Their Zeal [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

This is a song of quiet astonishment, of the wonder that avails itself for a moment to those who know the full story, the origin tale of our day lilies.

To the casual observer, the everyday passer-by, the vibrant orange explosion in our yard might catch their eye. It’s hard to miss. They might experience a moment or two of fleeting appreciation as they wander on their way.

To us, the spirited line of wild marmalade blooms popping in front of our house represents the abundance that shows up in lean times. They are colorful symbols of generosity and friendship. They remind us of perseverance. They are the blossom of a memory that always makes us smile.

In the early phase of our relationship, we rolled our wheelbarrow to Sally’s house several blocks away. “If you want them, come get them!” she smiled. Her day lily and fern garden had to go away. She knew we were pinching pennies. She knew of our desire to someday have a thriving garden.

We made several trips that humid cloudy day, digging up plants, stacking them high and to the great delight of passing motorists, rolling them down the many streets to our home. Back and forth. Giggling. Covered in mud.

“Who else would do this?” we laughed.

“Where on earth are we going to put all of them?” I asked as we wheeled our barrow up the driveway for the final time. A bevy of uprooted plants stared at us, eager for an assignment, soil and water.

“Someplace,” was all she said. We had no plan beyond the wheelbarrow transport. And so, we started digging.

That was then.

A decade later our ferns and day lilies abound. They line a portion of driveway. They populate the backyard. They are the enthusiastic greeting committee in the front. I eagerly anticipate their return each spring. I am in awe of their zeal.

And…for me, they are living symbols. It is impossible for me to enjoy them without whispering a quiet thanks to Sally, to remember how it felt at the end of a humid day, covered in mud, holding hands, admiring all that we’d just planted, feeling like we’d struck gold.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DAY LILIES

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The First Sign [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

It is the morning after. After talking about how life can change in an instant, we took our coffee and walked around the car looking for certain damage and were surprised that there was no more than a few additional scratches. Little Baby Scion has her share of dings and dents and it was difficult to discern what was old and what was new. Thank goodness. At the time it sounded much worse.

The storm was upon us in a moment. We were driving the backroads home from Chicago Pridefest. Jen was texting us about tornado warnings when the alarms sounded on our phones. Take cover. We’d been watching with trepidation the intense lightning to our north, the direction we were headed. The rain came first. In buckets. And then, like a one-two-punch, the wind. Shrapnel pelted and rocked the car, bits of bark and limbs – at least that’s what we surmised. And, as Kerri said, suddenly Little Baby Scion wanted to take flight. She fought to keep the car on the road. We pulled into a parking lot, away from signs, trees and telephone poles. We maneuvered close behind the brick building, a wind block because, once again, Little Baby Scion was no match for the gusts and was attempting to lift off. Cars, as I understand them, are supposed to keep their tires on the ground.

And we sat, eyes-wide-open. “Better to be hit by things falling off the building,” she said, “than to be airborne.” A tale of no good choices.

We pulled up the radar images (now, isn’t it a miracle of technology that, hunkered down in our car in the middle of a storm, we could see a colorful satellite view of the storm’s angry trajectory) and saw that north of us, home, the storm was breaking. However, where we were sitting, a restaurant parking lot in Waukegan, was about to get clobbered. So, when the wind took a breather, when we no longer feared taking flight, we drove north, dodging downed limbs and debris.

We pulled into our driveway. The rain had passed. I had to peel her fingers from the steering wheel. “We’re safe,” I said. “Let’s get inside.”

I knew all was well when she looked at me and asked, “Do you think we could have a glass of wine?” The first sign of gratitude…

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE STORM

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Infinite Palette [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

A Green Haiku

I stare into space

Today. “Green on green,” she said.

Infinite palette.

At the very end of my life I imagine I will understand – perhaps for the first time, in my final moment – that each day was momentous. I will come to understand that every tick-on-the-tock held more import than I had capacity to conceive. To “just get through it” or to assign “good days” and “bad days” a mind-boggling misunderstanding of the opportunity-of-life.

How much of my perception is chemistry? Ventral vagus tugging-at-war with dorsal vagus for story dominance? Meaning made via neurotransmitter? Does my chemistry generally opt for connection or protection? Like most of us, I imagine myself as somehow independent of my environment, an individual, self-actualized. As it turns out, that is proof of delusion. Or human-specific-hubris. I cannot know myself without your reflection. You cannot know yourself without mine.

First we sense. And then we story. And then our stories wear paths in our mind meadow, chemical preferences.

Green on green. Not as simple as it seems. Boundless as this passing moment. Infinite.

[*special thanks to The Marginalian by Maria Popova – June 9, 2024 – for her reflections on polyvagal theory]

Surrender Now, 24″ x 24″ mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about GREEN

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The Way Home [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

This peony-perspective begs to be the inciting image of a children’s book. I imagine the main character comes from a world where people are smaller than flowers. Where bumblebees are happy Ubers delivering their small human riders to distant neighborhoods when they need a lift. Where nature is magical, playful and esteemed.

Not all ideas make it to the final draft so it’s important to stack up the ideas and have fun with the images. The main character sleeps inside the peony. The Uber bees are chaotic fliers and one never knows where they land; in this world, destination is always a surprise. Spontaneity is the norm.

In this world where people look up to flowers, “Home” is everywhere for everyone – so people, unacquainted with ownership or territory, have evolved as intrinsically helpful. Generosity of spirit is a highly prized character trait. Survival is not of the fittest but of the kindest.

Hummingbirds know the secret of finding sweet treats, caterpillars know the secret of patience.

Since this storybook is evolving as a sweet utopia, it begs the question, “What’s the conflict?” Stories do not work without obstacles. The bigger the better. What is the lesson our main character must learn? What gets lost that must be found? Maybe our little person, like Adam and Eve, falls out of their garden? Perhaps an Uber bee unwittingly flies our hero/heroine through a magic portal, to a place where people are bigger than flowers? In a world that seems sad and upside-down, the question becomes, how does our little person, lost in the land of big, find their way home?

read Kerri’s blogpost about PEONY PERSPECTIVE

Bonus! Perhaps this amazing composition will be the theme for the animated version of the story book once it garners a world-wide audience!

The Way Home/This Part of the Journey © 1997/2000 Kerri Sherwood

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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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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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Deal In Imagination [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“The imagination is not a state: it is the human existence itself.” ~ William Blake

I think a lot about artists that were influential but financially unsuccessful. The list is much longer than you might imagine. Most artists fit into that category. William Blake shook the cultural foundations but died a pauper. Mozart. Van Gogh. Artists that are successful according to our recognized standard are the exception and not the rule. Thankfully, there is an imperative that reaches deeper than money. A need to create. A need to come together. There is a resonance that we recognize with the currency of genuine appreciation.

Occasionally I revisit a book by Wayne Muller, How Then Shall We Live. It’s about giving meaning to life, bringing purpose to it as opposed to finding purpose in it. Although Wayne Muller might not recognize it, his book is about imagination. Imagination is what we bring to life (yes, a double entendre). Imagination is where we create our purpose. We imagine ourselves whole.

Wander your neighborhood for an hour and comprehend the truth that everything you see sprang from someone’s imagination. The plumbing and electrics, the structures and finishes; someone, somewhere, imagined it before it came into three dimensions. Form and function chasing each other. Someone imagined how to make life easier or prettier or more secure. We are a rolling anthill of roiling imagination. We might think our imagination is self-serving but even the most dedicated expressionist needs an audience to fulfill their purpose. No one throws paint on a canvas or dances on a stage without imagining the witness of others. The moving of spirits to join together. No one builds a road so they alone can drive on it.

Look around. Imagination is abundant. The paper napkins are designed. The silverware is crafted. In our old house, the wood floors were laid by someone who cared about their work; caring is a function of imagination.

So is remembrance; my wild imagination loves to toy with the past: this is how I remember it! This is how I’d like to remember it.

When I am lost and afraid, like you, I imagine myself warm at home. It keeps we walking.

Artists deal in imagination and, so, are stewards of a special kind of riches: the power to bring even the most lost heart back to itself, the power to bring a room full of dedicated strangers into a single shared story.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FLOWERS

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Take Heart! [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Look carefully at the top of this photograph and the story will become clear. There is a giant pursuing this caterpillar.

The fuzzy critter must have taken something from the giant. A golden goose or magic potion for transformation. And then, in the dead of night, made a run for it. I’m not sure how but the caterpillar climbed down the bean stalk or leapt the crevasse or…navigated whatever obstacle separates the land of giants from the land of future butterflies.

It might seem hopeless for the racing caterpillar -as is true in all worthy stories. The fuzzy hero seems doomed. The giant might in a single stride catch it and reclaim the stolen treasure.

But take heart! Carefully note that the giant is standing still! It has yet to spy the fleeing larva. Just beyond the photo-frame is a field of tall grasses! A meadow without end! A chance of escape, though not yet visible to us, is within reach!

Imagine it! The giant catches sight of the caterpillar as it rushes for the cover of the meadow. He steps, his foot thundering just behind the caterpillar, bouncing the vulnerable critter off its feet. The giant reaches! The caterpillar rolls and in a miracle of impossibility, regains its footing and in a desperate leap disappears into the grasses, wriggles into the shrubbery.

The giant howls and thrashes at the tall grasses, pulling apart the Milkweed, tearing up the Wild Carrot, to no avail. The caterpillar, against all odds, escapes.

And now that it has safely absconded with the magic potion, the golden goose, what will it do with the power of this great unknown? What possible future does it imagine this adventure will bring?

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CATERPILLAR

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

It looks like Persephone is back from the underworld. Or at least she is on her way. Demeter, her mother, goddess of all things that grow in nature, is starting to celebrate.

Persephone is early and, although Demeter, like all mothers, is over-the-moon with excitement with the early return of her daughter, the rest of us should be wondering “What’s up?” When those fickle gods change pattern this dramatically there’s good reason to wonder when the storm will arrive. Balance is off; things are about to tilt.

This morning I opened the back door to let the Dogga out and was completely captivated by the bird song. The full chorus was singing and they were glorious. In truth, the full chorus has been singing the sun up every morning for the past several weeks. Spring arrived in February. I am often awake when the first bird, the early soloist, takes the stage. I wonder if they know. Listening to the birds, looking at my untouched snow shovel resting by the back door, I thought about my dear friend in Reno who wrote, “We never get this much snow…”

Balance. Persephone ate six pomegranate seeds, the fruit of the underworld, so a bargain was struck: for each seed consumed she must spend a month in the underworld. Six months in the underworld. And, six months in the light with her mother, the earth celebrating their reunion. Six and six. This year, the bargain must have collapsed since we are three and nine. What about the other three seeds?

What about the balance?

read Kerri’s blogpost about GREEN SHOOTS

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Celebrate And Release [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

If this was a painting it would be titled “The View from the Kitchen Window in the Middle of the Polar Freeze.” It’s lovely and abstract yet also carries hints of an impressionist sky. One hundred years of painting history all wrapped up in a single frozen moment.

When I lived on the west coast I experienced my share of earthquakes. They were of varying intensity, some subtle shakers, another knocked my neighbor’s house off the foundation. And although they were different in character and spanned a few decades of time, one thing remained constant: in the moments that followed the quake, the best of human nature stepped forward. People immediately reached to strangers and friends – it didn’t matter – to ensure that everyone was alright. A shared experience, a shaking-to-the-core, loosened all the protective layers. The light came through the frozen facade.

As we’ve written, the polar freeze has driven us into the basement to clean out the stuff-of-life collected over three decades. It’s been a minor fascination that our cleaning process has inspired stories from friends about the time that they cleaned out the stuff-of-their-lives. Amidst the many stories we’ve heard, there is a triple constant: the stuff they saved, just like us, are the artifacts of their children with the intention of someday giving the treasures to their children. Clothes. Finger paintings. Trophies. Sporting equipment. Children’s books…our collection fills many shelves that now dip from the weight of too many books packed onto too small a shelf.

The second constant: the children do not want what the parents have saved. The museum of parenthood. The cleaning commences once the parents realize that saving the artifacts was, in fact, something they did for themselves. And so their life review is called “cleaning out.”

The third constant: the cleanse is actually a portal. A next chapter, another identity, lives on the other side of the purge. New light calls through the frozen memories. The memories warm in the telling. The sharing of the tales of parenthood, lovingly mourned and with gratitude, celebrated and released.

I Will Hold You, 29.75 x 39.25, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE FREEZE

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