Lift [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

An Ode To Lift.

To raise or hoist. To heave or haul.

Dissipating fog, cloud dissolve.

Upward force, curved surface of a wing.

Pump up the volume, make eardrums ring.

Buoy the spirits, sing the reprise.

Pick a pocket; go ahead, plagiarize!

Boost the revenue, Jack-up the price.

End the embargo, melt political ice.

Stop. A thumb’s out, give it a ride.

Encouragement, boost, stimulus, pride.

“Which floor?” Push the button. Soon you’ll arrive.

***

“Lift” is one of those words. A noun and a verb. Four letters, when combined, result in many more than four definitions, some completely contradictory. Lift a spirit/Lift a wallet.

Somewhere in time, it occurred to a human mind that flight did not necessarily include flapping but the opposite. Lift. In my imagination the Wright Brothers flapped their arms in excitement when their theory took flight. Lift: the upward force that allows an aircraft to stay airborne. “The curved upper surface of a wing causes air to flow faster over the top than the bottom, resulting in lower pressure above the wing and higher pressure below, generating lift. According to Bernoulli’s principle.”

I nearly flunked physics in high school so don’t ask me to expound or explain. In fact, I try not to think about lift when I board an airplane. It’s enough to know that I am willingly entering a tube that will hurtle through space while a kind person offers me coffee and snacks from a rolling cart. I flap my arms in excitement every time the plane safely lands.

Each and every time, sitting very still, buckled into my seat, I close my eyes during the moment of lift.

And really, it all boils down to this: “People who are truly strong lift others up. People who are truly powerful bring others together.” ~ Michelle Obama

read Kerri’s blogpost about FLIGHT

likesharesupportliftcommentsubscribe…thankyou.

Constant Companions [David’s blog on KS Friday]

It’s rapidly becoming folklore week at The Direction of Intention. I blame The Brothers Grimm for inciting a deeper dive into their collection of ancient tales. I somehow missed – or forgot – that the moral of the folk tales is to honor your commitments. Take responsibility for your actions. The stories are driven by transactions-gone-awry. The daughter makes a deal with Rumpelstiltskin: she will give him her first child if he will save her and spin straw into gold.

In another tale, The Pied Piper is hired by the people of Hamelin to save the town from an infestation of rats. He plays his magical flute leading the rats to the river where they drown. Since the town is no longer overrun with rats the leaders decide there is no reason to honor their commitment. They refuse to pay the piper. The Piper once again plays his magic flute and leads the town’s children away. The children are never to be seen again.

Honest dealing. Gratitude. Consequences of actions and choices. Morality tales are told – and have been told across cultures and generations – to instill in the young and affirm in the old the necessity of a moral center. When the moral center collapses, the consequences are far worse than imagined.

We’ve placed a coneflower sculpture in the garden. We can see it while doing dishes, looking out of our kitchen window. I’ve always loved our little coneflower but in the past month I’ve grown to appreciate it as a reminder, a daily nudge to stand closer to love than I do to fear. Coneflowers are symbols of resilience and strength.

The collapse of decency. The disregard for morality. So many toxic and ill-intended transactions swirling around us. It is only a matter of time before the Piper demands payment. Folklore meets the news of the day.

The coneflower reminds me that this too shall pass. Resilience. Out of the now-inevitable loss-of-our-children will someday arise a renewed commitment to responsibility to the common good. A moral center, after all, is nothing other than attentiveness and concern for the needs of others, and a dedication to ourselves to walk in this world with integrity decency, fairness, and an internal compass – reinforced by the stories and symbols we’ve inherited – that serve as constant companions showing us the way.

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CONEFLOWER

likesharecommentsupportsubscribe…thankyou.

OY! [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

In an act of divine intervention, we removed the fallen “J” from the message on the ledge high above our kitchen sink. It now reads “OY”. It delights me each time I look up. I am in search of a matching exclamation point. The kitchen-statement-of-our-times won’t be complete without it.

Oy: an interjection to express exasperation or dismay. As in, “Oy, what a mess!”

Oy: the contraction of “OY VEY!”

Oy (noun): a type of harsh, aggressive punk music popular in the 1970’s and 80’s. “OY! OY! OY! BANG, BANG! CRASH! OY! The music of dismay.

A few months ago I told Kerri that to keep my sanity I might have to resort to draw cartoons of the news of the day. Making fun of the obviously-ridiculous is low hanging fruit but making myself laugh is a high priority these days. In keeping-with-the-wisdom-of-the-kitchen I will call my cartoon: OY! As in, “Oy, what a mess!” or “Oy, this ignorance is killing me!” Master Marsh tells me that he has a box-full-of-dumpster-fire-cartoon-ideas! OY! OY! OY! BANG, BANG! CRASH! OY!

I’m pestering Kerri to channel her discord-at-our-times into a new music of dismay. So far she’s rejecting my pester outright. I’ll keep at it. This world needs a good heart standing strong and singing into the storm. I hope one day to report the moment she shares her new music with me and asks, “What do you think?”

It will put the “J” back into my “Oy.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about OY

likesharesupportcommentsubscribe…thankyou.

Spell-Words [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Wow. Siri so easily sent to us something that Kerri and I are struggling to send: good vibes. Warm little boosts of joy and confidence.

A few months ago I started writing a picture-book featuring Chicken Marsala, our imaginary child who pops in at inopportune moments. The struggle to send warm-boosts-of-joy in the midst of a national dumpster fire brought this Chicken-snippet to mind:

I confess. I am sometimes hard on myself. On a day that I was feeling particularly hopeless, Chicken appeared behind me, mimicking my gloomy face and sad posture. His arrival startled me. I was about to shout at him not to scare me like that, but then I recognized myself in his sullen rendition. It made me laugh. “I don’t look like that!” I protested. He giggled and I have to say, as a side note, that his giggle always kills me. He giggles like a chipmunk. At least that’s what it sounds like to me. “Adorable!” as K-Dot says.

Later I thanked him for helping me lift the dark cloud on my brain. “Everyone should have a Chicken that arrives just in the nick of time to the break the dark spell!” I said.

“What’s a spell?” he asked, not at all interested in my gratitude.

“Well, it’s a kind of magic,” I said.

Magic?” he asked, alarmed and confused. “Magic made you feel bad?”

 “A spell is magic made of words,” I tried to explain. “And sometimes words make people feel bad.”

“Who made spell-words on you?” he asked, alarmed.

I admitted, “I guess I did.”

There’s a distinction between the spell-words we cast on ourselves and the spell-words cast upon us by others. By media. How else do we explain maga-mind other than as a spell cast on otherwise good people by a pathological liar, magnified by a malicious fox? How else do we make sense of those who voted for the nation’s suicide all the while proclaiming themselves as the saviors of democracy?

I would love to send you warm little boosts of joy and confidence. Maybe someday. In the meantime, I will continue to ask my angry fearful brothers and sisters across this land to consider the question Chicken asked me: “Who made spell-words on you?”

Like Chicken, I am alarmed.

“Everyone should have a Chicken that arrives just in the nick of time to the break the dark spell!”

read Kerri’s blogpost about SIRI

likesharecommentsupportsubscribe…thankyou.

The Future We Plant [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Milkweed seed pods in winter. It’s mauve flowers are by now a distant memory yet their remembrance also must serve as a desire. What would be the point of releasing its seed to the wind if there was no dream of future mauve blossoms?

Kerri and I are not so different from the Milkweed. We write everyday; our words are seeds released into the e-wind with the hope of reaching fertile hearts and minds. Who knows what blossoms our word-seeds might inspire?

Much of what we write is the mauve blossom of word-seeds sent on the e-wind by others. The thought-seed of others lands and is planted in our hearts and minds. Over time, with warmth and consideration, the seed cracks and sends new-thought shoots to the surface, seeking sun and expression. And so we write. We send. Others receive. In turn, they write or draw or dance – they send – and we receive. It’s a cycle of sharing that goes mostly unrecognized. A riot of unseen interconnectivity. It’s called inspiration.

Words, even the most casual, are more powerful than we realize. They are symbols. They are seeds of future-thought in others. Some, like invasive weeds, are capable of doing harm. They choke the inner landscape where they are planted. Some are like acorns. They land in timid hearts and produce towering strength beyond imagination.

When I listen to the discourse in our media and politics, I shudder at the seeds being planted. I marvel at the ease of misinformation, the ubiquity of lies. Words meant to mislead. Words meant to do harm. Words meant to hurt. Mean-spirited seeds.

I can’t help but wonder what fields of flowers we would produce if we understood the real power of our words. I wonder what future we plant in each other through the words we so easily release into the wind.

read Kerri’s blogpost about MILKWEED

likesharesupportcommentsubscribe…thankyou.

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

likesharesupportcommentsubscriberesearchreadchallengequestion…thankyou.

Feel The Feeling [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“Whenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself.” ~ e.e. cummings

Last night, after the boys went to bed, we turned off all house lights, the only illumination was the tree. It is our Eve tradition. Take a breath after the hustle and bustle. Take a breath after all the meal prep and happy arrivals. Take a breath after the too-much-food, the lively conversation and laughter. Take a breath. Sit in quiet appreciation and feel-the-feeling.

We named our tree e.e. It is artificial and came to us from 20’s mother, E.E. This is e.e.’s third holiday with us. We delighted in the serendipity of the name. A poem by e.e. cummings made an appearance at our wedding. He is one of our favorites.

And, so, on this day of renewal, after a sweet night of quiet, the dawn brings with it a wish for all of us in the coming year; a bit of poem by e.e.:

“I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness”

read Kerri’s blogpost about A WISH

sharelikesupportcommentsubscribe…thankyou.

A Joining With [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

I had a minor revelation (again) while we were working on this cartoon. What’s the question we ask when we go to the dictionary to look up a word? We ask, “What does it mean?” The operative word is “it”.

English speakers are bound by the word “it.” “It” magically, unconsciously, turns everything into an object. A thing. A thing to be pursued, chased, grasped. Found. Possessed. Bought. Sold.

Hope. Happiness. Kindness. Aspiration. Desire. Yearning…Love.

And what if “it” can’t be found or bought? What if “it” can only be tended, nurtured, like a flame? What if “it” can only be shared. Felt. What if “it” wasn’t a “thing” – an object – at all? What if “it” isn’t a transaction?What if “it” is a warmth? What then?

Is it possible for me to give you hope? Or is it more likely that hope is how we experience the sunrise after a cold dark night? A dawning both inside and out. A joining with…

Regardless of what our language might lead us to believe, hope, like love, is a how, not a what.

I know this: if we could find “it” and wrap “it” and give “it”, we would. Our hope for this season? That “it” finds you.

read Kerri’s blogpost about BUYING HOPE

smack-dab © 2024 kerrianddavid.com

likesharecommentsupportsubscribe…thankyou.

Either Way [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Imaginary problems.

It is my personal favorite phrase – and point – pulled from Jimmy Kimmel’s special monologue for the republicans in our families. It’s an appeal to their sanity, a summary of the nonsensical incoherence and hate daily spewing from the mouth of their dictator wanna-be and his enablers.

He creates imaginary problems.

For instance: Imaginary problem: that there is rampant voter fraud in our elections. Reality: we have safe, fair, and free elections. There was no evidence of voter fraud in 2020. There is no evidence of voter fraud in 2024.

Other examples of a ridiculous and dangerous imaginary problem: immigrants are eating pets in Springfield, Ohio. Gangs of immigrants are taking over Aurora, Colorado. There are dangerous imaginary problems within the imaginary problem. For instance, immigrants are murderers and rapists set free from the world’s prisons and running amok in our nation. Or there is this: The border is an open door. In reality – yes, in reality – none of it is true.

The “invasion” rant, the immigrant-hate-speak we hear daily, the voter fraud screed…is nothing more or less than fearmongering. Fearmongering: (noun) the action of intentionally trying to make people afraid of something when this is not necessary or reasonable.

Imaginary problems are meant to make people afraid of something when it is not necessary or reasonable.

Imaginary problems cause real problems. Here is a real problem: A full 47% of our citizens are preparing to vote for the dissolution of our democracy. They are basing their vote on imaginary problems. They are voting for fascism as the way forward. That’s a real problem. They are voting for the end of the constitution, the promised use of the military to silence voices of opposition, the end of free and fair elections.

Real problem: People in a democracy are voting for fascism because they have been thoroughly steeped in the imaginary monsters set loose by the wanna-be-dictator and magnified by his X oligarch and the fox-megaphone. Very real problem: 47% of the voting public have lost faith in our system based on lies and imaginary problems; fear manufactured in order to sway them.

The monsters are imaginary. The hate and fear it invokes is very real.

The impact of the wild conspiracy theories and incessant lies aren’t imaginary. For instance, the refusal of the dictator-wanna-be to accept the results of the free and fair election of 2020 led to the deaths of 5 Capitol police officers. 140 police officers were injured by a mob responding to an imaginary problem. The families of the 5 officers who died viscerally know the reality of death, all due to the imaginary problem whipped up by the only president in our history who refused to accept the results of a free and fair election. Real problem: the same man – the only man in our history – who incited violence rather than carry on the American tradition of a peaceful transfer of power – is once again whipping up the same imaginary problem. Real problem: his maga-party is enabling his lie.

Yes, we have a real problem.

Keep in mind, the facade that the dictator- wanna-be is a successful business man is imaginary. Reality television is, well, not reality. Neither is his business acumen. His six bankruptcies are real. His grift is real.

His 34 felony convictions are real. His civil conviction for rape is real. The multiple felony counts he faces are real. What’s imaginary? That the charges against him are politically motivated. He would have his supporters believe that he bears no responsibility for his actions. That is a real problem.

His love of the world’s dictators is real. The world’s dictators love him, too. He is, as those who know him well and served in his administration, famously easy to manipulate. Their cautionary tale to us is not imaginary. They are screaming for his supporters, for the nation, to wake up and see what is real before it is too late. The consequences of his ill-intent are and continue to be very real.

And so, we vote. And the question we answer with our ballots is whether or not we are capable of discerning between what is real from what is imaginary, what has substance and and what is falsehood, whether or not we will step forward as a real democracy or step off into the dark fascist imagination of a tired angry reality tv star, a fabrication of a man whose only gift seems to be creating imaginary problems.

Our vote can be an actual solution to the wanna-be-dictator’s abundant imaginary problems.

Either way the consequences of our vote will be real.

read Kerri’s blogpost about IMAGINARY PROBLEMS

like. share. comment. support. subscribe…thank you.

Scratches On The Wall [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Scratches on the wall. Petroglyphs, the only evidence that remains of a people who once lived in these canyons, who lived by the river we’ve named Fremont. We do not know if they had a name for the river. We do not know if they had a name for themselves. We call them the Fremont, after the river. A location name.

The Fremont River is named for an American explorer, John Charles Fremont, so the people who scratched pictures into the rock over 1,000 years ago also carry his name. As is the nature of history, we locate them from our point of view. We build an identity-structure and civilization-story about them based upon our story of them. We’ve placed them in our narrative timeline, 1 – 1300 CE. We have no idea how they thought of or marked their time.

We have no idea what became of them. They disappeared into time. We have no idea what the petroglyphs mean or why they scratched them into the canyon walls. We wonder at the semiotics, the inner symbolic life that produced such strange (to us) images that remain on the red rock walls.

This morning, through my COVID aches and chills, I watched the news. I would like to say that I am mystified by the civilization-story currently being spun and supported by half of my nation but I am not. I would like to say that the hatred and fear-mongering of the red hat tribe is as much a mystery to me as the way of the Fremont, but it is not. The concurrent xenophobia and wild-eyed-creation of an internal enemy (anyone not in a red hat) has roots that are all too easy to see. It’s a fascist popcorn trail, a page from Hitler’s handbook. The language is identical. The images, scratched into the red-fox-walls of our time are all too easy to interpret. A frightened and misinformed populace is easily manipulated. Fooled.

What is a mystery to me is the inner symbolic life of my nation’s conservatives that seem so ready to trade our sacred democracy for a populist authoritarian. What scratches on the walls of their minds are so easily storied into hatred. What has so hardened their hearts that they embrace with cheers the repulsive bile spewed by their candidate? It is as incomprehensible to me as the petroglyphs of the Fremont.

All societies disappear into time. Ours, relative to the Fremont, is still in its infancy. We can only hope that an explorer in some distant future finds our petroglyphs – and although a mystery to them, we will have known that we transcended the authoritarian threat and overcame the fox-fear-fantasy, manufactured hatred and dark lies. And, over the next thousand years, our scratches on the wall tell the tale of how we matured to fulfill the promise of our sacred ideals. Out of many, one.

read Kerri’s blogpost about PETROGLYPHS

like. share. support. comment. subscribe…thank you.