Meet The Expectation [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

In our house they are called “happy lights” because they make us happy. And, because they make us happy, happy lights can be found in almost every room of our house. They wind around the headboard of our bed, they outline the window in the sitting room, they wind around the aspen log in our dining room. They wind around the big branches in our living room.

On particularly dark days, after opening the shades, the first action of the day is to plug in the happy lights. All of them. It’s a task that requires moving room-to-room, intentionally inviting happiness into the space. It’s not a bad way to start the day. It’s not a bad practice to stumble around the house, half awake, and expect happiness to turn on with the lighting of the happy lights. And, not surprisingly, happiness meets the expectation.

At the end of the day the last act of closing-up and tucking-in the house is to unplug the happy lights. It’s become a ritual of gratitude, a thankfulness for the happiness brought by the lights. Our headboard happy light, always the first light of the day, is the last light we turn off before sleeping, the last whisper of appreciation for the day.

In these past few months I have grown more conscious and grateful of our happy light ritual. The intentional invitation and invocation of happiness, the deliberate practice of gratitude, seems more and more necessary amidst the national dedication to maga-animus. If there is nothing to be done about the indecent darkness descending on the country, we can, at the very least, invite light into our home, and perhaps share some small measure of the happiness and kindness that our happy lights inspire.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HAPPY LIGHTS

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The Future We Plant [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Milkweed seed pods in winter. It’s mauve flowers are by now a distant memory yet their remembrance also must serve as a desire. What would be the point of releasing its seed to the wind if there was no dream of future mauve blossoms?

Kerri and I are not so different from the Milkweed. We write everyday; our words are seeds released into the e-wind with the hope of reaching fertile hearts and minds. Who knows what blossoms our word-seeds might inspire?

Much of what we write is the mauve blossom of word-seeds sent on the e-wind by others. The thought-seed of others lands and is planted in our hearts and minds. Over time, with warmth and consideration, the seed cracks and sends new-thought shoots to the surface, seeking sun and expression. And so we write. We send. Others receive. In turn, they write or draw or dance – they send – and we receive. It’s a cycle of sharing that goes mostly unrecognized. A riot of unseen interconnectivity. It’s called inspiration.

Words, even the most casual, are more powerful than we realize. They are symbols. They are seeds of future-thought in others. Some, like invasive weeds, are capable of doing harm. They choke the inner landscape where they are planted. Some are like acorns. They land in timid hearts and produce towering strength beyond imagination.

When I listen to the discourse in our media and politics, I shudder at the seeds being planted. I marvel at the ease of misinformation, the ubiquity of lies. Words meant to mislead. Words meant to do harm. Words meant to hurt. Mean-spirited seeds.

I can’t help but wonder what fields of flowers we would produce if we understood the real power of our words. I wonder what future we plant in each other through the words we so easily release into the wind.

read Kerri’s blogpost about MILKWEED

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What We Pretend To Be [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

“A Republic is an empire of laws, not men.” ~ John Adams

On the eve of the new year it is customary to make resolutions and, borrowing from the great Kurt Vonnegut, I have a suggestion for both a national and personal resolution: “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”

This year we must resolve to be careful what we pretend to be.

I grew up hearing that we are a nation of laws and that no one – no one – was above the law. That founding principle, long held, understood by all, honored by all, was applied to all. Even presidents. It is a principle at the epicenter of what defined us. It was what we once pretended to be. Recently, the Supreme Court ruled that we must pretend to be something else, the law of the nation cannot – or will not – touch everyone. In these past months we’ve been witness to the fall of the law. We are now pretending to be an empire of lawless men.

The 14th Amendment of our Constitution disqualifies former government officials from holding office if they took an oath to support the Constitution but then betrayed it by engaging in an insurrection. It is written into our Constitution, our highest document of law. Where-oh-where are the keepers of the law? What now are they – those lawmakers in both houses of Congress, sworn to uphold the Constitution – pretending to be? They must be pretending that they swore an oath, nothing more. Law-less men and women.

I can – and have – read The Constitution. It is easy to find, easy to read. The 14th Amendment is not ambiguous.

Where-oh-where are those conservative members of the Supreme Court who pretend to be literalists, interpreters and champions of the letter-of-the-law as written in the Constitution? They, too, swore an oath. They must be pretending to be blind. What letter of the law are they literally pretending not to see?

They certainly want us to join them in pretending not to see.

I can see. I know an insurrection when I see it. I know who incited it. I cannot pretend otherwise. Why are we pretending not to see it?

My resolution: to be very careful what I pretend to be. I hope you will join me in my resolution.

read Kerri’s blogpost on THE NEW YEAR

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A Little Bit Of Light [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

The holiday around our house is like a daily treasure hunt. I never see her do it, I never catch her in the act, but each day, a bauble or bulb or ornament shows up on a windowsill or in a flower pot or hanging from a shelf in the kitchen. A little bit of light found in an unlikely place.

Today is the eve of Christ mass. It is also the eve of Hanukkhah. It is the eves-eve of Kwanzaa. A birth, the rededication of a temple of belief, a celebration of culture. Symbols and rituals of hope and renewal, showing up everywhere. A little bit of light popping up in kitchens and family rooms, places where people gather when they are seeking light and love.

A few years ago she wrote a song in what seemed to me only a minute or two. She needed another piece for a cantata she was rehearsing and couldn’t find anything that she liked. It’s called “You’re Here”. It exists only in the roughest of recordings. I caught it on my iPhone. This morning, while searching for another piece of music, we came across it and, as is true every time I hear it, I was saddened that this little bit of light is not known far and wide. A song of brokenness healed. A sunrise. A wish of hope.

I’ve posted it before – probably this time last year. But this morning, given the brokenness of our nation, the dedicated us-and-them-ness, the splintering of family, pundits and politicians fueling-rage-for-gain…I found it much more relevant now than when she wrote it.

If it is not of your faith tradition, you only need listen beneath the words to find the purity of her intention. A little bit of light found in an unlikely place.

Merry eve. Happy eves-eve.

You’re Here © 2018/2024 Kerri Sherwood

read Kerri’s blogpost about UNLIKELY PLACES

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Our Real Riches [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Since rarely in life have we had excess, we’ve become experts of austerity and yet we seldom feel wanton or that we are lacking in any way. Quite the opposite! We usually walk in rich abundance – the kind that is not connected to possession or attainment or access. We appreciate to our core the gift of being alive, our time together, the plenty that comes from our friendships, the affluence of our artistry. There is no end to the ideas we chase or the moments we cherish. For us, each walk on the trail is extraordinary. We never take it for granted.

The gift of our strict no-spending orientation is that, when we do afford ourselves a treat, the pleasure is amplified; a tiny moment elevated to the exceptional. For instance, yesterday while shopping for gifts we did something that we rarely allow ourselves to do: we stopped at a bakery, bought a pastry and a cup of coffee. We were giddy with excitement. We savored every bite. We cherished sitting in the warm cafe on a cold wet day and sipping a hot, bold cup of coffee. A seasonal sensual pleasure. We promised each other that someday we would do it again.

Our real riches are in our eyes, our seeing. Kerri’s eyes see beauty in everything. At the first dusting of snow she dashed outside to capture the textures and color on the deck. “Lookit!” she said, showing me her discovery, nose red from the cold.

My eyes see movement and connectivity. Busy streets often appear to me as a dance. In a past life I adored teaching because I could see ideas ripple and discoveries flow through the class. I adored watching audiences join in what I came to understand as a single heart beat. Perhaps that was what called me to the theatre. I am only now beginning to understand what calls me to paint.

We moved our old wooden glider, deck furniture, into our living room. A well-used, very old studio lamp, a treasure found at an antique sale for five dollars, serves as a reading lamp. Next to the glider is a tall branch, painted white, wrapped in happy lights and adorned with holiday crystals. It’s become a favorite place to sit. Our happy hour has migrated from the kitchen table to the living room glider where we can appreciate our holiday decorations and watch the world pass by outside the front window.

‘I love it here,” she says, giving Dogga a nibble of cracker. Me, too. I love it here.

***

After writing my post, while waiting for Kerri to finish hers, I opened my email and read the latest of Maria Popova’s The Marginalian:

“The destination, rather than a place, is a state of being — the recompense of paying everything in our path the gratitude and reverence it is due for merely existing. For we forget, too, that dignity — this deepest reverence for being — is not something we can ever have for ourselves unless we accord it to everything and everyone else.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about APPRECIATION

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Embrace Invisibility [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

In a recent documentary about his life and work, artist Anselm Kiefer said, “Being is nothingness and nothingness is being.” He was pondering how small and insignificant we are in the scope of the infinite universe, and how, for him, our smallness relieves the stresses of having to succeed. He added, “I fail before I begin.”

The best advice I’ve received recently? Horatio’s suggestion that I go into the studio and “Paint crap.” In other words, loosen up, have fun, completely detach from outcomes. Fail before I begin. Sage counsel: paint for pure pleasure and for no other reason. Drop the measuring stick and reclaim the child who loved to paint. The other stuff will take care of itself.

We regularly check in on Martijn Doolaard. He’s reconstructing old stone buildings as his homestead in the Italian Alps. His weekly update films are gorgeous. His way of working is more so. In his own words, he focuses on process. There are goals, certainly, but everything he does, he does beautifully. He is attentive even in the most tedious of tasks, working, not to get through it, but to do it well.

Staring out the window over the kitchen sink, we switched on the backyard light so we might see the arrival of the snow. The season’s first snowfall came in the night. I thought about a post I wrote and then erased, about achieving invisibility. It wasn’t a complete thought and I wasn’t certain whether I was writing about my fear or my freedom. Anselm made an appearance in my mind as I marveled at the flurry of snow made visible by the light: Being is nothingness and nothingness is being. Embrace invisibility and dance with abandon in the fields beyond failure and success. What else?

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE FIRST SNOW

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A Mutual Bond [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Among the many tiny treasures that Horatio dropped on me during our call was this: when it’s all said and done, love is paying attention.

That may not on the surface sound like an earth-shattering revelation until it’s pondered for a moment. To what or to whom do you give your attention?

Attention is something given.

Actors (and artists) mature when they understand it. The scene is never about them. It is always about the “other” and the relationship created when attention is given. In this way artistry is a potlatch, a gift-giving.

When Kerri stops on the trail, captured by something beautiful, a thistle, a pattern, a winter sky…there is palpable love in the attention she gives. I often imagine that the thistle or caterpillar first gave their attention to her. That was the call. The allure that drew her attention. That, of course, is the secret: giving attention is a magnet. It creates a mutual bond.

There is a profound power available when one learns that attention is not happenstance but intentional. A choice.

It may be the epicenter of all choices, the fundamental decision: where do you decide to place your focus? Where – or to whom – do you give your attention?

“Target what you love,” Horatio said. “Tap into the source.”

read Kerri’s blog on TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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Sit Down And Be Lost [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

It always happens this time of year. We jump on a trail in the early afternoon thinking we have plenty of time and are caught completely off guard when the sun sets. “What time is it?” we ask in our annual ritual of amazement. It is always earlier – much earlier – than we think. “It’s not even happy hour!” we declare, walking in the dark, as if the great-gods-of-daylight might not have fully considered the impact on happy hour before they magically turned the dial and made 4:30pm feel like midnight.

This fall we feel particularly out of sync with time. We lost the month of October to Covid. We feel as if Covid was a portal into the Twilight Zone: we entered the month with hope and health and by the time we emerged from our sickness, it was the middle of November and the world was completely changed. Darker. It feels a bit Rip-Van-Winkle-ish.

Rob once told me when I felt lost in the woods, that the best thing to do was sit down and be still. Not to panic or walk in circles. To surrender trying-to-be-found. “Sit down and be lost. Relax and pay attention,” he wrote, “then maybe a direction will reveal itself to you.”

It was sage advice and even more so in the current darkness descending on our nation. On one level, we are preparing for the storm of chaos and indecency coming down the pike. On another level, feeling lost and confused with the national inversion of dignity and civility, we are choosing to sit down. We are choosing to be lost. It is more useful, now that the initial disgust and disbelief is past, to relax and pay attention.

For all of us who value the promise of the ideal beating at the heart of our Constitution, now threatened by thuggery and incompetence, it is our belief that a direction will reveal itself.

In the meantime, we surrender trying to be found. In the meantime, we hold firmly to each other and our hope…

read Kerri’s blogpost about LOST IN THE WOODS

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About Peace [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

My dear Judy checked in. She was worried for me since my recent posts have been dark. Her outreach came at a good time since I have been aware of the difference between what I am currently writing and what I am experiencing as I write. For this moment in time, for my journey in this life, what I am writing may sound dark but it couldn’t be more positive.

I was writing notes to myself to try and articulate why, for me, my posts are so life-affirming, when Kerri showed me this video. I couldn’t have written a better or more clear description. If you haven’t yet seen this, take four minutes and watch it. Take it in.

I have spent much of my life attempting to “keep the peace”. Mostly, that has meant withholding my voice. To be silent in an effort not to stir the pot. To not be contradictory and rock the boat. It has never really worked. What I have achieved is voice-less-ness; laughable, I know, since I write a blog six days a week – but true. I have until recently been very careful to edit thoughts that might offend. I have consciously attended to calming the ripples of other’s feelings more than the honest expression of my own.

This video nicely encapsulates the imperative I now feel. Peace demands that we speak up for each other. Peace demands that we stand up and say, “This isn’t right.” Peace demands that we look at elected Republicans and ask, “Where is your spine? And, if you can’t find your spine, can you possibly locate your moral compass? Either will do. Either serve us in this moment.”

Peace demands that we look at ourselves and ask the same two questions. And then give voice to our disgust and outrage. An arsonist is setting our house on fire. Many people are being burned. Many more are in danger. This is no time to smile sweetly and pretend or to play peacekeeper. A lesson from Gandhi who was not silent. An example set by Martin Luther King, Tarana Burke and so many others. They were loud. They are loud. Their aim is peace.

For me – and for you – there is no peace in silence or pretending. As I am learning, we become centered, unified and stronger when we speak up and speak out.

read Kerri’s blogpost about VOICE

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Climb The Stairs [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

It was a rare treat to climb the stairs to the rooftop deck and gaze into the night sky, unobstructed by city lights. Years ago I worked with kids in Los Angeles, teenagers, who had never seen the stars. Standing on the roof, overwhelmed by the Milky Way, I thought about those children, now well into their adulthood, and hoped that they had, at long last, found a way to peer into the endless universe.

What else might adequately provide them the understanding of the impossibility of their existence, the enormity of their lives? What else might open their eyes and hearts to the necessity of community, the recognition that their lives only have meaning relative to the people who share this planet and this moment-in-time with them? Relationship is purpose.

We have seven days. In biblical terms that’s how long it took the metaphoric god to differentiate light from dark, land from sea, moon from sun, animals from humans. Rest from work. Humanity’s role in this story of creation is to appreciate the enormity of their unlikely existence. To steward. To name. To discern between merit and the meritless, between truth and lie. To distinguish good intention from ill-intention.

We have seven days until we vote. Although we might pretend this is normal, this election is like no other in our lifetimes. The issues have taken a back seat to the question of our existence as a democracy. We are determining whether or not we are still capable of distinguishing truth from lie, whether or not we are willing to toss away our freedoms and replace them with authoritarian rage, whether or not we will serve the needs of the greater community or the power-lust of an individual.

Seven days. We will either step forward as champions of light and truth or we will turn our backs on what we know to be true and fall backwards into the dark fascist promises of Project 2025.

Under the stars we have a choice: to continue our quest to realize the dream of a more perfect union, with liberty and justice for all – or to exchange our constitution for the autocratic craving of an angry despot. To honestly name what we know to be true.

There’s still time to climb the stairs, peer into the starry sky, and realize the power of our choices, what is at stake in this, our time, our moment.

read Kerri’s blogpost about STARS

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