Expect Awe [David’s blog on KS Friday]

I can’t remember what we were searching to find. What I know is that we forgot what we were doing because we bumbled into a James Taylor concert recorded by the BBC in 1970. He was 22. An old soul. His performance in 1970 buoyed our spirits on a humid stormy morning in 2025.

While there was a break in the rain we ran outside to check the rapid growth of the sweet potato. Last week we discovered a sweet potato in the stair-well potato basket that seemingly overnight had become an alien. Hot pink tentacles reached from the basket like so many periscopes. We pondered what to do and decided to experiment and planted it. If you are a farmer or otherwise schooled in the art of growing things, please feel free to roll your eyes. Since we are not farmers and total novices at growing things, the explosion of leaves from the once-hot-pink-tentacles seems to us like a miracle. I hope this awe never dissolves into the ordinary. I like running outside with the express expectation of being amazed.

Yesterday we scrolled through some pictures taken in the fall of 2021. Following my father’s funeral we drove into the Colorado mountains to walk a piece of land by a lake, the place where he most loved to go to fish. The place where he found his peace. We lit a candle. We walked around the lake. We marveled at the color of the leaves, vibrant yellow, hot red and orange. We grieved and told stories. Looking through the photographs filled me with gratitude: at the time we knew we had to go to the mountain to celebrate his life and so we did. Four years later that inner-place of loss is full-full-full of gratitude for a simple soul who lived a simple life. The photos of that day at the lake served as a two-way-door, one way to a moment-gone-by and the other opened to this moment, teeming with appreciation.

I know without doubt that this ride is limited. Why wouldn’t I expect awe?

“It won’t be long before another day/ We gonna have a good time/ And no one’s gonna take that time away/ You can stay as long as you like./ So close your eyes. You can close your eyes, it’s alright/ I don’t know no love songs/ And I can’t sing the blues anymore/ But I can sing this song/ And you can sing this song when I’m gone.” James Taylor, Close Your Eyes

GRATEFUL 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 THE SWEET POTATO

likesharesupportthankyou

Active Gratitude [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

I think we have it all wrong and that’s why we are now in trouble. Even in the dictionary this word, “community” gets an antiseptic scrubbing. Community is so much more than “people living in the same place,” or “people having a particular characteristic in common”. It is so much more than “a feeling of fellowship,” or “sharing common interests, attitudes, and goals.” All of those aspects are certainly important but they are superficial.

These definitions omit the soul of the communal body.

I found a startlingly simple yet profound definition of community in Martíin Prechtel’s book, Long Life, Honey In The Heart. I discovered my definition of community in his definition of “adulthood”. In his village, adulthood is not something that just happens. Adulthood is not simply a product of aging. It is not a legal definition. It is something that is learned and earned. One is not considered an adult until they embody and live each day from a real-to-the-bone understanding of mutual indebtedness.

Mutual indebtedness. People who are accountable to and for each other. People who are responsible for the well-being of their neighbors. People who know without doubt that their neighbors are accountable to them and responsible for their well-being. Reciprocal generosity.

No one walks this path alone. No one is truly independent. Everyone is reliant upon the gifts, skills and labor of others. Take a walk through a grocery store and try to try to grok how many people, how much labor and love it took to get the potatoes to the shelf. Or, if that’s too abstract, consider how many people were involved in the making of the screen you are presently using; how many generations of thought and imagination, how many hours and hours of someone else’s labor did it take for you to scroll and click? How many people all over the world did it take to mine the minerals and make the chips and manufacture and assemble the components and ship the unit across seas and over roads before you powered on and individualized your device?

Are we or are we not denying responsibility for the well-being of the people who each and everyday serve our needs? Or, as I fear, as is apparent in our current hubris, are we so deluded that we think we can exploit the lives and labor of others without the inevitable blow-back and ultimate societal collapse that “every man for himself” necessitates?

Bullies occupy playgrounds and make deals using big sticks – evidence of a childish mind. Adolescence is self-serving and simplistic.

Our current republican government’s dedicated enemy-creation and fact-free-demonization of others is the antithesis of community. It is, in fact, the intentional destruction of community.

Adulthood comes with the dawning recognition of interdependence. Mutual indebtedness. Responsibility to and for others. Labor as service. Governance as service. Artistry as service. Life as service. As the Beatles sang it, “The love you take is equal to the love you make.”

Community is an action, a verb and not a noun. It is a practice rooted in service to others. It is the adult recognition that a better world for me is only possible when I dedicate myself to the betterment of others. Well-being is a shared intention, something we owe to each other. I eat the food you grow and pick. You use the technology that I develop. We enjoy the fruits of each other’s labor. We survive and thrive because of the efforts of others. We are indebted to each other.

The soul of community is active gratitude.

“Indeed, I don’t believe you can practice love and be in community with folks without an incorporation of accountability as an ethic and a practice.” ~ Tarana Burke, Unbound

read Kerri’s blogpost about ACCOUNTABILITY

likesharesupportthankyou.

Weeding Revelations [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“We are exploring together. We are cultivating a garden together, backs to the sun. The question is a hoe in our hands and we are digging beneath the hard and crusty surface to the rich humus of our lives.” ~ Parker J. Palmer, Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation

I can’t believe I am writing this. The truth is that I enjoy weeding. While Kerri tends to the herbs on the potting bench, I pull weeds from the cracks between the patio stones. I am sometimes shocked at the satisfaction I feel when the deep root emerges with the stem. “Nice!” I exclaim to myself, dropping it into my plastic bucket.

It has not always been true that I enjoy weeding. Initially, it used to feel like a fool’s errand, an unwinnable war. Each new day would reveal new weeds – more weeds – overtaking my gains from the day before. Redoubling my weed-pulling-efforts seemed to produce the opposite of my intention: more and more weeds.

In retrospect I realize that I came to home ownership later in life and my weed wars were waged when I was relatively new to the job. I wanted to impress my new wife with my manly yard maintenance prowess. I’d mowed thousands of lawns in my life and all of them belonged to other people. This yard, our yard, did not yet feel like mine. I was in denial that I actually had a yard to tend.

I also had an Aussie dog whose sole mission in his young life was to carve multiple velodromes through the grass in his gleeful running of circles. And, as it turns out, Aussie pups, when overheated by running circles, dig deep holes in the earth to reach cool soil that they can lay on it. The backyard destruction was total and provided every gleeful weed known to humanity a perfect opportunity to sprout with unbridled enthusiasm. So they did.

I do not know when the crossover happened. I do not know when I surrendered the fight. I don’t imagine it happened all at once. There was no grand epiphany, no lightning bolt of illumination. Over time the war turned into a game and then the game turned into a meditation. One day, I walked into the backyard to quiet my mind and began to weed – and realized what I was doing. “Good for the heart. Good for the soul.” Brother Patrick’s words of so long ago came to mind. Never in my life did I think I would have a yard. Never in a thousand years did I imagine I’d love to quiet my mind by weeding. My wandering soul giggled at the revelation.

It’s been that way ever since.

“I don’t like weeding as much as you do,” she said, pruning the mint and tending the peppers. The potting bench is her happy place.

“I know,” I said, pulling a clump of crabgrass. It came out, roots and all “Nice,” I said aloud. Our old Aussie left his cool soil perch and came to investigate.

“What?” she asked.

“Our yard,” I said. “It’s so nice.”

PULLING WEEDS 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 POTTING BENCH

www.kerrianddavid.com

likesharesupportthankyou!

The Composition of a Life [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

I cut the post I wrote for today. The image of this Dianthus flower is too beautiful for the thoughts I paired with it. The color of this flower kills me. The composition of this photograph would make Georgia O’Keeffe smile.

I reminded myself to not miss the beauty-of-the-moment in the middle of the national horror story we currently experience.

Chris has been on a quest for 15 years to develop a play based on Viktor Frankel’s book, Man’s Search For Meaning. A few days ago he took another step forward. He’s knocking on the door of his dream. Viktor Frankel was a Holocaust survivor and the book is based on his experiences in the camp. He makes a distinction that is relevant for us today: we have the choice to either seek meaning from our experiences or to bring meaning to our experiences. Our chances of survival are better if we bring rather than seek meaning – especially in a time, like ours, when amorality and cruelty have the reins of power. It’s hard to find meaning in the wasteland.

It’s the reason I cut my post. I was seeking meaning from the rapid collapse of our democracy rather than bringing a greater meaning to this moment-in-time.

We put the air conditioner in the window because our old Dogga suffers in the heat. Last night he was laying in his now-usual-spot directly in front of the fan blowing cold air. I sat next to him and rubbed his ears. I cannot describe the enormity of what I felt in that moment. It was more necessary, more important than anything rolling across our screens.

As I write this a bird – a house finch – is scratching at the window just behind where I am sitting. It is literally six inches from my head. I can see into its eyes. And it is looking into mine.

The color of this Dianthus kills me.

I cannot stop the national slide into autocracy. I can control where I choose to place my focus and there’s so much around me that would be a shame to miss. It’s the composition of a life that would make Georgia O’Keeffe – and Viktor Frankel – nod with silent approval.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DIANTHUS

likesharesupportsubscribethankyou.

It’s Fine [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Now most folks suffer in sorrow
Thinking they’re just no good
They don’t match the magazine model
As close as they think they should

They live just like the “paint by numbers”
The teacher would be impressed
A life-time of follow the lines
So it’s just like all of the rest

~David Wilcox, Leave It Like It Is

To be honest, I began writing a post about self-love and bagged it. I don’t really know anything about self-love, which is why I wanted to write about it. Luckily, I realized that it was way too big of a topic for my little, little post.

Tara Brach wrote about her mother’s deathbed confession: “All my life I thought something was wrong with me. What a waste!”

Recently Kerri and I had a conversation about how different we feel – how different our lives have been – from our friends and neighbors. We did not color within the lines. Younger versions of ourselves were split in two: one half following the imperative of our muse, the other half chastising because we didn’t fit in. I’m happy to report that we’ve made peace with the paths we’ve chosen.

We’ve been alive, not necessarily safe.

I used to tell groups I facilitated that “Nothing is broken, nothing needs to be fixed.” I believed it but didn’t necessarily live it. I was looking for what was missing.

It turns out that nothing was missing. My chosen path looked chaotic when compared to the template expectation. It’s a damn hard road when you are both trying to fit in and trying to follow your star. The road was only difficult because I expected pavement when I was a dedicated off road traveler.

What follows is the complete text of my imagined graduation speech to the class of 2025:

“Leave it like it is, it’s fine.” ~ David Wilcox.

Pax, 24″x24″, mixed media on panel

read Kerri’s blogpost about COMPARTMENTS

likesharesupportsubscribecomment…thankyou.

Keeping Vigil [David’s blog on KS Friday]

I’d rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.” ~ e.e. cummings

Our pals shared an adorable photo: their little granddaughter sits on a plastic chair waiting and watching for a single tulip to bloom. She is determined to hold her vigil until the flower opens.

It’s an adorable picture. Kerri sits on a plastic Adirondack chair waiting and watching to catch a photo of the black-capped chickadee emerge from the birdhouse. She is determined to hold her vigil until the tiny bird makes an appearance.

The birdhouse has been empty for years. We thought of it more as a backyard decoration than an actual residence for birds. We couldn’t believe it when we saw a chickadee squeeze through the hole and disappear. Soon long strands of grass hung over the doorway. The chickadee spouse stands guard. It forages and drops food into the house.

It is no small feat to see the world through the eyes of a child. The wonder of a tulip blooming. The astonishment of a chickadee nesting. I watch her watching and waiting, holding her breath with anticipation and I am full, full, full of gratitude that she has not blunted herself to the utter awe of this life. Reverence is so easy for a child, awash in firsts. It is much more difficult when the miracles seem known, ordinary, well worn, when we wrap ourselves in a blanket of been-there-done-that.

Why would we opt to live each day believing that we’ve seen it all before?

“People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don’t even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child — our own two eyes. All is a miracle.” ~ Thich Nhat Hahn

Grateful on the album As It Is © 2010 Kerri Sherwood

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE BIRDHOUSE

likesharesupportsubscribecomment…thankyou.

For As Long As It Takes [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Dogga lays in the doorway and snoozes. When he hears me coming his little Aussie-dog tail wags. It is a siren call, impossible to pass without kneeling and giving him a pet. And, in those few moments my world becomes a better place.

During the time that my life was coming apart, suddenly without a place to live or the resources to rent another apartment, Carol showed up. I hadn’t seen her in a few years. She found me. She tossed a set of keys to me. “You’re staying with me,” she said. “As long as it takes.” In that moment, my world became a better place.

I have hundreds of those stories. They are ubiquitous and happen every day. I see them all around me when I pay attention.

“I love the sunshine on the quilt,” she said a moment ago. A tiny thing. The warmth of the spring sun a welcome visitor after the cold days of winter. In the sensual beauty of sun on the quilt and her deep appreciation of the moment, my world was made a better place.

Yesterday I read Marion Milner’s words in The Marginalian about the narrow focus of reason and the wide focus of sensation. The narrow focus, purpose-driven, is always seeking happiness in some other place. The wide focus, sensory, is always present in the moment – where happiness is found. She wrote, “I did not know that I could only get the most out of life by giving myself up to it.” Her words made my world a better place. An affirmation.

Touch is a word of the senses. Touch a life and, in return, life with touch you. Touch with simple appreciation and the world becomes a better place.

In the wide focus of the sensation there is no end, no goal, no achievement, no measurement. It is end-less.

In the narrow focus of mind our clocks would have us believe that we are in a race to a deadline. It is a dedication to ends.

In the vast field beyond purpose and gain there is wonder. It is time-less. Touch life with appreciation, with eyes or ears or fingers or taste – and life will fill you with appreciation.

Someone once told me that the world does not need healing. We do. And the healing we need is right at our fingertips. It is the sun on our faces, it is to feel the pull of the wagging tale, to kneel down and fall into a rich loving pet of appreciation. It is to open our very narrow focus, feel deeply, and toss keys to someone in need, saying, “For as long as it takes.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEALING THE WORLD

likesharesupportcommentsubscribe…thankyou.

The Question Of Orbs [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“Find a place inside where there’s joy, and the joy will burn out the pain.” ~ Joseph Campbell

She told me this photograph was for me. My paintings often include orbs. I wasn’t aware of my orb-inclusion until the day many years ago that I showed Jim E. my paintings. He asked, “What’s up with the orbs?” Confused, I examined my own paintings. It was a hysterical moment of self-discovery.

At first I liked to think of the orbs as spirits. Guardians or messengers. I am an intuitive painter so I assigned some Glenda-the-good-witch sensibility to my ever-present orbs. Later, I imagined they represented unhatched possibilities or germinating ideas. I loved the idea that we are surrounded by bubbles of potential. Now, I have no story at all for them. I like them. They are there. They make me happy. They make compositional sense.

Last night we discussed our broken road path to each other. If this or that had changed, would we have found each other? Would we be living entirely different lives? From this vantage point, our meeting was all but impossible. At the time, what seemed like the worst possible thing – life collapsed in both of our stories – nudged us to somehow bump into each other. Two bubbles in a vast universe.

Now, joy is burning out the pain.

Perhaps my orbs are homage to the wonder of bubbles in the universe? A nod to the unanswerable question of my life path – ours or any life path: is it random or is it destiny?

“Whatever your fate is, whatever the hell happens, you say, ‘This is what I need.’ It may look like a wreck, but go at it as though it were an opportunity, a challenge. If you bring love to that moment–not discouragement–you will find the strength is there…” ~ Joseph Campbell

Meditation, 48″x48″, mixed media

JOY, 50″x56″, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about ORBS


likesharecommentsubscribesupport…thankyou.

Hearts In The Sky [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Today we light a candle for Beaky. Today marks ten years since she passed. When looking for the right photo for this observance day in the Melange, Kerri thought this one was perfect. A heart in the sky. Since Kerri and I met late in life, I only knew Beaky for 18 months though I feel as if I knew her for years. She was a warm, bright light. On more than one occasion, even while in great pain, I watched her uplift the spirits of her caregivers. The patient healing the healers.

She gave me essential lessons in being human. She could have taught our present world a thing or two about kindness, about what really matters; about creating a better world.

Although I never met him, I sometimes have conversations with Kerri’s dad. He was quite the handyman. I am not. When faced with a home repair that seems out of my league I regularly say, “Okay, Pa. Give me a clue.” To date he has never failed me. I’ve fixed the washing machine, the stove, the refrigerator, broken chairs and a table; I’ve plugged a hole in the wall, stopping a flood in the basement. Mostly, his clues are cautions to slow down. He reminds me that I can do anything if I take my time and do not rush. I do, however, have one small gripe with Pa’s advice-giving: when I am in the doghouse with Kerri and in desperate need of a repair, when slowing down seems dangerous, he is noticeably silent. I imagine him laughing, his silence saying, “I’m staying out of this one.”

We spent the past few days cutting back the grasses, raking the leaves, cleaning up the yard, replanting the front garden, repairing and filling the pond. Not only were we taking care of our sanctuary-home but I felt as if we were preparing for this day of remembrance. Cleaning out the old. Opening space for the new.

The work brought to mind a sweet memory: in college, my work-study sent me to the rose garden to help Brother Patrick tend the gardens. He was a quiet man, a gentle soul in the twilight of his years. The day was New Mexico bright and warm. I followed along behind him, digging a hole when he needed one dug, gathering the leaves and branches from his pruning. There was no rush, no thought of “getting it done”. He worked to enjoy the work and when I fell into his ethic, when I let go of the idea of working for achievement, he looked at me with bright eyes, as if there was nothing better on earth to be doing at that moment, and said, “This is good for the heart and good for the soul.”

Lighting a candle for Beaky. Communing with Pa. A moment of appreciation for Brother Patrick. I am filled with gratitude for the life lessons that continue to come from my very wise elders. Hearts in the sky.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART IN THE SKY.

likesharecommentsubscribesupport…thankyou.

Barnacles And All [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.” ~ Thomas Merton

If you visited our house you’d immediately notice that Kerri’s design style is “well-worn and well-loved.” Rather than mask the wear-and-tear of age, she revels in it. Our dining room is a wonder, made beautiful by the marks left when she removed wallpaper. Rather than paint over the marks she recognized their unique beauty and showcased them. A happy accident. I stopped in my tracks the first time I walked into the dining room, asking, “How did you do that?”

I love our backdoor. The pressure of our hands on the door has overtime peeled and revealed the white underlayer beneath the black paint. It’s the story of our comings-and-goings. It is the mark of our human hands pressing on an old door that swells with the humidity and shrinks with the cold. It is our personal hand-print-petroglyph.

The beauty of age. The patterns of rust. The celebration of the flaw. Most people would scramble to cover the cracks or repair the damage. I have occasionally earned her Irish ire by repairing something she thought was aesthetically interesting. I have learned to ask.

Standing on our deck, Columbus was concerned that the exposed unsealed wood was disintegrating. “You oughta’ stain this,” he said. “It needs protecting.” I told him of the time Kerri pressure washed the deck, removing the patina of age. Even though with time the rough hewn look returned, she has yet to forgive herself for her pressure-washing-indiscretion.

“Kerri likes it this way,” I replied. “She doesn’t like the way it looks when it’s neat and stained.”

“Well I guess that’s the way it’s gotta be!” he smiled, knowingly.

Our house is an ever evolving work of art. A perfect home for two artists. Nothing matches yet everything goes together. It’s filled with visual and repurposed surprises. It is warm, sometimes a cocoon where we shut out the world and sometimes a place for our community to gather. It is the sanctuary where we have come to discover and appreciate ourselves, barnacles and all, while steadily growing into something we could never have imaged.

(I love this piece by Kerri)

Nurture Me on 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 RUST

likesharesupportsubscribecomment…thankyou.