For All Humans [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

I read that Cinco de Mayo, in addition to being a celebration of Mexican heritage and culture, serves as a reminder of Mexican resistance and resilience in the face of adversity. That makes this Cinco de Mayo a uniquely potent and particularly relevant celebration. With Mexico demonized and under assault from this current administration, it is more important than ever to uplift and honor Mexican heritage. Honoring Mexico on this day serves as an act of resistance to the bully xenophobic Republican agenda.

It also serves as a reminder that this nation – in reality – is a celebration of many ethnicities. We are a cultural crossroads. That is precisely what makes America great. We need not go back to some imagined fantasy-past. Our strength in this democratic experiment is our capacity to reinvent ourselves, over and over again.

The bumper sticker reads, “Equality hurts no one.” Too true. Equality is the ideal, the guide star at the very center of the Declaration of Independence, the driving force behind our capacity to re-imagine ourselves. It is the promise that allows us to intend a nation comprised of many races and ethnicities, a people capable overcoming their small tribal imperatives to create a more perfect union. In the ideal, our differences are what unite us. Our differences are our strength. In our nation, as in nature, our diversity is – and always has been – our secret sauce. Our superpower. It is the unique source of our innovation and our capacity to adapt, change, and grow.

More importantly, equality-in-diversity is the magnetic north of our moral compass. It informs our national conscience. Human beings, regardless of race, gender, ethnicity or sexual orientation are afforded equal protection under the law. Equal rights. Human rights. An intention to foster equal opportunity for all. A celebration of humanity in all its rich multiplicity.

We can only hope that this current Republican attempt to scrub the nation of color, to force lock-step uniformity, is the last gasp of a dying white supremacy, the final whimper of Manifest Destiny. Change – real change – is always preceded by a frightened step backwards.

Today, more than ever, it is important to celebrate the resilience and resistance of Mexico, a day of triumph over a brutal suppressor. A day of recognition of the great spirit of Mexico, one of the many deep flowing currents of courage that forms the powerful river known as the United States of America, a nation of diversity that intends equity and inclusion – for all humans.

read Kerri’s blogpost about EQUALITY

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The Many, Many Things [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Although I see signs of spring everywhere, it wasn’t official until we received a text from The Grass King that the reality of the earth’s orbit set in. He’s monitoring the ground temperature and will let us know when it’s the perfect time to seed and fertilize. Like all of the plants, we yearn for some time in the sun.

For her birthday six years ago I gave her a paint bucket containing 60 slips of paper: 60 things I love about her. There were – and are – many more than 60 things so I had to edit. A few years after the bucket, among other things, I gave her a piano tuning. She has yet to cash in the tuning but I have hope that this is the year. True confession: my gift of tuning was selfish since I love to hear her play. Broken wrists et. al. has made those opportunities few and far between but I see signs…This truly may be the year.

Today she completes another lap around the sun. It’s her birthday. Dogga and I will spoil her to the degree that she allows (she generally resists being coddled). The day promises to be beautiful so we will take a nice walk. Perhaps a small adventure will beckon. 20 will come for dinner so there will be abundant food and laughter. Our celebrations are mostly low key – rather than fill them with events we tend to clear the space and follow our hearts.

13 years ago I followed my heart and stepped off an airplane to meet in-person this woman named Kerri. I’m so glad I did. Now, I could fill hundreds of paint buckets with slips of paper telling her of the many, many things I love about her.

Go here to visit my gallery site

read Kerri’s blogpost about TULIPS

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This Drivel [David’s blog on Flawed Wednesday]

Straw man (noun) 1. an intentionally misrepresented proposition that is set up because it is easier to defeat than an opponent’s real argument. 2. a person regarded as having no substance or integrity.

“…Americans use 500 million drinking straws every day.”

Actually, there is some debate about the actual number of straws used each day in these un-United States. The number falls somewhere between 175 million and 500 million. In any case, that is a ton of straws. Literally. I know this is a scintillating topic and you cannot wait to read on but keep in mind that among the mountain of executive orders pouring from the pen of the rapist-in-chief was a “an end to the procurement and forced use of paper straws.”

Some actions are symbolic. Language matters. Within the phrase “forced use of paper straws” is found the symbolic epicenter of the red-hat movement against “woke”. Apparently children and executives across the nation have been tackled, strapped into chairs, and forced to drink through compostable straws. Of course, as reported by the fox, after the horror of their involuntary straw encounter, they were bustled down the hall for an inescapable sex change operation. Now, legislators across the land are moving to slash the rights and liberties of the masses of straw-traumatized-unwilling-newly-transgendered. Trauma heaped upon trauma all due to the brutal mandates forced on the good-righteous-christian-red-hat citizens, simply trying to save their wives and daughters from the evil woke.

It’s a stinky victim tale.

Forced use of straws. “They’re eating the dogs!” Windmills are killing whales. Even as I write this I think to myself, “No one could possibly believe this drivel.” And yet…

Dedicated victim stories need enemies. Enemy creation is the oldest motivational tool in the authoritarian handbook. The enemy need not be real. It is equally powerful if actual or imagined. History is rife with fake-enemy-creation as motivation for a gullible populace to embrace. As victims, it is a small step to inflicting righteous pain on behalf of the tyrant. And feeling good about it.

That’s the point.

The entire narrative of the current administration is an imaginary battle waged on the evil woke who are busily deconstructing the American way of life, forcing horrid paper straw use and whisking away children for sex change operations without prior parental consent. It is ironic. “Woke” is a straw man used by the authoritarian-wanna-be (a straw man, definition #2), so weak and incapable of legislating his unpopular Project 2025 agenda that he must issue mountains of executive orders – all meant to consolidate power in the executive branch while also appointing loyal doormats to the justice department and military. In the meantime the gleeful DOGE, in the name of waste, fraud and abuse (yet another straw man) hastily dismantles – well, neuters – the powers of congress. It’s the textbook creation of a fascist state.

A note to victims: please keep your eyes on the evil-woke-left as the great leader saves you from forced use of paper straws. In that way, you won’t see – until it’s too late – the conservative right hand magically dismantling democracy, stripping away your rights and torching your liberties. Any good autocrat, like a good magician, knows the power of misdirecting focus.

It’s beyond ironic: a straw man using straws as a straw man. No one could possibly believe this drivel. And yet…

read Kerri’s blog on STRAWS

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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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So Do You [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

As you approach Monument Valley there is a blue sign and a nondescript pull out: Forrest Gump Point. It’s the place where they filmed the scene of Forrest ending his epic run. It’s now a place where travelers stop to jump out of their cars and into the road and have their picture taken. Photographic proof that “I stood where Forrest stood.” It is a whacky pilgrimage that none of us knew existed until we saw the sign.

No matter that Forrest Gump is a fictional character. He represents a way of being. A contemporary Buddha. A pure heart. Simple, honest and present.

In retrospect, it did my heart good to stand where Forrest stood. It did my heart good to witness so many travelers pull off the road and want to stand in that iconic spot, to want to get as close as possible to Forrest. Simple. Honest. Pure.

I thought of Forrest Gump Point this morning as I watched Jake Tapper interview speaker Mike Johnson. In a festival of gaslighting, Johnson tried to explain away the assertion made again and again by his party’s candidate that he would use the military against his political opponents. Johnson’s explanation: you are not hearing what you are clearly hearing.

Pretentious. Dishonest. Rank.

Forrest Gump did not know why he was running. He only knew that it was the right thing to do. He was running toward a truth.

Mike Johnson knows exactly why he is running and what he is running from. He also knows that it is the wrong thing to do. He -and his party of enablers – are running from the truth. They can pretend all day long that their candidate doesn’t say what he says, that he has not done what he has done, that he does not intend to do what he says he will do. Johnson knows, as they know, as you and I know, that he is lying, that they are lying. They are gaslighting. They are providing cover for a rapist, a pathological liar, a racist, a misogynist…an autocrat.

My wish for Johnson, the GOP, Bret Baier and his ilk, and all the voters that daily hide, make excuses for and explain away the behavior of their chosen candidate: I wish you would stop running from what you know to be the truth. I wish you would turn around and listen – simply listen – to the bilge that daily spews from your candidate’s mouth. I wish you would listen to the rubbish-explanations that daily clog your brains. I wish you would question your need to daily justify this morass. I wish you would check your moral compass and stop insisting that the hatred and chaos espoused by your candidate is in any way defensible or somehow worthy.

I wish you would stop telling me that I am not hearing what he is saying. I hear it. And, just like the Speaker of the House, Mike Johnson, so do you.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FORREST GUMP POINT

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In Friendship [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“Where self-interest is the bond, the friendship is dissolved when calamity comes. Where Tao is the bond, friendship is made perfect by calamity.” ~ Thomas Merton, The Way of Chuang Tzu

The basket of grasses has moved several times since I first set foot in this house, now my home. Our home. Kerri has a designer’s eye and the basket of grasses migrate according to her latest conception. Of late, they traveled to our bedroom and rest between the gingham chair and her jewelry box.

I know what you are thinking. As a dedicated wearer of black, a lover of earth tones, it is surprising that she has a gingham chair. Do not be fooled by her limited clothing color palette, she is eclectic. I am particularly fond of this unexpected chair since it was where she was sitting when we had our first phone call so many years ago. It all began in a the gingham chair.

I am not unusual in that the great changes of my life have been punctuated by the culling of friends. The forces of change topple the rootless relationships. Yet, while many drop away, a precious few transcend the moment. Not only do they endure, sinking deeper roots, but they grow in strength and fondness.

It is an understatement to suggest that, for us, these past few years have been rife with calamity. It is also not an understatement to say that we are emerging from the hot fire with a band of fast friends. Forged and polished. Beautiful.

Over time I’ve learned to read the movement of the basket of grasses. They are my personal Farmer’s Almanac, my home-decor-tarot. Kerri moves them after a life-storm has passed. She rearranges to re-ground. With every movement of the basket of grasses, I know we’ve come through the latest chaos. And, I know without doubt who stands with us, who we stand with, who will be with us no matter the circumstance or calamity.

In friendship, in our friends, we are the wealthiest people alive.

Helping Hands,
53.5″ x 15.25″

read Kerri’s blogpost about GRASSES

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Work On It [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

In my pre-Kerri-era, I took a 20 minute power nap every afternoon. I’d hit the studio floor at about 3:15, snooze like a champ, and be ready to go for the rest of the day. All that changed when I moved east. All of my work patterns and life patterns changed.

Although she definitely does not see herself as a nap person, occasionally, after a loooong night awake, I have been able to coax her into a dedicated-nap-fest. And, as a rule, she is fast asleep before my head hits the pillow. It tickles me. I confess: I am plotting to expand her definition of herself to include more naps. I tell her it’s a sign of sophistication. I tell her naps are sign of arriving at adulthood. I’ll tell her anything as long as we eventually arrive at the return of the power nap. The only thing better is a good hot bath.

In time. I’m working on it.

read Kerri’s blogpost about NAPS

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Savor The Words [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Her delight in finding the stack of Nancy Drew novels, her girlhood favorites, sparked a question. She asked, “What did you read as a kid?” Instantly, I was a deer in the headlights. I muttered something incomprehensible and changed the subject in order to dodge the question.

It’s not that I didn’t remember. The truth is that I wasn’t a reader until I was in my mid 20’s. It’s as if someone threw a switch and I was instantly transformed from dullard to a voracious reader. I generally have two or three books going at the same time, making up for lost reading time.

A few years ago it occurred to me that I was reading like a starving man at a smorgasbord. I was gobbling words without breathing or tasting. So I decided to try an experiment. Read books like they are poetry. Savor a few pages at a time. Consider for a full day what I have read in my few pages. Re-read it if I am unclear. Re-read it if it is gorgeously written.

My experiment is going well. I’m living in the books rather than blowing through them. I delight in the phrases, the way words are put together to invoke images and sounds and tastes. Sometimes a phrase is so beautifully written it makes my eyes water. I feel as if I’ve pulled off the freeway, stepped out of the car, and am walking through a meadow. I see more. I appreciate more.

I credit the age of information with my new reading practice. I’ve been studying how people engage with their screens, how I have been engaging with my screen. We skim. We jump. We tab hop. There’s so much information demanding our attention, stuffing the nooks and crannies of our minds. Emails, texts, slacks, social streams…

I’m finding my peace, out of the stream and off the info-super-highway, turning paper pages with intention, paying full attention to what is written there, no more than a few pages at a time.

read Kerri’s blog about NANCY DREW

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Meet Your Destiny [David’s blog on KS Friday]

I appreciate phrases like “As luck would have it.” The personification of Luck. It comforts me to imagine what Luck might look like. Somedays he dons a bowler hat and cane and wiggles his eyebrows when questioned. Sometimes Luck is a lady in an evening gown and Doc Martins; a swirling contradiction who laughs at our predictions.

And then there’s “Meet your destiny.” A place. A location in space and time. A spot on the road that you probably did not intend to visit..but there you are. A person as a destination. I feel that way about Kenosha, Wisconsin. Not in my wildest imagination did I think I would live anywhere in the midwest, especially a place called Kenosha. And then, as luck would have it, I met my destiny.

My destiny and I both love the fall. It is our favorite time of year. We like to take long walks. We lift snakes off the trail with sticks so bikes don’t run over them. We stop and stare back at the deer. We count the turtles that we spy. Yesterday there was a train of turtles sunning themselves on a single small rock. Four in a row. A hawk flew overhead. A heron high-stepped through the shallows. She stood guard over a fuzzy black caterpillar so the approaching hikers would see it. We laughed heartily as she stayed with the critter until it disappeared into the tall grasses. Caterpillar crossing guard.

I was not around when Kerri was on the road performing. I’ve seen her run rehearsals and play for services. I was her roadie for a house concert or two. I treasure the night she played the piano on an empty stage, in an empty theatre. It was enormous. It was heartbreaking. I’ve sat with her in her studio many nights while she played for me songs that are not yet recorded.

Time flies. Time as a bird or a plane. A rushing current of air.

As Luck would have it, Kerri stumbled onto some video from 1996. The release concert for her 2nd and 3rd albums. What a gift to see even a few minutes of her performance. Twenty five minutes of footage, early in her career. One thing was abundantly clear as I watched. She was doing exactly what she is on this earth to do. It’s visible. I could see it. Sitting at her piano, easy and sure, she was meeting her destiny.

I watched her watch the footage. Reaching back to move forward. Time flies. As luck would have it. A twist of fate. In the fall of our lives, she turned and gazed hard at the horizon.

Kerri’s music is available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora and iHeart Radio

read Kerri’s blogpost about SUN THROUGH AUTUMN TREES

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Follow The Rules [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

“Do you remember when you used to stand up without sound effects?” she asked. We burst out laughing at the truth of her question. A gathering of friends comparing the aches and pains of simple movement.

Kerri and I have initiated a few new roadtrip travel rules. First, we stop before the sun goes down. The days of seventeen hour long-hauls are over. Diminished night-sight made that rule necessary. Next, we stop every few hours to stretch our legs. We’ve found that if we don’t stop, the only way out of the car is to roll off the seat and crawl to the curb. Social grace and the aesthetics of aging made the stop-every-few-hours-rule essential. People at rest areas get nervous when our car door opens and I fall groaning to the ground, crawl with my elbows around the car, reach up to open Kerri’s door, and pull her moaning to the pavement.

Let’s face it. It’s not pretty. It’s always a better idea to stop while there’s still some feeling in our legs.

read Kerri’s blogpost about LONG DRIVES

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