it. Sense it. The shapes are as extraordinary as the many shades of green.

Horatio’s comment struck an ancient chord in me.

Sitting in our stream in the mountains of Colorado, Kerri and I talked about the next phase of our lives. A intentional creation. “The Sweet Phase,” she called it. It is inaccurate to suggest that we will create The Sweet Phase as much as we will inhabit it. The tangible. The now. Just like entering the studio. We’ve already started. Our practice is to not get swept into the swirling drama of circumstance. “…that doesn’t change how you have to live.”

It’s a question of recognizing it. Regardless of the circumstance, how utterly good living life really is.

I Didn’t Know/This Part of the Journey © 1997, 2000, Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about GREEN ON GREEN

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Very, Very [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Last night, sitting on the deck enjoying the waning light, I had a great idea for this post. I didn’t write it down so, of course, I have no idea what my great idea was. All morning I have tried to retrace my mental footsteps but alas, they, too, are lost in the mist.

It would be just like me to write about perception. This is a curtain separating the backstage V.I.P. area from the raucous dancing audience. Kerri tried to take a photo through the curtain. Cameras and purple permeable curtains might serve as metaphors for all manner of my blah-blah. Focus placement, assumptions, obstacles, yada-yada! But, none of that well-worn blather was my great idea.

I’m rarely in V.I.P areas since I am rarely a V.I.P. In fact, this particular V.I.P. area was my first and I have to admit I liked it. I didn’t get crushed in the crowd. I wandered freely. There were drinks had I wanted one. And chairs. Security didn’t blink when I walked up and stood at the apron of the stage. I adored watching the dancing furries and acrobats prepare to take the stage. To me, backstage is magic precisely because it’s behind the curtain: the furries take off their furry heads and sip drinks through straws; the acrobats smoke a joint, laugh and talk politics. Now, backstage magic might be a fun post but it wasn’t my great idea.

I did ponder the designation (of course). It wasn’t just an I.P, important person section, it was a very important person section. Wow. Very. More important than important. Since Craig was performing and we are his parents, I suppose we earned the adverb. Kerri did for sure. I didn’t give birth to Craig (thank goodness! I’ve heard stories…). She did so is most certainly a very. I’ve only moved his stuff a few dozen times but was happy to don the extra designation.

That we were fortunate enough – from a place of privilege – to watch our son perform on a BIG stage, and perform well, – also was not my big idea. He wanted us there and made it happen. There’s nothing better on earth than having a son who wants to share his artistry and successes with his parents. The V.I.P. was icing on the cake, an experience everyone should have once in their life.

That was big but it wasn’t my great idea.

I suppose half the fun of losing a great idea is the search-and-rescue effort to find it. I know it’s in there somewhere. As I grid my recent past in search of some great abstract idea, I couldn’t be happier to have found so much actual-beyond-greatness. Heart experiences. New experiences that resurface all the stages and backstages of my past. A son in his bliss. A mother in her bliss. A crowd of adoring people sharing their bliss.

Maybe writing about bliss was my big idea! If it wasn’t, it should have been. People who I love in their bliss. Nothing better. Very. Very, very.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CURTAIN

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The First Sign [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

It is the morning after. After talking about how life can change in an instant, we took our coffee and walked around the car looking for certain damage and were surprised that there was no more than a few additional scratches. Little Baby Scion has her share of dings and dents and it was difficult to discern what was old and what was new. Thank goodness. At the time it sounded much worse.

The storm was upon us in a moment. We were driving the backroads home from Chicago Pridefest. Jen was texting us about tornado warnings when the alarms sounded on our phones. Take cover. We’d been watching with trepidation the intense lightning to our north, the direction we were headed. The rain came first. In buckets. And then, like a one-two-punch, the wind. Shrapnel pelted and rocked the car, bits of bark and limbs – at least that’s what we surmised. And, as Kerri said, suddenly Little Baby Scion wanted to take flight. She fought to keep the car on the road. We pulled into a parking lot, away from signs, trees and telephone poles. We maneuvered close behind the brick building, a wind block because, once again, Little Baby Scion was no match for the gusts and was attempting to lift off. Cars, as I understand them, are supposed to keep their tires on the ground.

And we sat, eyes-wide-open. “Better to be hit by things falling off the building,” she said, “than to be airborne.” A tale of no good choices.

We pulled up the radar images (now, isn’t it a miracle of technology that, hunkered down in our car in the middle of a storm, we could see a colorful satellite view of the storm’s angry trajectory) and saw that north of us, home, the storm was breaking. However, where we were sitting, a restaurant parking lot in Waukegan, was about to get clobbered. So, when the wind took a breather, when we no longer feared taking flight, we drove north, dodging downed limbs and debris.

We pulled into our driveway. The rain had passed. I had to peel her fingers from the steering wheel. “We’re safe,” I said. “Let’s get inside.”

I knew all was well when she looked at me and asked, “Do you think we could have a glass of wine?” The first sign of gratitude…

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE STORM

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Beautiful And Prickly [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Thriving in an unlikely and inhospitable place, this thistle served as a sign, a testimony to possibility, the rugged beauty available only through dogged perseverance. Stretching up through a tiny crack in a busy sidewalk outside aging buildings in a bustling city, these thistles stood nearly five feet tall. Their colorful flowering heads brought us to a full stop. We set down our knitted-brows and absorbed their vibrant pink and purple stick-to-it-ed-ness. “Gorgeous,” she said, reaching for her camera.

More than beauty-through-resilience, these hardy thistles spoke to me with the veracity of an oracle. As I watched Kerri take photographs, the oracle whispered in my ear “Both beautiful and prickly,” she said, “Her prickles protect her against herbivores and others.”

“Ahhh,” I sighed. A well-rounded plant, indeed. No shrinking violet could possibly survive in this environment, let alone thrive. Bloom.

For a moment I stood watching the passers-by. Few took notice of the gorgeous thistles. Some scurry-ers glanced sideways at Kerri cooing and snapping photos of what, I imagine, they thought of as weeds for someone else to pull. No time for beauty. No time for responsibility. On-to-the-next.

“I’ll bet those people think I’m crazy,” she said, tucking her camera inside her purse.

“Yep,” I agreed. “You are definitely more like the thistle than you are to the people passing-by.” She gave me a sideways glance but decided to accept the compliment.

I winked and whispered to the thistle-oracle. “All the time in the world for beauty. All the time in the world for responsibility. Nowhere else more important to be.” Beautiful and prickly. Resilient to the core.

Divine Intervention/Released From The Heart © 1995 Kerri Sherwood

Kerri’s music is available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora and iHeart Radio

read Kerri’s blogpost about THISTLES

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Turtle-Slapped [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

A turtle appeared on the path at just the right moment. As I like to say, our “jammies were in a bunch” and we were about to go over the edge and fall into a dark abyss of circumstance-dissatisfaction. We rounded the bend as our discontent began spiraling out of control, and then we saw the turtle.

Everything changed in an instant.

She cooed, knelt, and stroked the turtle’s shell. Not expecting a tsunami of affection, the turtle retreated into its fortress. But after a moment, realizing that this assault was indeed loving, it peeked and then poked its head out into the light. It slowly pivoted so she might get a better angle for her photoshoot. The turtle was a patient model and didn’t seem to mind her multiple-broken-promises of “Only one more, I swear,” as she continued snapping photographs.

We admired the orange markings, outlined in black, set in the field of green. “Gorgeous,” she whispered, tracing the markings with her finger.

After an appropriate visit, we left it to return to the marsh, and continued on our way. “What were we talking about?” I asked.

“I can’t remember,” she said, her prior frustration having completely dissipated. Mine, too.

In truth, we both remembered but no longer needed to grouse about what we could not control. We probably didn’t need to spin frustration tales to begin with. Thankfully, we were turtle-slapped into the recognition that what we needed most in our dedicated-exasperation was to slow down and appreciate our walk.

The wisdom of distraction. A turtle suddenly appears on the path at just the right moment…

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE TURTLE

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Higher Than Ten! [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

The AccuLumen Brightness Index is low today. A solid two. It’s a cloudy day so the low number is not a surprise. On sunny days it soars to a full 10 points! In fact, the number is never a surprise. We tease each other with the Index. We don’t really need an instrument to tell us that the sun is bright today. “Whoa!” she says, dropping her shades over her eyes, “The AccuLumen Brightness Index is soaring!”

“We should have checked it before stepping out!” I quip.

The optometrist told her that, as she ages, her eyes will grow more sensitive to the light. “It’s your Scandinavian heritage,” he smiled, adjusting his instruments to look more deeply into the windows of her soul.

We wandered into the shop in Breckenridge. Magical Scraps. The towel immediately brought Simon & Garfunkel to mind. The 59th Street Bridge Song. Feelin’ Groovy. “Slow down, you move too fast/ You got to make this morning last…” The owner of the shop, Jess, explained that they make much of the merchandise in-house. It’s also a shop dedicated to local artists, a place to sell their work. “Artists have to have a place to sell what they create,” she said.

“Amen to that,” I thought, rubbing the ears of the shop dog, Stella. My AccuLumen Heart Index was registering a full ten. We were in the mountains in one of our favorite spots, the day was bright (at least a nine on the brightness index), the shop felt good, a perky song was wafting through my brain, I was on the floor with a happy dog…feelin’ groovy. I could have stayed there all day but we entered the store a few minutes before closing-time so courtesy – and Kerri’s polite nudge – required me to move on.

As we strolled down the street, breathing-in the sweet cool mountain air, I noted that my AccuLumen Happiness Index was in lockstep with my AccuLumen Heart Index, both registering a 10+! “I didn’t realize you could score higher than a ten,” I said.

“What?” she asked, clearly lost in her own AccuLumen Experience rating.

“Let the morningtime drop all its petals on me/ Life, I love you, all is groovy”.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FEELIN’ GROOVY

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Sing A Love Song [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“Watch for all that beauty reflecting from you and sing a love song to your existence.” ~ Rumi

Deep in the night the thunder rumbled and shook the house. The rain came in buckets and reached through the open window. She leapt out of slumber to close it and then retreated beneath the blankets. She was almost as quickly fast asleep. A leap both ways. I counted the space between the flash and the boom. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand…Sky’s grumble.

Needless to say, I was awake and on a mind-wander. I remembered students who were invested in the belief that something was wrong with them. Young artists and visionaries desiring to fit in. When young, it’s hard not being one-of-the-crowd. My job at the time, I now believe, was to help them recognize that they were unique in all the world. To flip their perspective. To love in themselves that which made them stand out, that which they feared and rejected.

I understood them because I had walked their path. At this age, I continue to walk the path.

In my mind-wander I reviewed my day. Once, I thought a love song to my existence was somehow a product of achievement. I’m no longer confused about that. Twice today, the dogga came to find me and I was moved to tears. Kerri and I sat on the deck watching the cardinals and she took my hand and I knew to my core that I was the luckiest man alive. She showed me the photo of a daisy drinking in the sun. I am surrounded by generosity and friendship. Rob sends a daily pun in an attempt to keep our spirits high. Dan brought a plastic bin with all the fixings for Southern Comfort Old-Fashioneds – and seed for our lawn because he had extra.

Watch for the beauty.

The lightning flashed. The sky rumbled. I reveled in the sounds of my love song, marveled at my existence.

In A Split Second/As Sure As The Sun © 2002 Kerri Sherwood

Grateful/As It Is © 2004 Kerri Sherwood

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

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Walk The Path [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

It’s been awhile. I’ve fallen into an art book, Ancestral Modern: Australian Aboriginal Art. I bought this book after attending the exhibit at the Seattle Art Museum. It was – and still is – one of my favorite exhibits, reaching me on many levels. I went back again and again so I might spend quality time with a few of the paintings.

The paintings of the Aboriginal artists are mythologies, though not as we think of mythologies. They are more than dusty stories. Explanatory. They are active guides on a life path. Were I Aboriginal I’d “read” them. I’d know the stories so each piece would speak personally to me. The paintings would escort me along my life-path. Mythology as my story.

This is what amazed me most: many of the pieces were as abstract as a Rothko or Frankenthaler. Vibrant lines and color. They shimmered. Dreaming. Living foundational narrative carried in energetic swirls and dots of paint.

In my experience it is not uncommon in a gallery or museum to come across someone puzzling over a painting by a master artist and hear them say, “I don’t get it.” The abstraction is a closed door. “I could do that,” I heard a man huff while staring intently at a Jackson Pollock painting. The door is not closed between the Aboriginal artist and his or her community. The mythology has not broken down. The artist is not exclusively serving an individual expression, rather, they are maintaining an ancient connection, drawing from and carrying forward the deep well of communal story. “Meet Blue-Tongued Lizard Man…” Artists paying homage. Artists serving their role as keepers of the flame.

Kerri and I talked of our artistry as we walked the paths of the John Denver Sanctuary. He was a guide-star for her and continues to influence her work. Simple lines. Music that does not rely on acrobatics or embellishment. It was poignant that we had the sanctuary to ourselves. Sometimes it is nearly impossible to know whether or not our work-in-the-world reaches anyone or serves any real value beyond satisfying our imperative to create it. And sometimes, like that day walking the path through the sanctuary, the clouds rolling over the mountain, the Roaring Fork River singing at our side, the ancestry is clear. “This is where I come from,” she said. “This is where I belong”.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PATH

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