Earth School [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“It takes the brave to come here,” Shelly said, assuming our spirits come to this planet with the intention to learn and grow. We were discussing life-lessons. Earth school.

20 regularly reminds us that relative to many US citizens we are considered poor but relative to the majority of human beings on the planet, we are wealthy. We have sturdy homes. Heat. Clean water. Abundant access to food. “There’s a reason that so many people want to come here,” he says. Promise. Opportunity. A better life.

It’s all a matter of perspective and perhaps perspective is one of the most important things we learn in earth school. Without it gratitude is out of reach. Without it, empathy is null and void, self-righteousness runs amok.

When I was in my 20’s I worked on a concrete construction crew. It was very hard work. I worked alongside a Mexican man in his 50’s. We shoveled dirt. We hefted heavy equipment. We did not share a common language but early on he recognized I was working foolishly, too hard and too fast. He taught me to pace myself. He taught me to work smarter.

At night I went home to have a hot shower, eat my fill, and sleep in my own bed – while he went to a one bedroom apartment that he shared with 20 other people. He sent most of his wages home.

He was corralled in one of the immigration raids and sent back to Mexico. A few weeks later he was back shoveling by my side; a round trip journey of hundreds of miles, none of it in the comfort of an airplane or air conditioned car. He paid a coyote a king’s ransom to make the trip back to his job.

Can you imagine leaving your home, your family, your known world and with few resources, traveling to a place where you don’t speak the language, to a place where you are not wanted, to a place where you share an apartment with 20 other people – all so your family might eat and perhaps one day live a better life? He was typical. He was not a criminal. He was a father trying to feed his kids.

Earth school. I thought of that man when Shelly said, “It takes the brave to come here.” His lot was impossibly hard yet he whistled all day doing backbreaking work. He smiled. He considered himself fortunate. That man was brave. He was also kind. He was patient. He was living a onerous life that I cannot begin to imagine and doing it with a light heart because he knew that his labor might bring hope and opportunity to his family.

Earth school. I wonder how much courage it will take for us as a nation to one day look in the mirror, to come to grips with the distance between our espoused and lived values?

It takes no courage to exploit. To bully. To betray. To feign righteousness. To sit atop the pyramid while claiming victim-hood. Right now, our nation and its very weak and ill-intended leaders are a study in cowardice.

I suspect hard lessons, if not already here, are coming. Perhaps we will discover what it really means to be brave and, hopefully, we will remember what it is to work for the benefit of others rather than exploit them. Perhaps we will forge a light heart in our walk through fire. Perhaps gratitude and empathy will be in reach. Hopefully, we will remember what it is to be kind.*

*Gratitude, empathy, hope, care for others, inclusion…are all attributes of “woke”. I am woke and increasingly more and more proud of it. In this climate, it will take some courage to stand with the people and institutions being demonized, to speak truth to dedicated maga-sleep-walkers.

read Kerri’s blog about EARTH SCHOOL

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Sit In The Circle [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Somewhere in my past a teacher suggested that it is helpful for a writer to know to whom they are writing. Who is your audience? And more specifically, is there one person that your words are meant to reach?

The question came up for me on our trail. The snow dampens sound. Some people find a winter landscape bleak but I find it beautiful. Distinct. Thought provoking. Ideally suited for an introvert like me. Quiet life. Stands of warm sienna reeds sharp against the ice blue snow. The creaking-moan of tree limbs rubbing in the cold breeze. Perfect for inspiration and reflection.

Much is changing in the world broadly and in our world close-in. I am not writing as I once did. I am not painting like I used to. When I first began writing my audience was a community of international coaches, interculturalists, and diversity, equity and inclusion facilitators. I wrote broadly. I had points to make. A brain to flex.

Now I am bereft of answers and have only questions. Some days I write specifically – for Alex or Buffalo Bob. Some days I write for Horatio or Judy or Dwight or 20. Sometimes I write to members of my family though I know they don’t often read what I write. Sometimes I write for Kerri. Many days, probably most days, I write to myself. I reach in. I am asking myself questions about what I believe.

The people who populate my audience – my community – now and in the past – are bonded in their empathy. They care about others. They strive to make the world a better place for others. They are modest. Humble. The opposite of elitist. They are kind. They ask questions. They are thinkers who seek truth in all things; they are open hearts, open minds, with finely-tuned crap detectors. They care enough to fact-check what they hear. They are learners, curious about difference, unafraid of stepping beyond what they know. They are the people I want to hang out with.

On my walk in the snowy woods I realized that I need them now more than ever. A community that inspires hope, that fuels the creative fires burning inside of me and others. A bevy of goodhearted people I admire and believe in. A community of sanity – my community of sanity – in a country deliberately trying to lose its mind and sell its soul.

I write each day so I might sit for a few moments in the circle with these good people, whether they know it or not.

Instrument of Peace, 48″x91″ mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about REEDS AND SNOW

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Beyond Measure [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Just as we had the first time we met thirty five years ago, we talked of intuition and prophesy, past lives and future hope. We discussed the politics of the day. We shared our appreciation for art, music and theatre. Our conversation ran amok over the geography of our lives, trying to catch up on all that transpired in the many years since we last saw each other. As always, there was not enough time.

For some reason her photograph of the water running across the airplane window made me think of ancestors. A protective web of well-wishers, a buffer of safe-keeping while hurtling through the air. Ever present. I imagined what Leonardo da Vinci would do if he were sitting in my seat. He made many, many drawings of contraptions that might someday allow humans to fly. A yearning; his mind fully immersed in the field of possibility. Stuffing ourselves in planes, we forget how much we take for granted. Leonardo, traveling in coach, would be beside himself.

We returned home a day early. A text from the airline warned of coming storms and travel disruption. It was a good decision. A few hours after we landed the snow came. On the drive home we shared stories of being stuck in airports. Our stories were populated by kind strangers. Angels who helped.

20 prepared hot soup for our return. Dogga met us at the door, bouncing with enthusiasm. Four bags of groceries arrived, a surprise welcome home gift from Jen and Brad. Supplies to get through the storm. We reviewed Kerri’s photos from the trip. We ate, sipped wine and regaled 20 with travel stories.

Later, exhausted, crawling beneath the quilts, she said, “The best part of travel is coming home”. My last thought drifting into sleep, Dogga gently snoring at our feet: “We are rich beyond all measure”.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TRAVEL

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Whisper A Prayer [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

It takes a lot these days to clear my mind and heart of the malfeasance and how it already impacts our daily life.

Malfeasance, (noun): wrongdoing; especially by a public official. Or many public officials.

We had to change concourses to catch our connecting flight. Kerri put on her mask before entering the crowded train. A man approached her and mock-coughed on her. He thought he was being funny.

Malevolent (adjective): having or showing a wish to do evil to others. From the Latin, a root meaning “violent wishing”.

“Can you believe he did that?” she asked as we exited the train.

“I think we better get used to it.” I said, “The a**holes have been given a green light.”

Our dear friends drove us over a snowy pass to the shores of Lake Tahoe. Kerri had always wanted to see it. As she does whenever she sees beauty, she cried. “It’s gorgeous,” she whispered again and again. She feels the beauty.

We stopped at a beach to take photos. A cool day, I stood in the sun, warming myself, a gentle breeze rippled the surface of the lake. Quiet mind. Open heart. There’s nothing like standing on the shores of a miracle of nature. Crystal clear water reflecting snow capped mountains. It’s an instant perspective giver:

We will come and go. This era of human folly will come and go. The beauty will remain no matter the wishes we make, evil or otherwise, vicious or virtuous. Relative to the life of the lake, we are a blip, barely a blink of the eye.

Within our blip I wonder at the mind and heart that finds humor in hurting others when they have the option to help. I wonder at the heart that fills itself with hostility rather than drinks from the well of kindness.

To hurt or to help? To persecute or to assist? They seem to be the questions of our nation, of our time.

Standing on the shore in my blip of time I was eternally grateful to have my heart and mind, and not to live inside the sad angry brain of the coughing man. For him – for me – and for all of us – I whispered the Buddhist prayer: May you dwell in your heart. May you be free from suffering. May you be healed. May you be at peace.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE LAKE

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Basking [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Just now, even as I write this sentence, the sun cleared the neighbor’s roof, streaming through our window onto the exact spot where I am sitting. On a cold winter day there are few simple pleasures more satisfying than turning your face to the warming sun. I am basking.

Yesterday, late in the afternoon, we took a walk, our usual loop south through the neighborhood, turning east to follow the lake north. It has been bitter cold these past weeks so it’s been awhile since we strolled at sunset. The rocks along the lake were coated in ice. They looked like bad bakery rolls covered in gooey thick frosting. The sky was electric blue, orange and purple. “Sometimes I forget,” she said, “Look where we live!”

Rob asked us to read his play. He entered it into a 10-minute-play-contest. He is a prolific playwright and I marvel at his output. It takes me many many months to complete a draft that he could produce in a weekend. His play is a husband and wife reminiscing about their life. We learn in the final moments of the play that it is their last moments on earth. An asteroid? A nuclear explosion? They know that it is coming. The wife looks out the window. The husband tries to find ways to keep her distracted and buoy her spirits. It invited a conversation as I’m sure Rob meant for it to do. In our last moments, what might we do? What would be the heart of our reminiscence?

I recently read – I can’t remember where – that love is paying attention. Giving attention. To give.

I thought of that sentiment-of-love while we chopped sweet potatoes and onions, sipping wine, preparing for dinner. We talked of the day. We gave treats to the dog. There was nowhere else I’d rather be. It was like the winter sun streaming through the window. Basking.

Taking Stock on the album Right Now © 2010 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SUN

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Get Your Snowman [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

From his position on the raft he can look out the bedroom window and see the Dachshunds in the yard next door. He knows he’s not supposed to bark so he moans and twirls, groans and suffers, stifling his natural impulse, until a single bark escapes from his muzzle. That’s our cue to feign shock and to say with mock disapproval, “Get your snowman!” Dogga dutifully jumps from the bed and returns moments later with his snowman in his mouth.

The theory goes, with snowman in his mouth, he’s incapable of barking. It mostly works. Well, until recently, it worked like a charm. And then, our too-smart-dog discovered a technical work-around. He retrieved snowman on cue, as usual, but when he returned, he stopped just shy of the raft to show us that he’d done as he was told. Then, he dropped snowman on the floor, leaped onto the raft, and barked with abandon.

Game. Set. Match. Dogga outsmarts us. Again. Were he a sarcastic teenager we’d hide our laughter but as a gray bearded Aussie who’s spent his entire life studying our every move, we’re certain there’s no hiding anything from him. He often knows we are upset before we do. We laugh and laugh as he barks and barks at the marauding Dachshunds.

We’re not alone in being outwitted by our pooch. 20 is Dogga’s favorite human. Dogga has thoroughly trained him to drop snacks on demand from the dinner table. When Dogga begs, 20 employs a stern voice, telling Dogga to “Lay down!” and then, as if he is suddenly hypnotized by Dogga’s compliance, 20 slips a bite of dinner into Dogga’s open awaiting mouth. When we laugh at Dogga’s command over him, 20 grabs his chest, suffering mock heart-palpitations and asks, “Why do I come here?”

Rituals of laughter. Expressions of love.

Now more than ever, it’s important to remind myself each day, beyond the chaos and ill-intention swirling in the e-stream, that these are the real moments, the stuff-of-life that actually matters. The daily rite of the plastic snowman. Dogga manipulations. The tangible everyday moments to be savored and shared that make our life rich beyond measure.

(this post is my version of stuffing snowman in my mouth so I stop barking about the horror-story unfolding in our nation. Rest assured knowing that I am groaning and twirling and suffering as I stifle my natural impulse to bark – but I figured we could all use a break;-)

early work: In Dreams She Rides Wild Horses

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read Kerri’s blogpost about SNOWMAN

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Everything There Is [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Sometimes she takes pictures when she is driving. “What are you doing?” I cry, my life flashing before my eyes.

“It looks like a feather!” she retorts.

“Oh, great” I say, reciting the last line of my obituary. “If only the cloud had not looked like a feather, he would be with us still.” She rolls her eyes. Apparently she survived the imaginary crash and went on to build an extensive catalogue of interesting cloud photographs. For all I know, having perished for a feather cloud, she gained world-wide fame for her interesting shots of condensed water vapor.

As I lay in bed last night, the window opened ever so slightly allowing the cold air to circulate above the warm-warm quilt where we lay pretzeled, Dogga sleeping at our feet, I had a single moment of presence. I know it because I was completely overwhelmed with intense gratitude. Falling out of the moment, I took a snapshot in my mind and heart so I would never forget how profound life is in each and every passing moment.

This was the thought that washed over me: Beyond the dance of giving and receiving, there is only this: being-with. That’s all there is. That’s everything there is.

read Kerri’s blogpost about the FEATHER CLOUD

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Meet The Expectation [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

In our house they are called “happy lights” because they make us happy. And, because they make us happy, happy lights can be found in almost every room of our house. They wind around the headboard of our bed, they outline the window in the sitting room, they wind around the aspen log in our dining room. They wind around the big branches in our living room.

On particularly dark days, after opening the shades, the first action of the day is to plug in the happy lights. All of them. It’s a task that requires moving room-to-room, intentionally inviting happiness into the space. It’s not a bad way to start the day. It’s not a bad practice to stumble around the house, half awake, and expect happiness to turn on with the lighting of the happy lights. And, not surprisingly, happiness meets the expectation.

At the end of the day the last act of closing-up and tucking-in the house is to unplug the happy lights. It’s become a ritual of gratitude, a thankfulness for the happiness brought by the lights. Our headboard happy light, always the first light of the day, is the last light we turn off before sleeping, the last whisper of appreciation for the day.

In these past few months I have grown more conscious and grateful of our happy light ritual. The intentional invitation and invocation of happiness, the deliberate practice of gratitude, seems more and more necessary amidst the national dedication to maga-animus. If there is nothing to be done about the indecent darkness descending on the country, we can, at the very least, invite light into our home, and perhaps share some small measure of the happiness and kindness that our happy lights inspire.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HAPPY LIGHTS

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Upside Down and Wide Open [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Years ago I had a dream. It was visceral and has stuck with me. In my dream the world flipped upside-down. What was heavy was now light. What was difficult became easy. And vice-versa. What I once did effortlessly was suddenly impossible. I could move a mountain but I could not lift a paintbrush. I awoke from my dream both frightened and enthralled.

What is possible? What is impossible? These are good questions to ask on the threshold of a new year. Earlier this week I sat down to write some intentions for the new year and the page is still blank. I’ve decided it is best to leave the possibilities wide open. A blank page has become my intention.

This morning a quote by Noam Chomsky rolled across my screen: “If you assume that there is no hope, you guarantee that there will be no hope.”

I was entering 2025 with a sense of dread and then, in a matter of 24 hours, my picture for what’s possible completely flipped over. An unreachable opportunity sparked a series of heart-conversations. My heavy dread dissipated like fog meeting a warming sun. My eyes refocused on the essential instead of the periphery. I stepped across the dateline filled with hope.

Sometimes, when you least expect it, mountains move. Sometimes the world flips over. Sometimes dreams come true.

Riverstone on the album AS IT IS © 2004 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about REFLECTIONS

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Sanctuary Creation [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

We arrive at another eve’s eve. This year we will slide across the line into 2025 with little-to-no fanfare. We’ll make pizzas and perhaps work on a puzzle. “Working-on-a-puzzle” will be our metaphoric theme for the upcoming year: how do we assemble these disparate pieces into a cohesive picture?

It’s difficult (for me) to move into the new year without trepidation for what’s ahead.

During Covid, with great intention, we made our home a sanctuary. A peaceful space. We created comfort-rituals like our happy-hour so we might ground our days in the positive, in something we looked forward to enjoying at the end of each day. In 2025 we are anticipating a return to the sanctuary since we believe the incoming kakistocracy is a deadly virus rolling across our nation. Social-distancing seems prudent.

This weekend we had a break in the weather and hit the trail. The textures in winter are gorgeous. Water rushing beneath ice, milkweed pods long since exploded and empty of their seeds, a stand of trees barren of their leaves, islands rising from a sea of ochre grasses. Silhouettes against the setting sun.

Among our holiday rituals is to watch the movie, Love Actually. In a famous scene (one among many) Rufus (Rowan Atkinson) giftwraps a gold necklace for a very impatient Harry (Alan Rickman). It is a classic collision of expectations and, even though I know what’s coming, it has me chuckling every time.

Enjoying rituals of comfort. Assembling our disparate pieces into a cohesive whole. Noticing the gorgeous. Returning again and again to tried-and-true sources of laughter. Moving into 2025 I am most grateful that we are adept at sanctuary creation.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FLASHES

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