Witness The Impossible [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

We heard, in some locations this summer, people experienced a veritable plague of cicadas. They shoveled them off of their driveways like so much snow. Not here. We finally heard their song late in the season. We found a few empty shells floating in the pond or attached to fence, evidence that they’d emerged and transformed. They were present in vibrational rhythmic sound. They remained invisible to our eyes.

Sitting quietly on the deck one evening in August, enjoying the cicada symphony, Kerri said, “It’s not summer until I hear the cicadas.” Markers of our passage around the sun. Symbols of the cycle. The first color on the leaves. First snow. The first dandelion of spring. The first turtle emerging from the muddy river. Cicada song.

Last week we talked about stew and soups rather than watermelon and burgers on the grill. In this way, in old and new recipes, we chase the coming season. Anticipation and imagination.

We found the cicada on the driveway. It was in its last minutes of life. Crawling like a drunken sailor, it could no longer fly; one wing undamaged but seemingly useless. “It’s so sad,” she said as she knelt to take a photo.

Reverence overcame the sadness. “Look at the color! How beautiful!” she whispered, showing me the photo. We knelt again to witness the dying cicada.

Appreciation. Sometimes I think our only purpose on this earth is to cherish its treasures, to recognize something so small and impossibly grand as the movement of life.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CICADA

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Give Over [David’s blog on KS Friday]

In the pontoon boat I give over. I do not drive so I make no significant decisions. I sit in a sunny spot. I laugh with good friends or am quiet. There are snacks. I open myself to whatever comes my way. I give-over.

It seems so easy on the pontoon boat. To relax. To go with the flow. To forget the all-important-lists. To drop the illusion that I am more than I am. No need to achieve, to prove, to strive, to become. On the pontoon boat I am just this. I am with friends. We move slowly. We chase nothing. We circumnavigate the lake. On the pontoon boat I am enough – and I know because I do not think about it at all. I measure nothing. No need to measure up.

I wonder why I reserve this kind of living to time on the pontoon boat.

Yesterday was an exceedingly hard day. I filled my cup with discord and self-loathing. I was a wasteland.

The boat is not magic. The peace I feel is not given to me by the boat. I give it to myself. My friends are with me whether we ride the boat or not. The reasons for my discord existed only in my mind. A very dark cloud. In my mind I did not measure up. I withheld peace and chose inner-enmity. Why?

You would think the grace I afford myself when riding in the pontoon boat would be available when riding on the earth as we circle and circle the sun. Why is my ride on this earth any different than my ride on the pontoon boat? Why would I choose anything other than grace?

When not on the pontoon boat am I not capable of opening myself to whatever comes my way? What – other than myself – prevents me from giving-over?

I measure illusions against illusions to fully achieve my misery.

The illusions and incessant measurement are what I drop when climbing onto the pontoon boat. They are what I easily-give-over when taking my seat in the sun with friends. How much more important is it to give-over the illusions with the same ease while inhabiting this seat as I circle and circle the sun?

Time Together on the album This Part of the Journey © 1998 Kerri Sherwood

The music Kerri has recorded is available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora.

read Kerri’s blogpost about the PONTOON BOAT

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On The Morning Breeze [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

The first hint of fall was in the air this morning. Is it a scent or something I feel riding on the breeze? I’m not sure. Maybe both. I stood at the door and breathed it in. It is like the return of a favorite friend.

I’ve been waiting for this moment. The plumes on the grasses changed color a few weeks ago – a sure sign of autumn approaching. The vine coiling around the rocks by the pond has already passed through crimson and yellow to brittle brown, a transformation that usually happens later in September. Breck-the-aspen-tree, stressed by all the rain we’ve recently experienced, is not yet changing. She must wonder if she’s been transplanted to a rainforest. I imagine she refuses to put on her fall color until she’s had a chance to wear her finest summer wardrobe. The bees are out in force and a little aggressive, a sign of summer’s end.

I’ve been meditating on my conversation with Judy. We talked about life’s changes. The hot fire that tests us and transforms us when we finally understand that we must let go of who we think we are. “Either I die or this dies and I’m not going to die!” she said, laughing the laugh of someone who has been forged in fire, someone who has let go of seasons past and moved with nature into the surprising new.

Standing at the backdoor, feeling autumn to my bones, I felt the ash of the fire all the way to my core.

Beyond the dictionary definition, I am learning about resilience. Resilience is not a rigid bulwark. It is an open hand. Breck-the-aspen-tree bending with the wind. New sprouts arising through the ashes after the forest fire. It is autumn announcing its arrival on the morning breeze.

read Kerri’s blogpost about PLUMES

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Weather Beautifully [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“…happiness, when pushed to an extreme, becomes calamity. Beauty, when overdone, becomes ugliness.” ~ Thomas Merton, The Way of Chuang Tzu

I am early in my slow-read of The Way of Chuang Tzu. I already love it. This morning I read these words by Thomas Merton slowly, again and again, tasting them like poetry: “…a system constructed on a theoretical and abstract principle of love ignores certain fundamental and mysterious realities, of which we cannot be fully conscious, and the price we pay for this inattention is that our ‘love’ in fact becomes hate.”

The abstract ideal contorts us. The “what is” always loses in a comparison to the “should be”. Thus, a world of nature’s beauty swirls down the drain.

Marketing ideals and mirrors reflect theoretical and abstract principles. Constructed systems. They readily twist our natural love of self into a hatred of our bodies and faces. Is beauty really the exclusive province of the young? Jessica Tandy and Hume Cronyn grew more and more beautiful, more and more brilliant with age. Aging is among the “fundamental and mysterious realities” of which Thomas Merton wrote. There is profound beauty in aging, a mysterious reality that is not accessible to the young.

On Saturday we published a Smack-Dab cartoon about aging. We poked fun at my discovery of new wrinkles when looking in the mirror. Poking fun at ourselves is a good strategy for embracing the “fundamental and mysterious reality” of this beautiful life. There’s so much pressure to do otherwise, to resist, to deny, to pretend. Laughter is a great eye-cleanser.

We live in a society slathered with memes and messages of self-love while, at the same moment, we drown in messages to be other-than-what-we-are. Is it any wonder we are conflicted and seem incapable of sorting out what is real and what is not?

I know with certainty, like every other human that walked before me, I will disappear into time. Why spend another moment of my precious limited time on this earth resisting the gorgeous life that I enjoy? Why try to hide my age to match a manufactured ideal?

There is a reason the clothes I wore a decade ago no longer fit. There is a reason my beard is grey and the light in my eyes is less fierce than it was twenty years ago. I am different now. No more or less beautiful.

I said, squeezing her hand, “Let’s become apple-dolls together.” Her eyes welled with tears. What could possibly be more beautiful?

read Kerri’s blogpost about WEATHERED BEAUTY

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An Echo [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“…repetition as a means of physically marking time, memory, loss, transformation, and ultimately, transcendence.” ~ curator’s statement for the exhibit of Idris Khan at the Milwaukee Art Museum.

Repetition. A mantra. The hours of practice of a musician. A commute to work. Ritual. We walk the same looping trail again and again, season after season. The same is never the same.

We journey to the Milwaukee Art Museum to replenish our spirits. Mostly we visit Richard, Ellsworth, and Mark. I stop by and visit Georgia and Pablo. Not knowing much about him, we were for some reason drawn to the Idris Khan exhibit. Repetition. Stacked images. Words printed on top of words. Pages of musical scores layered and changed into a powerful visual statement. Symbols iterated until garbled and transformed; I leaned in close, then stepped back, again and again, becoming part of the repetition. A dance!

Such a simple star to follow, repetition. And yet…How many letters in an alphabet? How many notes on a scale? From the limited letters or available notes – symbols repeated and mixed and matched – an infinite array of possibilities. Every page of the Quran photographed and stacked. Bach’s Six Suites for Solo Cello.

Wandering through the galleries, his work made me ponder how our inner lives are entirely symbolic. Our days stacked one upon the other. We look though the stack called our past and somehow, through the noise, believe we arrive at understanding. Meaning. An echo.

Joy, 50″x56″, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE MUSEUM

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

We’ve no idea how to grow peppers. And yet, here they are, red and ready for harvesting. I’ve just decided that our peppers are a lesson in the Tao: do nothing. Wu wei. Water the peppers when they need a drink. The natural course will show the way.

Is it any wonder that people avoid me at parties? “Gear down,” Kerri whispers when I find myself suddenly abandoned and standing alone in the kitchen. And what if I like being alone? What if my natural esoterica acts as a people-at-the-party-repellant? For an introvert, party-small-talk is exhausting, the empty kitchen a safe haven. The natural course shows the way.

I just read that striving for happiness is predicated on the belief that happiness is somewhere else, not here. Let go the striving and, perhaps, a different belief will enter. Perhaps happiness is here already. Or, as Viktor Frankl famously wrote that “happiness ensues.” It cannot be chased. Stand still and perhaps it will bump into you.

Sometimes, no matter where I am in the house, I know that Dogga wants to come back inside. He makes no noise. I can feel it. When I arrive at the backdoor he is standing there, open face, bright eyes, wagging wag-a-wag. He is certain that I will be there, joyful in our greeting. Happiness is nowhere else. No striving necessary.

The natural course shows the way.

[Kerri just said this post is a “random-thought-pie”! A perfect description of the inner workings of my noggin. I love it!]

read Kerri’s blogpost about PEPPERS

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Magic Is Found There [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Noah Lyles, in an interview after winning the gold medal in the 100m, asked a question meant to inspire all dreamers to ask of themselves, “Why not me?” He has worked hard to arrive at a place of confidence and self-belief.

I appreciate a sentiment shared by free-solo climber Alex Honnold when asked how he handles fear. He said that he never attempts to conquer fear, rather, he expands his comfort zone.

Expand your comfort zone. Ask, “Why not me?”

Like almost everyone I know, I have had my bouts with imposter syndrome. I’ve filled my cup with self-doubt. I’ve been certain of my unworthiness. I’ve run from the magic.

To ask, “Why not me?” is to let go of the comparison with others. It is to set down the never-win-self-measuring stick. It is to run your race, paint your painting, play your song…love your gift.

To expand your comfort zone rather than fight your fear is to shake hands with yourself. To stop the inner fight and work with your magic instead of running from it. It is to make a friend of fear, to understand its value, to retire the inner-foe so you might place it in the proper perspective. Fear dances in a made-up future. An ever-expanding comfort zone guarantees presence in the moment. Magic is found there. You are found there.

There have been many loud voices in my life (inside and outside my head) telling me that I can’t. They are the voices of mediocrity. The voices of fear. And then there are the few precious quiet voices that say, “Yes, you can,” or ask “Why not…?” Those voices, both inside and out, are the voices of magic. They are the voices of joy. Listen to those voices. Unlike the others, they will never lead you astray.

read Kerri’s blogpost about MAGIC

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Out Of The Many [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Among other things, Wade Davis is an ethnobotanist, studying how people – cultures – use plants for food, medicines, dyes…in hunting and in ceremonies. The study of plants as living symbols. In a different life, in another path, I would have followed him around attempting to know-what-he-knows. Mythology beyond the abstraction.

For us, this week has become about the coneflower. Earlier in the week I wrote about its symbolism: strength, vitality, healing energy… The color of the coneflower accents different attributes. Orange evokes vitality and enthusiasm. Purple accents strength. Yellow, acceptance and perseverance.

I thought of Wade Davis because his study has taken him to indigenous cultures who live their symbology, their mythology is visceral, a deep-seated guide for how to conduct their lives. For them, the attributes of the plant are not curious abstractions, something to be found in a Wiki or a book or a religious tome. It is ancestral. Lived everyday. He writes beautifully about what he has experienced.

I wanted to know what a coneflower represents so I looked it up. It is not integrated into my being, pervasive to my clan and has not been passed to me by my elders. I want to identify with it so I write myself into the story. I write us into its meaning. It is, for us, new. We will give it roots, make it conscious by planting it in our symbolic garden.

As a society, many of our symbols are unconscious. It is a happy and fortuitous accident that the Olympic Games are happening in the midst of the ugly divisive rhetoric coming from the right in our political campaign. Each day I look at the athletes from the United States and I see a beautiful living symbol of our nation as it really is: diversity, a celebration of ethnicity – united under a single flag. It is, I believe, what our flag – our symbol – represents. Out of many, one.

This flag is one of our few conscious symbols. E pluribus unum is our tradition. It is our intention, written into our founding. It is our ancestry and inheritance. We are the many, united as one. It is what we strive to achieve. Our athletes represent us; they represent who we are beyond the abstraction.

The red hats and their authoritarian leader would have us understand our symbol differently. You can hear it in their language, placing the accent on racial division. Their obsession with degradation, their glee at name-calling, their unwavering commitment to a victim narrative…exposes a dedication to subverting the humanity of those that do not look or think like them. They would have the flag symbolize white nationalism, a radical uprooting of its meaning. Their notion of “one” rejects the many. It is, quite literally, flipping the symbol upside-down (as was proudly flown over the house of Justice Samual Alito).

They are not hiding their intention. They are counting on us to misconstrue or willingly discard the meaning of our sacred symbol.

Look at the athletes representing the USA. Take a walk in the park on the 4th of July and look at the people sharing the celebration in the commons. They are US. Rich in diversity. United.

Acceptance. Perseverance. Strength. Borne of the many, striving to be one.

read Kerri’s blog about CONEFLOWERS

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I Am Like That [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

She saw it in the shop on the river road and fell in love with it. A coneflower sculpture. Asymmetrical. Beautiful in its imperfection. It came home with us and immediately found its place in our garden. Each morning as I look out the kitchen window, waiting for the coffee to brew, I recognize that it is the perfect symbol for us.

A coneflower is a symbol of strength, joy, resilience, endurance, and optimism. Perseverance. Healing. Prosperity. That’s quite a list!

Most symbols are many-layered yet point in a singular direction.

One of the few choices we actually have in life is which symbols we choose to embrace. To choose or align with a symbol is to say, “I am like that.” The symbol becomes both a description of the path already walked and a guide-star for choices to come.

Kerri fell in love with the coneflower. She wasn’t thinking about symbols. I was. And I couldn’t imagine a better symbol for her – for us – for the landscape we’ve just traversed and for where we intend to go.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CONEFLOWER

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For A Moment [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“The distinctive human problem from time immemorial has been the need to spiritualize human life, to lift it onto a special immortal plane, beyond the cycles of life and death that characterize all other organisms.” ~ Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

We waited until the oppressive heat of the day passed to take our walk. The air was thick and still but it felt good to be outside, moving. Because the humidity teases forward every former injury, we talked about our ubiquitous aches and pains. My back. Her wrists and fingers.

Kerri stopped and said, “I get it now.” We laughed at the memory:

One day, years ago, Beaky looked in the mirror and declared, “I look like an old woman!”

Kerri said, “Momma, you’re 93! You are old.”

Beaky stared at herself in the mirror and added, “But I don’t feel old!”

“I get it now.”

As we walked we talked about feeling young in a body that hurts when it’s humid. A new experience on our path through life, a growing dissonance between body and spirit. The spirit steps a few feet away and looks back at the body, declaring, “What the heck! That’s not what I look like!” It is certainly not what I feel like.

There’s a surprising gift in the dissonance. Perhaps, like all good paradoxes, within the discord, the first real harmony of life becomes available. The “supposed-to-be” drops off. The social face is less useful and set aside. The striving to be somewhere-else-in-some-imagined-future-achievement ceases, becomes so much dust. Suddenly, the miracle of life is not somewhere else. It is found in the here-and-now. Flexing achy fingers. The evening sky made pastel by humidity.

The growing realization that this ride is limited makes it all the more precious. Grounded.

Life – spirituality – becomes uncomplicated. Unapologetic. Authentic. Spirituality that requires no cathedral or book of rules. No incense or intermediary. No searching or appealing prayer. Spirituality that is borne of the simple appreciation of the moment. Feet firmly planted on the ground. In the Buddhist tradition: joyful participation in the sorrows of the world. Here and now.

In joyful participation, holding hands with achy bodies on a humid evening, for a moment at least, we get it. We arrive at uncomplicated, unapologetic, and authentic.*

(*thanks to the Heggies Pizza truck for the post inspiration!)

read Kerri’s blogpost about UNCOMPLICATED, UNAPOLOGETIC, AND AUTHENTIC

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