Reminisce [on KS Friday]

Staring at a waterfall throws me into reminiscence. The rushing water pulls me into the past. I never know where I’m going to land, who I will remember, or what moment I’ll revisit. Waterfalls are time machines. They are also great reminders that time-does-not-stand-still.

While Kerri took photos of the falls, I was transported back to the ranch. A long time ago. Sunset over the fields. Tom and I sipped wine while he told stories. He was a great teller of stories. He was a great saver-of-lost-boys and it had only just occurred to me that I was among the lost boys that he’d saved.

Applying for jobs is akin to staring at a waterfall. Reminiscence without the romance. I was preparing material for a position that involved mentorship and, to stir my cover-letter-thinking, Kerri asked me a question, “What was the single most important moment you’ve experienced with one of your mentors?”

I responded with the first memory that came to mind. And, in truth, it didn’t come to my mind; it hit my heart like thunderclap. Tom came for a visit. I was living in Seattle and he flew in to spend some time with me. It was so simple. A visit. This man that I so admired went out of his way to hang out with me. I mattered. It altered the path of my life.

Time flows by. The waterfall of my life is rich beyond measure. I am now the age Tom was the evening that we sipped wine on the deck at the ranch. I am forever grateful that he altered the course of my life-river – by simply showing up.

Tom and me a long time ago.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE WATERFALL

[this piece reminds me of THE LOST BOY and Tom]

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

riverstone/as it is © 2004 kerri sherwood

Appreciate It [on KS Friday]

“…where there are people, there is art.” ~ Alex Grey, The Mission of Art

Have you ever Googled the definition of art? I have: (noun) the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.

It’s necessary to pay attention to the two phrases comprising the definition: 1) expression or application of human creative skill and imagination…2) to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power. Appreciated expression. The value measurement is beauty or emotional power.

A deeply personal expression that touches the universal. The art in a small child scribbling is not in what’s “produced” – it’s in our witness to the beauty of a new-human being discovering the joy of expression. Moms, full to overflowing with appreciation, hang the scribble on the refrigerator. There is no purer experience of art.

Very few children survive the moment when free expression tangles with expectation: now we make art. Scribble meets intention. Appreciation is less easy to attain when the circle grows beyond mom’s refrigerator. “Art” meets a bottom line valuation where beauty and emotional power sometimes take a back seat.

It sounds bleak until you look around and recognize what you see. People pointing cameras everywhere. Painted rocks on the trail. A chalk drawing on the sidewalk. Homes decorated. Magazines with recipes and gorgeous shots of possibility. Sculpture on the beach. Youtube videos abound. Architecture and the design of apps. Music! My god, the music. I passed a man whistling a tune that lifted his step and mine.

Expression. Appreciation. Imagination run amok. Mom’s refrigerator is everywhere. What could be more human?

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about ICE

nurture me/released from the heart © 1995 kerri sherwood

Shape The Story [on KS Friday]

“It’s amazing how a little tomorrow can make up for a whole lot of yesterday.” ~ John Guare

Jen’s question sparked a many-days-conversation between Kerri and me. She asked about my favorite childhood birthday memory. I stared into space. My memory pool was empty. There was nothing but white noise between my ears. I sputtered something about awkward valentines in elementary school. Later, on the drive home, I confessed to Kerri how unnerved I was to have little or no distinct memory to recount. Both Jen and Brad had palpable stories to tell – and many of them.

Since that evening we’ve talked about the power of reminiscing. Neither of us has lived near our families. We’ve had relatively few opportunities to sit around a table and tell stories of childhood, recount foibles, ask questions, laugh at where we’ve been and what we’ve done with the people who shared the experiences with us. During our recent trip to Florida I was startled at Bill’s precise memories of his time in Vietnam. Each year he gathers with the surviving members of his squad and they tell stories of their service. His memories are clear because he regularly tells and hears the stories. It’s a ritual meant to keep vital the thread of connection to the past. Shared story is the glue that holds together a family, found-family or otherwise.

Last night we were wide awake at 3am. We turned on the light and returned to our conversation about the power of reminiscence. The power of enlivening stories with others who hold the same memory. Kerri can tell me stories about raising her children but I wasn’t there. We were not parents together so I am able ask questions but I am unable to spark a visceral memory with, “Do you remember when we…” A one way street is not as accessible as a memory street shared by two.

Inevitably, as the sun began to rise on our sleepless night, our conversation turned toward what we want to create. Together. What are the shapes of our dreams? We began to tell stories in the other direction. We imagined and, so, we created. The power of reminiscence balanced by the power of aspiration. We laughed and built metaphoric houses. We populated studios with creations. Kerri challenged me to paint in a new way, not images but to give color and shape to my feelings.

Feelings. Suddenly, I remember a birthday from a time I was very young, single digits. In the basement, made from refrigerator boxes, Columbus built a birthday surprise. A train or an airplane? I can’t remember. But I felt like it was yesterday, the thrill of running down the stairs to see what my father had made for me.

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE TRACKS

meander/as it is © 2004 kerri sherwood

Meet Sketchy [on KS Friday]

One of my favorite budding traditions is our Sunday walk with Brad and Jen followed by a foray into a sketchy unknown bar for an end-of-hike-drink. We live in Wisconsin so there’s no end of sketchy bars to explore. Many sit close to trailheads so our options are abundant.

Years ago I participated in a similar tradition though I can’t remember what we called it. Dubious lunch? Someone in the group chose a suspicious lunch spot and together we’d give it a try. Very few diners lived up to their facade. Most were terrific discoveries. Diamonds in the rough.

Our post-hike-sketchy-bar-tour has produced surprisingly warm memories. Treasures in coarse wrappers. The cliché is, of course, to never judge a book by its cover and, as is always the case, what we consider “sketchy” says more about us than the roadhouse we’re dubious to enter. Ultimately, our fear is the that the good folks inside, the regular customers bellied up to the bar, will look at us and think that we are sketchy.

And, so far, that has been true! They do. And, we do. Sketchy meets sketchy. It’s like the moment in the movies when the cowboy enters the saloon and the music stops. Eyes narrow. Scrutiny abounds. And then, the tension breaks, the music picks up where it left off, and everyone has a good time. The cover of the book disappears when the saloon doors swing open and everyone shares a tiny-bit of their story, sketchy together, under one roof.

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about OUR TRADITION

time together/this part of the journey © 1998 kerri sherwood

Touch The Liminal [on KS Friday]

I did not know the word columbarium: a room or building with niches for funeral urns to be stored. Each niche, a life. Or two.

Bruce just sent an article from The Atlantic, The Eerie Comfort of Liminal Spaces. The article helped me put my finger on the feeling I had the day we interred Beaky’s ashes. Row after row after row of niches. I was oddly comforted standing in the Florida sun between the rows at the columbarium. I felt ancient and that feeling surprised me.

Liminal spaces are threshold places. I turned my face to the sun and appreciated how, in this liminal space, all the trials and tribulations of life fell away. The divisions dissipate. Sisyphus sits in the boat in the underworld and watches all the souls wander on the beach, believing that they are all alone, until they play out all the worries in their minds. Once their stories are “told”, they see each other, gravitate toward each other, and join together, becoming a single bank of mist. From one form into an other.

In this resting place, I felt the essence of the threshold. The comfort of a liminal space. The rows and columns are for those of us on this side of the veil. On the other side, the need to seek or tell or feel is suspended.

I reached and wrapped my fingers in Kerri’s hand. It was glorious, this capacity to feel, so under-appreciated every day. Here, I knew without doubt that touch is the ultimate liminal experience. Thich Nhat Hahn offered a meditation I appreciate (I can’t recall the book) that begins, “Darling, I am here with you.”

That sums it up.

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about COLUMBARIUM

legacy/released from the heart © 1995 kerri sherwood

Both/And [on KS Friday]

“When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.” ~ Kahlil Gibran

Dwight sent a book to me: From Strength to Strength by Arthur C. Brooks. Several months ago at dinner we talked about how to make this next chapter of life the best chapter. As is my practice lately, I am reading it slowly, taking my time. I used to read like a hungry man eats; I gobbled information. Now I savor. I take one bite at a time and taste all of it. Someday soon we will talk about what I am discovering in the book. I’m only a few chapters in and already I’m rethinking my choices, considering different paths moving forward.

Pondering my next steps has also been an exercise of looking at where I’ve been. A lyric from Dan Fogelberg just ran through my mind [The Last Nail, by Dan Fogelberg]:

I left a trail of footprints deep in the snow
I swore one day, I would retrace them
But when I turned around, I found that the wind had erased them
Now I’ll never replace them

With distance it’s easy to see that some of the worst choices I’ve made in my life have also been the best choices I’ve made in my life. I can see that my desperation brought innovation. I can see the prison I made of my judgments and the hard truths necessary to unlock my cell door. I can see I needed a broken heart to arrive at an open heart.

With distance, I’m beginning to understand that no single experience lives in isolation. No day is either “good” or “bad.” No single period of my life defines the worth or wealth of my time on earth. No title, like “artist,” can wrap its fingers around the totality of my time. I am all of those things and none of those things.

On Monday, we interred Beaky’s ashes. She is with Pa in the national cemetery. We sang a song and then an attendant closed the niche. A journey’s end. Later that day I jumped off the back of a couch into a pile of pillows with a two year old, laughing, wiggling our toes. This wild-child is in full discovery mode, everything an adventure. A journey’s inception.

This life is achingly beautiful, each and every moment.

The entire album: Released From The Heart © 1995 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART DIVOTS

Settle In and Listen [on KS Friday]

Columbus would sit by the stereo for hours and listen to his records. His collection of styles was all over the map: classical, jazz, country, pop…The vinyl itself was wide-ranging: 45’s and 33 1/3 rpm’s, thick records weighing 180 grams or more. One of my favorite memories is of a dark night, sitting with him for hours, as he played selections for me. “I wonder what this one is,” he’d say, pulling a record from its sleeve. Or, “Oh, you’ll appreciate this one. It’s really odd!”

His enjoyment of music was as much an exploration into the unknown as a return to old favorites; he listened to discover. He’d study, laugh at the quirky and savor to sublime.

Growing up I did not know of his love for music. I suppose with four kids there wasn’t space in his life for his passions since he was an avid supporter of our dreams. I knew he thrived in the mountains and liked nothing better than throwing a fishing line into a lake. His deep appreciation for music came as a surprise.

We brought his records home with us to Wisconsin. They aren’t worth much monetarily. Occasionally I thumb through the albums, pull one, and play it on our little suitcase record player. Over the holidays, Kerri brought out her parent’s LP’s and I pulled the Christmas music from Columbus’ collection. We listened and told stories of Christmas past.

Recently we wandered through an antique store and came upon the boxes and boxes of old vinyl records. Kerri quipped that her CD’s would someday show up in the antique store with my paintings stacked against a wall. I looked a the boxes and wondered what I should do with my dad’s albums. They will, inevitably, end up stacked next to my paintings and Kerri’s CD’s in some moldy old antique mall. So, perhaps I need do nothing with them yet.

Really, I am waiting for an opportunity, a night that I will settle in with the record player and pull Columbus’ vinyl from their sleeves and ask, “I wonder what this one is?”

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about VINYL

it’s a long story/this part of the journey © 1998 kerri sherwood

Look-At-Me-Look-At-You [on KS Friday]

Crossing the soggy path, the deer left hoofprints pressed deep into the mud. “Those weren’t here before,” she said. It was our second loop around the yellow trail.

A half a mile down the path she suddenly stopped, grabbing my arm in the way that let me know to stand silent and still. She pointed into the woods. The deer stood frozen, looking at us. It’s ears twitched, deciding that we were not a threat. It flicked its tail, a shock of white, and walked a few steps, stopping again to scrutinize us. We stood that way for several minutes. Look-at-me-look-at-you. Boundaries dissolved.

And then, as if released from a spell, we walked on, filled with delight at our communion with the deer. “They’re usually not out this early,” she said. We encounter them at sunset but rarely in the late morning. We decided it was a gift, a sighting of encouragement. We embraced the deer-symbol of life’s regeneration. Moving with grace through obstacles, having a fresh perspective on old impediments. Good perspectives to carry into the new year.

We rounded the corner and crossed to the middle of the bridge. A week ago during the polar freeze we imagined the river was solid ice. Now, it stirred into motion, puddles atop frozen sheets, the current pulling below. The sky and trees reflected on speckled patterns of ice in transformation. It looked like a grey whale swam in for a rest.

Once again we found ourselves under a spell with the river. Moving in an ancient dance with water and sky. Look-at-me-look-at-you. Our stinging fingers brought us back. Time to go home. Warm up. Sip a glass of wine, and revel that deer-spell and river-magic would make it on the list of our Daily Gorgeous.

[this piece of Kerri’s breaks my heart every time I listen]

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE RIVER

last i saw you/this part of the journey © 1998 kerri sherwood

Choose Awe [on KS Friday]

Of course, it’s not enough to appreciate the cloud-stripes that stopped our motion on the trail. I might have painted them in one of my pieces – for no other reason other than they are a cool pattern. Of course, I would have believed I was making it up. Imagination at its finest. But, in mid-trail, to peer up and see them painted on the sky-canvas sent us into a Google frenzy. You’ll be relieved to know that striped patterns in cloud formations are due to an oscillation called the Kelvin-Hemholtz instability. Phew! Not aliens or Van Gogh run amok, just ordinary old Kelvin-Hemholtz, unstable and oscillating. Again.

Nature continues to astound me. Nature continues to blow my imagination to new heights. As an artist, I am relieved knowing that I will never create anything as perfect or profound as what nature tosses up every minute of every day. There’s nothing left to do but play in these fields and appreciate the conversation. Since I am also a unique-form-thrown-up-by-nature, respecting the conversation, having deep gratitude for the moment, wouldn’t hurt.

Standing on the trail, watching the miraculous lines scratched into the blue-blue sky, I re-realized something important: Google might be able to explain it – which is no small feat – but explaining it, labeling it, putting it into a context-box also diminishes it. It gives us the illusion that we are separate from it; that we can control-it-by-rationalization. Visitors at the zoo.

Sometimes I think awe is a better path than explanation. I imagine that we might approach global warming, weather weirding differently, if we weren’t under the illusion that we could Google nature into submission. Awe is participatory, boundaries dissolve. I-am-that. Life beyond definition, beyond category and sub-category, glimmers.

Next time, I will opt for a few more moments of astonishment before reaching for my phone. Explanations and easy answers can wait their turn in line.

Lost. In the Questions ~ Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about STRIPES

lost. in the questions © kerri sherwood

Celebrate Renewal [on KS Friday]

“When bankers get together for dinner, they discuss Art. When artists get together for dinner, they discuss money.” ~ Oscar Wilde

Rebecca reminded me of David Bayles and Ted Orland’s remarkable book, Art & Fear. I flipped it open to this quote and laughed heartily. We discuss what we desire but do not yet possess.

On the opposite page I read this tasty bit: “Once you have found the work that you are meant to do, the particulars of any single piece don’t matter all that much.”

Years ago, watching me draw in an Italian Street Painting festival in San Luis Obispo, Roger commented that making art was what I was meant to do.

The other day, Kerri asked me if I wanted to hear a carol. She stood at her piano and played. There was no doubt – it was visible and electric – the carol she played was one of her compositions. I watched a brilliant artist do what she is meant to do.

Art is born of a service motive. Banking is born of a profit motive. It’s hard to explain a life of artistry in a world that exclusively values the profit motive. It seems foolish until you consider this: bankers, in retirement, play golf. Artists, in retirement, make art. There is no greater gift in this very short life than having an inner imperative. It tips contemporary valuation on its head.

Rebecca sent this quote from Art & Fear. She’d just asked me if I was still painting and I stuttered. “What separates artists from ex-artists is that those who challenge their fears, continue; those who don’t, quit. Each step in the art-making process puts that issue to the test.” I am currently challenging my fear.

Last night the Up-North Gang gathered for dinner at Jay and Charlie’s house. Jay is a remarkable artist. Everywhere I looked in their house I saw her artistry. The meal she made was a bold step into the unknown and it was delicious. She is doing what she is meant to do and it spills out in every room.

At dinner, we talked about our children coming home for the holiday. I was the only person at the table who will never know the full depth of the desire of parenthood. I am a step, not a birth father. The joy of their children glowed in the faces seated at the table. All else seemed irrelevant.

There is a place beyond service and profit motives, a lovely dinner conversation where artists and bankers come together at one table. Family. And isn’t that – in the end – what we are all meant to do. To sit side-by-side and celebrate our renewal?

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE HOLIDAY

i wonder as i wander/the lights © 1996 kerri sherwood