Check Your Reaction [David’s blog on KS Friday]

I confess to being disconcerted. At lunch, Kerri asked me a question about my blog so I typed “the direction of intention” into Google. The top slots were a prayer, rather, a type of prayer originated by Saint Francis de Sales. “Oh, No!” I thought. I don’t want my blog to be associated in any way with any church or any religion. “I hope people know that I am not that,” I said, surprising myself with the vehemence of my sentiment.

We’d just finished reading and discussing a Washington Post opinion piece, I Left The Church And Now Long For ‘A Church For The Nones.’ “… I couldn’t ignore how the word Christian was becoming a synonym for rabidly pro-Trump White people who argued that his and their meanness and intolerance were somehow justified and in some ways required to defend our faith.” So Perry Bacon, Jr.’s very interesting opinion piece was fresh in my mind.

So, too, was a passage I’d read earlier in the day from Vāclav Havel‘s book, Disturbing The Peace. The interviewer asked him to define “absurd theatre” (Havel wrote absurdist plays). He responded that absurdist theatre “demonstrates humanity in a ‘state of crisis’…it shows man having lost his fundamental metaphysical certainty, the experience of the absolute, his relationship to eternity…, in other words, having lost the ground under his feet.” In my mind, he could not have written a more prophetic or accurate description of our times. We are untethered without a functioning moral compass. We are awash in a flood of content mostly bereft of shared context.

I attended a Catholic college. I am not Catholic. I have never identified as Christian or Buddhist or Hindu…Yet, I am not an atheist. One of my favorite memories of my college years are the many conversations I had with Father Lauren sitting on the stoop of the barracks, sipping tea, discussing his faith and my belief. We explored ideas. We compared and contrasted philosophies. We laughed. We asked questions. We considered and expanded each other’s point of view. We respected each other’s differences because we were both driven by a desire to do good for other people. We shared a common intention. A common direction of intention. We both believed in “something bigger” but did not share the same idea of what “something bigger” might be.

Suddenly, I yearned for that time of openness of thought and generosity of sharing opposing points of view. I imagined sitting again with Father Lauren. Eschewing any black-or-white opinion, attempting to practice what I preach – to practice what I believe – I clicked on a few of the links of Saint Francis de Sales. I read. I wanted to know rather than to judge.

I read that Saint Francis de Sales was noted for “…his deep faith and gentle approach to the religious divisions in his land…” We could use some gentle approaches to division in these rabidly discordant times…This also caught my attention: the direction of intention, the heart of Salesian spirituality, is a practice of prayer consciously directing to god what you are about to do… In other words, intending goodness of action.

My definition of the direction of intention: it’s not about what you get, it’s about what you bring. Saint Francis de Sales and I are not so far apart in our direction of intention. Other-focused. Purposive goodness. We both encourage consciousness of action in the world and awareness of the impact of our actions on others.

So, I amend my initial thought: I do not want to be associated with any church or religion, but there’s plenty of common ground to share when we’re driven – and united – by a conscious desire to do good for other people. 

grace/right now © 2010 kerri sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART LEAF

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Arrive At Wisdom [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

The meeting of sand and surf. In the children’s-book-of-my-mind, at the beginning of the story, sand and surf have completely different points of view. They have radically different understandings of each other and opposing orientations to ebb-and-flow, to the movement of the earth and their place in it. They insist that they are in conflict.

And yet, they meet. Every day. In the story of sand and surf they eventually learn that they can focus on their differences or they can focus on what they have in common. They are surprised to learn that one could not know itself without the other. They are gobsmacked by the knowledge that one would have no purpose without the other! In fact, they would have no identity without the other!

With their new understanding, sand and surf begin to ask a different question: who do they want to be together.

At the end of the story, the climax of this children’s tale, they come to understand that their reason-for-being is each other. They are not, in fact, separate. They are symbiotic. They transform each other in their mutual dance. Thus, they arrive at wisdom.

Sand and surf. Harmony, in the children’s-book-of-my-mind. Nothing really changes other than their choice of where to focus. And then, of course, everything changes.

my favorite illustration from Lucy And The Waterfox

Peri Winkle Rabbit Is Lost. A book I wrote and illustrated for a hurricane Katrina relief project. The organizers asked for an original story to help children understand and cope with loss. Original illustrations, no copies. I loved making this little book and i hope some child, somewhere, now an adult, loves it, too.

My gallery site

read Kerri’s blog post about SAND AND SURF

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Create Ease [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Reading The Marginalian this morning I was taken by these two quotes:

“The whole process of nature is an integrated process of immense complexity, and it’s really impossible to tell whether anything that happens in it is good or bad.” (Alan Watts)

“…learning not to think in terms of gain or loss.” ~ The Marginalian, August 16, 2023.

It came at the right moment. There was a river of anxiety running through our house. I opened the newsletter because the title was Seneca on the Antidote to Anxiety. I needed an antidote. Actually, I needed to be reminded of what I already know.

Most of our monsters are invented. Most of our stresses are made-up. What we fear rarely happens. Such is the power of the human imagination. We are capable of making ourselves sick with make-believe, ill with assumptions, fearful by assigning meaning to an experience before it actually happens.

We fret. We worry. We brood. We lose sleep. We get worked up. We torture ourselves with our untethered thoughts and wild-imaginings. It’s the heart of my argument to all people who’ve labeled themselves as “not creative”. We are so abundantly creative that it hurts. Check your inner monologue. It is a riot of creativity! A stampede of wild-horses!

We are capable of imagining ease rather than angst. We are capable of creating love rather than hate. It’s true, but creating ease, creating love, first requires a complete surrender of black-and-white thinking. Good or bad, gain or loss, better or worse…control fantasies, all. Creating ease is borne of an understanding that every experience – every single experience – has many possible interpretations. And, fully comprehending that you are the creator of the meaning you make. And, most of all, recognizing that making meaning of an experience is best done after it happens, somewhere down the road. I guarantee, no matter the meaning made today, it will change again and again over time. Creating ease.

Side note: compassion for self and others lives on this non-binary road.

Reminders of what I already know.

I loved the sunflowers when we placed them on the table. They were a gift and were fresh from the farmer’s market. I thought I might like to paint them, which is unusual for me. A few days later, the sunflowers bowed their heads and I found them more compelling. They seemed like gentle beings in a posture of reverence (how’s that for imagination!). Both Kerri and I raced for our cameras.

Were they more beautiful or less? And, isn’t that the exact wrong question to ask?

read Kerri’s blogpost about SUNFLOWER BOW

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Be The Rain [on Two Artists Tuesday]

If you want to see me cry, play Lowen and Navarro’s song, If I Was The Rain. There are two versions that kill me. The version released on their album, All The Time In The World. And, the Youtube of Eric Lowen’s last concert. In the hard grip of ALS, he spoke the words of the song from his wheelchair. It is, without a doubt, a triumph of the human spirit. I blubber every time I watch it.

“If I was the rain/ I’d polish every outbound train/ I’d wash the teardrops from your eyes/ so you could kiss the blues good-bye.”

We simply could not believe it. Standing in the sunroom we watched a torrent of water stream down the windows. The gutters were overwhelmed. Sheets of water enveloped the house. It was as if we were standing behind a raging waterfall. It was, at the same time, glorious and terrifying. Beautiful and petrifying.

“If I was the rain/ I’d answer all the farmer’s prayers/ till green was growing everywhere/ If I was the rain.”

We’d just emerged from the basement. Trying to channel the incoming water to the floor drains, we laid towels, we positioned fans. We quickly moved boxes and bags, anything in the water’s path. We laughed and looked at each other wide-eyed. What else could we do?

“If I was the rain/ I’d choose forever to remain/ I’d add a sparkle to the night/ and marvel at the morning bright.

It’s a new day. The rain has finally stopped. The sun is attempting to break through the clouds. The basement is dry at last. Our towel-river-bank is in the washer, getting cleaned and ready for the next emergency. We looked at photos on the web of the local flooding. We shook at heads at the volume of water that fell. It came so fast.

If I was the rain/ I’d bless each blossom to unfold/ and I’d turn each one of them into gold/ if I was the rain…

The world as seen through a waterfall. Roaring off our roof, cascading down the walls and windows, distorting the reality as we know it. Altering the arc of the day. Neighbors texting neighbors, “Are you okay?” People, knee-deep in water, helping other people because they need it. The best of humanity showing its face, even for a brief moment.

“If I was the rain…”

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE RAIN

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Find Up [on KS Friday]

We almost turned around. From the path we could hear the large earth movers rolling up and down the beach. “They’re working,” she said. “Why are they working? It’s the weekend!” Beyond the beach, massive cranes plucked unthinkably large stones from barges and placed them onto the breakwater. We decided to take a look. Maybe we could find a quiet spot at the far end of the beach. The day was scorching. We needed to put our feet in the water.

We stepped around the “Stay Out! Under Construction” sign. Considering who we’d call if arrested, we climbed the hill through the brush and tall grasses before emerging onto the beach. We stopped and laughed at what we saw. The far end of the beach was packed with people. A party boat was anchored just off shore. Jet skis parked at the shoreline. A family hauled in a barbeque. A man threw balls into the surf for his Goldens to retrieve.

“I guess we won’t be alone in the jail.” Our rogue fantasy blushed and vanished.

After wading in the water we spread our towels in a shady spot just beneath the weathered trees. We watched the massive machines construct the breakwaters, a tug boat deftly spun a rock laden barge into the queue. I wondered how the tiny boat could possibly move the massive barge.

Kerri lay back and shot photos of the clouds. She captured our sentinel tree in a few shots. One shot immediately brought to mind an early Georgia O’Keeffee painting. The Lawerence Tree. Georgia stayed at DH Lawerence’s ranch on a visit to New Mexico. At night she’d lay back on a bench beneath a huge pine tree. She painted what she saw. Google the painting and you’ll learn that there’s some confusion: what is the top of the painting? I prefer the trunk of the tree coming from “the top,” just as in Kerri’s photograph.

In the archive I have a few of those confusions. One painting in particular, Earth Interrupted VI, Kerri suggests that I painted it upside-down. “Green at the bottom. Blue at the top.” It’s not a unique problem. Many great masterworks spent decades on their heads before someone noticed and flipped them.

“It’s nice,” I said of her photograph. It perfectly captured the theme of the day. Upside-down. Expect solitude and find a crowd – yet in the shade we found sweet solitude. Believe you are going rogue only to discover you are merely one of the pack. The plan for the day fell apart and led us to the beach and this moment of rolling upside-down surprises. “I’m glad we did this,” I smiled, laying back to see what she saw, to wonder if I have ever really known which way is up.

each new day/right now © 2010 kerri sherwood

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

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Look Beneath The Brag [on DR Thursday]

“If I don’t brag I can’t complain,” she said, eyes sparkling. I howled with laughter. Wisdom from a soon-to-be 101 year old.

There’s nothing like a long life to strip the paint off an ego.

Her wisdom launched me into a thought-jag and made me wonder what a little time and maturity might bring to our yammering social media streams. Of LinkedIn a colleague recently said, “Everyone is selling. No one is buying.” Lots of bragging balanced by lots of complaining. Although it is moving fast, social media is still very, very young. A raucous kindergarten class. Me. Me. Me!

Kerri and I are not above it, of course. We are knee-deep in it. Each day we bemoan, “Oh, if only our readers would like or share our posts or music or cartoon or paintings…” The algorithm of “like” makes braggers and beggars of us all. It’s the road to increased attention which transmogrifies into words like “influencer” which promises dollars (with or without sense). (sorry. i couldn’t help myself;-) We don’t really want to be influencers but we do really want our work to support us – just like everyone else – so, a conundrum. In current reality, a full spectrum of bragging and complaining marks the road to increased notice.

Marshall McLuhan famously said, “The medium is the message.” Said another way, “…the content of any medium blinds us to the character of the medium.” Content need not have substance in a fast moving medium creating so many squeaky wheels seeking grease. Character (noun): mental and moral qualities… Through our current medium it is necessary to scream loud. No substance or moral quality is required to garner attention since garnering attention is the end-goal. Complain! Brag! Bang pots! Cry wolf! Blow whistles! Break news! Spread conspiracy! Lie loudly… Thumbs up. Angry face. Heart.

It brought again to my mind the question Susan asked last week, “When did kindness leave…” What I wish I’d said is, “It’s still there, it’s just runs deep beneath the noise.” Kindness has no need to compete with complaint for attention.

“How did it get to be the middle of August already?” Kerri asked, focusing her camera on the fading coneflowers. The day was hot. We were overwhelmed by our tasks so took a break and went for a walk.

“I don’t know,” I replied, trying to remember all that happened in June and July. There were so many life altering events for our friends and family. With no air in our sail, becalmed, time has lost much of its meaning.

Kerri showed me her photo. “I think I’ll call this one Waning Summer.” For us, there’s nothing to brag about so there’s nothing to complain about. Thank goodness. We sit solidly in the middle of the spectrum, knowing somewhere, running deep beneath the noise and moving very slowly, like kindness, runs a mighty river of gratitude.

“It’s beautiful.” I said.

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chasing bubbles, 33.25 x 48IN mixed media © david robinson

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read Kerri’s thoughts about END OF SEASON

Take A Second Pass [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

It was the second time we’d walked the loop. The first was many months ago in another season. Though the path was the same it felt as if we were walking an entirely different trail. This time, instead of seeing across brown and yellow winter marshland, we walked through a tunnel of tall viridian reeds. Not able to see the landscape, I looked up through the green at a rain-threatening sky. If our first hike on the boardwalk felt like a discovery, the second pass seemed directed.

The second pass. In life it’s called a memory and it is never the same as the original walk. To begin, it is viewed from a different season. Time alters details, rearranges events, begs questions. The second pass is made with a different purpose-in-mind. To re-view. It is directed, replayed, questioned, run forward and backward. Different endings are tried on for size. Different beginnings, too. Destiny or accident? Did that really happen?

Plotting backward through memory provides ample sense-making. Event chains, choices, that lead to this place, this day, this story called life. Looking forward from the current first pass, this present walk, there is a wide open vista. What if I stepped off the path? Is there a path? It’s all discovery though we rarely experience it that way. The routine of the day or the master to-do-list obscures the newness of each and every step. Same-old-same-old is a sorry reckoning.

Kerri and I are having an ongoing conversation about how quickly and dramatically life can change. Just when you think you know what the day holds a strong wind huffs and puffs, forever altering the arc of your life. The tiniest of choices hold the seeds for the most profound changes. The boardwalk suddenly disappears. Or the opposite, when you are lost and least expect it, a boardwalk magically appears. In a flash a path seems certain.

And, isn’t it awe-some that we are capable of twice-storying this grande life adventure? Giving to each step a meaning and shape the very moment we take them. Giving to each step a different meaning and shape, over and over again, on the return loops, the second pass. Memory.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE BOARDWALK

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Follow The Map [on Two Artists Tuesday]

In the era when I was telling stories at conferences I liked to tell a particular tale of a woman on a quest. She didn’t know it but the many trials she faced on her journey gave her the exact knowledge she needed to confront her monster, complete her quest and return safely to her home. A field of shifting boulders. A dense impassable forest. A thicket of lost souls. She navigated all of them, learned from them, and returned home, changed by her experiences, wiser from her travails.

It’s most often the message in stories about quests. The journey changes us. We rarely understand the purpose or meaning of our passage until its conclusion. We only know we’ve changed after we arrive back from where we started. Then we can turn around and see.

Prior to the Brothers Grimm, there was no woodsman-savior in the tale of Little Red Riding Hood. A little girl sets out in life on a winding road to grandma’s house. It’s a metaphor. The little girl becomes an old woman. The wolf is metaphoric of time. The wolf “eats” all of us in the end. No woodsman can save us. No Hallmark ending is possible. What did Red experience on the way to grandma’s house?

It’s hard not to want to rush to the end. To know. There’s the fantastic story of the western businessman who wanted the Dalai Lama to tell him the secret of illumination so he could fast-track enlightenment, to achieve in a month-or-a-minute that which takes many lifetimes. Life lessons pay little attention to the demands of efficiency and effectiveness. Business, after all, is never just business.

Stages of development. Queen Anne’s lace. In its first year it is dedicated to sinking a taproot and developing a “rosette of basal leaves.” Creating a solid base. Only in the second year does it “send forth a flower stalk with blossoms.” It’s impossible to skip step one and arrive at blossoms. In truth, step one and step two are not really separate phases but are a single, gorgeous process of life’s renewal. I imagine that is what the Dalai Lama thought but did not say to the businessman.

In stories, the magic sword fails. Death knocks politely on the front door. The ogre stands in the path. The sphinx smiles and demands an answer. A young girl skips with Time along a winding road. A woman returns home, wiser from her experiences, changed by her journey.

Stories serve as universal maps, like taproots and basal leaves. They ground us. They can help us understand that the arrival we seek, the journey we take, is to ourselves. They can locate us on the winding road of life’s renewal.

read Kerri’s blogpost about QUEEN ANNE’S LACE

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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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