Step Out. Step In [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“In rivers, the water you touch is the last of what has passed and the first of that which comes: so it is with time present.” ~ Leonardo da Vinci

I might say that, in the mountains, in the sanctuary, we stepped out of time.

We sometimes forget that time is a relatively new invention in human history. The mechanical measurement of our moments. So, when we say that we “stepped out of time”, I literally mean that we temporarily exited the quantification of our moving experience. Future/past. To-do lists and locators. It begs the question, “If we step out of time what do we step into?”

Everyone knows the word “present”. The present. It’s a very big little word. The English language would have us understand it as a place. An arrival. We look for it, strive for it and, paradoxically, we enter it by forgetting to look or strive. It is where we are – always – and yet we so rarely know it. It’s where meaning is found and connection. It’s where peace and beauty are realized.

A poet might write that to die is to step out of time. To be born is to step into it. It’s the epicenter of our mythology, this cycle of dying and rebirth. Into and out of time. Winter and spring.

We stepped into the sanctuary and stepped out of time. Our cares dropped away. We took a deep breath. Sometime later, we stepped back into time and both felt renewed. Of course.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PRESENT

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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

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

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Where [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Where to now? It’s the ever-present-topic of conversation.

On our recent trip to the mountain, we speculated. What was going to happen? What did we want to happen? What did we hope or fear would happen? Supposition is a kind of storytelling. Building a container for the unknown.

On the way home we recounted what happened. We discussed the gems, the surprises. We talked of the special moments that we anticipated and the hard moments that we predicted. We reveled in the fulfillment of intention, a visit to the sanctuary, a return to the stream. Narrating our experiences is a kind of storytelling. Sense-making. Building a container for the known.

Both types of container are too small. There is only so much anticipation that can be held. There is infinite sense to be made so story choices are necessary: what goes into the container and what must be let go? How will I make meaning of what just happened? And what does that mean for the next container of supposition that we must build?

They are connected questions. Where have I been? Where to now? Of necessity, despite all expectation, neither question ever arrives at an answer.

read Kerri’s blogpost about STORIES

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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

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

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Beyond Words [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“Truth, like time itself, is a product of a conversation man has with himself about and through the techniques of communication he has invented.” ~ Neil Postman, Amusing Ourselves To Death

I’ve felt for months the need to apologize to J. We were having a conversation about truth – and notions of god – and in his current place-on-the-path he’s necessarily seeking absolutes. For him, relative truth smacks of falsehood or some loosey-goosey scary philosophy. He’s looking for a hard rock on which to build his house of wisdom. I was flip rather than helpful. How do you begin to discuss truth as a cultural orientation or a fluid marker that changes with time? When I was J’s age, truth could be established with a photograph. Not so anymore.

Breck, our little quaking aspen tree has come to represent a form of truth for me. Breck almost didn’t make it. We brought her home from the high mountains of Colorado and for a few years she lived and struggled in a big pot. She barely survived the first place we planted her. It was not a good location so we moved her to different soil where she’d enjoy more sun. And now she is flourishing. Last year she grew more than three feet taller.

Breck’s truth/health has very little to do with hard answers to abstract questions. For her – and me – truth is found in relationships; her environment. The right spot. Good soil. Rejuvenating sun. She brings an impulse to life: perseverance. Tenacity. Adaptability. We love her and I believe she “knows” that, too. Love is a truth that knows no absolute. I couldn’t explain that to J because I was playing with him, bringing levity to his seriousness.

And, in truth (what other word can I use?), I have become a doubter that any serious conversation about truth or gods can happen through something so limited as language. That’s what I should have expressed to J. I should have taken him outside to see the stars.

Now, when I want to have those conversations with myself, when I am seeking a better question, I walk on the trail next to the river. I turn my face to the sun. I try to detach myself from the clocks and lists and tv debates. I look at Breck quaking in the wind. I await each spring for the buds to appear on her limbs. There’s truth-beyond-words in her life-cycle, the return of her leaves and her captivating shimmer dance with the breezes.

read Kerri’s blogpost about BRECK

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Water, Water [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

‘For in the end, he [Huxley] was trying to tell us that what afflicted the people in Brave New World was not that they were laughing instead of thinking, but that they did not know what they were laughing about and why they had stopped thinking.” ~ Neil Postman, Amusing Ourselves To Death

The water rises.

Last week, at dinner, disconcerted by the headlines, 20 asked if I could explain the politics of our day. “Entertainment,” I thought, but did not say. We – the community – talk about politics – the news of the day – as if it was serious business – because we want it to be – we need it to be – but we seem mortally blind to the emptiness of the chatter. Song and dance. The purpose, after all, is not to inform us but to keep us hooked.

“Water, water, everywhere. Nor any drop to drink.” ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Thirst. Purpose.

It’s not an insignificant question to ask, “What is the reason for being?” We seem puzzled by our purpose or at least conflicted, as made apparent by our insatiable division. My theory is that our division is a distraction, it’s an old colonialists trick, baked into our national dna. A magician’s sleight of hand. There’s no better way to control a populace than to divide them. A people united – and not distracted – demand purposeful and responsible governance. Honest discourse. They demand it of themselves, too. They live from and in-service to a cohesive and shared narrative. The deep root of integrity. Purpose, after all, when clear and meaning-full, is always about others; it is always about service to the community. The betterment of all.

“You drown not by falling into a river, but by staying submerged in it.” ~Paulo Coehlo

May You, 55″x36″, mixed media

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A Pretty Good List [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Two years ago the ice-maker in our fridge stopped working. Our informal poll of fellow fridge owners has confirmed what we suspected: the ice-maker is always the first thing to go. And, since a repair of the ice-maker would actually cost more than the original price of the refrigerator, we have gone old-school and make our ice in trays. Sometimes, when we’re feeling really outlandish, we buy our ice in bags.

This is not a terrible inconvenience. I do not have to go down to the lake in winter and saw out blocks of ice nor do I have to haul the blocks uphill to the ice house and cover them with sawdust. The refrigerator is still capable of making ice; it just requires some participation on our part. And, it couldn’t be easier since we have running water piped directly into the house! From the magic spigot at the sink, I pour the water into the plastic tray and work on my balancing skills as I carry the water-filled tray to the freezer. In about an hour the water is transformed. Ice!

On a recent foray into an antique store we came across the metal ice-cube-trays used by our parents from the time prior to plastics. Kerri chimed, “I remember those from when I was growing up!” and, always the musician, starting making the symphony of sounds produced when the metal handle lifts, cracks and separates the cubes before dumping them into the bowl. She spun her musical rendition into a rhythmic wonder complete with an ice-tray dance. I know deep inside she was working on the lyrics and, had we not been in public, I would have been audience to a completely imagined, fully composed ice-cube-tray-song.

So, topping my list of gratitudes for the day: I saw the inception of an ice-cube song borne of a childhood memory. There was also an enthusiastic spontaneous ice-tray-dance that made me laugh out loud . I have water that comes directly into my house, and a cold box that is capable of making ice if I want it. I do not have to go down to the lake to cut and haul ice as my ancestors did. All-in-all, it’s a pretty good list!

read Kerri’s blogpost about ICE CUBE TRAYS

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Wine Shadow [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

And with no warning, Cat Stevens was suddenly holding a concert in my head: Oh, I’m being followed by a wine-shadow, wine-shadow, wine-shadow. A leapin’ and hoppin’ on a wine-shadow, wine-shadow, wine-shadow…

Carl Jung wrote that “Everyone carries a shadow,…” I suspect Carl chose his verb carefully. Rather than being followed by it, everyone carries their shadow. The absolute weight of weightlessness. The next part of his thought goes like this: “…and the less it is embodied in the individual’s conscious life, the blacker and denser it is.” The moral of his story: get to know your shadow.

I had a long talk with a high priest in Bali. He explained that, according to their belief, they see no need to run from the dark as we do. They strive to make peace with the dark. Keep in mind that their construct is not built upon the hard rock of heaven-or-hell. For them, there is dark energy and light energy. The two dance and balance each other. They are necessary to each other. Our work, he suggested, is to walk between them, hold them both as meaningful and sacred. Getting to know the shadow is about having a relationship with the light.

“Don’t sit down!” she said, jumping up, camera in hand.

“What? What?” I asked looking around. She rarely jumps up like that. Only in the presence of bees.

She pointed enthusiastically at my chair. “Shadow! Shadow!” she whispered, as if her voice would scare the shadow away. She focused her camera on the weighty-weightless.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, just in case she was right. I’ve ruined a shot or two in the past by using my outdoor voice. I didn’t want to get “the look” if I caused the shadow to flee before she could snap the picture.

It was during her photoshoot that Cat Stevens popped in. And Carl Jung, not wanting to be out-sung, offered his quote.

“I look forward to getting to know this shadow,” I said.

“What?” she whispered, aiming and re-aiming.

“Never mind,” I smiled.

Did it take long to find me?
I asked the faithful light
Oh, did it take long to find me?
And are you gonna stay the night?
” [Moonshadow, Cat Stevens]

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A Second Look [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Aura Moon Double Haiku

An appearance.

Things are rarely what they seem.

Masks conceal faces.

The moon winks and nods,

Tugging at the aching heart.

Take a second look.

The aura of the back light at night. Wires that carry electricity to the house. A sliver moon. A photographer playing with the elements. What began as a spontaneous chase to capture the waning moon became a rolling series of discoveries: “Look what happens when the light is on!”

“I want to shoot the moon through the wires,” she said, aiming her camera.

“A good first line for a novel or a play,” I thought.

Character One: I want to shoot the moon through the wires.

Character Two: Maybe we should talk about it? (no answer) Do you think we’ll hear the owl tonight?

And so it goes, listening and looking into the night. The story progresses until their desires meet at a distant crossroads.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE WINKY MOON

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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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