Back In The Day [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Our basement archeological dig has revealed a punch bowl. I asked Kerri if she ever used it and she said “Yes. Back in the day.” She told me that she made punch with 7 Up and sherbet. I stared at her like she was an alien creature. I have a hard time reconciling the image of the woman I know, the one who wears boots and black thermal shirts, the woman who stands at her piano and plays it so passionately that it hops…with the woman who makes sherbet-&-7-Up punch in a cut-glass bowl.

I had to sit down and take a few deep breaths.

We had to renew our driver’s licenses a few weeks ago and the new versions just arrived in the mail. It is always shocking to compare the photos. My new license betrays a white white beard while in the previous photo I sported a more salt-n-pepper look. “They photoshopped my face!” I gasped. She rolled her eyes. I thought that whipping up a good government conspiracy was a more potent explanation than facing the truth of my face. When in Rome…

This week I complete another lap around the sun. This one is a milestone. It has me in a full-blown life review. I did not accumulate stuff in my passage across adulthood but if I had, in my deep archives, I’m certain we’d find an artifact, a punch bowl equivalent, something long forgotten, that would make Kerri ask, “Did you ever use this?” And I’d say, “Yes. Back in the day.”

So many chapters. So many miles walked. So many changes and lessons and losses and revelations. It makes me sit down and take a few deep breaths. It fills me with intense gratitude that this is where my punch bowl brought me.

*****

(A short scene:

Children of the Future: What’s this old piece of paper?

Us: It’s called The Constitution.’

Children of the Future: Did you ever us it?

Us: Yes. Back in the day.

We sit down and take a few breaths)

A self portrait (detail) from long ago.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PUNCH BOWL

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Under The Wet Moon [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Astrologically, we are in the sun sign of Aquarius. The water bearer. I was surprised to read that the corresponding moon cycle is known as the wet-moon, a reference drawn from Hawaiian mythology. This cycle “…corresponds with Kaelo the Water Bearer in Hawaiian astrology and makes the Moon known as the “dripping wet moon”.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that the zodiac of the west aligns so perfectly with the symbology of the Pacific Islanders. In Hindu astrology, “Aquarius is known as Kumbha Rāśi representing the symbol of the water pot.” The cultural traditions on Earth are drawn beneath the same constellations.

During the opening ceremony of the Olympics, a commentator referenced The Pale Blue Dot, a photograph taken of Earth in 1990 from the Voyager 1 space probe. “In the photograph, Earth’s apparent size is less than a pixel; the planet appears as a tiny dot against the vastness of space…” Incidentally, the photograph was taken on February 14 – according to the 12 month Julian calendar – a solar calendar created by humans on Earth, during the period of the wet-moon.

I suppose our definition of “belonging” depends on the parameters we choose. And, make no mistake, it is a choice. We can choose to identify ourselves according to divisions, something like the color line. We can choose to identify ourselves according to imaginary lines on a map. We can choose our tribes according to cultural differences.

Or, we can choose to identify ourselves according the unities. We can choose to recognize that we live under the same stars and orient to the same constellations. We can step back, deep into space, and look at ourselves, a dot no larger than a pixel. Our differences are not nearly so vast as our sameness. No amount of rhetoric or propaganda or white supremacy or religious extremism can alter the fact of our sameness.

The word February comes from februa, a Roman purification festival held during the period of the wet-moon. Under the wet-moon, athletes from all over the world, athletes representing 92 different cultures, 92 shapes drawn on a map of Earth but not visible anywhere from space, marched into a stadium in Milan, Italy, waving flags, symbols of their home nation. Their competition made possible only by the existence of others who also dream of gold, silver and bronze, a shared dream beneath the same constellation of stars.

It has all the makings of an ancient purification festival. And, just in time.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE MOON

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Together We Chase [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“Freedom is not just an absence of evil but a presence of good.” ~ Timothy Snyder, On Freedom

There is a game I play with Dogga that I absolutely adore. When he wants to go out he stares at me. I stare back at him. His stare intensifies and I intensify my stare to match. Our faces move closer together. When the intensity of the stare is like a bowstring pulled to the breaking point, I say, ‘Okay!” and like an arrow released he flies toward the back door. I let him out in a festival of enthusiasm. I could play this game all day. It is bliss.

“We chose freedom when we did not run.” ~ Timothy Snyder, On Freedom

My first thought when choosing this bliss-prompt was, “Chasing bliss is a sign of privilege.” That would have been my lofty theme but then I felt Dogga’s stare. I set the computer aside and met his stare. The game was afoot!

“In dehumanizing others, we make ourselves unfree.” ~ Timothy Snyder, On Freedom

Opening the back door and watching my joy-dog launch from the deck, fully invested in his Rin-Tin-Tin persona, I recognized the superficiality of my original thought on bliss, my snotty lofty theme. Bliss has nothing to do with access or possession or any soaring ambition. It is something we create with others.

“We enable freedom not by rejecting government, but by affirming freedom as the guide to good government.” ~ Timothy Snyder, On Freedom

My Dogga is free, not because I open the door and remove a barrier, but because he knows he is loved, he knows I am good for a round of the game. Going in and out could be a chore, something mundane, but together we’ve evolved a game of bliss, an affirmation of freedom evoked within each other. We’ve created it and each day continue to create it.

To chase bliss is to offer bliss, to open and be opened. I literally open the door and Dogga quite literally opens my heart-door.

“In a world of relativism and cowardice, freedom is the absolute among absolutes, the value of values.”~ Timothy Snyder, On Freedom

Painting is a bliss I chase, not because of the act of smearing paint but because it opens me to something much bigger than myself. Bliss happens when I get out of the way, get present, and revel in the dance. It liberates me because I engage, I step toward it. I never take it for granted or delude myself into thinking I can control it. In fact, trying to control it is a guarantee that it will dissipate.

“The absence of freedom threatens life, just as threats to life undermine freedom.”~ Timothy Snyder, On Freedom

It is a relationship with life, meeting the intensity of a stare, together peeking through the blinds to marvel at the full moon, placing an extra quilt on the bed on a frigid night is to chase bliss.

Delivering groceries to neighbors afraid to leave their homes, blowing a whistle to alert the community of masked invaders, gathering at the memorial of someone executed by a rogue state, singing songs of freedom together to remind the rogue state that freedom is not something they can take away, that we will meet their stare with an intensity that says, “Game on,” and remind them that, in our votes, in our pursuit of freedom-for-all, we hold the power to open or close the door. They do not. This, too, is to chase bliss. It opens us to something bigger.

Together we chase our bliss because we reject the wretched monster the republicans are pursuing.

read Kerri’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday

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Our Great Strength [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“Food, in the end, in our own tradition, is something holy. It’s not about nutrients and calories. It’s about sharing. It’s about honesty. It’s about identity.” ~ Louise Fresco

On any given day, as a citizen of the United States of America, I can go eat at any number of restaurants. Among my choices are Chinese, Mexican, Irish, Ethiopian, Vietnamese Thai, Greek, Italian, Indian…It’s a wildly long and diverse list of options. It is also a living vibrant expression of the truth of our nation. We are diverse. We work hard. We have roots that reach into and across many, many cultural traditions. At our best we support and celebrate each other in the most basic of ritual: we gather around tables and share a meal. Despite the utter madness that the Stephen Millers of the world spew, the essential truth of our nation is hiding in plain sight. Take a walk down any city street. Open your eyes. Savor the diversity that defines us. e pluribus unum.

And, if that is lost on you, tune into the music and the musical traditions that the artists of this nation produce and represent.

Our great strength is our diversity. The Achilles Heel of our democratic experiment is the manipulation of our diversity. There is a long standing tradition of pitting us against each other and the color line makes for ease of manufactured division. It’s colonial crowd control. The most effective tool for keeping power over the diverse community is to fabricate an enemy within. While the masses are consumed with fighting with each other, the Epstein Class gets away with robbery, rape and murder. It has been this way since our inception as a nation.

Our Achilles Heel will kill us if we do not at long last learn that the division is concocted – and transcend it. We are made rich in our diversity. We need not white wash our history; we need to roll up our sleeves and learn from it. Black history* is white history and vice versa. If only we could sit at a table together and share a meal as family. Someday perhaps.

I’ve written about the day I met students at the International Center and led them across campus to develop a play in the theatre. I entered the building while they stopped abruptly as if they’d run into a wall of glass. Privilege is blind to itself and that was one of the many experiences that opened my eyes. They told me that they weren’t allowed to enter. Our play was about folk tales across culture and our first lesson together was about invisible barriers. Weeks later, after together we crossed the barrier, after they easily stepped across the threshold and began to make the theatre space their own, we shared sweet treats. I brought chocolate chip cookies. They brought sweet rice and cakes. We told stories about our sweet treats, love-filled memories of grandparents, holiday celebrations, family traditions. We laughed. We learned that our traditions, all though different on the surface, are about the same things.

We love. We honor family. We dream of opportunity and making better lives for ourselves and our children. We seek new experiences and believe in the power of kindness. We come together to share meals in a sacred place we create – and call home: The United States of America.

*It is February, the month that we traditionally celebrate Black History. Even though the current leadership of the nation is taking down plaques and removing exhibits from our museums, the truth remains. The history is explicit. The struggle continues. Celebrate Black History Month.

read Kerri’s blogpost about COOKIES

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The Source [David’s blog on KS Friday]

A meme flew by. It used the events of last Saturday to illuminate two different ideas of masculinity. The first as demonstrated by Alex Pretti, a man trying to help a woman who was just shoved to the ground. He stood between the woman and her attacker. The second model of masculinity was demonstrated by the ICE-men who tackled, beat and murdered Alex Pretti.

After the meme flew by I wished that I could amend it. For me it did not illuminate two models of masculinity, rather, it made a clear distinction between a man and a beast, between a healthy human being and a rabid animal. It highlighted the difference between a good intention and a toxic drive.

Most hearts in the nation are heavy. Witnessing yet another execution in the streets by agents of the government – and then defended by the leaders all the way up to and including the authoritarian wannabe in the White House – has left us aghast. John Pavlovitz suggested that our heavy hearts are necessary; they are a sure sign of our humanity. They are fuel for our outrage.

Alex Pretti’s heavy heart required him to step into the streets of his city and video the brutality enacted upon his neighbors. Renee Good’s heavy heart did the same. Service to others is often an action inspired by a heavy heart. It takes a great deal of courage to stand between a masked thug and his victim. It takes great strength to video the abuse as if to say, “We see you and you will not get away with this”.

I opened The Marginalian this morning and read this: “Here is the mathematical logic of the spirit: If love is the quality of attention we pay something other than ourselves and hate is the veil of not understanding ourselves, then loving the world more — the other word for which is kindness — is largely a matter of deepening our awareness and sharpening our attention on both sides of the skin that membranes the self.”

Love is the quality of attention we pay something other than ourselves. Hate is the veil of not understanding ourselves. Hate is self-focused. Love is other-focused.

Democracy is by definition other-focused. Authoritarianism is by definition self-focused.

Our heavy hearts are propelling us into the streets. It just might be that our heavy hearts will be the necessary ingredient that saves our democracy from the rabid authoritarians. It just might be that our heavy hearts will propel us to stand between the self-centered oligarchy currently shoving Lady Liberty to the ground. Our heavy hearts do not make us weak. They are the source of our outrage and fuel for our courage.

WATERSHED 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 HEART

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Who Is Watching Whom? [Kerri’s blog on KS Friday]

To begin, let’s start with the term “Ant Farm”. It’s otherwise known as a formicarium, a container habitat that “approximates” a natural environment. It’s made of clear plastic or glass allowing us to watch the behavior of the ants, the social hierarchies, physical structures (like tunneling and chamber making), dynamics with the queen, the life cycles of the ant colony.

I wonder if the ants know that their farm is the approximation of a natural environment or if they carry on as they would in any old environment without witnesses and walls? Are we watching the ant adaptation to a thin-world-construct? Are we watching an ant performance?

I imagine we place ourselves much higher on the critter hierarchy pyramid than the ants. It brings to mind a quote from E.O. Wilson, a brilliant man who studied ants: “If all mankind were to disappear, the world would regenerate back to the rich state of equilibrium that existed ten thousand years ago. If insects were to vanish, the environment would collapse into chaos.”

We are unique in our hubris. We are startling in our blindness.

These days it makes me wonder what larger consciousness plays witness to our behavior in our approximation of a natural environment. Doesn’t it sometimes feel like we are in a the subjects of an experiment? How many freedoms will we surrender, how many horrors will we tolerate before we challenge the unnatural delusion of supremacy? Would we rather erase ourselves than to recognize our natural interdependence? In the past 75 years in our ant farm, in an evolutionary step in consciousness, we’ve acknowledged our need for each other and created societal structures like NATO.

250 years ago an evolutionary idea took one giant step forward. It is called democracy in diversity, a society – an ideal – where the many participate together as one.

Will we step backwards into the fallacy of supremacy and collapse our farm? Will we thump our chests and erase ourselves? Or will we root out the diseased minds and delusional leaders, dismantle the false hierarchy and recognize our utter need for each other and our interdependence with our environment?

Who is watching whom?

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE ANT FARM


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Just As It Is [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Thirteen years into our relationship, ten years after we said, “I do,” I learned something new and startling about Kerri: she used to be a woman who wore hats.

The woman I know refuses to put on a hat. She makes a wrinkly face when I suggest she try on a hat. Even in the bitter cold she resists the warmth of a stocking cap until frostbite is imminent. She is not a woman who wears hats. She is a woman who openly disparages herself-in-hats.

Imagine my surprise, then, when in the process of cleaning out her studio closet, she pulled out multiple hat boxes. In each box, was – wait for it – a delightful hat!

It must have been the look of shock on my face that propelled her to take a step back in time and model the hats. Donning the first hat she was instantly sassy. The next made her buoyant. She turned up the brim. She pushed a hat to the back of her head. She cocked one to the side. Each hat evoked an attitude. Each hat summoned a story. A performance. An event. A meeting. A fundraiser. A photo shoot…a playful spirit.

The hats liberated her like a mask liberates an actor. Each had a unique personality and the power to infuse her with its magic persona. I saw a bit of Diane Keaton, a shade of Audrey Hepburn. I laughed and clapped at each performance. I admired the power of the hats.

In time, the hats were restored to their boxes. The woman who does not wear hats returned. She told me that it was time to move them on, to sell or donate the hats. To make space.

When we first met, in a conversation about change, she told me that she believed people do not change, rather, they become more of who they are. The masks fall away. Time and experience erodes the fortress. The armor falls off. The hats return to their boxes. What remains is beautiful just as it is, just as it always has been.

*****

(Snark Alert) And then there’s this: if you are, like me, trying to make sense of the AWOL Republican party, there can only be one of these three options for their unwillingness to do their jobs and uphold their oath to the Constitution: 1) They all appear prominently in the Epstein Files. 2) They are like their leader: puppets for Putin. Or 3) They are stealth fascists who never really believed in Democracy in the first place and had no intention of serving the Constitution. To continue supporting this authoritarian madman is political suicide yet they remain silent and, therefore, complicit. They either already know that there will never again be free and fair elections so there’s no need to worry about their precious seat – or see numbers 1 through 3 above. What else? If you see any other explanation I’d love to hear it.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HATS

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The Nitty Gritty [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“I wish it didn’t have the number 47 on it,” she said of the painted clay plate. “It ruins it for me.” We launched into a conversation about all the nitty gritty things that the authoritarian wannabe and his grotesques have ruined for us. The word “great”. The color red. The word “ice”. The Republican party. The office of the President. The Supreme Court. The word “tremendous”. It is a very long list. It includes family relationships. It includes having an iota of respect for anyone who supports him or makes excuses for him or justifies the horror show that he’s unleashed; it includes the systems (people) that seem unwilling or incapable of stopping what they know to be putrid. He leaves his stink on all of us.

It includes my understanding of the word “tolerance”. I have long believed it is important to stand in the shoes of “the other person”. I now have an asterisk next to the word “tolerance”: there are some shoes that are too ugly to stand in. There are some points of view too toxic to entertain. I’ve found within me the absolute necessity for intolerance and I cannot express how profoundly sad that makes me.

And then there is the contrast principle, the nitty gritty things that fill me with hope. I will never see a whistle in the same way. The word “taco” is forever altered. I am in awe of people dedicated to peaceful protest in the face of a gestapo that antagonizes them. The word “protest” has come to mean so much more than I understood. Phrases like “due process” and “habeas corpus” are now three-dimensional and brimming with importance. Amidst the utter cowardice of the major media, the phrase “a free press” carries renewed significance. An actual free press is rising among the progressive independent media. The word “truth” is no longer generic. I’ll now forever equate the word “courage” with people running out of their homes to protect their neighbors. “Protect”. People organizing to reclaim decency and to demand integrity in our leaders. “Organizing”. So many words finding gravity in this time.

I no longer take the word “democracy” for granted. It is forever changed, enlivened. I understand the word “vote” as one of the most powerful actions a human being can take. Deciding who represents us, our values and will steward our shared dream. And, if our representatives betray our trust, we vote to remove them and replace them with someone more capable. Someone with “integrity”. Yet another nitty gritty word that has renewed meaning.

Vote. Integrity. Democracy. Truth. Decency. Shared values, like “equality”. These are the nitty gritty: the basics, the essentials, the essence. These “words” are the most profound gifts that members of our community can give to each other. In these times, they are the epicenter of what we must claim and protect for each other.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PLATE

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Even To The Point [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

I lay awake last night and listened to the chimes. They are a great source of comfort to me. There is something eternal in their sound which calms my busy mind. Guy gifted the chimes to us and I wonder if he knows what a enormous gift he gave to us: a soothing sound, a calm mind. In the warm months I sit close to them because I can feel the sound.

The earring stand belonged to Kerri’s mother. It stands on her dresser with a stuffed gingham heart at the base. Sometimes wandering through antique malls I am overwhelmed. The “things” have lost any connection to their storyteller, to the person who used them each day, and so are reduced to merely objects. Their value is no longer in their story but in their stuff-ness. The earring stand inspires a story, evokes a memory.

We’re slowly going through our stuff. There are piles in the basement. Each item in every pile has a story. The stories requires us to move slowly, deliberately. Sometimes the story requires us to hold on. Sometimes the story requires us to move it out as soon as possible. Sometimes the story has run its course and it’s time for us to move on. We need to break the connection. Sometimes we find pieces that we know would be meaningful to others, connections to lost loved ones or to long-ago cherished places. We box and ship these surprises, facilitating a re-union.

When my dad passed I wanted a few of of his shot glasses. He kept a collection, a shot-glass record of his travels and of ours since we always brought home a new addition to add to his collection. They were on shelves all over the house. They lined the mantel. My few shot glasses are prized possessions. If we had to pare down our world to the bare minimum the shot glasses would make the cut. Someday they will likely end up in an antique mall. People will see them as stuff, mere objects, and I suppose that is okay. The connection, the story, will disappear with me when I go. It will be lost to others because the connection is within me, I carry it, not the shot glasses.

That micro-revelation is the gift of cleaning out the house: I am – we are – keepers of connection. We are story collectors. Story weavers. Our possessions ring through us like the wind through the chimes, making us resonate with all that we hold dear, memories that define us even to the point of needing to let them go.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE EARRING STAND

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Bill Moyers’ Question [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

I wish someone could explain to me how diminishing our position from global superpower to a regional hemispheric bully makes us great again.

I wish someone would explain to me how isolation in the world is preferable and more powerful than global alliances. Especially given that our prosperity is a function of a global economy.

I wish someone could help me understand how learning and education has become anathema to our national identity. How is it that ignorance is preferable to inquisitiveness?

I’d like to understand how so many of my fellow citizens doubt what is obvious, apparent, what is right before their eyes, and fervently grasp onto lies (also obvious) as their chosen reality. For that matter, where-oh-where has our free press gone?

I want to know why science, data and fact are eschewed in favor of quackery, falsehoods and spin? When did we sign up to be the poster-nation for penny-wise-pound-foolish? As Kerri says everyday after surveying the latest wreckage, “Well, at least our Froot Loops are gonna be safe.”

Although I am curious how we managed to elect and assemble a kakistocracy (government by the least suitable or competent citizens of a state), I really wish someone could explain to me why they have not yet been tarred-and-feathered and run out of town. Protecting pedophiles, murdering citizens, threatening war both north and south, making a mockery of justice, profiteering, dismantling our constitution, weaponizing our data…why are they still being protected?

Lately, we walk our trails to unplug. To clear our minds from the latest horror of the nation-run-amok. To sort. To reclaim our attention span from the sharp fragments flying across our screens. To reaffirm what is real and what is not. To ground again in what is important.

On our latest loop I recalled, years ago, Joseph Campbell said that our mythology was dead. “You just have to read the newspapers,” he said as proof. Crime. Business-as-exploitation. A government increasingly protecting big business at the expense of the people.

A mythology is more than a cute story. Living mythologies reaffirm and reinvigorate the values of the people. They are the glue of society. Mythologies are “living” when the community lives the values reinforced in the stories. The Boston Tea Party is part of our national mythos. Paul Revere. Washington crossing the Delaware River. Rebels fighting for their freedom against an authoritarian king. Think about the value sets implicit in our founding story. We do not assemble on the 4th of July simply to coo at the nice fireworks. Or do we?

I wish someone could explain to me where our values have gone. We did not fight a world war against fascists only to become fascists. When did e pluribus unum, unity through diversity, become exclusive, ugly white nationalism? When did the shining city on the hill, a beacon for all, a land of promise and an aspiring moral exemplar, become the neighborhood thug?

Bill Moyers asked Joseph Campbell if a dead mythology could be revivified? Campbell paused and answered, “I don’t know.”

I guess it’s up to us to answer Bill Moyers’ question.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE WINTER TRAIL

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