Moving Mountains [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

There are few artists that she admires more than Phil Vassar. He is one of the great singer-songwriters of his genre. Last week he played at the Genesse just down the road so we moved a few mountains to be there. He’s recovering from a heart attack and a stroke so he also moved a few mountains to be there. I’ve never witnessed more simple gratitude pour from a performer – for being alive, for being able to sing and play, for sharing his gifts.

The lyric went straight to her heart and she cried: dreams can grow wild born inside an American child. She cried for her own wild dreams.

She cried for the crumbling dream called The United States of America. This song, American Child, in a moment became the anthem for all that we are losing, all that her father, a WWII vet, a prisoner of war, who fought against fascists, who carried the deep psychological scars from his service through the rest of his life…all so that his children and grandchildren might live in a country where dreams can grow wild.

She cried.

Democracy is, itself, a wild dream careening toward a cliff. The White House is literally being torn apart by a man-who-would-be-king. The congress has all but abdicated its responsibility; it’s literally left-the-building. The Supreme Court regularly rules against the Constitution, literally elevating one man above the law.

Those who believe in the dream of democracy hit the streets on the day we saw Phil Vassar. It was the biggest protest in the history of our young nation. Thom Hartmann wrote: “The No Kings Day protests last weekend were breathtakingBut here’s the hard truth: that energy, that passion, that righteousness means very little if it doesn’t translate into structure and leadership. Movements that fail to coalesce around leaders and build institutions typically die in the glare of their own moral light or fail to produce results.

Wild dreams are the north star of action. The dreams of an artist become reality after hours and hours and years and years of practice and rehearsal. Specific action aimed at the manifestation of the dream; moving mountains.

Democracy is not defended by hashtags. It’s defended by hands, millions of them, building, voting, organizing, and refusing to quit when the cameras are gone.” ~ Thom Hartmann

Phil Vassar suffered a heart attack. And then a stroke. He is moving mountains because he nearly lost his dream. He’s not sitting at home fretting. He’s playing concerts. He’s writing new songs. He’s breathing new air into his almost-lost-dream.

Perhaps we will do the same.

read Kerri’s blogpost about WILD DREAMS

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See The Sacred [David’s blog on KS Friday]

I’ve decided that one of the many problems we face as a culture and as a nation is that we do not recognize our sacred moments. We generally miss the extraordinary because they often come dressed in ordinary clothes; we look for grand gestures, tablets from the mountaintop, or confuse the sacred with something more entertaining. We miss the moment when we participate in the sacred, moments like voting, moments like speaking freely. There are moments like helping a neighbor, working at a food bank, volunteering at a school. Making someone’s life better is sacred.

Sacred moments are often gritty or mundane. They are not always like watching the sunrise over the lake on an anniversary.

Sometimes sacred moments are spontaneous. In the wake of the storm we wandered down to the park adjacent to the harbor. She wanted me to see the gazebo where the bands play. It’s an intentional place, a beautiful structure meant to be a center where the community gathers. Climbing the steps to the rain-soaked deck, I saw the idea pop into her mind. She pulled out her phone, brought up a piece of music that is sacred to us, If Ever You Were Mine by Cherish The Ladies. We waltzed as we did ten years ago. Our dear Linda taught us to waltz to this piece of music, our first dance at our wedding reception. Sacred.

We danced. Kerri led – just as at our wedding – and we laughed and laughed. I do not hear the beat as well as my musician wife. For us – for me – dancing badly with her is sacred.

The people in the park taking a rainy night constitutional gave us a wide berth. They must have thought the couple waltzing in the gazebo must be crazy or a menace to the public. We waltzed and because once was not enough, we waltzed again.

That’s the misunderstood characteristic of the sacred: it need not be reserved for rare occasions; the sacred can be courted, woven into the the everyday, the ordinary: the sound of the chimes that Guy gifted to us, the song of the cardinal or the hummingbird at the feeder. Raking the leaves on a crisp autumn day. The smell of freshly ground coffee. Holding hands as we descend the steps of the gazebo, splashing in puddles, shaking the rain from our hair.

Sacred.

SLOW DANCE on the album AS SURE AS THE SUN © 2002 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE GAZEBO

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A Popcorn Trail [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

The torrents of rain and tropical wind gusts paused momentarily to regroup, so we went out. She couldn’t wait to set foot on the dock. She needed – needed – to walk to the small pavilion at the far end. A shelter with benches and remembrance. Her memories called.

Many years ago I had a week all alone in my childhood home. I was writing my book and the empty house seemed like a perfect quiet retreat. Between writing sessions I walked. I literally felt pulled to revisit the places and pathways of my youth. I stood at the edge of the present and listened for the echoes of my past. It’s what she was doing as we slow-walked toward the pavilion: attuning to the resonance of her life.

Standing beneath the shelter, already drenched from the rain, the wind winding up for the next hard gust, she said, “I wrote a song here…” The story spilled from her in fragments and she reassembled the pieces. A small section of the puzzle came together.

The birthplace of a song. The birthplace of an artist. A tiny pavilion at the end of a dock. The place where a young woman composed music in her mind and left behind a bit of the song, a popcorn trail for an older woman to follow so that she might someday find her way home.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PAVILION

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Messages [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“We forget that the soul has its own ancestors.” ~ James Hillman

A hard day driving, made three hours longer by traffic and incessant construction, we were bleary-eyed. There has never been a time that we needed respite more than at the end of this day. In the dark of night we almost missed the driveway into the farm. It was shielded from view by the fields of corn. At the back of the property we found the little cottage that we’d booked for the night. Upon first view, illuminated by the headlights of the truck, we released all expectation of comfort.

We couldn’t have been more wrong.

Entering the cottage was like walking into a loving embrace. It was beautiful, warm and cozy. Recently renovated, it literally sparkled. We wandered through its rooms saying, “Wow!” Baskets of snacks, thick plush towels, a bedroom that seemed made for a photo shoot for Grandin Road. The Andes candy on the pillow brought Kerri to tears. “These were my mom’s favorites,” she said, holding the small chocolate as if it was a precious letter, a message from Beaky. You could almost hear her whisper:

“Rest now. Everything is exactly as it should be.”

In fact, our entire journey seemed punctuated by visitations. Pa was there when, driving into a tropical storm, the rubber seal on our windshield failed. “Gorilla tape!” we heard the command from the ethers. There was a Home Depot at the next exit.

“I think your dad has our back,” I said as we taped the broken seal, a solution good enough to get us through our journey. The torrential rain was no match for Pa’s magic fix.

Big Red, our truck with Gorilla tape on the seal, was my dad’s. His truck came to us when he could no longer drive. We’ve always thought of Big Red as his truck, not ours. After he passed, Big Red was a notorious prankster, breaking down in the middle of Kansas, stopping without reason in rush hour traffic and then starting again only when the tow truck was on the way. Once, after prepping for a trip, an oil change, new belts, and service checks, we loaded up Big Red, jumped in – and it simply refused to start. “Columbus is playing with us,” she said as we transferred the suitcases and cooler to LittleBabyScion.

“Again,” I said.

As Kerri placed the gull feather and rocks from Crab Meadow Beach in the cab of the truck she turned to me and said, “I think Columbus is finally giving us Big Red. I think Big Red is ours now.”

I felt it, too. Columbus was laughing the laugh he saved for squirt gun surprises, his famous midnight raids when I was a boy. “You’ve got this,” he smiled, “And, don’t forget to have a little fun.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about ANDES CANDY

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The Way It Works [David’s blog on KS Friday]

She looks for hearts so, of course, she sees them everywhere. That is the way perception works. We have it backwards: we do not “believe it when we see it,” rather, “we see it because we believe it.” We see what we expect to find.

In these un-United States we are witness to the power of propaganda to shape belief. The Fox has millions believing that they are victims of a scary monster named Woke. They are steeped in the illusion of an imagined immigrant invasion. They are choking on the belief that our society is rotting from progress, under assault by the learned. None of these threats exist but that has no bearing on what the fox-mesmerized-audience perceives-and-believes. They look for boogeymen everywhere and, therefore, that is what they see. They see it because they believe it. No facts necessary. Reason cannot punch through the blindness of their hard faith. Heart is nowhere visible in their dark, mean-spirited perception.

Last night we made a pact with our pals. We vowed to slap each other awake if we grow rigid as we age. “I want to stay curious. I want to keep learning. There’s so much to learn.” Yes. And, again, yes.

I left our evening together so grateful for the people populating my life who are, like me – like us – dedicated to seeing miracles in the everyday. They look for possibility and, so, they find it. They are not afraid to challenge what they believe. They question. They step into the unknown. Their belief has not calcified, rather, it remains fluid and expansive. They grow. They check the veracity of what they are told. They do not seek to blame others for their obstacles. They seek the best in others and – you’ll not be surprised – they find it. That is the way perception works. That is the way a healthy society works.

LEGACY from the album RELEASED FROM THE HEART © 1995 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART

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Moon Chat [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Years ago, very late at night, I sat by a pool and had a conversation with the full moon. Essentially, I was letting go of my grip on safety and security. I was about to blindly step into the current. I vowed to the full moon that I would go wherever the flow would take me, I would love wherever it would lead me.

I’d completely forgotten about that long-ago-moon-chat until last weekend when, after setting the hose in the cool of the evening, I turned and was startled by the moonrise. The moon was enormous. It seemed to be staring at me, smiling. “Well?” it asked, “Do you love it? Was it worth all the tossing around in the tide?”

“Oh, yes,” I whispered. “I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

Unfettered, 48″x48″, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE MOON

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Feed The Marvels [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Last year Carl Blanchet walked all 2650 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail in less than 90 days, a feat that would have killed most of us. This year he’s walking the PCT again, not to break his previous personal record, but to do the opposite. This time Carl is taking his time. He’s moving slowly. He’s watching sunsets. He’s smelling flowers. He’s making new friends along the way.

Carl’s gratitude is magnetic. His enthusiasm for small things is contagious. He finds magic in a tiny swimming hole. He exudes appreciation and simple kindness. He giggles at the colors of the sunset. He can’t wait to walk another mile and share it with his audience.

He has become one of our favorite bright lights in this dark time. Each night we look forward to his next installment, to spending a few moments with someone who intentionally immerses himself in the love of life.

He is a stark counterpoint to those immersing themselves in hate. He reminds me of what is possible. He reminds me of the power of the cliché: where you place your focus grows. Carl’s enthusiasm for life comes from a decision; it is an intention.

He reminds me to look for the light, to feed the positive, to not let a single sunset go by unnoticed and without celebration. It’s not so difficult to beat back the darkness when our dedication is to see – to focus on – and feed in each other – the abundant marvels readily available in this life.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SKY

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An Affirmation[David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

We crossed paths with a praying mantis. Otherwise perfectly still, it glanced in our direction. Its glance brought us to perfect stillness.

It’s hard to beat a praying mantis encounter if you are looking for good omens. They are associated with good luck and divine guidance. In these dark times we’ll take all the good omens we can get. We are open to positive guidance, divine or otherwise.

We played look-at-me-look-at-you for several moments. I wondered if it felt the same awe for us as we felt for it. I imagined it felt awe for everything; we were one of many awesome moments in its day. It was a rare moment of awe in ours.

It was graceful enough to hold its pose for the duration of the photo shoot. Spiritual contemplation is another of the traits we assign to praying mantis so I wondered while posing for its picture if it contemplated our obsession of capturing a moment in time, our need for memory aids to help us remember awe.

After the photos it returned its gaze to some distant place or meditation. We continued our walk filled with the notion – or the hope – that this giant universe had just placed a small yet potent affirmation on our path.

read Kerri’s blog about the PRAYING MANTIS

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A Time Of Water [David’s blog on KS Friday]

And just before the autumn equinox, the last day lily had her brilliant orange moment in the sun and then closed up shop for the winter. It was poignant. We watched her drink in the sun and then fold.

The nights grow longer than the day. The plumes on the grasses are radiant when they catch the evening light. The leaves on the pepper plant have yellowed. The sweet potato vine, once a vibrant uniform lime green, now displays a pattern of color, red-brown and crimson.

We’re emerging from a few weeks of sickness, a bad cold moved in and took much of the wind from our sails. Our limited energy allowed for a few shaky-leg slow walks by the lake. Slow walking allows for better seeing. I marvel at how unimportant most things become – how my perspective simplifies and clarifies when I have limited energy; when my body demands my attention. We sat in our adirondack chairs facing the sun. I felt like the day lily, drinking it in. The sun is good medicine.

Better seeing. Clarity.

I did not know that the word “winter” comes from an old Germanic word and means “time of water.” The snow, the ice, the freezing rain. We pull inside. We retreat to the root to recuperate and gather energy for renewal.

Each week Kerri chooses one of her compositions for our Friday posts. This week, in trying to decide between two pieces, she chose both: one piece from her first album, entitled In Transition, and one from her most recent album – her 15th – entitled Transience. I was moved when listening to the pieces side-by-side: the same theme separated by a decade and a half of life. Transitory life, cycles of production and retreat, generation and rest, exploring and recognizing.

Transitory life looks differently when you are older than it does when you are young.

We are having an extended conversation with our son about artistry. He is an EDM artist and is taking full possession of his gifts. It’s thrilling to watch him move from becoming to being. He is fully inhabiting a time of fire. He is running fast. Chasing.

We – Kerri and I – are fully in a time of water, from being to becoming. We are slow walking. Gathering energy. No longer trying to arrive in a life that is constantly moving. We are the dream we chase. Appreciating the transitory. Savoring our moment, this one glorious never-to-have-again day. We are like the last day lily drinking in the sun and storing that warm heart energy for the coming of spring.

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE DAY LILY

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

And where was I before the day
That I first saw your lovely face?
Now I see it everyday
And I know that I am
I am, I am the luckiest

~ Ben Folds, The Luckiest

Late at night. We talked of going back in time. Way back. Way back to the day before a single event changed the trajectory of our lives. “Who was I on the day before?” she asked. “Who would I be now?” After a moment she added, “I want to remember what that felt like; what she felt like.”

This past decade has been the single hardest period of my life. It has also been the best. I now understand that, previous to this era, I was a dedicated runner-from-life. In grinding me to a fine powder, this magnificent universe has brought me to a standstill. Standing still.

I slow-walked through a grove of trees. I set down my backpack when I had one-of-those-moments: I wanted to be nowhere else, doing nothing else. I have those a lot lately.

I don’t get many things right the first time
In fact, I am told that a lot
Now I know all the wrong turns
The stumbles and falls brought me here

Who was I on the day before?

I wish I could reach back through time and tell him not to worry so much. I wish I could tell him what it feels like to be here, that all his running and lostness would eventually take him to stillness. Standing still even in the midst of chaos. A lover of simple things. I wish I could tell him that, even if he cannot yet see it, he is – and always has been – the luckiest.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART

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