Choose A Side [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“It’s snowing in our yard!” I exclaimed.

“It’s snowing in our neighbor’s yard, too,” she smiled. True. The snow loves all yards equally.

Barney-the-piano’s most recent photo shoot revealed that he has only one remaining fragment of a white key. The facade has mostly fallen revealing no difference at all in the make up of the white or black keys. Barney grows more beautiful with age and humility. He reveals his truth as he travels toward his source.

Our nation’s history has mostly been a tug-of-war between those who feel equality should be like snow, available to everyone – and those who feel equality is a privilege reserved for the elite few. Evidently, reconciling twelve generations of slavery with a founding ideal that “All men are created equal” requires some serious struggle and, one would hope, soul searching. It is our history. It is the tension in our present moment.

After writing my post yesterday I decided, as part of my survive-the-next-four-years-strategy, I would find some of the unsung bright lights in our nation’s history. Some guiding stars. Maybe they might help us make sense of our present moment. I happily bumped into Frances Wright. A feminist and “freethinker”. She came to the United States in 1818. She was an abolitionist, a believer in equal rights for all people. She spoke her mind. She wrote, “Equality is the soul of liberty; there is, in fact, no liberty without it.”

A woman with the courage of her conviction. Just like the courage exhibited this week by Bishop Mariann Budde, speaking truth to power. Bright lights, both; connected across time by the side they chose in the tug-of-war.

As we witness the attempted strangling of DEI in the United States by those who reserve equality for the few, we are also witness to the abolishment of liberty for the many. There goes the baby with the bathwater!

In the example set by these two freethinkers, these powerful courageous women, I find hope. Our history is proof: the facade is slow to fall yet, with time and strong voices, freethinkers, it always does. And, when it falls, it reveals the layer beneath the thin white plastic: equality for all is the epicenter of the American dream: it is not the absence of difference, it is the celebration of difference in all its diverse beauty and flaws. Out of many, one.

And isn’t it the promise of our nation that we – all of us – every single one of us – enjoy the power to think freely. Isn’t it necessary to call out the injustices we see, pulling back on those who believe that equality is reserved for the privileged few?

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE KEY

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Connective Tissue [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

I literally watched the ice crystals blossom on the glass. I was Jack watching multiple bean stalks stretch and reach into the sky. They feathered and connected, the light behind them making the ice-miracle color-lush.

It brought fascia to mind. That is not as arbitrary a thought as it might as first seem. I am reading about fascia. Don’t ask me why. I won’t be able to answer. My reasons are not random, just hard to articulate.

Fascia is the connective tissue of the body. It not only wraps around muscle, organs, and bones, it also embraces every ligament, every joint, every nerve, every artery and vein, every cell of our bodies. Every thing. It is a paradoxical wonder: it is flexible but provides structure, it is soft and loose but provides support. It literally holds our bodies together. It gives us shape. Most amazing of all, it is continuous, a an unbroken tissue-web from the tippy-top of our heads to the farthest molecule of our big toe, from the outermost layer to the innermost core.

When fascia is stressed, it tightens. It grips. It holds down the fort.

It responds to sensory stimuli. It feels. Trauma, physical or psychological, can cause the fascia to lose flexibility; this loss is called “restrictions”. In other words, too much stress makes fascia grip and not let go. The restriction creates an energy eddy that solidifies. A hard spot. A place where toxins congregate.

The good news is that the eddy or restriction can be released – but never through force. Pressure only serves to make the grip tighter. Gentle oppositional touch, fascia yoga, will eventually send the message: you can let go now. Relax. Trust.

I remember watching Koyaanisqasti, the 1982 documentary composed of slow motion and time lapse footage, no spoken words, that explores our relationship with technology and nature. Koyaanisqasti is a Hopi word meaning “life out of balance.” I was awe-struck by the interconnectivity it revealed. We move as one whether we realize it or not. We are not separate from nature or the world in which we live. We are nature. Out of balance with ourselves.

My long lost pal Roger used to say that it is a trick of language that fools us into compartmentalizing our experiences. “When you hurt your toe, it’s not just your toe that is injured; your whole body is injured,” he’d say.

Every “thing” impacts every other “thing”. Separation is an illusion.

The second day. The fascia of the nation is stressed. Hard spots have formed. Our faith in the populace is strained. We tighten our grip. We isolate, circle the wagons and hold down the fort. It is early so we can do little more than shake our heads in disbelief. 77 million of us chose the path of hatred and gross indecency. We fracture. We necessarily emphasize separation, “I am not them.”

And yet, we…The whole body is injured.

Perhaps the fascia has some lessons to teach us about how we might deal with the trauma to our national body: the election of indecency, the elevation of a confederacy of dunces. It certainly provides clues for how we – those of us who did not vote for hatred – might regain a healthy equilibrium. Gentle touch. Send the message to one another, “I am here.” Not only are we more than opposition; we are the carriers of the spark of the ideal of democracy. We are the movement forward. Even though an abomination currently sits at the resolute desk, we are the connective tissue, the shape givers of our nation and of the future.

read Kerri’s blogpost about ICE

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Two Idioms [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“A Prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.” ~ The Declaration of Independence of The United States of America, Congress, July 4, 1776

Today in the Rotunda, the symbolic center of our nation’s capitol, we bear witness to our nation willingly and publicly soiling itself. Our founding documents rendered little more than toilet tissue by a career-criminal swearing an oath to the Constitution that he has no intention of keeping. The oath administered by a Supreme Court judge who violated his oath to the Constitution by ruling the tyrant was immune from justice and, therefore, a king.

The tyrant did not arrive to the dais unassisted. A corrupted justice system, the complete moral collapse of the once grand old party, a gullible and/or apathetic* citizenry unwilling or incapable of discerning fact from fox-fantasy.

As we soil ourselves, we soil the world.

“Every man for himself!” is an idiom used in two distinct circumstances: 1) the moment when the ship is going down and no hope remains, and 2) when the rot of self-interest corrupts the heart of a community. “Every man for himself!” is the battle cry of giddy robber-barons plundering the public. Today, with the elevation of the tyrant, with the election of the oligarchy, we bear witness to both uses of the idiom. The ship of public service founders in a hog trough of personal gain.

It is no small irony that today we also celebrate Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., champion of The Civil Rights Movement, the voice of the nation’s conscience, protesting the racial discrimination written into our laws. An eloquent moral compass. A man with a dream guided by another idiom, “I am my brother’s and sister’s keeper.”

The line of division in our nation is now crystal clear, made symbolic by the two idioms colliding on our public calendar. Today there is no middle ground; we necessarily choose sides.

I believe more of us identify with, follow and uphold the example set by MLK. Today we can choose to celebrate the best of us. Today we can choose to be keepers of the dream.

Or, we can choose to applaud the worst of us. The man is unfit. He knows it. We the people know it. We need not resign ourselves to jump aboard an already stinking ship of thieves declaring loyalty to a character-less man with no greater vision than that of public plunder. Every man for himself. The idiomatic killer of the dream.

Today we can choose to be our brother’s and sister’s keeper. We. The People. Keepers of the dream.

Our sacred documents were written to prevent this moment of public debasement. It is astonishing on this day to see our founding documents, our highest ideals, so easily and with great ceremony flushed by the very people sworn to protect them.

*Approximately 90 million eligible voters did not vote in 2024, 36% of the electorate simply did not show up. Since DJT won the election with 77 million votes, slightly less than 50% of votes cast, he ascends the dais with less than 32% of the electorate. Less people voted for the despot than those who couldn’t be bothered to vote and stayed home. A sad and cautionary tale.

read Kerri’s blogpost about WE THE PEOPLE

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The Whole Of It [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Rather than cut back our ornamental grasses in the fall, we opt to leave them untouched until later in the spring. Not only do they provide shelter for the critters through the cold months, they are also visually stunning and, as an artist, to be stunned visually is high on my priority list. Raw sienna and ochre slow-dance against the cold ice blue of the snow. My favorite is the sunset playing through the waving winter plumes, orange, pink and purple.

The chipmunks have a highway that runs behind the grasses on the side of the yard. It stretches from their sanctuary, Barney-the-piano, all the way to Kerri’s potting bench just off the deck. Lately, a tiger striped kitty visits in the night and stays close-in to the grasses. Dogga has surprised it a time or two and it beats a hasty retreat. I know where the kitty has been during the night because Dogga starts his day by tracking the kitty-path, sniffing along the grasses.

Between the birds, squirrels, bunnies, chippies, the kitty and dogga…there is an entire world, a vibrant life story thriving in and among the winter grasses. They are more than ornamental.

I’m reading about initiation rituals. I came upon this sentence and read it a few times: “…we boys realized that every human being’s goal in the village was the eventual admission into the pursuit and maintenance of the sacred.” [Martin Prechtel, Long Life Honey in the Heart] Pursuit of the sacred is eventual. Admission into the pursuit of the sacred comes with living a bit of life, navigating hardship, peeling off layers of self-importance and fully grasping the reality of mortality. Developing eyes that can see the sacred. Nurturing a heart that opens and appreciates the smallest-as-the-grandest of moments. My favorite word in the sentiment is “maintenance” – it suggests participation as well as responsibility. The sacred is connective tissue to the future and the past and disappears without tending. The maintenance of the sacred is a relationship: attend to the sacred and it will attend to you.

Actions with service intention. Living with attention.

In my reading I’ve learned of the fate of the uninitiated, those who know no responsibility to the village. They are destined to be adolescents forever, void of any greater perspective or sense of communal responsibility. Never capable of approaching their responsibility to maintaining the sacred since, to them, nothing is sacred. Self-serving. A life that collapses into dull inattention and usury.

It is one way of understanding the incoming administration and comprehending the sad, sad confirmation hearings: we are captive to the uninitiated. The uninitiated enabling the uninitiated. Thuggery is the inevitable aim and refuge of the perpetually adolescent. In this cadre, clearly, nothing is sacred. Nothing disqualifies.

The eventual admission into the pursuit and maintenance of the sacred. Every human being’s goal – if they mature into well-rounded human beings. It’s not a given. It’s a realization that comes from an orientation: a sense of greater responsibility to the village: the village – not only a place, but a relationship of people to a place, to ancestry, to tradition, to each other, to a dedication for the soul-health of all, now and into the future.

These days I feel grateful to those elders who felt a responsibility toward me, to steward my growth. To those who took time and care to orient me onto a life-path pointing toward the eventual admission and maintenance of the sacred. To those who helped nurture in me eyes capable of seeing beyond the ornament, capable of seeing the vibrant colors in winter grasses, capable of relishing the abundant life taking shelter, playing chase, enjoying safe passage…the whole of it a sanctuary.

GRACE on the album RIGHT NOW © 2010 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about WINTER GRASSES

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Perhaps [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

It snowed last night. The temperatures have plummeted so this morning we are writing from the raft buried deep beneath a warming quilt. Dogga is fast asleep at our feet. These days he groans when he moves. His old bones, like mine, are not fond of the freeze.

Emotionally, this winter seems colder than most.

When I turned out the light on election night, knowing the result, my last thought before sleeping was, “The nation is now officially rend in two.” Even unplugged from the news and most of social media I am daily reminded of the reasons for the rupture. Today, responding to the terrible fires in L.A. someone out there – on the other side of the split – commented that, “They have no one but themselves to blame. They were warned what could happen if they didn’t rake their forests…” Cold heart, vacant mind. Empty soul.

A dear one recently suggested that it is time to focus on healing. She is wise and yet, each day I ask myself where we might begin to bridge the crevasse when a fortress of nonsense voids even the most basic compassion within those standing on the other side of the line.

Breck, our sweet aspen tree, serves as a hope-giver. She came home with us from Colorado and lived comfortably in a pot for the first few years of her life in Wisconsin. After we planted her she almost died. In fact, I thought she was already gone. After a replanting and a wish and a prayer, she pulled a Lazarus and managed to bud on her lower limbs. Now, a few years later, she is healthy and happy and growing like a weed.

We are without doubt moving into and through a national wasteland. As mythology instructs, the more we try to fix it, the worse it will become. It is beyond fixing. Shattering the facade is, in fact, a necessary part of leaving the wasteland behind. I suspect that we are now seeing what has always been there and there is not a bandage big enough or medicine potent enough to deal with the infection. It must burn itself out. It might very well kill the nation-body.

Absent of fixing, what remains is choosing. Each day, faced with yet-another-example of heartless-hogwash, I become more clear on what I value, more certain of what I believe. Perhaps the healing my friend suggests is in the act of choosing. In clarity, we each choose who we want to be.

Here’s what I know: if fire took the home and life possessions of that taunting-someone-out-there, I would reach, I would choose to help them. I would not choose to taunt them or blame them. I would not withhold aid from them. I would not politicize their pain. I would reach. And, I hope, when the hot fire of the incoming malfeasance burns through their fortress of nonsense, when bereft, they will recover their senses and regain their compassion. Perhaps their hearts will start beating again. Perhaps their minds will re-engage. Perhaps.

Perhaps then they will be capable of reaching back and the nation, like Breck, will take root in better soil, pull a Lazarus – and live to see another -healthier – day.

from the archives: Angel?

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A Pendulum With What? [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“Along the way, we have unlearned how to live wide-eyed with wonder at what Hermann Hesse called “the little joys” — those unpurchasable, unstorable emblems of aliveness that abound the moment we look up from our ledger of lack.” ~ Maria Popova, The Marginalian, January 28, 2025

I am aware that reading my recent posts, my letters to the world, are like riding a wild pendulum.

Side note: instead of using the word “pendulum” I was going to use “Newton’s Cradle” only I couldn’t remember what the device was called. I was having trouble Googling it because I couldn’t figure out how to ask the question necessary to produce the result. Kerri pulled up “Newton’s Cradle” in a nanosecond. “How did you do that?” I asked, “What words did you use to get it so quickly?”

“A pendulum with balls,” she said. I burst out laughing. “What?!” she protested, “That’s what it is!” I’m still laughing.

And so, a pendulum with balls. Newton’s Cradle. Lately, reading what I write is like riding that – whatever that is. One day my post rages at the coming storm. The next day my inner Buddha grabs the keyboard and espouses the virtues of presence. Kerri is also writing like a ride on Newton’s Cradle but she’s a better writer than I am, more conversational and heart-full, so her posts are less whiplashy than my raging.

Riding the pendulum is a hot topic of conversation here at the international headquarters of kerrianddavid.com. It’s relatively new to our experience, this bouncing between awe at the little wonders of the day and utter disgust at the titanic horror of our historical moment. Do we honestly give voice to what we are thinking/seeing all the time or only half the time? How much is too much? Who do we want to be in this Brave New World? What is the purpose of writing anything?

When does an artist become trite?

I am reminded of the many, many, many times in my life that I’ve stood in front of school boards, boards of directors, faculty boards, boards, boards, boards, and reminded them that the arts actually serve a purpose in a society beyond entertainment. In fact, neutering the artists is among the first acts of every dictator. No autocrat wants a mirror of truth held up so society might see their reflection.

And so, as we ride the pendulum with balls, we walk through our days with no answers to our questions. We know our job is to see and reflect the full spectrum of our experience, the little joys and the worst nightmares. The sweet cardinal that came to our window, the message scratched in the snow on the side of the trail, all the while ringing the alarm that an arsonist has the keys to the national house. Both/And. Holding on for dear life riding Newton’s Cradle.

read Kerri’s blogpost on Merely A Thought Monday

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The Fruit of Now [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“But the Tzutujil, with no verb “to be,” spoke about their temple as a non-rigid, fluid thing to be added to and fed with offerings. These offerings kept the world alive, like the fertilizing and watering of a tree, an ancient tree that continually bears the fruit of “now”. “ ~ Martin Prechtel, Long Life Honey in the Heart

The fruit of now.

Sometimes I try to imagine living in a culture that believes their actions matter not only to the health of the world, but the very existence of the world. All the world a sanctuary. What must it feel like to live with the understanding that what we do and how we behave, what we honor and what we bring to the sanctuary more than sustains it? It recreates it. No action is insignificant. To be the collective stewards of an ancient relationship rather than pursuers of an individual abstract heaven. The fruit of now.

Day one of a new year. Yesterday I wrote about my resolution, to be careful what I pretend to be.

Yesterday Kerri wrote about being a source of light. A luminaria. Illumination. “A lamp kept burning before the sacrament.” To be a source of light in a dark time.

This morning I awoke thinking about kintsugi: the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with urushi lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. It was mentioned in the Hallmark movie we watched on Sunday night. A cherished angel, broken and repaired. Kintsugi is meant to take what is broken and make it more beautiful by highlighting rather than hiding the cracks.

Kintsugi is a nice compliment to my resolution of being careful about what I pretend to be. It is a worthy intention, rather than hide my broken bits, I might spend this year gluing them back together in such a way that I highlight rather than conceal them. To be an honestly messy human is to be a source of light in a dark time. In that way, might I become more beautiful?

Or, perhaps the becoming-more-beautiful never stops. Kintsugi is not an achievement, an end result. It is an ongoing process. I can imagine, as one of the many stewards of the ancient relationship, responsible for the health of the sanctuary, the ancient tree, becoming more beautiful is an intention, a daily practice. And, knowing that what I-and-we-do-and-say matters to the health of the whole, in this ritual passage into the new year, I-and-we might enjoy the fruit of now, taking this step across the threshold into the new year as if what we do matters to the health of the world, shining as a source of light in a dark time.

read Kerri’s blog about A Luminaria

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What We Pretend To Be [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

“A Republic is an empire of laws, not men.” ~ John Adams

On the eve of the new year it is customary to make resolutions and, borrowing from the great Kurt Vonnegut, I have a suggestion for both a national and personal resolution: “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”

This year we must resolve to be careful what we pretend to be.

I grew up hearing that we are a nation of laws and that no one – no one – was above the law. That founding principle, long held, understood by all, honored by all, was applied to all. Even presidents. It is a principle at the epicenter of what defined us. It was what we once pretended to be. Recently, the Supreme Court ruled that we must pretend to be something else, the law of the nation cannot – or will not – touch everyone. In these past months we’ve been witness to the fall of the law. We are now pretending to be an empire of lawless men.

The 14th Amendment of our Constitution disqualifies former government officials from holding office if they took an oath to support the Constitution but then betrayed it by engaging in an insurrection. It is written into our Constitution, our highest document of law. Where-oh-where are the keepers of the law? What now are they – those lawmakers in both houses of Congress, sworn to uphold the Constitution – pretending to be? They must be pretending that they swore an oath, nothing more. Law-less men and women.

I can – and have – read The Constitution. It is easy to find, easy to read. The 14th Amendment is not ambiguous.

Where-oh-where are those conservative members of the Supreme Court who pretend to be literalists, interpreters and champions of the letter-of-the-law as written in the Constitution? They, too, swore an oath. They must be pretending to be blind. What letter of the law are they literally pretending not to see?

They certainly want us to join them in pretending not to see.

I can see. I know an insurrection when I see it. I know who incited it. I cannot pretend otherwise. Why are we pretending not to see it?

My resolution: to be very careful what I pretend to be. I hope you will join me in my resolution.

read Kerri’s blogpost on THE NEW YEAR

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A Place Called “Home” [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“We need, in love, to practice only this: letting each other go. For holding on comes easily; we do not need to learn it.” ~ Rainier Maria Rilke

I’ve never been a big fan of the holidays. Most of my life I’ve lived far away from family. Most of my life I’ve been a wanderer, detached from any meaningful feeling of “home”. I’ve never been a believer in any religious tradition though I understand to my bones the deeply human necessity of celebrating the solstice, observing with ritual the return of the light. It’s mythic, this annual journey through the darkness and back into the light.

It’s an experience common to all people on earth. No matter the story wrapped around it – birth or rebirth or journey or emergence – the commemoration of light’s return springs from a shared human experience. Literally and in metaphor, our lives parallel the movement of our planet around the life-giving sun. Would that we could recognize our sameness instead of fight over our perceived differences!

As I’ve previously written, the moment I stepped into this house was the first moment in my life that I felt “home”. In my imagination I saw the word “home” written on the wall. As a dedicated wanderer it frightened me. Now, more than a decade later, I am grateful for the intense struggle the wanderer-in-me fought and lost to finally – finally – arrive home.

We decorate our house for the holiday over many days. It is a work in progress that is both intentional, improvisational and responsive. We discover as we go. This season, in a nation filling itself with darkness, we have more reason than ever to create a space in our home that celebrates the return of the light.

We are also learning, in the midst of this looming shadow, how to fill ourselves with light. How to let go. We are learning how to stand in a center of intentional light in the midst of the swirling darkness. We are more than ever understanding the necessary delineation between solid-center and fluid-circumstance, how to root in the center without grappling with the passing state of affairs.

As we clean out, as we practice letting go of our stuff, both literal and metaphoric, we also decorate. We create a beautiful space, simple and warm, a place called home, safe and solid, where we turn to the sky and witness the return of the light.

The Lights on the album of the same name © 1996 Kerri Sherwood

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

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Caching Zeal [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

The season of fallow. The period of time when nothing seems to happen. The fruit has long since disappeared. The vine has dropped its leaves. The flowers are long gone; only the hard stalk remains.

And yet, plenty is happening beneath the surface. The energy goes to the root. Rest is, after all, an action. Recuperation. Growth need not be immediately visible. First comes the resupply, storing fuel for the impending internal stirring.

Our cleaning out of the house and our studios is just like that: energy going to the root. Creative disturbance. The blossoms of the past are…past. We are attending to the source or, better, we are tending the source. Making space is like dropping old leaves. Empty branches shedding the once-was to make room for the what-will-be. Caching zeal.

Letting go. It’s a mixed bag, this necessary austerity. At the moment it seems chaotic and harsh but in time, the season will change, the energy stored in the root will sense the warming soil and appear as new buds. In time it will make perfect sense.

read Kerri’s blogpost about WINTER THISTLES

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