It’s About Time [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

What more is there to say?

read Kerri’s blogpost about LOVE MORE NOW

smack-dab © 2024 kerrianddavid.com

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Trouble Love [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

In a surprise twist, Dogga now answers to the name, “Trouble”. It could that in his old age his alter ego is ascendant.

He’s always had two distinct personalities. During the daylight hours, in constant movement, running endless circles, we call him “Crazy Boy”. At night, he is distinctly different, calm and quiet; we call him “Sweet Boy”.

I can’t recall how we discovered his alter ego. One minute he was Crazy Boy and the next he was responding to Kerri’s call, “Trouble!” We performed a specificity-check and called him other names. He rolled his eyes and refused to respond. “Here Trouble!” brought an immediate running-wag-a-wag response. “I think his name is Trouble!” she said.

“What took us so long?” I asked.

We wondered if originally Farmer Don called him Trouble, and perhaps, after 11 years, we were just discovering his real name. Farmer Don needed to find a home for him and no one wanted him because he was, unusual for an Aussie puppy, mostly black. We imagined Farmer Don saying, “You’re my little Trouble-Dog!”

These days Dogga né Trouble complains when he doesn’t get his way. He groans (like me) when he lifts himself from the floor. He snores at night. He licks the achy joints on his front legs. He is, no matter his name, our Trouble, our Crazy Boy, our Sweet Boy, our Dogga-Dog. We are infinitely richer for the daily sweet trouble that he brings us.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TROUBLE

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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

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about DANDELIONS

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All The Way To The Skin [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

The fortune read, “Sprinkles of joy will shower upon you in unexpected ways.” She stared at in disbelief. It was a whispered reinforcement from an old friend. A much needed affirmation of good things to come.

For me it brought a memory: she was introducing me to Lake Geneva. We were just getting to know each other. The skies opened suddenly and dumped buckets of rain on us. We laughed and laughed, ducking into a doorway for some cover. We were soaked and giddy. Showers of joy came upon us in unexpected ways. So much joy showered us that we had to put towels on the seats of the car to protect the upholstery.

Last night, walking by the cemetery, we talked about the hillside covered in headstones. “These were people with voices and dreams and desperation. Lives.” I said. “Like us. They had just so many days on earth. These stones for me are not an abstraction.” She agreed. We must not waste our precious days lost in the weeds. Railing against the weather.

When the deluge comes, it’s best to hold hands, turn into it, and laugh. Joy may sometimes come in sprinkles but for us it usually arrives in buckets that soak us all the way to the skin.

read Kerri’s blogpost about JOY

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Heed The Stone [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Stones are markers.

When we wander the cemetery at the end of our street I sometimes see the headstones, not as location stones, but as boundaries-marked-in-time. Before. After. The leaping place of souls.

There are stones placed to indicate a borderline. I imagine the stone with the spray-painted message is one of those: beyond this point is the land of love. Who wouldn’t want to cross this border? Who wouldn’t want to step over this divide and wander in the frontier of love?

People stack stones to mark the way. To help others. To help themselves find the way home. Ease of passage.

This stone quietly standing along the bike trail does not call attention to itself. In fact, we’ve passed it many times and only just saw its message. Like a pictograph left by the ancients, someone-in-time felt compelled to leave a message on the path for others to see. A boundary in time? A borderline? A passage marker? An aspiration for travelers along this route?

Good choices, all.

read Kerri’s blogpost about the LOVE STONE

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Maple Dreams [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Tiny helicopters capable of catching the wind and carrying the seeds of a maple, each a pod of wild-tree-possibility.

They require something more than luck to let-go and launch into space. With no control over the direction or force of the breezes, once aloft, they twirl to their seemingly random destiny. Some will find fertile soil and ample light. Most will not. The strategy of the mother tree is nothing more or less than to freely scatter potential, to litter the area with maple-dreams. The evolution of hope.

Some pods never launch just as some ideas never take hold. No matter. Creativity in all its permutations is an infinite game. The idea that lands in just the right spot at just the right moment may, in time, grow into a mighty tree. It may not. The perfection is in the process of plenty, not in the illusion of a single flawless ideal. “Throw many pots.”

On her piano is a notebook of songs and compositions. Hieroglyphs to me but she need only open her burgeoning notebook, decipher the magic writing, and play a song or composition capable of making me weep. Or smile. Or feel something so deeply that I lack words to express it. Her compositions are pods waiting to launch. Pages of plenty, ideas-in-sound, waiting for the force of the unpredictable wind to carry them…somewhere.

She is like the might-maple-mom. Freely scattering potential, littering our lives and those around us with ideas in word and music and paint. She’s so abundant – her idea-pods so ever-present – that we take them for granted. Each carrying the pip of a mighty potential, the germ of a forest of possibility. They are everywhere.

Some have found her intimidating and tried to constrain her promise, to lasso her imagination. Too bad.

Today she completes another spin around the sun. I can already see the next generation of magic seed pods forming. I can’t wait to see what wonder-of-her-spirit will take root and reach for the sky.

[happy birthday]

read Kerri’s blogpost about PODS

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Enter And Listen [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

A Haiku for You

A forest critter,

Gnome, Leprechaun or Spirit,

Tree Dweller, Heart Door.

Sometimes I want to believe in magic. I want to think there is an angel at my side. I want to sit in the certainty of Rumi, knowing without doubt that the entire universe, the whole of infinity, is tipping in my favor.

Sometimes I want to know what tomorrow will bring. No surprises. I want to know that the good people will win over the rage-mongers and truth-spinners. Just like in the movies. I want to know that perseverance will inevitably meet ideal circumstance and all will be well in the end. I want to be at the other end of the week so I can tell the story of what happened, the story of stamina and fortitude fulfilled.

Sometimes I want to know that the eagle flying by at just the right moment or the hovering hawk or the owl hooting outside my window at midnight is bringing me a message: we’ve got your back. Fear not. Take another step. From our height we can see the meadow, the sun and tall grasses. We can feel the hope, breathe the calm.

Sometimes when she spies a heart-shape and kneels to capture it for her collection, I want the gentle spirit, the gnome or sprite living in the tree or residing in the leaf shaped like the symbol, to make themself visible to us and affirm that there is meaning in the mystery, that in this life there is more sense than we can possibly imagine. There is reason. A reason. Yet, I already know what it would avow if it allowed us to see it: the meaning of the mystery is always found right where we knew it would be, where we know it to be: in the heart. Our vast open hearts. We do not need to seek it or wish for it. We need only enter and listen – more than just sometimes.

read Kerri’s blog about HEART DOOR

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Come Down And Look [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“There is love enough in this world for everybody, if people will just look.” ~ Kurt Vonnegut

There is another, a quote from the Gospel of Thomas: “The kingdom of heaven is spread out over the earth and people do not see it.” If people will just look.

Love. Heaven. Two words that carry the same meaning.

Years ago I understood (finally) that anything that calls itself spiritual but separates is man-made. It’s become a rule of thumb. It’s common sense. Unity, that which transcends boundaries and rules and fears and distinctions, is the aim. Poetry will get you there. A sunset. The quiet of a snowfall. Someone holding your hand.

I regularly disappear from time and space and enter something bigger when I paint. It’s the reason why I paint. When Kerri and I hike a trail I often leave my troubles and little mind behind. The birdsong takes me, the hawk that hovers, the wind through the cattails, the frog chorus, the buds pressing forth from the tree limbs. “I” am just passing through.

During our latest midnight conversation, she said, “I realized that I am not all-that.” Followed by, “When you understand that you are not all-that, you finally get out of the cage.” She is wise. It’s hard to try and be what you are not. Separate. Above. Better than. From such a lofty ego, the most important things are missed. Unity. Love. Heaven on earth. If people (like me) will just come down and look.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART

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Pass Through [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

“Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does.” ~ James Baldwin

We watched each day as the pink tulips passed through their many phases of life, each beautiful and surprising. As they neared the last chapter, I thought they echoed orchids. The subtle pinks ran to the edges of the wrinkling petals, heads bowed, devotees in quiet prayer.

Initially, the tulips brought hope and light into our house. For weeks the table had been stacked with so-much-paper, a mammoth project. We cleared the table of its heavy burden and replaced the weighty paper with a row of delicate tulips. We’d catch ourselves staring into the dining room; inevitably one of us would say, “I love this.”

20 would call it the contrast principle. The delicate lightness of the tulips were made more pronounced because of the heaps of paper that preceded it. Perhaps. All I know is that the tulips lifted my spirit like few other things have in these winter months. They became a celebration of love. A symbol that joins daisies in our canon of symbols and will forever signify a step into love. A new chapter. A next chapter.

As it bowed its petals, as they began to fall, we found ourselves more rapt in their beauty, not less. Their age made them translucent. Fragile. Their impermanence somehow made them eternal. As it should be. Passing through transformation.

“I love this, she said, squeezing my hand.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TULIPS

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Today Is The Day [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

The world is upside-down. Father earth. Mother sky.

Today is the day we send messages of love. In grades school I remember that we scribbled Valentines to every single person in our class. And then we delivered them to each student’s unique construction paper mail envelop. I didn’t understand it then but I do now. Love does not exclude. Love has no bounds. It would not be Love otherwise.

Today is the day.

The sun came out after a long period of hiding its face. We were instantly energized, the light reaching the inner nooks and crannies of our soul. Yes, two people, one soul. We stood outside and aimed our faces to the sky for maximum rejuvenation. Just like a flower or a leaf. Eyes closed, drinking.

The world is downside-up. Sky and earth. One soul. Messages of love. No bounds.

Today is the day.

read Kerri’s blogpost about BLUE SKY

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