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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE DAISY

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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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Do The Opposite [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

This is a simple story of wrong assumptions.

When we travel we rarely eat out. We prefer to cook. Exhaustion brought us to the decision to order a meal to take out.

We’d walked passed the Kenosha Grill in Breckenridge multiple times over our several visits. We thought it funny that the name of our home town was a prominent business on the main street of our favorite mountain town. “Someday,” we said, scoping the menu, “we’ll have to go in there.” It seemed too pricey for us. Dark and lodge-like. Not a place for us.

Exhaustion forced a path-of-least-resistance choice. We remembered The Kenosha Grill had a burger. It was a five minute walk from our lodging. We walked down the hill and into The Grill. It was nothing like I had imagined. Instead of dark and steak-housey, it was light in color and in spirit. We were directed to the bar to order our take out.

The bar was in the back, next to the doors that opened onto a deck that overlooked the river and the mountains. The doors were open and the cool evening mountain air begged us to sit. We ordered our take-out burger and then, with nary more than a look at each other, signaled the bartender that we’d stay. We’d eat at the bar. We ordered a glass of wine to share. We relaxed into the laughter of our bar mates. We basked in the low sun and mountain air.

Instead of further depletion, as I’d presumed, the cheery bartender, the light spirit of The Kenosha Grill, the sleepy dog holding court on the deck soaking up pets…gave us energy. Restored our spirits.

“We need to do this more often,” she said, feeling the energy return to our souls.

“Yes.” I said, and thought, “We need to more often challenge our assumptions.” We almost missed the very balm that we needed, the opposite of what I’d supposed.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE KENOSHA GRILL

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Then And Now [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Then and now.

The moment we knew we were going to Aspen, we looked at each other and said, “John Denver Sanctuary”. It is a special place. A place of peace and quiet in an angry noisy world.

We first visited The Sanctuary In 2016, the year after we were married. John Denver has always been an inspiration to Kerri. Simple. Straight forward. Positive. A bard who dreamed of a better world. In music. We found the monument stone that carried his lyrics to Annie’s Song, – a special wedding song for us -crawled onto the stone and Kirsten took our picture. That was then.

Nearly a decade later, a wedding brought us back to Aspen and to The Sanctuary. In the middle of May we walked the paths and stepped over the streams all by ourselves. No one else was there. We found Annie’s Song, set the timer on the camera, and scurried to the stone to get into the frame. Now.

We lingered there, talking of all that had happened in the decade between the two photos. So many stories! So much life! Who we were then. Who we are now. Who we are becoming.

And, as is always the case, remembering that the sanctuary isn’t just a place, it is also a way of being. We always have the option of bringing the sanctuary with us – being it. That’s what we hope for our becoming. In our artistry. It’s what we’ve always hoped for – then and now.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SANCTUARY

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A Message [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

This is a volunteer. A bright pop of color, a surprise tulip bloom showing up behind the garage.

The narrow space behind the garage is the place we toss old spinach and halo oranges. Strawberries and kale. It has long been part of the critter highway so we do our part as trail angels and leave the bunnies, chippies and opossums a road snack. I imagine one of the travelers brought a tulip bulb – wittingly or unwittingly – and the rest is blossom history. We love it. I consider it a message delivered from the furry world.

For some reason our tulip brought Tom McK to mind. As an educator he regularly expressed awe at the resilience of children: Their capacity to withstand and bounce back from tremendous difficulty was often breathtaking. Their ability to climb impossible personal mountains and yet somehow find the courage to smile. Pops of color showing up in impossible places.

And so, the furry world, in gratitude for our trail magic, have left for me an enormous gift. At a time that we are climbing a steep mountain, the critters have delivered a sweet message from Tom. A reminder. Climb the impossible mountain because you must – thereby transforming it into a tale of the possible – and don’t miss the vibrant color along the way.

“Take your time,” he’d say, smiling.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TULIPS

Tom and me a long time ago.

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

Eleven years ago today, on a Monday, I was flying through Chicago en route to a job, but had scheduled a two day lay over to meet a woman named Kerri. We’d been writing daily emails to each other, an ongoing exchange that sprouted spontaneously six months earlier. During the flight I cautioned myself to have no expectations, to make no assumptions. And then I stepped off the plane…

It’s almost impossible to describe what happened over the following two days. I’ve written about how we laughed, held hands, and skipped out of the airport. I’ve told the story of climbing out the second story window onto the roof, wrapping in blankets against the cold, and sipping wine. Later, sitting before a fire, she read a short book that she’d written – a life chapter that she needed me to hear. She played her piano for me and I was stunned by the full-force-of-nature that came through this diminutive woman. That first night disappeared in a conversation that felt like a few moments; we were literally surprised by the birdsong announcing the dawn. What followed made day #1 seem like a warm-up band for the main event.

Kismet. When attempting to describe our first meeting I’ve used the word ‘mystical’ which is a word that I do not use lightly. It’s the only word that comes close to describing the 48 hours between my flights.

And, so, an anniversary: today is the day, after a lifetime of wandering, I felt for the very first time that I was finally coming home.

read Kerri’s blogpost about MAY 13th

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Epicenters of Mattering [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

If you asked me why we write I would tell you that it is because of Lydia. After reading my post Arrive, she must have sensed my low spirits and took the time to comment: Perhaps you have already arrived. Breathe. Feel the awe. In every moment. It is because of Alex who reads what I write everyday and bothers to let me know. Buffalo Bob. A simple like, telling me, “I am out here and what you write matters to me.”

Writing is a relationship like painting is a relationship like music is a relationship. It’s a dynamic feedback loop. A younger me would have told you that the impulse to create is internal; the current version of me wonders if there really is any such separation as internal and external. There is no actor without an audience, no writer without a reader. It’s a matter of mattering. To each other. Ultimately, the artist imperative is to share. It is hard to explain. Ours is essential. It is urgent. It is undeniable. It is an inner necessity – a word that I do not use lightly. To deny it would be to die – a statement that I do not offer lightly. Yet, without an audience, a reader, there would be no point.

We recently asked Rob his thoughts about how to get our words beyond our bubble. We love our bubble, our community of dedicated readers and listeners. However, the changes in the world of arts-as-a-business have made the work we were once paid for free for all takers. Although technology brings our words and music and art to audiences all over the world, it has also left us financially insecure. It’s an oddly mixed message of mattering. So many listeners and readers, so few pennies. Rob and others have been knocking on our noggins to open a Patreon membership. It’s taken awhile for us to embrace the realities of this brave new world.

Networks and relationships. Worth. Value. Mattering. Each of us an epicenter with lines of connection running in all directions. Sharing. Giving. Asking. So very appreciative of a “thumbs up,” so deeply moved when our words come back at us with a loving reminder to Feel the Awe. Breathe.

read Kerri’s blogpost about NETWORKS

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Marking Time [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Marking time. I stood at the large window and looked at the crowd queueing to enter the concert hall. The evening promised a blast from the past, greying seniors reaching back to touch their youth, aging bodies dressed as they might have dressed 30 years ago – and loving it. Remembering. Posing for pictures. Then and now.

It was a birthday experience, a gift. The Queen tribute band – One Vision of Queen with Marc Martel. Close your eyes and you’d think you were present with Freddie Mercury, Brian May, John Deacon, Roger Taylor… It was hard not to be catapulted back to 1980. Where were you when you first heard Bohemian Rhapsody? I knew exactly. It was visceral. I remember thinking, “What’s this?”

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality
Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see…

As time machines go, this was a great one. All the aging bodies danced and clapped, perhaps with a little less flexibility and grace but no less enthusiasm. Marking-the-time. Gratitude rippled up and down the aisles for this music that defined, informed, enriched and transported. There and back.

I see a little silhouetto of a man
Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?

read Kerri’s blogpost about QUEEN

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And What If… [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

A message of encouragement. A reminder of hope. I appreciate the sentiment yet, perhaps it is too revealing of my personality or my attitude of late, my first thought was, “And what if it isn’t figureoutable?”

What of the paradoxes and mysteries of life? Why do people do what they do? War? Hate? Lie? Can we figure out how not to horde resources? Can we figure out how to live this simple-yet-central word: equality. And what about caring?

I delight in the James Webb telescope looking deep into the galaxy to help us explain… I delight in our deep dive into the genome in our pursuit of healing and body-explanations. I marvel at psychology and brain science and… We sail at the horizon on all fronts. To know what is beyond is beautifully human.

Poets help us touch the universal. Dancers imbue us with grace. More than once, knowing there is no answer, I have asked a performer, “How do you do that?” I have asked myself, “Why did I weep at that moment in the story?” I knew it was coming…

Kerri and I have our share of dilemmas. I spend the majority of my days trying to figure them out. As if my action will create a solution. Sometimes it does. I’ve figured out how to keep our 50 year old stove going. There’s a piece I need to install in the refrigerator so it stops “tinkling” on the kitchen floor. I’m certain I can figure it out.

Sometimes I have no clue. I do not know how to fix her broken wrists. I do not know how to ease her troubled heart.

I do not know what to say when Dan sighs, “I don’t like growing old.” I don’t either but I am learning that the older I grow, the greater I appreciate. It’s a sentiment I heard from the elders who preceded me but I paid little attention. I thought, when young, that there was plenty of time for appreciating.

I know that good times, just like bad times, come and go so it’s best not to hold either too tightly. Last night, on an evening that was unseasonably warm, the house blocking the gusty winds, we sat on the deck, sipped wine and watched the dogga run, the birds enjoy the birdbath, the moths swirl, the chimes play the wind, the peonies reach for the sky, the sun disappear leaving subtle pastel traces…

How can I love so much? Last night, I wanted no part in trying to figure it out.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FIGUREOUTABLE

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Trouble Love [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

In a surprise twist, Dogga now answers to the name, “Trouble”. It could that in his old age his alter ego is ascendant.

He’s always had two distinct personalities. During the daylight hours, in constant movement, running endless circles, we call him “Crazy Boy”. At night, he is distinctly different, calm and quiet; we call him “Sweet Boy”.

I can’t recall how we discovered his alter ego. One minute he was Crazy Boy and the next he was responding to Kerri’s call, “Trouble!” We performed a specificity-check and called him other names. He rolled his eyes and refused to respond. “Here Trouble!” brought an immediate running-wag-a-wag response. “I think his name is Trouble!” she said.

“What took us so long?” I asked.

We wondered if originally Farmer Don called him Trouble, and perhaps, after 11 years, we were just discovering his real name. Farmer Don needed to find a home for him and no one wanted him because he was, unusual for an Aussie puppy, mostly black. We imagined Farmer Don saying, “You’re my little Trouble-Dog!”

These days Dogga né Trouble complains when he doesn’t get his way. He groans (like me) when he lifts himself from the floor. He snores at night. He licks the achy joints on his front legs. He is, no matter his name, our Trouble, our Crazy Boy, our Sweet Boy, our Dogga-Dog. We are infinitely richer for the daily sweet trouble that he brings us.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TROUBLE

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