See A Gull [on KS Friday]

A Haiku

a scavenger bird.

opportunistic, seeker.

see! a gull am I!

The gulls congregate in the Kohls parking lot. We’re not sure why. It seems an unlikely spot for gulls to hang out. Hot pavement. No snacks. Cars coming and going. They camp en masse. Later in the day they exit in full voice and return to the marina. Make sense of that, I dare you!

Susan asked when caring-for-others left the building. I launched into a pedantic monologue that, even to me, sounded like the screech of a gull. Lots of noise, little helpful substance. Or, my diatribe mimicked the adults in a Charlie Brown special. Wah-wah, wah-wah. The sound of a preacher who thinks the path to deeper spirituality is through a map or a dry history lesson. A rule book. A witless shepherd caught lecturing the sheep. (baaaahhhhh)

I wondered what or who I might become if I dedicated myself to knowing nothing. What if I understood to my root that my opinion is just that…an opinion. Not a fact or a truth or blue-ribbon winner at the world-thought-fair. What if life needed no explanation?

What if there is no higher meaning to be found or greater mystery to be solved in the daily seagull pilgrimage to Kohls? What if, rather than seek a rationalization, I gave myself over to the wonder-of-it? What if Joseph Campbell had it right:

“People say that what we’re all seeking is a meaning for life. I don’t think that’s what we’re really seeking. I think that what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive…”

take flight/this part of the journey © 1998 kerri sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about SEAGULLS

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Step Out [on Two Artists Tuesday]

Covid made us near-recluses. We have been, like many people, in this “post Covid” era, bumping into a glass wall when we attempt to venture out. It’s as if our social muscle has atrophied. We assign the blame to our current financial situation yet we both know that isn’t true; we live in a region with abundant free concerts and festivals and markets. We can walk to many of the events. We’ve been gifted tickets to museums and gardens.

We plan to go. We make the time. We take a step. We hit the glass. We take a walk in the woods instead. “I’m not sure I want to be in a crowd of people,” we chime. “Too much noise!” we insist.

We point the finger at stress yet we know the very thing we need to do to decrease our stress is to get out of the house, have an adventure, stir the pot…be with people.

With the help of friends we are slowly re-entering the world. Our weekly hike-and-spikes with Jen and Brad. We took 20 to the art museum. We have plans to walk the Third Ward in Milwaukee and eat dinner at the Public Market. Small steps.

It is not an understatement to suggest that Saturday we hit the wall and simultaneously melted down. We made plans to go to an outdoor concert. The evening was perfect. We decided not to decide – another avoidance strategy when our noses are pressed to the glass. It was almost too late. And then something broke. After shaking our fists at the sky and each other, in an act of self-defiance, we stomped into the car and drove to the concert. Birthing pains.

The music recharged us. The audience recharged us: happy people sipping wine, eating cheese and bread, talking, sharing, laughing with the people around them. Complete strangers bonded in kindness, a generosity of spirit enlivened through the shared experience of music. Never suggest to me that the arts are not powerful.

I think we just re-entered the world. Or took an important first step. Certainly, the music cracked the glass wall. I wanted to weep and laugh at the same time. Even as a devoted artist I am sometimes overwhelmed at the subtle, often unrecognized, capacity of the arts to unify and…heal…the human heart.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CONCERT

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Whack! [on Merely A Thought Monday]

This is a tale of coincidence.

If you want to learn some great Italian recipes – or just simply want to pick up some great cooking tips, visit Sip-And-Feast. We stumbled on their YouTube channel a year ago and have been desperately hungry ever since. We fantasize about making a trip to Long Island and showing up on their front stoop just in time to taste test their latest recipe. We don’t care what’s cooking since everything they make looks delicious.

I howled with laughter in a recent installment when Tara Delmage suggested whacking mint leaves to release their oil. My current two-pages-a-day-book is called A Whack On The Side Of The Head: How You Can Be More Creative. In an instant I imagined people as mint leaves needing a whack to release their creative-impulse-oil. It was a hilarious image.

It was an accurate image, too.

I’ve coached a lot of people in my life. The pattern is explicit. Erecting barriers against creative impulses comes standard in all human beings. As social animals, conformity is a vital skill. Fitting-in equates to survival. The dark-side of fitting-in is the requirement of walling-off natural expression. It’s why so many people seek their voice or try to find the time but never find the time to write their book or paint their painting. It’s scary to step out of line.

It’s the reason artists are often seen as wild or dangerous: they exercise the muscles of free expression. It’s also why artists are essential: they counter-balance the conformity. They open doors in the wall. They serve as a gravitational pull toward the mint-oil of natural creativity. They know the secrets of a good whack on the side of the head. They know the right moment to deliver the shock. They know when to encourage chaos and when to infuse some order. The push-me-pull-you of progress.

From the wisdom of Sip-And-Feast I can now offer this piece of solid advice: go make yourself a nice limoncello spritzer. The recipe for the spritzer will provide you all the information you need to pop open your creative flow.

Bon appetit!

read Kerri’s blogpost about MINT LEAVES

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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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Listen To The House [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

When it’s humid our refrigerator has an incontinence problem. Upon entering the kitchen and stepping into the latest puddle, we call out as if it was normal, “The fridge tinkled again!” Sometimes I wonder if the neighbors can hear us. And, if they can, do they double-lock their front doors against our madness? Do they pull down their shades as we pass by?

We think we know the problem with the fridge’s urinary tract. We ordered a part months ago that arrived magically through the mail and now sits within view of the tinkling-fridge. It’s like knowing you’re going to need a hip replacement, ordering the part, and setting the titanium hip on the kitchen counter for months until you have the courage to schedule the surgery. “Yep. There’s my hip. Someday I’m going to install that thing…” Our new part has been in view for so long that I no longer see it. I’ve incorporated it into my visual expectations. We’re still working up the courage.

The refrigerator’s incontinence began when the ice-maker went on strike and refused to make ice. We met and negotiated but the ice-maker negotiating team is difficult. We’re having a hard time discerning their demands and are clueless about the original issue. We know the ice-strike and the fridge-tinkle are connected but are somewhat mystified by the humidity-trigger. So, in the meantime, thoroughly mystified but incredibly adaptive to our circumstance, we bring in ice from our beloved the corner market, Morelli’s Deli. We place towels on the kitchen floor.

And what might this have to do with living the good life? “Deferred maintenance is a fact of life!” Kerri insists and she is right. As I’ve learned from our sweet old house, there is always something to fix and that’s what gives our beautiful home its character. And, in the face of the obvious-never-ending-list, the best plan of action is to relax. Do what you can do when you can do it.

This may come as a surprise but, in the face of a long to-do-list, I had to learn to relax. I had to practice the skill of letting go. I’ve had to exercise the muscle of realistic expectations. I was not a willing student at first – I had to recognize that I had lessons to learn! …so many lessons…

How fortunate am I that our house is a master teacher? When you visit, I’ll show you how to jiggle the door. And don’t ask me about the cabinet handles in the kitchen! The first lesson from our house: explain nothing. Smile, relax, and say, “Yes. I know. It appears that needs fixing.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about ICE

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Ponder It [on DR Thursday]

As you know, Breck-the-aspen-tree almost didn’t make it. Three years in a pot and one ill-conceived planting in the backyard left our poor Breck withered. A new spot in the yard restored Breck’s health but her growth was minimal. We removed dead branches. We assumed we’d stunted Breck’s growth so she would always be beloved and diminutive.

And then…It seems Breck is growing an inch every day. We began the summer looking down at her. Now, we crane our necks to see the new leaves sprouting at the top of her gangly reach. We joke that Breck is doing her Jack-In-The-Beanstalk imitation, though, at this rate of growth, it’s no joke. I confess to having a sit-down chat with her, cautioning her to not grow up too fast.

Last night I was awake most of the night. I thought about Breck and new growth. I thought about the cicadas, a surprising new form emerging from a discarded old body. I hoped against all hope that nature was talking to me, sending me a message. Be patient. All in good time. I’ve been sitting in the hallway for a very long time.

Perhaps, like Breck, I too am waiting for the optimal time, some intrinsic trigger and, suddenly and without warning or inhibition, I will reach to the sky. Perhaps, like the cicadas, in a moment of surprise, my new form will burst out of the old body, amazed at the sudden addition of wings.

In the meantime, I continue to do as I was taught: my job is to “put it out there”. The rest is out of my control [meantime: the intervening time. The hallway]. The operative word is “it”. It. I write and publish almost everyday. I paint and publish. We cartoon and publish. I toss resumes into the wind.

In the dark of night, thinking of aspen trees and cicadas, I ponder worthy questions. Breck needed assistance to move to new soil and then required recovery time. Storing energy for the right moment. The cicada lived underground until it felt an internal imperative to climb – an imperative that I imagine made no sense but had to be heeded just the right moment. For me, if nature is talking to me, it has me pondering what else – that I’ve not yet considered – might “it” be that I should “put out there”? Or better, does “it” matter at all? Perhaps all that I lack is the right moment. And there’s nothing to be done about that.

weeping man, 48x36IN, mixed media

My Site. Up and Running. At Long Last.

read Kerri’s blogpost about BRECK

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Sail Toward It [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Gordon MacKenzie ends his wise little book with this: “You have a masterpiece inside of you, too, you know. One that is unlike any that has ever been created, or ever will be. And remember: If you go to your grave without painting your masterpiece, it will not get painted. No one else can paint it. Only you.”

His analogy – his encouragement – is to let go of others’ expectations and paint your painting, not the paint-by-number painting that you think is required of you.

I wrote this note to myself over ten years ago: you do yourself a terrible disservice to doubt what you know.

I know the world is round. If I set off on an adventure to the unknown I will never touch the horizon. It will always call to me. And, if I sail toward it long enough I will arrive back where I started. Home.

If I believed the world was flat, I would delude myself into thinking that I could catch the horizon – and touch it – merely a moment before I sailed over the edge and into the dark abyss. I know this: no one holding a flat world belief will knowingly sail toward the horizon, the great unknown. That would be crazy! No one willingly sails into the abyss. Better stay safe in the harbor! Color within the lines!

Masterpieces are made by sailing into unknown territory. Releasing control and discovering what’s just over the horizon. And, what’s just over the horizon is more horizon! More questions. More experiences. More discoveries. More tastes. More textures. More sounds. And, to sail toward the horizon with abandon first requires an understanding that the world is round. It is all horizon.

Paint-by-expectation is the road of a flat-earther. Perfection is a false horizon. Try to touch it and the abyss is yours.

Young artists jump back and forth between the flat and the round earth philosophy. They have to. Vulnerability is a learned skill and comes easily when the quest to touch the horizon is abandoned. In other words, painting a masterpiece comes when the quest for a masterpiece is ditched. When making a mess takes precedence over “doing it right.” When following your bliss determines the rules you uphold.

It’s counterintuitive. There’s a place where control and freedom blend into one. You’ll find it when you aim at the unattainable horizon.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE HORIZON

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Join The Kerfuffle [on Two Artists Tuesday]

Rob and I have been having a text conversation about AI. For him, an Orwellian curtain is descending. For me it’s a pattern: progress that pushes people into the unknown always ignites a kerfuffle.

Months ago Skip suggested that I jump into the dialogue raging around phrase engineering for AI. Basically, people learning better ways to ask the technology for more efficient and effective results. As a visual artist and a writer, he believed I might be able to stand with a foot in both evolving camps. Cross disciplines. I thought about it. Read everything I could find. I decided against. As an artist, someone who’s taken his artistry into the wilds of organizations, education, change initiatives, DEI, intercultural communication, coaching, software start-ups…a cross-pollinator – I’ve shouted my perceptions at the top of my lungs but rarely found ears that would or could listen. Why should an engineer listen to an artist? Why should a CEO give credence to a theatre artist? There are many many reasons. The notion of doing the same old thing in the same old way in a new context made me…tired.

What is a new way?

I’ve read that the mission of the industrial age was to create technology capable of sparing or lessening human physical labor. The mission of the information age is to create technology capable of sparing us from the rigors of thought. All in service of making life easier.

My last exchange with Rob led me back to Neil Postman’s short forward to his book Amusing Ourselves To Death. “Huxley feared we’d become a trivial culture…” Rereading the forward I thought, “Spot on”. Among the many upsides, having something or someone else think for you definitely has a downside.

Perhaps our AI era will hold up a mirror so we might better see ourselves as part-of rather than separate-from. Perhaps all the space we gain in our brainpans, as we are spared the rigors of thought, will open new frontiers. It always has in the past. In a miracle of biomimicry, one of Skip’s creations in our start-up was a social network view: a visual of personal connectivity, an active map of all the people a user communicates with. The lines of connectivity were profoundly meaningful to me. The ability to see the thriving network active in my working life was a revelation. A pulsing flower, a wild carrot of interconnectivity. I appreciated my peers – my support system – in new ways because I could see them. My social network view made it undeniable: nothing I do, nothing I think, is independent of my community. We create.

Growth and learning is always in the direction of the unknown. Whether we realize it or not, even amidst the greatest kerfuffle, we take these bold steps together.

read Kerri’s blogpost about WILD CARROT

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Take Another Look [on Merely A Thought Monday]

I am surprised that our favorite go-to trail is the yellow route at Des Plaines. The first time we tried it, years ago, we were swarmed by mosquitoes from beginning to end. We ran-walked, swatting the air the entire way. Kerri stopped to take a photograph and I lost site of her in a mosquito cloud. It was a scene straight from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. We swore we’d never go back.

I have no memory of why we gave it a second try. How long was it after the first very-bad-no-good-mosquito-fest? I can’t remember. I only know that I’m grateful that we challenged our first impression and gave it a second chance. It has become our solace, our reset on a bad day. It is the place where we walk away our troubles and talk through our tribulations.

Over time we’ve learned it. We know its rhythms. We know when and where we are most likely to see deer. We know when the cranes will pass through. We know when the turtles will emerge. And, we now know when to avoid it. It has become a significant part of our story.

As we walked it yesterday, in the hour before the mosquitoes come out, I pondered how many opportunities and rich experiences I’ve missed because of a bad first impression. A useful mantra popped into my head from my days facilitating DEI workshops: have your first thought and work on your second. In other words, doubt what you think. First thoughts, first impressions, are often sandy soil.

A single experience is a very small test sample. Give the trail another hike. Go at dawn or dusk. What’s true in spring is different in fall. The same is true with people. I’m an introvert and generally make a lousy first impression. How fortunate am I that others decided to give me a second chance?

Of course, the fly in the ointment of this thought-train is mosquitoes. I have no need to give them another look!

read Kerri’s blogpost about MOSQUITOS

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Appreciate The Caper [on KS Friday]

Kerri’s photos serve as our writing prompts. Sometimes I know exactly what I want to write about. I lead. Sometimes, like today, I stare and follow the first thought that comes to mind, whether or not it makes sense. I let the thought lead me.

Sometimes I follow. Sometimes I lead. Inevitably, during the writing, the process flips. The follower takes charge and leads. The leader gives over and listens. It’s a nice description of a creative process, a tennis match between the intuitive and intentional.

Today’s first thought? It’s perfect design. A still shot masks the truth that this flower is designed for motion. Time-lapse photography reveals the pulse of life, opening and closing. Petals and sepals, pistils and stamen, folding and unfolding with the delicate movement of the planet spinning around the sun. And those tiny hairs on the stem and sepal? Trichome – absorbing life, protecting the dance.

It occurs to me that the word “design” implies a designer and there we go again bumbling into the morass of the godhead. How to explain such perfection? This miracle of life, utter interdependence, as seen in a purple coneflower.

Perhaps it’s enough to acknowledge that my mind is way too limited to grasp the enormity of the concert. I dabble in the power of imagination but will never grasp the infinite, contain the uncontainable, neither in word or way.

Perhaps my desire to affix a definition to the undefinable, to understand the boundless, is no different than staring at a writing prompt. Sometimes I know exactly what I want to write. Sometimes I have no idea. Sometimes I lead. Sometimes I follow. Intuition dances with intention yet neither are capable of explaining the boundless, of measuring the immeasurable, describing the indescribable.

It is enough to perform my part and fully appreciate the caper.

silent days/blueprint for my soul © 1997 kerri sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about CONEFLOWERS

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