Exactly The Point [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Chris wrote that he was taking a break from Facebook. “I’ve spent too much time in this space.”

I told Kerri that after I was finished with my slow re-read of Amusing Ourselves to Death, for a while I was only going to read books that filled me with light. “I’ve had too much of darkness,” I said.

Walter Lippmann posited that “…distorted information was inherent in the human mind. People make up their minds before they define the facts…” In other words, we are more gullible and impressionable than we care to admit, and are too soon planting our belief-flags in the sand. In other-other words, fact checking is not a human forté. Gossip mongering is.

Kerri and I often walk arm and arm along the waterfront, an old-world evening constitutional, a stroll taken slowly enough to notice, an opportunity to say “Hello,” when passing neighbors and friends. More and more I think it an essential to regularly set aside those little screens that dominate our viewpoints, and clear our minds. Every painter knows that perspective is gained by stepping back. I can read streams of opinions all day long but nothing beats the affirmation of real community than a hot summer night, people sitting on porches and a neighborhood mosey.

Families filled the park. The cool breeze off the lake drew them to the shore. Barbecues. Children chasing balls and each other. A feeling of respite was pervasive. Laughter. Shared space. We passed two teenage girls sitting on a bench with a bucket of colored pencils between them, coloring their books and chatting.

The sky morphed from orange and blue to purple and pink. A single bird arced across the sky. “What are you thinking?” I asked.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” she said. “I’m just enjoying the moment.”

I smiled, thinking, “Yes. And isn’t that exactly the point?”

read Kerri’s blog post about THE PINK SKY

like. support. comment. share. subscribe. thank you!

Yes. It’s Like That [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

I used to wonder how Emily Dickinson, living most of her life in the isolation of her family home, could write poetry so soul-expansive. Her world of experience was impossibly narrow yet her view into the human heart so broad and deep. I am no longer confused about the limitlessness available in a tiny garden. There is more life teeming in our small backyard than I can possibly comprehend.

It had been years since we gathered with the Up-North gang in our home. They commented that our yard was “zen”. It’s true. We’ve come to think of it as our sanctuary. A creation borne of Covid isolation, of necessity during the pandemic, we brought our full attention to the only place in the world that seemed safe. Our yard. Over long winter months, sitting at the black table in our sunroom, we stared into the backyard. We watched the patterns of the birds and discovered the nests of bunnies and chipmunks. We watched with awe the subtle changes of seasons and the play of light. We wondered how we could make our safe space more comfortable for us and amenable to the plants and animals. We dreamed. And slowly, throughout our isolation and beyond, we carefully attended to our peace-of-heart. Is it no wonder that we now adore sitting in our yard, daily trying to comprehend the abounding life within our eyesight?

Emily Dickinson wrote her poems from just such an expansive place. Lately I feel an affinity with her. More than once, lost in wonder, I have thought, “How can I possibly describe what I’m seeing and feeling?” I understand, like Emily, it’s not possible to capture, but isn’t that the artist’s job, the poet’s errand, to somehow express that which is beyond our capacity to grasp? To bring hearts and minds together through a poem or play or a composition, so we might together whisper, “Yes. It’s like that.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE ORB

share. support. like. comment. subscribe. we appreciate it.

Turtle-Slapped [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

A turtle appeared on the path at just the right moment. As I like to say, our “jammies were in a bunch” and we were about to go over the edge and fall into a dark abyss of circumstance-dissatisfaction. We rounded the bend as our discontent began spiraling out of control, and then we saw the turtle.

Everything changed in an instant.

She cooed, knelt, and stroked the turtle’s shell. Not expecting a tsunami of affection, the turtle retreated into its fortress. But after a moment, realizing that this assault was indeed loving, it peeked and then poked its head out into the light. It slowly pivoted so she might get a better angle for her photoshoot. The turtle was a patient model and didn’t seem to mind her multiple-broken-promises of “Only one more, I swear,” as she continued snapping photographs.

We admired the orange markings, outlined in black, set in the field of green. “Gorgeous,” she whispered, tracing the markings with her finger.

After an appropriate visit, we left it to return to the marsh, and continued on our way. “What were we talking about?” I asked.

“I can’t remember,” she said, her prior frustration having completely dissipated. Mine, too.

In truth, we both remembered but no longer needed to grouse about what we could not control. We probably didn’t need to spin frustration tales to begin with. Thankfully, we were turtle-slapped into the recognition that what we needed most in our dedicated-exasperation was to slow down and appreciate our walk.

The wisdom of distraction. A turtle suddenly appears on the path at just the right moment…

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE TURTLE

share. like. support. subscribe. comment. thank you!

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

like. support. share. comment. subscribe. many thanks!

One And The Same [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

[Embrace of Life by Mimi Webster in the John Denver Sanctuary]

She shared a video posted by a friend: elephants drinking from a watering hole. The opportunity of a lifetime to see it. Yet, it is something that happens everyday if you live in that part of the world. The ordinary and the miraculous, one-and-the-same.

He wrote that he was helping his granddaughter move from college for summer break. His love was palpable. The task was nothing more or less than an opportunity for shared time. Time shared, nothing better.

We took a walk along the lake, my dear-friend, long lost and newly found. We were catching-up on missed chapters and yet talked as if we were picking up a conversation that we started yesterday, as if no time passed between our last meeting and today. In the telling we consciously wove together the rich tapestry of our friendship-story, the necessary sharing of triumphs and tragedies. All important colors on the palette.

“When was the last time we were here?” she asked as we crossed the bridge into the sanctuary. More than a few years. “So much has happened,” she whispered. So much. We are different than the couple who held hands and crossed this bridge in the past. We no longer swim against the current. The wisdom of exhaustion. She saw the sculpture, Embrace of Life, turned and threw open her arms, mimicking the pose and said, “Yes!”

read Kerri’s blogpost about EMBRACE OF LIFE

share. comment. like. subscribe. support. many thanks!

Then And Now [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Then and now.

The moment we knew we were going to Aspen, we looked at each other and said, “John Denver Sanctuary”. It is a special place. A place of peace and quiet in an angry noisy world.

We first visited The Sanctuary In 2016, the year after we were married. John Denver has always been an inspiration to Kerri. Simple. Straight forward. Positive. A bard who dreamed of a better world. In music. We found the monument stone that carried his lyrics to Annie’s Song, – a special wedding song for us -crawled onto the stone and Kirsten took our picture. That was then.

Nearly a decade later, a wedding brought us back to Aspen and to The Sanctuary. In the middle of May we walked the paths and stepped over the streams all by ourselves. No one else was there. We found Annie’s Song, set the timer on the camera, and scurried to the stone to get into the frame. Now.

We lingered there, talking of all that had happened in the decade between the two photos. So many stories! So much life! Who we were then. Who we are now. Who we are becoming.

And, as is always the case, remembering that the sanctuary isn’t just a place, it is also a way of being. We always have the option of bringing the sanctuary with us – being it. That’s what we hope for our becoming. In our artistry. It’s what we’ve always hoped for – then and now.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SANCTUARY

like. share. subscribe. support. comment. thank you!

As If [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

In a festival of irony, the moment we sat down to write about our peony, our harbinger of summer sun and the return of good weather, the sky darkened, the lightning flashed, the thunder clapped, and the rain is now dropping in buckets. The weather alert screeched with a warning for hail and possible tornadoes.

I delight in how readily my superstition-gene leaps out of the murky depths of my subconscious pond and concocts fabulous explanations about current circumstance. That is, as a human-being, a maker of stories – I am quite capable of connecting the rush of the sudden storm with our attempt to write about peonies. As if our attempt to write about peonies somehow invoked the storm!

This is not surprising. It is nothing new. My ancestors – and yours – created all manner of rituals in an attempt to appease the angry thunder-hurling god. To influence the powers of dark and light. To invite good fortune. To bring rain to crops. We have always personified nature and then imagined it is responsive to our behavior. Our behests. All around the globe, in many varied and culturally diverse forms, we do it in houses of worship to this day.

It might seem that I am making fun – and I am – but more than that, I am marveling at our genuine desire to be connected to “something bigger” and yet how rarely we recognize that we already are. We are as the peony, not separate from but a part of the pulse of life. We are of nature – not separate from it. My theory is that we have a hard time recognizing it because we imagine that we can control it. We use it to explain what we experience. We use it to justify our abuses to each other. Chosen people; Manifest Destiny and all of that ugly business. The personality we project upon it is at once beatific and horrific. We wonder why it blows our house away. We thank it for our good fortune.

In truth, we do influence Mother Nature and Father Sky, just not in the magical ways we imagine. Carbon emissions. Tapping mighty rivers dry before they reach the sea. Dumping our trash in the oceans. Fracking. It turns out that our behaviors are powerful and, perhaps, our destiny is in our hands. We need not pray to the gods for intervention and salvation, perhaps we need to be the gods of intervention that we desire to be, recognize and behave as if are not above it all, giver of names, but integral, intrinsic, no more or less essential than the peony.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PEONY

like. support. share. subscribe. comment. or not – it’s all good.

Grasp The Enormity [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Benison was my word-of-the-day. It was a new word to me and it means a blessing or benediction (to bestow a blessing). I especially appreciated this word-of-the-day since I’ve lately been listening for the word “blessing”. It’s become something of a study or a game. I laughed when the word popped into my inbox. “Good timing!” I chirped.

I rarely go a day without hearing someone, somewhere, utter the word “blessing”. On the street, in the grocery store, neighbors chatting over the fence, in a bar, passing people on the trail…I’ve decided it’s a blanket word, generic, used to include many experiences. “What a blessing!”

I was considering adding it to my list of over-used and no longer meaningful words, like paradigm or story except that lately I’m of the opinion that this whole life, the entire ride with all of it’s ups and downs and confusions and clarities, is a blessing. A benison. A gift. Every single moment.

It flies in the face of common sense since I was given to understand that blessings are unique, something special. If every single moment is a blessing, then what’s the point of elevating this moment over that moment? Of course, I realized that I was (again) missing the point. The whole ride is a blessing. We mostly don’t realize it. We are mostly unconscious of it. Our awareness is some-other-place making lists or worrying worries so we mis-understand it. The word “blessing” is a descriptor of something unique and precious: those rare moments we actually grasp the enormity of being alive. Full stop and, as Lydia reminded me, breathe in the awe.

These days I think Kerri and I are practicing seeing our blessings. We are cultivating our capacity to notice. We note with delight the first buds of spring. We savor tastes. We love on the Dogga. So, when the Red Admiral butterfly landed on the Adirondack chair on a sunny early spring afternoon, “a symbol of spiritual awakening, transformation and renewal” we simultaneously said, “What a blessing!”

A benison. Yes, for us, a gift.

read Kerri’s blogpost about BLESSINGS

like. comment. share. support. subscribe. we appreciate it!

Unfurl [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

I’m proud of her. Twice this week Kerri has fact-checked friends on FB who posted articles riddled with misinformation meant to rile. It took her less than a minute each time. In posting a link to the fact-check, she wrote, “Please check your information before you pass it on. xo”

It seems like such a small thing but it’s lately apparent that it’s becoming everything:

We forget that democracy is not a thing. It is an idea. It is an action rather than a noun. We forget that our democracy is young. Very, very young.

It worries me when I hear politicians making laws placing limits on the discussion of ideas at school. It worries me when I read that parents want teachers to teach “only the facts”. In today’s bubble-discourse it is a valid question to ask, “Whose facts?” Discerning between fact and fiction requires minds and hearts capable of questioning, capable of challenging the “facts” they are being fed. The notion of the purpose of education as a feeder-of-facts is nothing less than a sign of moral and mental decay. This is especially true in our great age of information with its ever-present shadow of rampant misinformation.

Democracies collapse when ideas and ideals are no longer debated, when winning-at-any-cost overshadows compromise, when respect for divergent points of view is overrun by intolerance. Healthy democracies are an ongoing tug-of-war; creative tension generated by a lively and respectful exchange of perspectives. This requires a system of education that nurtures these qualities and capacities.

Democracies collapse when they aim for an end result rather than steward a living process.

The point of education in a democracy is to consciously and carefully unfurl young minds so they might become active questioners, expansive thinkers, participating citizens in an ongoing experiment in a complex system called democracy, capable of stewarding their communities forward through an ever-changing world toward the promises inherent in the IDEA: equality, inclusion, governance by the people, for the people.

I would hope that we become capable of grokking governance-by-the-people which necessitates a people educated in ideas, reinforced in their curiosity and capacity to question, to converse and debate complex issues, capable of discerning ruinous power-over-agendas from the central idea enlivening their budding democracy: power with.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FERNS

like. share. support. subscribe. comment. many thanks.

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

subscribe. like. share. support. comment. thank you!