Peacehenge [David’s blog on KS Friday]

The stones are placed by human hands, as clearly as the menhirs at Stonehenge. For a moment I had the odd illusion that the smaller stones set in the amphitheater where once monolithic and time had worn them to nubs. Ancient remnants of once grande structures. A fingerprint.

At the Sanctuary, the standing stones are engraved with lyrics or wisdoms. I wondered at the human impulse to use stones – giant stones – as monuments. To memorialize. To ritualize. 4000 year old standing stones can be found in Asia, Africa, and Europe. Now they are found in North America – to be discovered by humans 4000 years from now. The lyrics may wash away over the centuries leaving our distant descendants a mystery: why did those people stand these stones in this place? What was the purpose of this henge?

It was no small task for people to erect the monoliths at Stonehenge. A mind-boggling task. Likewise, it was no small feat to create a sanctuary, a place inspiring inner-quiet in honor of a musician who sang of peace. I hope the lyrics do not wash away. I believe our distant descendants would find comfort in the discovery of a Peacehenge, proof positive that we were not all violence, divisive, warmongering and tumultuous but took the time to set standing stones in honor of a poet who believed in our better nature, who sang of goodwill and possibility.

Longing/As It Is © 2004 Kerri Sherwood

Hope © 2005 Kerri Sherwood

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Look-At-Me-Look-At-You [David’s blog on KS Friday]

It struck me that as the crowd gathered to watch the family of foxes, the foxes, in turn, gathered to observe the rabble of humans. Look-at-me-look-at-you. I wondered if they thought of us as wild, uncultivated. I know they were delighted that a makeshift fence stood between us and them.

The mother fox leapt onto a stone and seemed to pose for photographs but I was certain she was drawing attention away from her brood. Look-at-me-not-at-them. She knew how to make her frolicking children disappear. And they did. Once safe, she stepped off her platform, no rush, and also disappeared.

A local woman walking her dog saw the crowd and asked, “Is it the foxes?” I nodded. “Thought so,” she said and nonchalantly continued on her way. A family of foxes in the center of town. Nothing new. For her it happens every day. For us, passers-through, it was a surprise. A delight. A family of foxes have never rollicked on our street at home. I may never see this again. She will see it again on her stroll tomorrow, just like yesterday. Thus, the power of perspective.

I read that foxes are observers. They easily meld into their surroundings. They vanish so they can watch. So they can see. “If Fox has chosen to share its medicine with you, it is a sign that you are to become like the wind, which is unseen yet is able to weave into and through any location or situation. You would be wise to observe the acts of others rather than their words at this time.”

Tom Mck told me that as he aged he felt that he grew invisible. I feel much the same way these days though my encounter with the foxes has made me realize that I have mostly lived my life as an observer of others. Like the wind. I much preferred coaching people over the phone: I could listen purely – no negotiating of image – and easily hear the message behind the words. Perhaps I have not grown invisible but am only now fully realizing the truth of one of my gifts. Weaving through any location or situation: Look-at-me-look-at-you.

Every Breath/As It Is © 2004 Kerri Sherwood

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Barnacle And Beauty [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Let me describe the present moment. It is morning. A gentle rain is falling outside, tap-tapping a steady rhythm on the gutters and pools in the driveway. The window is open just enough so the smell of new rain is carried on a slight cool breeze. We sit, feet beneath the quilt, writing. Dogga was asleep in his favorite spot at the doorway but must have sensed I was about to write about him. He stretched, yawned, groaned, and jumped up on the bed. He nestled in and is once again asleep. Oh, yes, and there is coffee.

I was compelled to write about the present moment because I just read to Kerri an article in the New York Times about the social side of artificial intelligence. AI companions. At first it begged the question, “What is real?” but then I caught my prejudice. Are the conversations I have in my head real? Are my perceptions of the world real? Why should the conversations people are having with their AI companions be any less real than the nonsense that daily runs through my noggin? There is, according to the report, an epidemic of loneliness in these un-United States and true companionship is, apparently, hard to come by. It smacks to me of another layer on the bubble: people create their AI companions and AI companions learn how to respond to their creators from their creators…

There was no filter used to capture this pink-purple sky. It’s one of the things I appreciate about Kerri’s urge to aim her camera. She rarely attempts to alter the image. To make it something else. She is drawn to photograph the present moment with all of its flaws and barnacles. And beauty and grace.

Last night, during our 3am banana-and-trail-fest, we bumbled into a series of videos: people who have decided to live off the grid yet are documenting and sharing their homesteading process on YouTube. We’ve been following Martijn Doolaard for a few years and delight in the travels of Foresty Forest and his dog Rocko. Alternate lives. Old world craftsmen-and-women using-but-not-lost-in the wonders of new world technology. Sense-making.

My 3am revelation? I’m drawn to these people because of the balance they seek to establish: hands and feet firmly rooted in the traditions of dirt and toil and presence, while at the same time appreciating and using technology to capture their present moment. To share. To create. To suggest to us 3am sleep-deprived watchers that there is, indeed, a balance to be struck. No need to get lost. Barnacles and beauty available during this time of intense change.

meander/as it is © 2004 kerri sherwood

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All The World [David’s blog on KS Friday]

When I was on the verge of realizing my dream of creating an experiential learning school/program, I kept a poster on my office wall – the alphabet in butterfly wings. It was a layer cake of reminders: Nothing is original. Mimicking nature is a really good idea. We project our meaning onto the world and are oriented into a world of projected meaning. In other words: it’s all made-up. So, make it up!

Teachers are meant to follow a student’s questions, not stuff them with a heavy diet of unattached answers. Create a container of hot pursuit and feed the curiosity. Someday they will create and hold their own container of hot pursuit, if they are lucky enough to survive the system. That thought is not original to me. Every great teacher who I’ve known has told me some version of my borrowed-assertion.

Some day, if you are fortunate enough to take a walk with Kerri, be prepared to stop. Often. “Lookit!” she gasps for the umpteenth time and aims her camera. Stepping off the trail, kneeling in the weeds, tipping her head back to capture the clouds, hovering above an intrepid caterpillar… Catching the miracle is one of her hot pursuits. “I won’t take any more,” she says and I smile, knowingly. My job is to hold the container.

“Lookit!” she said. We were in the lobby of the theatre. Her hot pursuit is also an indoor passion. All the world is her studio. “It’s the letter K!” she smiled. “In lights!” Before I could respond she stepped away, aiming her lens at the ceiling. “It’s so cool!”

From butterfly wings to lights on the ceiling.

It occurs to me (now) that creating or holding containers of hot pursuit is one of my hot pursuits. All the world…

The Box/Blueprint for my Soul © 1996 Kerri Sherwood

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Arrive [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“You must understand the whole of life, not just one part of it. That is why you must read, that is why you must look at the skies, why you must sing, dance and write poems, and suffer, and understand, for all that is life.” ~ Krishnamurti, Think On These Things

The amaryllis is making a reach for the sky. The first time I saw it – a bulb encased in pink wax – I wondered what alien life form just entered our house. We had to ask the same questions we’d need to ask if it was an alien creature: How do we take care of it? How do we feed it? The answer was simple. Leave it alone. That answer confirmed my suspicion. It was an alien after all!

There is so much in this life that I do not understand. In fact, if I am honest, I think most of this life is beyond my capacity to comprehend. Last night, not ready yet for sleep, I watched a nine-minute youtube teaching by Thich Nhat Hahn. Stop Running. The title caught my eye because so much of life feels like running. Running to explain, Running to justify. Running to judgment. Running from fear. Running toward gain. I wanted to hear some thoughts about standing still. In that way, I might understand why there is so much running. In the end, his answer was beautifully simple: rather than run, arrive. Be home.

Rob made us laugh. He’s one of several people who lately reminded Kerri and me that we are not normal. “I didn’t mean for that to sound like it did!” he exclaimed. He’s helping us sort out our plan B. It’s true. Our “normal” in comparison to others is alien like the amaryllis. Rob is attempting to help us see what is special about how we are doing life. And, like everyone, we are mostly blind to ourselves. To our unique choices. To our “one wild and precious life.”

Between the alien amaryllis growing in our sunroom, conversations with Rob and a brief teaching by Thich Nhat Hahn, I am fully confident that I need to cease all attempts at understanding anything at all. Maybe it is time to arrive. Maybe it is time to arrive, to stand still and fully breathe-in all the possible awe teeming in this mysterious ungraspable universe.

Connected from Released From The Heart, The Best So Far © 1995, 1999 Kerri Sherwood

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Open The Tiny Measure [David’s blog on KS Friday]

My first question: when did UFO (unidentified flying object) become UAP (unidentified anomalous phenomenon)? I know I am late to the party on this one. Like you, I’ve been reading the UAP headlines for a few years and, each time, ask myself the same question: Why the moniker change?

I did a little research this morning and came upon this phrase from Bill Nelson at NASA: “We want to shift the conversation about UAP’s from sentimentalism to science.” Apparently, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg have our space-alien-sentimentalism dialed to an all-time high. Human imagination runs amok with unidentified flying objects and not so much with unidentified anomalous phenomenon.

Language matters. Since our reference point is…us…a flying object, like an airplane or a spaceship implies a pilot, a “being” at the controls. An anomalous phenomenon? It’s another way of saying unusual occurrence and what, exactly, is an occurrence? If it’s unusually amorphous, there is nothing to hang your hat on. The only thing to do is call a scientist or artist since the imagination needs a few parameters to light its fire.

There was another sad-ancient-yet-contemporary-cautionary-tale that popped up in my reading: “NASA recently appointed a director for UFO research, but is not divulging the identity to protect them from the kind of threats and harassment faced by the panel members during the study.” Science and art are -and always have been – dangerous business. Galileo spent his last years on earth under house arrest for publishing his science; it contradicted the firmly-held belief of the day. He was forced to recant his findings or face the fate of heretics.

Belief does not appreciate being contradicted, especially when there is evidence involved – or as is true in the current example – no evidence at all. Belief has a wonky relationship with evidence. We are witness to that all-too-human phenomenon in our times, just as was Galileo. Protecting poll workers and UAP scientists from the violence of those who are unshakable in their faith and/or “news” source (their reference point).

We do not need science (or maybe we do) to see our absurdity.

We have the capacity to exercise our imaginations in this vast universe of possibilities. We have the ability to question if we desire to use it. We have the gift of unbridled curiosity and need not go off the rails into rootless belief if we allow that, “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in [our] philosophy”. We can be afraid of ideas, run from progress, or threaten the artists and scientists that force us to open our smallish belief and tiny measure of “normal”. Growth is always preceded by an uncomfortable step into the unknown. A challenge to what we think we “know”.

And then, after the upset, we need to find language to describe the new world that we discover there.

Time Together/This Part of the Journey © 1997 & 2000 Kerri Sherwood

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Tiny Hands. Precious Gift. [David’s blog on KS Friday]

We’ve been writing our blogs together for so long (323 weeks and counting) that this post has become something of a spring ritual: the first dandelion.

Among other things, the first dandelion plucks Kerri’s parental heartstrings. Nothing throws her back in time like the first dandelion of the season. She is regularly contacted by wistful parents after they first encounter her song, Fistful of Dandelions. The power of the arts.

What those wistful parents don’t know is that her song, as well as the first dandelion, fills her cup with yearning for the days when her children freely played in the fields, rolled in the grasses, and ran to her with tiny hands clutching too many yellow dandelions.

Artists do not invent – they articulate what lives in the fields beyond language. They touch what we experience but cannot quite grasp. In her song, she reaches for what parents feel but can barely endure – what she feels but can barely endure: little legs racing across a field, tiny hands holding precious a gift: the new season’s miracle-pop of brilliant yellow. “Dandelions for Momma.”

Fistful of Dandelions © 1999 Kerri Sherwood

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Why Bother? [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Here’s the hazard:

“I know what will happen.” “Same old same old.” “It’s always been this way.” “Why bother?” “Nothing ever changes.” “Who cares anyway.” “Tomorrow will be the same as today.” “It doesn’t matter.” “It’s just an idea.”

Pattern thought. Repetition’s repetition. Dulled life.

Looking up, the tree line cut a diagonal across the sky. The sun peeked from behind evergreen. I could have thought, “I’ve seen it a thousand times.” And, truth be told, had that been my thought, I probably would have reduced it to something without words. A yawn. Or worse, it would have gone unnoticed as a lost moment in a mind full of complaints.

As it was, I’d never before been on this particular turn of the earth or looked at the sky at that precise moment. What, exactly, “caught my eye?”

I do not know what will happen. Nothing is ever the same. Ever. It is impossible to have been this way before because no one has ever lived this moment until now. That’s the response to “why bother.” It always changes. And I care. Tomorrow can’t possibly be the same as today so it matters.

Every idea reaches beyond the confines of “just.” Ideas are expansive. Just is reductive.

People are expansive unless they choose otherwise.

Why just live in the reductive?

Good Moments/This Part of the Journey © 1997, 2000 Kerri Sherwood

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My Wise-Eyes [David’s blog on KS Friday]

We were awake in the middle of the night. I don’t mind these doughnut holes in our sleep because we tend to have heart-to-heart chats. In the dark hours we reach deep into reflection and yearning. We ponder. Last night we talked about our writing. The differences in our styles, what we have learned from each other, how we are becoming better-and-better writers because we write side-by-side, share our work and edit each other.

Every artist needs a person to view or read their work who is completely honest. No energy need be spent protecting the artist-ego. In the theatre that person is called “wise-eyes.” And, in order to take full advantage of the wise-eyes, the artist needs to have open-ears capable of hearing honest reflection. It’s a relationship of deepest trust: “Tell me what you think, see, hear…” Wise-eyes are hard to come by.

Last night, as we talked, I was suddenly overwhelmed by my good fortune: we can – and do – talk about anything. I trust her feedback and insights implicitly. She has my best interests at heart and I have hers. And so we grow. I married my wise-eyes.

The gorgeous shock of dried flowers against an impressionist’s blue sky. I would never see this image were I to walk on my own. And that’s the point. She has me opening my eyes to look at the world in ways that do not come naturally to me. Paradoxically expanding my view to include the close-in, the detail. My head is usually in the esoteric clouds. My wise-eyes-wife is teaching me to also look down, to plant my feet on the ground, to (as she says) “gear-down”. To challenge my idea of what comes naturally. I am becoming a much better artist for it.

Untitled Interlude/Released From The Heart © 1995 Kerri Sherwood

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Edge Of Time [David’s blog on KS Friday]

It was here for a moment. The snow on the wall. The tall grasses bowing beneath the weight. Today the grass is standing. Time moves on. Circumstances flow and change.

Yesterday we sat at a counter in the Public Market and ate gumbo. Kerri and the server, a young woman, talked about the oddities of aging. It was Kerri’s 65th birthday so the topic was vital and current. Both women laughed at how out-of-sync they feel relative to the number of their spins around the sun. “What is this supposed to feel like?” they asked in unison. The old man sitting next to us almost spit out his salmon.

We arrived at the art museum an hour before closing. She said, for her birthday, she wanted to visit her boys: Richard Diebenkorn. Ellsworth Kelly, and Mark Rothko. We sat in front of the Rothko for several minutes and I swear, like a good wine, the painting opened. The longer we sat with it the more it beckoned. The richer the color became. “I wish there was a bench in front of Richard,” she said. She loves her other boys but Diebenkorn is her favorite.

On our way out we stopped by the enormous Anselm Kiefer painting, Midgard. The mythical serpent doing battle at the end of the world. It’s a metaphor in darkness: cycles of renewal amidst constant destruction. A crucible. I always visit Anselm as he is a favorite of my friend David. I sent him a photo of the painting and realized that it has been almost eight years since I have seen him.

Catching a glimpse of my image in the window and not fully recognizing the man that looked back, I said, “This time thing is crazy.” She squeezed my hand.

“Tell me about it,” she said. And then asked, “So, what’s the next part of our adventure?”

Boundaries/Right Now © 2010 Kerri Sherwood

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