Learn A New Word [on Merely A Thought Monday]

I learned a new word today. Actually given the divisive climate in our current epoch, I’m surprised that I did not come across it sooner.

The word: Agnotology: the study of deliberate culturally induced ignorance or doubt, typically to sell a product, influence an opinion, or win favor, particularly through the publication of inaccurate or misleading scientific data.

Speak these words slowly so you might taste the sounds: deliberate culturally induced ignorance…Once you’ve tasted the sounds, think about the ramifications. Deliberate ignorance. Head in the sand. Deliberate ignorance is, of course, a necessity on the road to hate. And, not just any form of hate. Hate as a product. Hate meant to influence opinions. Hate that thrives on misleading information.

Deliberate ignorance eschews knowledge and refuses to ask questions. Non-curious, hard-edged-belief that refuses to check reality. Hard-edged-belief borne of purposeful misinformation. Hate is learned. Acquired.

My new word came across my path when a stream of transgender hate crossed my screen. A post on Facebook.

I’ll call them Sam. Sam was my student when I taught at an independent learning center. My appointments with Sam were scheduled after hours. Sam fled the main campus. Sam was transgender and Sam’s parents feared for their child’s life. Sam feared for their life, too.

Transgender (adjective): a person whose gender identity does not correspond to the sex registered to them at birth.

Start with the word “person”. A person. Now, roll around your mouth and mind the word “identity”. Speak the words slowly so you might taste the sounds.

I remember being a teenager. Do you? It was mostly a festival of confusion and an intense desire to fit in. To be accepted. About 5% of young adults are transgender. Sam, like all teenagers, was awash in a festival of confusion and wanted what every other student wanted: to fit in. To be accepted. And, the acceptance Sam sought most was… from Sam. Just like you and me.

Sam’s mountain-to-climb was significantly steeper than most. Sam’s walk toward wholeness demanded deep questioning, knowledge seeking, personal reflection, assumption challenges, fact checking, and a dedication of self-love that most of the populace, approximately 95%, can’t begin to imagine. I taught Sam geometry and world lit but I learned from Sam the great expanse of the human soul.

We vilify what we don’t understand, or more accurately, what we refuse to understand. Lemmings learn to hate en route to the ledge.

Lemming (noun): a person who follows the will of others, especially in a mass movement, and heads straight into a situation or circumstance that is dangerous, stupid, or destructive.

Lemming. Speak the word slowly so you can taste it…Now, think of the ramifications.

The path to love and understanding always begins with a step toward: Asking a question. Challenging a belief. Bursting the misinformation bubble. Fact-checking the information and especially checking the agenda of the source.

Love is a very old word yet it’s never too late to learn it anew.

read Kerri’s blogpost about LOVE

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Lead With The Heart [on KS Friday]

Do you remember The Little Prince? “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; that which is essential is invisible to the eye.” ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

What about this one: “The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched – they must be felt with the heart.” ~ Helen Keller

Two extraordinary people sharing the same sentiment.

One more from Mary Oliver: “Every morning I walk around this pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart ever close I am as good as dead.”

What is this business with the heart? Seeing the essential. Feeling the best and most beautiful. Vital life an open door of the heart.

It is a simple message that reaches back through Aeschylus and Confucius, it reaches beyond the invention of the written word. You’ll find it scratched in glyphs. It’s a message older than any religion or spiritual tradition yet weaves its way through all of them. Lead with your heart.

I am a student of metaphor and pattern and can say this with absolute certainty: beneath the hoohah of our angry times is a simple enduring pattern, an appeal from wise voices ringing across the ages and cutting across cultures. A single metaphor: seeing rightly has nothing to do with our eyes. To be human is to lead with our hearts. Closing our hearts to one another might seem righteous but leaves us as good as dead.

[Now that I’m finished moralizing for the day, I think I’ll take a slow walk around our tiny pond, close my eyes, feel the sun, and revel in this day of being alive.]

slow dance/as sure as the sun © 2002 kerri sherwood

…and a bonus!

same sweet love/as sure as the sun © 2002 kerri sherwood

Close your eyes and you’ll see that these tracks have nothing to do with Jazz. Open your eyes and you’ll note that Rumblefish has absolutely no ownership right or copyright to these songs though they somehow possess a ridiculous capacity to misrepresent Kerri and her music.

Kerri’s albums can be found on iTunes or streaming on Pandora and iHeart Radio

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART LEAF

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Light A Candle [on Merely A Thought Monday]

Often, when archiving her photographs, Kerri gives them a title. This one she named Delicate. “Like life,” she said.

Today we light a candle. We light them when we are commemorating an anniversary of loss, the passing of someone we love. The light of remembrance. “He’s been gone 31 years,” she sighed as we placed the candle in the jar, touched fire to the wick. Today we remember her big brother Wayne.

Our remembrance is rarely maudlin. We tell stories. We laugh. I’m particularly grateful for this candle-day because I never met Wayne. He was gone years before I arrived on the scene. But I feel as if I knew him because Kerri’s stories of her brother are rich in memory-texture. Visceral. Deeply rooted. And all roads lead to his love of coffee ice cream so I’m certain he and I would have been great pals.

As I’ve written in the past, the first words that Kerri spoke to me were “I don’t do nutshells.” It’s true. If you desire brevity you’ve come to the wrong place. She layers detail on top of detail in her storytelling of the world. And, she assures me that she is nothing compared to her brother, Wayne. His detail of details had details. An engineer’s mind. An inventor’s heart. An epic storyteller.

In the past few weeks we’ve had more than one reminder of life’s fragility. Dear ones wading through sudden, momentous and scary health challenges. A cousin passing. News of a friend too soon gone. More candle-days.

There’s the stereotype, old folks sitting on the porch recollecting days gone by. When I was younger I thought rocking chair reminiscence was inertia, life winding down. Nothing else to do. I had it all wrong. It turns out that elders tell stories of the past because they are verbally lighting a candle. They are keeping alive the memory of someone they loved. They are feeding the river of life. They are passing love forward.

Thirty one years ago. Today we light a candle. Today we tell stories of Wayne.

[a rough iPhone recording of the song Kerri wrote for her brother: You’re The Wind. © 2005 Kerri Sherwood]

read Kerri’s blogpost about WAYNE

[Bonus track]

Angel You Are © 2002 Kerri Sherwood [Note: this song is not jazz nor does Rumblefish own any portion of the copyright or publishing rights of this song]

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Define It [on KS Friday]

“Dangerously soft-hearted. Derogatory. Informal.” Thus, the great book of words begins its definition of Bleeding heart. It’s no wonder we’re value-confused. Poke around the word “compassionate” and you’ll find a string of synonyms that are soft-hearted without the informal-derogatory in the mix: sympathetic, pitying, caring, understanding, empathetic…

Qualities to be admired.

If I care for you, if I feel your pain, if I consider your feelings, if I make space for your grief, if I feel sadness for your suffering…am I dangerously-soft-hearted or caring? The associated verb that pops up again and again is “to feel”. The portal to standing in another person’s shoes is through feeling.

We caution our little tykes not to let their emotions cloud their judgments. It’s good advice when understood that emotion…feelings…are necessary to arrive at sound judgement. Mind and heart are indivisible dance partners. Separating the two is a recipe for psychosis. And meanness.

Does compassion cloud or clarify? In the Christian tradition a bleeding heart, the bleeding heart, is the spirit that nourishes. “The salvation of humanity.”

Empathy is an epicenter of artistry. Love is a word of the heart, soft or otherwise.

It’s quite a mix of meanings! I suppose that’s why the wise advice found in all wisdom traditions is to find the middle way. “Balance” as a Buddhist might recommend. “Get neutral” as divemaster Terry instructed. Parcival; pierce the veil with the arrow aimed straight through the middle. There, the grail is found.

A bleeding heart is a plant, too. Beautiful and it always evokes a sweet sigh from Kerri. Life giving. Instant presence. Now, isn’t that an apt example of a spirit that nourishes? Try to find that in a dictionary!

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

FREEFALLIN’ IN LOVE © 2002 kerri sherwood, sisu music productions inc. (Note: this is not jazz, nor does rumblefish own any copyright or publishing rights to this song).

read Kerri’s blogpost about BLEEDING HEARTS

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Light Ten Candles [on Two Artists Tuesday]

I never tire of telling this story. 4th of July, 2013, Kerri and I walked through the festival booths and carnival rides, we avoided the stages where bands were covering well-known tunes, we passed the pie-eating contest, and stopped at the jumping dog competition. Dogs running and leaping through the air into a big pool of water. Doggie long jump.

While we watched the antics, we talked of someday having a dog of our own. We dreamed that our dog would be black – only a black dog for us – and we’d name it Earl. Or Erle. It is our shared middle name so it seemed only natural to give the pup the family name. Little did we know, on that day, I imagine at that precise moment, our Tripper-Dog-Dog-Dog was born. Dogga is a 4th of July pooch.

Three months later, driving the moving van loaded with my worldly possessions across the country, just after entering Wisconsin, we passed a sign that said, “Aussie pups.” We weren’t ready for a dog. I told Kerri that I thought it would be safe to look since Aussies are never black. We flipped the van around, drove up the long farm driveway, jumped out and greeted farmer Don. “We’d love to see the puppies!’ we chimed in unison.

“Well, I only have one left,” he said, “And no one wants him because he’s black.”

I think it was the first time that Kerri punched my shoulder and gave me that look.

And, although we weren’t ready, I can’t imagine life without our black dog that refused to answer to the name Earle. He’s as quirky and complex as we are, more sensitive if that is possible. He taught us what to call him, the first on a long list of lessons he’s had to teach us.

Today we light ten candles on the Dogga cake. We celebrate the best u-turn we ever made. We toast our willingness to take the leap before being ready. Our life together is made infinitely richer for it. Now, who wants cake?

read Kerri’s blogpost about DOGGA BIRTHDAY

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Show Us The Way [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Our Sweet Boy is getting older. A few night’s ago, for the first time, I watched him struggle to stand up; for a moment his back legs refused to cooperate. I felt a hot rush of panic, Kerri caught my eye to acknowledge that she saw it too. And then, in a miracle moment of instant transformation, he caught sight of Boris-the-cat next door and all signs of decrepitude vanished in his hot-dogga-dogga-rush to bark at the window. Crazy Boy was back.

He’s always had two distinct personalities: Crazy Boy in the daylight hours and Sweet Boy after the sunset. Each evening, Crazy Boy herds us to the living room. Once we are settled safely into the couch, the signal that his duties for the day are done, he collapses on the floor between the living room and dining room. When next he raises his head, Crazy Boy is gone. The spirit of Sweet Boy fills his furry being. Our now gentle dog checks in for a head-pet, and nestles in beneath our feet.

It’s the ratio that is pulling at my heart. Once, Crazy Boy dominated the hours of the day, wearing deep circle-paths in the backyard in his exuberant patrol. In the past year, there is a new more-equal balance of Sweet Boy and Crazy Boy hours. His ebullient patrol still wreaks havoc with the backyard flora and fauna, just not so often. He’s become more content to observe his vast territories from the cool of the deck rather than continually clear the yard of marauders. Now he sleeps more of the day away.

When we are away on errands he sleeps in the sunroom by the backdoor but is joyful and bouncing by the time we get the key in the lock. He is the world’s best welcoming committee. Yesterday, we were completely inside the house before he was aware that we were home. “Some watchdog!” we quipped. Once again he struggled to get up. Kerri knelt by his side, ruffling his ears, she said, “Don’t worry, Dogga, our joints hurt, too.”

We’ve joked that Dogga had a tough assignment with us. A hyper sensitive dog with two overly sensitive artists. He’s been part weather vane – I know when Kerri or I are about to storm because Dogga looks at us and heads to the bathroom, his quiet space. We’ve averted many-a-storm because Dogga turns and slinks toward his sanctuary. “It’s okay!” we call after him. Not wanting to upset the dog has taught us how to not upset each other.

“I guess we’re learning how to grow old together,” Kerri said.

And Dogga – as always – is showing us the way.

read Kerri’s blogpost about CRAZY SWEET BOY

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Tip The Cup [on KS Friday]

“We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out.” ~ Ray Bradbury

My grandmother famously hid a horse in her kitchen when the truck from the glue factory showed up to take it away. What makes that story remarkable to me is that my grandmother was 4’7″ tall when she stood on her tiptoes. Although her physical size was diminutive, her spirit was grande.

Another detail of the story that confounds me: from the backdoor, there were stairs up into her kitchen. And then a hard left turn. It was no small feat getting a horse into the kitchen. Sometimes I ponder what it must have looked like, watching this teeny-tiny woman hurriedly coaxing a big-big horse through the backdoor, up the stairs and into the kitchen. I wonder if she shushed it as she peeked out the kitchen window, waiting for the truck to drive away. I can’t help but laugh heartily every time I imagine the scene.

Once, she and my mom drove me to college in Santa Fe. On the way we stopped to have lunch. I was grateful for their efforts, driving me several hours to school, so I reached to pick up the check and my grandma pinned my hand to the table with her fork. We burst out laughing. She was fast and left no room for debate.

The sun streaming into the farmhouse brought grandma to mind. Standing in the kitchen, looking at all the food we’d prepared, the mountain of snacks and beverages Kate and Jerry hauled from Minnesota, the bins of cookies and sweets, I thought, “This place is just like grandma’s purse.” Her purse looked like a punching bag and she could produce anything you needed at anytime from that bag. Screwdriver? Yep. Saltines? Yep. Duct tape. Of course! Water? How much do you need? It was the clown car of purses. Were I to be lost in the desert and had one precious wish to be granted, I’d wish for my grandma’s purse.

Tiny woman. Endless supply of love and support. She knew how to fill our cups. She knew how to tip herself over so all the beautiful stuff could rush out.

where i’m from/blueprint for my soul © 1997 kerri sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about SUN IN THE FARMHOUSE

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Comprehend The Incomplete [on Merely A Thought Monday]

Three evenly spaced periods. An ellipsis, “used to indicate the omission of words or an incomplete thought.” This series of ellipses punctuated the horizon, marking the line between the dark night sky and the farm fields.

The omission of words. As I watched the horizon-ellipses twinkle, I wondered how many times I’ve omitted the words, “I love you.” Too vulnerable. Not safe. Revealing.

An incomplete thought. Not surprisingly, this brings to mind a thought about thoughts: namely, thoughts are never complete. Every thought is a running ellipsis, a water drop in a raging river. A complete thought is an oxymoron. Because we are given to writing our thoughts – trying to capture them – we are deluded into believing that the stream of babble that runs though our brains is containable or fits neatly into discrete compartments that travel in a single direction, like the boxcars of a train. This thought is connected to that thought just as this letter is connected to that letter so a chain of meaning might be assigned. Someone, somewhere, wrote that our thoughts are the mother-lode of comedy. Random. Surprising. Multi-directional. Rolling, roiling rivers. Shapeshifters.

My word of the week is “argle bargle.” It means nonsense. Motherlode of comedy. Argle-bargle-avalanche.

In the dark of night I look at the ellipses on the horizon; no one can convince me that love, like thought, is ever complete. I look higher into the night sky at the glittering light-dots that have completely ignored the rules of even-spacing and scattered themselves across infinity. Maybe that is why I sometimes omit the words, “I love you.” it’s too big to comprehend. It’s sometimes too much to contain in my one tiny heart…

read Kerri’s blogpost about ELLIPSES

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Simply Celebrate [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

I wasn’t there when our babies picked dandelions for her. It was waaaay before my time. I just know how she felt when they did. Price-less.

It’s one of my favorite parts of our relationship. A dandelion is more valuable than a diamond. A homemade card, a painted rock…a story is most precious of all.

We read together. We walk together. We cook together. We struggle and triumph together. What could be more meaningful than a bouquet of freshly picked dandelions and the memories they bring to mind?

read Kerri’s blogpost about DANDELIONS

get this beautiful song here.

smack-dab. © 2023 kerrianddavid.com

fistful of dandelions © 1999 kerri sherwood

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Practice Letting Go [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

Kathy Bates has a great line in the movie P.S. I Love You: “The thing to remember is…if we’re all alone, then we’re all together in that, too.”

It’s our aloneness that propels us to reach. Our aloneness can drive us to grab. To hold on with all of our might.

Mothers learn the lesson of letting go. Fathers, too. Children would suffocate otherwise. In time, children must also learn the lesson of letting go of their parents. It’s not an easy lesson. It’s counterintuitive.

Couples learn this lesson if they are lucky. They recognize the line between reaching and clutching. Growth is always a process of opening. Open hands. Open minds. Open hearts. Growing a relationship never comes from controlling it. And, don’t we all know the feeling when a hug lasts a bit too long?

And then there are memories. Slippery devils, they tend to fade. Even in this era of ubiquitous photos, the feel, taste, touch, sound, sight flattens and dims. Three dimensions becomes two. I grab at the memory. My hands close around air. Ephemeral-something.

Tonight I will look into the night sky and make my peace. Alone together. Together alone. I will sit on the porch, grateful beyond words to reach and hold Kerri’s hand. Together in this, too.

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about BARNEY-TWO-NAILS

the box/blueprint for my soul © 1997 kerri sherwood

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