Harvest Tales [on KS Friday]

We sat on the back porch of the farmhouse. Columbus stared across the fields and told stories of his youth, working on a farm. He never talked about that time in his life, at least I didn’t remember hearing about the harvest times.

We rented the airbnb to take him back to his hometown. He wanted to see it one last time. He was slipping deeper into dementia and knew this visit would be his last. Earlier in the day, I found him in the kitchen. He was lost. He couldn’t remember how to make coffee. I’m not sure he knew who I was. We made coffee together and pretended all was well.

I was surprised that he didn’t want to spend more time in the little downtown. He wanted to walk the cemetery. He wanted to tell stories of his friends. He knew where every headstone was located. He knew right where his friends were and I listened, gathering more stories from his life. Sometimes I asked questions, prompts, to keep the storytelling going.

After the cemetery, we found the little house his grandfather built, the little house where my grandfather was born. It was being used as a storage shed because it was no bigger than a storage shed. It was in someone’s backyard. There wasn’t a fence and no one was home so we crossed the yard and walked around it. Holy ground for my dad. Now, it is sacred ground for me, too. He was a salmon swimming upstream returning to his origin. He was planting stories in us, reaching deep into his beginning tale. I was quiet, now. Listening.

We ended the day on the farmhouse porch. Staring across the field. Harvest tales.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HARVEST

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

millneck fall © 1997 kerri sherwood

Savor The Impossible [on Merely A Thought Monday]

Kerri and I have an ongoing conversation about design. Not graphic design or interior design. Life design. Is there a design, a predetermined path? A destiny? Our verdict lives on a pendulum. Sometimes it seems apparent: there is. Somedays it seems obvious: there isn’t. Both/And.

When we look back at our lives it seems impossible that we met. So many factors – millions, in fact – had to align at just the right moment for the arc of our paths to cross. Change a single aspect, one decision, just one, and our trajectory through space and time would have been wildly different. We would have tumbled through life never having known each other.

It’s hard to recognize in our most ordinary days that the same principle applies. Always. Each moment of every day we are making choices, tiny micro-choices, that bend the course of our lives. I once looked at the “publish” button and thought, “What’s the point?” I almost deleted the newsletter but, in a move that felt utterly impulsive and completely ridiculous, I clicked the publish-button. My life had exploded. Pieces rained down from the sky. I had nothing to lose. Why not. Publish.

Stories are told after the fact. “How” always comes second.

I clicked a button. A woman named Kerri responded. A conversation started.

Our coming together was nothing shy of mystic. Heaven and earth had to move for this possibility to become a reality – and it did. It moved. It felt as if unseen hands gave us a push. What are the odds? Astronomical. What about those hands?

Heaven and earth move everyday. Astronomical odds. Micro-choices. Ordinary life. Miraculous. Looking backward it seems destined. Looking forward it seems random. Design? Arbitrary? Yes. I suppose, either way, the real question is, “Do you appreciate it?” Do you know how impossible this moment is? Where else would you be?

Today is our seventh anniversary. Today, I savor the impossible and appreciate the design. Both/And.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SUPPOSED TO BE

Live It [on DR Thursday]

Paths cross. Spirits fed. Who knows when we will sit again at the same table, laugh and tell stories of our youthful foibles?

There is no better person on earth than Dwight. Every day he practices his belief and has, therefore, made his belief a practice – rather than an achievement or a trophy or a trumpet or a platform. Help others as you, yourself, have been helped. Be present for others as others have been present for you. Simple. Life as a meditation. How rare! He lives what he espouses.

We drove into Chicago to meet him for dinner. He was passing through. A conference. An opportunity to share a little bit of time. Our last face-to-face conversation was in 2018. As he said, “We easily picked up right where we left off.” We always have. We always will. That makes me a fortunate man.

Both our paths through life have known hot fire. Dwight is not a saint or an untouchable. Like me, he knows the chaos and the pain of a broken road. The loss of illusion. The long walk back to center. The discovery of self, not where you thought you’d find it. He is solid because he’s been forged. He’s sound because he has roots from experience. He’s present and available because he no longer requires armor.

Our conversation, among other things, was how to live well this chapter of life. We have less years in front of us than behind. How do we live them well and with intention? I had no clear answer but I did have a north star example: the man sitting across the table with laughter in his eyes.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DINNER

canopy © 2007 david robinson

Ride The Message [on Two Artists Tuesday]

Among the many monumental events we experienced on our recent travels, none is more significant than the moment Little Baby Scion rolled over 260,000 miles. We were in Richmond, Kentucky on our last night of vacation en route to our final Airbnb of the trip. We hooted and hollered in celebration.

Like us, every little piece of LBS is worn by the miles. Yet, like us, LBS has a young heart and was going 80 miles an hour (with ease) at the moment she turned over 26 with four zeros.

True confessions: on the day Kerri and I met in O’Hare airport, when we spontaneously held hands and skipped out of baggage claim to the parking garage, I had no idea what kind of car she drove. When I first laid eyes on the little black shoebox car, I thought, “Perfect!” This woman was easily as quirky as I was. The car fit her like a glove. When we got into the younger version of LBS, she’d packed me a snack and had a bold cup of coffee awaiting in the cup holder. Little Baby Scion was more than a car. It was a message.

Almost ten years later and many more miles on the dial, many things have changed. Tires. Spark plugs. More than one muffler. There are scratches and dings and flaking chrome, but the essentials remain the same. Quirky, young-at-heart, a rolling feast of abundance, we’ll get “there” one way or the other. Together. We come honestly by our wear-and-tear, in our quirky reliable intrepid little shoebox car. Perfect. A rolling message, a life of quirk complete with road snacks.

“Where shall we go next?” she asks. “I’m ready.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about 260,000 MILES

Connect [on Merely A Thought Monday]

When I think of Sam I am flooded with fond memories of a man dedicated to bringing people together around heaps of fine food. Thanksgiving with friends. Apple crush. A “bad art” party that was a thin veneer for assembling those he loved around a table of abundance. Sam envisioned himself as a connector of people, both to others and to deeper connections within. Two paths to the same destination.

Yesterday on the trail we talked about what was and what is. The pandemic years have proven to be a hot crucible for change. Life passages. There is a hard line: before and after. When I first moved to Wisconsin, Kerri and I hosted large gatherings almost every week. Ukulele band. Slow dance party. Cantata Frittata Regatta. Bringing people together. We held five progressively larger dinner parties on the week before our wedding. There was always boisterous conversation, plenty of food and wine. Now, we are delighted each week when 20 comes over to share a meal. We laugh. We spin tales. We enjoy quiet and simplicity. Intimate conversations.

As Sam knew, food and stories are both connection creators. Together, they are an unbeatable team, the pulsing heart of breaking bread. And, he knew as we do, that connection is not an achievement or arrival platform. It is like a good fire and must be tended, fed. Both between others and within the self.

When the sun sets on these cool fall evenings, we bring dinner outside and eat beside a fire. Dogga finds a comfortable place to rest. The pond gurgles. Each night I am overwhelmed with waves and waves of gratitude. We coo over the meal we’ve made. Our conversation is made quiet by the fire. Reflective. We savor the passing moment, no thought of stopping time. All in. Connected.

read Kerri’s blogpost about EAT

Discover It [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

The mist from the falls danced with the sunlight. Waterfall aura. Waterfall halo. We stood in the bands of color and laughed. Full body color tickle.

And then, a hush of utter appreciation. We listened to the chamber music of rushing water over the edge of rock. It was so beautiful there was nothing to be done but to close our eyes. Drink it in. Mist on our faces.

And then, we continued upward. The trail was steep so our steps were slow.

Krishnamurti wrote that, “To find out what is truth there must be great love and a deep awareness of (hu)man’s relationship to all things – which means that one is not concerned for one’s progress and achievements.”

In his book, Siddhartha, Hermann Hesse wrote that for every truth there exists an opposite truth. We humans are largely resistant to grasping both sides of wholeness. We like to be right so we tend to “fix” our half-truth in white-knuckled abstractions. Lost in our minds and paging through our rulebook-for-living, we miss the fullness of our relationship to all that surrounds us.

Standing by the waterfall, slowly climbing the mountain, it was easy to love our relationship to all things. The trail brought quiet to our minds. Each step, moment to moment, a full vibrant discovery of truth.

read Kerri’s blogpost about WATERFALL HALO

Be The Reason [on Merely A Thought Monday]

Our airbnb porch became the neighborhood evening meet-up spot. After a good day of hiking, we’d take our snack and glass of wine to the porch, set up our pop-up table and chairs, and enjoy the waning light. The porch was close to the street so it was only natural (to us) to talk to passers-by.

Mike and his little dog Makaela stopped to chat. Carole joined us. The guy with the pizza walked by and offered us a slice. The skittish kitty hovered. It became the evening ritual; conversation with the neighborhood. Easy laughter. Sharing stories.

It’s easier to see when traveling, when the stuff-of-life is put on the back burner for a week or so. Put down the worries and the simple gestures, the small kindnesses, become visible. In our travels we were awash in the warmth of the easy smile, the generous hello, the effortless conversation.

Taking a walk in Charlotte, the afternoon was hot so we stayed to the shady side of the street. The tree surprised us. Prayer flags wove through the branches and sweet phrases hung like ornaments and fluttered in the breeze. An invitation to stop awhile and breathe. An invitation to stop awhile and set a generous intention. Be the reason.

What I learned on my vacation: a smile is such an easy gift to give. It’s even easier to receive and reciprocate. And, best of all, the ripples go on and on and on.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SMILES

Speak In Softer Tones [on KS Friday]

On stormy days the sound of the lake greets us in the morning. If we didn’t know better, we’d think it was the Atlantic Ocean. And then there are the days when the lake is glassy smooth. The silence of the lake invokes silence in us; we speak in softer tones.

We are on the road this morning. The sounds that greet us are different. New. In this small town there’s a cricket symphony that accompanies the sunrise. I stood for a moment on the balcony and enjoyed the performance. Masterful. Pink and purple sky.

In a few hours we’ll be back on the road. Unlike yesterday, we’ll drive the backroads. Lately, we are resistant to the frenetic freeway, the angry trucks, the anxious sedans. Sometimes the freeway is unavoidable. Knowing there will be quieter sounds today – and a slower pace – makes us breathe easier. Sound and pace are cousins.

Today is a “we’ll-get-there-when-we-get-there” day. I learned years ago that pace and frenetic energy are a team sport. People feed the frantic in each other. People are also capable of creating quiet in each other. Sometime, for an experiment, try and slow walk down a busy-business-walker street. To remain slow you have to ride your inner brakes.

The same is true with sound. We seek the thumping clubs and concerts when we want to amp up. We seek the slow-walk meadows when we want to gear down.

Today is a gear down day. The crickets must have known. They set a perfect starting tone for a backroads intention. We’ll speak in softer timbre, just like the lake.

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

read Kerri’s blog post about THE LAKE

adrift/blueprint for my soul © 1997 kerri sherwood

Move The Mountain [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“Give what you have. To someone, it may be better than you dare to think.” ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The box of avocados arrived like a gift a familial love. It was. Kerri’s sister sent them and they found us like surprise Christmas. “Holy Smokes!” Kerri, said, lifting the first football-sized avocado from the box. “This is too much!” Eyes filling with tears. She misses her sister.

It takes so little. Avocados in a box.

The day following my health scare, my older brother called. I fell immediately into my role of younger brother and was comforted-to-the-bone to hear his voice. He has always been a rock. Stable ground when the world tilts.

A phone call. A small gesture. Profound in impact. Stable ground.

It seems a cliche’ yet remains the human-seminar that is most difficult to grasp. The grand gesture is fine, but mountains are moved by the small reach. A touch on the shoulder. A call to check in. Simple presence. A box of avocados.

read Kerri’s blog post about AVOCADOS

Make A Mess [on Merely A Thought Monday]

One cannot know life’s ups without experience of life’s downs. The quality that defines order is chaos. And, vice-versa.

In the same vein, Horatio hit me with a thought that gave me the shivers: wisdom is the blossom of regret.

Regret is one of those special words that is both a verb and a noun. To lament. A feeling of sorrow. It comes from experience. When he was young, Roger told me that he wanted to live a life with no regrets and although we’ve lost touch, my great hope is that he was incapable of living the life he wanted to live. He is made of deeper stuff.

Hermann Hesse’ novel, Siddhartha, is a story of arriving at wisdom. So, too, is his novel Narcissus and Goldmund. Far beyond the lands of understanding and knowledge, the fields of wisdom are born of messy life. Mistakes made. Fears confronted. Loss and awe. Illusions pierced. A protected life may fill your cup and bank account with information but will leave you with a limited palette of life experience. A full closet of clothes for the ghost that wears them.

Coincidentally, last week, Horatio and I both spent some time on sterile medical beds looking up at the bright lights on the ceiling. Doctors looking down. Suddenly filled with gratitude for the regrets that we’ve racked up in this life.

Sitting by the river, watching the river flow by, we compared notes. We shared life stories. How on earth did I get to be so lucky?

read Kerri’s blogpost about CATERPILLAR ON A ROPE