Let Go And Breathe [on KS Friday]

We have been slow to reenter life at home. We were only gone for a few days but it feels like months. There is life before the farmhouse and life after. The time away serves as a hard line of distinction. And, because there is now a before, we are finding our reentry a bit disorienting. Nothing is the same yet everything is the same. Unrecognizable because it is familiar.

We are moving slow. We are noise averse. We are reticent to go to the store or drive on a busy road. Too much stimulus fries our wires. It’s as if we are walking through the life we know – we knew – as witnesses. There is a silent accounting: what stays, what we will let go.

Transformation is like that. Snakes shed old skin. Trees drop their leaves. People clean their closets. Letting go creates necessary space for a new rhythm and new rhythms emerge slowly over time.

Sitting on the back deck this morning, the air was still and warm. The birds were singing, the chippies foraged beneath the feeder for discarded seed, Kerri said, “This is the level of sound that I can tolerate right now.” I nodded.

Long ago, when I facilitated retreats, on the last day someone would usually ask, “How do we take what we’ve learned back into our normal lives?” They were changed by their experiences at the retreat but the circumstance of their daily lives remained unaltered. The real question was “How do I bring this feeling of openness and expansion from the protection of the retreat center to the squeeze and turmoil of the realities of life?” There isn’t a single answer to the question. In fact, there isn’t an answer. There’s a practice. There are decisions. What might fall off the list of to-dos? Spaciousness is not magic. Openness is often the result of generosity-to-self. One must slow down to see and hear and taste. Touch takes time. Positive thought takes intention and letting go of grudges. Forgiveness is a choice made again and again and again.

The first day back we walked our trail. We talked of the changes we want to make. The clearing of old baggage. Making space. Kerri stopped to photograph the honeysuckle. I took a deep breath of the sweet fragrance. Nothing more. Nothing less.

old friends revisited © 1995 kerri sherwood

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Accept The Gift [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Years ago Tom gave me a bit of career-advice that I’m still trying to take: “Unlike most people,” he ominously said, “your path will never be about plugging into life. Rather, you must find how life can best plug into you.”

Joyce, a healer and mystic, got that look in her eyes, and told me that I was never going to pursue a single profession. Mine-to-do was to see into hearts; mine was to guide people to their truths.

These days, their words ring loudly in my ears. In the past 24 weeks, since the start-up collapsed, I’ve applied to over 100 positions. Each morning I open my email and find the latest thanks-but-no-thanks. And, each morning I ask myself the same question: How do I – this time – once again – at this stage in my life – find how life might plug into me? I’ve received plenty of ideas-for-jobs and more than a heaping spoonful of advice. “Seeing into hearts” and “Guiding people to their truths” is not stellar resume fodder, even when it includes owning businesses and fixing businesses and coaching people all over the world and painting paintings and directing plays and repairing broken theatre companies. Those “ways” feel finished.

I’m working very hard to find ways to plug into life.

It was a great relief to unplug from the fruitless pursuit for a few days. To gather with my family, to say good-bye to my dad, to eat and drink and play at a farmhouse that will forever represent the time and place an era ended and a new age began. Sitting on the porch in the morning sun I felt spacious for the first time in many months. Standing in the yard watching the sunset, I was quiet inside. Rooted. Easy.

I hadn’t realized how compressed I’d become. How air-less. The farmhouse served as a gift from my father: take a deep breath. Nothing more. Nothing less. This life is quickly passing. Relax. It will find you.

I stepped into the morning sun and practiced my tai-chi. These words from the Buddha came to mind: “Joyful participation with the sorrows of the world,” The accent is on the word “joyful.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about FARM SUNSET

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Forward The Story [on Merely A Thought Monday]

A Haiku

A new era dawns./A chapter closes, fresh earth/forwards the story.

Bellaruth Naperstack often ends her meditations with the phrase, “…and so you are.” As cousin Kate guided us through the forgotten cemetery on the other side of town, she led us to the gravesite of my great, great, great, great grandfather and grandmother. The writing on the stone was nearly washed away with time. As Kate read their obituaries, Bellaruth’s phrase popped up in my mind. The summation of a life, punctuated by the survivors. The children and grandchildren. The next generation. And the next and the next.

It took me by surprise, this meditation on life. The phrase popping into my head was not a reference to the end of the lives of distant grandparents, but to me. “These are your people. This is your root.” They lead to me. I am the next chapter, the continuation of the story.

“And so you are.”

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Simply Celebrate [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

I wasn’t there when our babies picked dandelions for her. It was waaaay before my time. I just know how she felt when they did. Price-less.

It’s one of my favorite parts of our relationship. A dandelion is more valuable than a diamond. A homemade card, a painted rock…a story is most precious of all.

We read together. We walk together. We cook together. We struggle and triumph together. What could be more meaningful than a bouquet of freshly picked dandelions and the memories they bring to mind?

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smack-dab. © 2023 kerrianddavid.com

fistful of dandelions © 1999 kerri sherwood

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Practice Letting Go [on KS Friday]

“We need, in love, to practice only this: letting each other go. For holding on comes easily; we do not need to learn it.” ~ Rainier Maria Rilke

Kathy Bates has a great line in the movie P.S. I Love You: “The thing to remember is…if we’re all alone, then we’re all together in that, too.”

It’s our aloneness that propels us to reach. Our aloneness can drive us to grab. To hold on with all of our might.

Mothers learn the lesson of letting go. Fathers, too. Children would suffocate otherwise. In time, children must also learn the lesson of letting go of their parents. It’s not an easy lesson. It’s counterintuitive.

Couples learn this lesson if they are lucky. They recognize the line between reaching and clutching. Growth is always a process of opening. Open hands. Open minds. Open hearts. Growing a relationship never comes from controlling it. And, don’t we all know the feeling when a hug lasts a bit too long?

And then there are memories. Slippery devils, they tend to fade. Even in this era of ubiquitous photos, the feel, taste, touch, sound, sight flattens and dims. Three dimensions becomes two. I grab at the memory. My hands close around air. Ephemeral-something.

Tonight I will look into the night sky and make my peace. Alone together. Together alone. I will sit on the porch, grateful beyond words to reach and hold Kerri’s hand. Together in this, too.

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about BARNEY-TWO-NAILS

the box/blueprint for my soul © 1997 kerri sherwood

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Swim Upstream [on DR Thursday]

Today we travel. Family, like salmon swimming upstream to a place of origin. We’ll meet at the farmhouse. We’ll eat dinner. We’ll discuss what to do tomorrow at the inurnment. I think he mostly would have enjoyed our gathering together. Food and laughter. That is the ritual he would have appreciated.

The Great White Trillium produces “a single showy white flower atop a whorl of three leaves.” The flower opens late spring to early summer. Right now. They are abundant on our trail.

Whorl: a pattern of spirals or concentric circles.

Five years ago we strolled with him through the cemetery. He told stories of his friends. We will, I am certain, tell stories about him.

Kerri and I walked our trail on the ten-year-anniversary of our first meeting. We talked about how we’ve changed in the decade since I stepped off the plane. “I’m more connected to the impermanence,” she said. I nodded my head. Me, too.

Impermanence. A short season. Generations, a whorl. Patterns. Concentric circles. We tell stories and then we join the story.

Today we travel, like salmon swimming upstream.

rest now, 24×24″, mixed media (sold)

read Kerri’s blogpost about GREAT WHITE TRILLIUM

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rest now © circa 2016 david robinson

Appreciate The Glee [on KS Friday]

My “word-of-the-day” is bedight. Adorned. It seems most appropriate that this adverb popped in my box on this day of Forsythia. The trail was bedight in Forsythia. A sudden explosion of vibrant yellow.

I always look forward to the first Forsythia sighting. It’s the day Kerri dances in delight, chanting, “They’re back! They’re back!” Her relationship with Forsythia reaches into her childhood and has deep love-roots. My association is more recent: it’s the flower that makes Kerri dance. She runs to the vibrant petals to take a close-up. I stand back and appreciate the glee.

Dogga acts as if we are Forsythia. When we return home from errands – even if we’ve only been gone a few minutes – he jumps vertically at the backdoor, so excited is he to see us. Sometimes I like to go on errands just so I can come home to such a glorious welcome. Who doesn’t want to be greeted with out-of-control enthusiasm!

Yesterday, after a particularly arduous slog through the day, Kerri sat on my lap and declared, “We are successful at nothing!” We burst into laughter. Zero. Nil. Nada. Zip. Bupkis. Nought. Naught. And Zilch. And, into that vast nothing, we pour our good laughter and heart until our nada-cup runneth over.

She did not say that we are unsuccessful. Our particular form of success, apparently, is no-thing. Like Glee. Or enthusiasm. Or music. Or beauty. They are hard to wrap your fingers around. They are even harder to assign concrete monetary value. What is our work worth? What – exactly – is our work? Beyond no-thing?

Yesterday I asked Arnie the to ponder the same question I’ve asked many of my wise-eyes pals: why would people support us? Financially? Beyond caring for us or liking us (trust me, we are wildly abundant in love and friendship), why would someone – anyone who doesn’t know us – support our work? What do we bring of value to the community? For us it’s confusing. Approximately 1,500,000 people listen to Kerri’s music every year through streaming services and she receives nearly-nada. Our blogs and cartoon have reached people in over 80 countries. We love to write together. We love to share what we create. Is there concrete value to what we offer? No-thing? If so, what is it called? What could it be? What shape is graspable? We are sitting on the mountain so we cannot see it. What are we missing?

Mostly, we hope to bedight the life-trail – yours and ours – with the vibrant yellow that lives beyond words and evokes spontaneous dancing. Mostly, if it doesn’t make you dance, we hope it helps you stand back and, like me, appreciate the glee.

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about FORSYTHIA

the way home/this part of the journey © 1998 kerri sherwood

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The Heart Of The Matter [on Merely A Thought Monday]

“Well, there goes wine and coffee…” I thought when I read the headline. At 100 Years Old, I’m ‘The Oldest Living Doctor’ – 5 Things I Never Do To Live A Long, Happy Life. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The good doctor’s advice is sound, simple, and sans finger-wagging.

Several months ago, Dwight started an important ongoing conversation: how do we live well this chapter of our lives? I recently read a quote (that I can’t re-find) that suggests we grow old-in-our-minds because we stop being curious about life and living. The quote speaks to the good doctor’s first Never Do: I don’t spend my days retired. His fifth Never Do is an extension of the first: I don’t let my knowledge go to waste. Bookends, encouraging us to stoke the fires of curiosity and to share abundantly our gifts.

Ann used to say, “Find a need and fill it,” and I suspect her good advice knows no age limit. Margaret, one of my great unconfessed inspirations in this world, makes quilts, makes meals, makes smiles.

Since our dinner with Dwight I’ve been paying attention to the many guides that populate my path. I am surrounded by people either approaching or older than the ‘age of retirement” who are younger at heart than most of the 30-somethings I know. They are fully following their star. Horatio is writing scripts and books and making movies, making art, and has an “ever-growing ” idea pile I call his “mountain of amazing things to explore”. Judy is painting and writing more beautifully now than ever, Rebecca is boldly leading people to simplicity, Master Marsh tends a section of the Calaveras River, plays music, and makes trouble. To be clear: they are not “striving to achieve” – a concept-distinction that Dwight has me pondering – they are engaged with life. They are rooting around on their heart path. Each is finding a need in others and filling it. My list of “those-who-inspire” could go on and on.

A moment ago my thoughts turned to H. He visited me in a dream last night. If ever there was a model for how to thrive in the last chapter, it is H. He sang with his barbershop quartet, was a lively presence in Kerri’s choir and famously rapped a song, encrusted in bling, at age 89. His enormous car filled two parking spaces and after expertly landing his machine between the lines, he’d pop the trunk and retrieve his walker. I learned early on not to ask if he needed any help. The answer is “no.” He died in his middle-90’s, boldly making a mess of new technology, stomping around in this strange new world.

All are embracing the good doctor’s 4th Never Do: I don’t restrict myself. It seems to me that all of the good doctor’s rules are encapsulated in #4: it is the heart of the matter.

read Kerri’s blogpost about 5 THINGS

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Follow Your North Star [on KS Friday]

We are on a hummingbird watch. There’s an app that plots their migration. They’ve been spotted to the north of us.The little hummingbird symbols on the map show a veritable cavalry of hummingbirds approaching from the south. Our hummingbird feeders are poised and ready, filled with sugar water. Gay, Jay, and Kerri have an agreement: the first to spot a hummingbird in their yard gets a celebratory margarita.

One of my heroes, my great-aunt Dorothy, had multiple hummingbird feeders on her mountaintop yard. I remember sitting in the sun watching the hummingbird posse dart from feeder to feeder. Dorothy’s little plot of grass was a magical place. Blue bottles caught the sun, special rocks glittered, Poncho the dog lazed in the shade, Del’s old army jeep teetered on the edge of the abyss. A ride in the jeep was certain to take us up the mountain into wild, unimaginable adventure.

They did not live in the world of hurry-up and get-there. Their world was the opposite. They were not trying to be-somewhere-else. They designed their lives on experiencing the here-and-now. Their intention was to appreciate-the-fullness-of-this-moment. It was the only place in my childhood, other than my studio/bedroom, that made sense, though it’s taken me a lifetime to recognize why.

They didn’t split themselves. They chose simple living over anxious striving. When I was young I often looked at Dorothy and wanted to know what she knew, wanted to live as she lived. I loved taking walks through the mountain trails with her. I’ve only recently recognized that Kerri and I walk as Dorothy walked. Slowly. Open to what crosses our path and calls our attention. We are capable of walking the same trail each day and experiencing it anew each time.

My north star has been there all along, even in the times when I jumped into the race because it was what I thought I was supposed to do. Yesterday, I went into my upstairs office, sat at my drafting table, and drew cartoons, modifying scripts generated from chatGPT. “I can’t continue to just apply for positions,” I told myself, “I have to do something different as well.” Cartoons.

I laughed. I was full-to-overflowing with ideas. I’ve not been so happy in weeks. Something different; something sane. Something now.

This morning, while I washed dishes, I gazed out the kitchen window, watching for the hummingbirds. I remembered something Susan said to us at breakfast last week: your yard is a sanctuary. She told us that she makes a pilgrimage to our yard each year to recharge. Our yard is like Del and Dorothy’s mountaintop, not by accident, but through intention. It is the place we sit-in-the-here-and-now. To rejuvenate. To enjoy the chipmunk colony living in Barney-the-piano, the chatter of the squirrels, that flash of the cardinals. To await with great anticipation the arrival of the first hummingbird.

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about TINY FEATHERS

i didn’t know/this part of the journey © 1998 kerri sherwood

Restore The Heart [on KS Friday]

Last night I sat on the floor in the corner of the bathroom. It was very late and I couldn’t sleep. I said to no one, “Something, sometime, some way, has to tip in our favor.” I was disheartened after a day of exceptionally discouraging news.

“Disheartened” is an interesting word. Heart removal. An empty cavity where the energy should be. The thought made me laugh and laughter is always good for the disheartened. My laughter brought me back to my senses. I sat on the floor, shifted my focus from woe-is-me and placed it squarely on all that I am thankful for. The list is long and runs through creature comforts like hot showers and electric light to soul-comforts like a crazy Aussie dog to heart-comforts like an incredible wife. Also, there is wine on the deck. Walks in nature which imply good health, walks through imagination which imply an artistic spirit, walks with awe which imply an insatiable curiosity. Through the right lens, my life-view from the bathroom floor is remarkable.

My empty cavity filled to overflowing.

I find it’s a good practice, when fresh from a bout with self-pity, to wander the house slowly. To intentionally touch the stories that live in the furniture or the glasses or the plants. To step out of the fear-mongering and into the riches of the present moment. Laying on our dining room table is a bundle of branches Kerri gathered from a fallen pussy willow. The furry catkins glowed silver and caught my attention. They warmed me with a memory. A walk with dear friends on ground so muddy that we laughed and hopped in search of solid footing. It was cold. Trees were down; the day before the wind and rain was brutal. Finding the pussy willow branch on the ground made both Kerri and Jen giggle with delight. A treasure! So simple. Their excitement turned toward possibilities. Vases or ribbon?

Enhearten: to restore strength and courage to a saddened spirit. The memory was good medicine and sent me to bed where I fell into a deep sleep, paradoxically enlivened and peaceful. Heart restored.

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read Kerri’s blogpost about PUSSYWILLOWS

watershed/as it is © 2004 kerri sherwood