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

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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