My Constellations [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Like stars in the sky, there are moments in life that form constellations. Actually, the stars do not form the constellations, we do. We are pattern seekers in our incessant meaning-making. I constellate my memories, sense-make my path, generate my revelations.

In our dedicated cleaning and rearranging of the house, the restoration project of my studio after the flood, we bought new shelves. My art and work books were piled high on an old computer desk, made mostly inaccessible. Gathering dust. With the new shelves, the ease of access to my books, comes new energy.

I sorted through my books before placing them on the shelves. Many of the work books, the resources I used for my past life, didn’t make the cut. In fact, none of them did. It was a revelation, placing them in sacks and moving them out of the house. With open space comes new energy.

Carrying a particularly loathsome sack of books to the recycle bin, I realized that every major change in my life has come with a book purge. When I left Los Angeles, I gave my library of 1000 plays to a friend. When I left central California for Seattle, I took a truckload of books to the used book store. I left a pile of favorites in the building that housed the school and theatre programs I’d created.

My books about Picasso, Matisse, Renoir, Leonardo, Michelangelo…they’ve always made the cut. They are space openers. Life-givers. The connective tissue in the constellation called “My Life”. This is not a revelation. I wondered why I so often turn away from it, stack my books and my life in difficult-to-reach ways.

Another gift Horatio gave to me in our call last week: as I was dumping on him my truckload of excuses and justifications for not painting, he stopped me, saying, “I think it’s much more elementary than you are making it. Decide what you want to do and do it. Your challenge is that you don’t know what you like.” He added, “You have the germs of what you like…”

Cleaning and placing my books on my shelf was like coming home. When I stood back and could see all that I’ve carried through my many, many moves, there was no doubt what I like, there is no doubt about what connects the many stars in my constellation.

read Kerri’s blogpost on THE DISH

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Caterpillar Kindness [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

It seems an odd time of year to see caterpillars. I am not a caterpillar expert. I’m not even a caterpillar novice so my perception of caterpillar oddity is based on nothing. Were we at a party and the conversation swung to caterpillars, I’d express my baseless opinion with forceful conviction. “Isn’t it strange!” I’d proclaim, “Caterpillars on the trail in the fall! Who’s ever heard of such a thing!” My conviction would have the other party-goers nodding their heads in agreement. Conviction without substance would make me a man of my times.

Of course, confessing my caterpillar ignorance compelled me to consult with the great oracle Google. I do not want to be a man of my times. As it turns out, as nature would have it, as is easily found with a simple-one-second search, Woolly Bear Caterpillars are abundant in the fall. They will someday transmogrify into Isabella Tiger Moths. And, as folklore would have it, farmer’s lore, the severity of the upcoming winter might be predicted based on the color of its bands. Fuzzy black indicates a harsh winter. Abundant brown bands indicate a milder winter. This fully black fuzzy caterpillar has me dusting off my snow shovel.

There is, however, a caveat: the great oracle Google was careful to note that the caterpillar-color-winter-prediction-method is not scientifically accurate. It is not as reliable as The National Oceanic Atmospheric Administration. By-the-by, NOAA is on the cut-list of the incoming administration. Who needs science when there’s an unreliable old-farmer’s-tale-method of weather prediction!

Another Woolly Bear Caterpillar weather prediction myth is based on the direction it is traveling. If it is scootching along in a southerly direction, that indicates to old-farmer-information-less believers a severe winter. If it is wiggling its way north, then the winter is meant to be mild. I didn’t have my compass on the day that we saw this caterpillar crossing the path but I can assume by its full-black-fuzziness that it was sprinting to the south. Again, Google cautions that the caterpillar-direction-method-of-winter-severity is unreliable, not scientifically accurate.

This is the only part of this post that is verifiable: had we been on a path traveled by bicycles, Kerri would have lifted the Woolly Bear Caterpillar from the path and carried it out of harm’s way. She wants to do everything in her power to ensure that the little critter will meet its miraculous destiny and awake someday as an Isabella Tiger Moth. In this case, we watched it all the way until it reached the far side and disappeared into the fall grasses. I could tell that part of the story at a party and be absolutely certain that I was relaying accurate information. I have data. And experience. I’ve seen her caterpillar kindness with my own eyes.

read Kerri’s blogpost about CATERPILLARS

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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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An End Thought [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“I will not win all of my battles and neither will you. But if we do our best with intelligence, compassion and love, that will be enough – it has to be enough. And, that way, though each outcome may not be what we wanted or hoped for, at least each day we can be proud of who we are.” ~ Elizabeth Glaser

As we continue our dedicated house-clean and rearranging-fest, part of our campaign of distraction from the ugly turn of events in our nation, we found this framed quote in a closet. We removed the quote from its frame and put it in a special spot. The frame is en route to Goodwill.

We kept the quote because it exactly identifies the source of our discord. “…if we do our best with intelligence, compassion and love, that will be enough…” As a nation, we did not do our best. Compassion and love are nowhere visible in the despot-wanna-be and his maga-cult. And as for intelligence…well, I’ve written enough on that score. Intelligence fled the nation, red-faced with embarrassment.

The outcome of the election was most certainly not what we wanted or hoped for – and that is not the heart-of-the-matter. The issue is this: as my dear friend MM wrote following the election, “This is the first time in my life that I’m ashamed to be an American.” Here, here.

We did not do our best. In fact, we forwarded the worst. Sans compassion. Sans love. Sans intelligence. A rapist. A sexual predator. A felon. A reality tv figure, six-times bankrupt – posing as a businessman. Amoral. A racist. A blatant grifter. And demonstrably in mental decline.

Joan taught us a new word: Kakistocracy: government by the least suitable or competent citizens of a state. One need only take a look at the cabinet appointments. “A junk drawer,” as someone quipped. Another wrote, “It’s a clown car.” It’s cringe-worthy.

We bumped into the other Joan at the store. She shared that her “philosophical friends” suggested that nations must go through periods like this in order to grow, a national splitting-of-the-tree-bark. I hope that is the case but, honestly, I don’t think it is. I don’t think Joan believed it either.

Like us, she’s scratching the scorched commons for understanding, wondering what happened to the intelligence, love, and compassion of many in her community; her neighbors, family and friends. Like us, mortified by the people who voted for hate, who turned a blind eye to indecency and all that the tyrant and his budding oligarchs represent – she does not want in-any-way to be included in any form of “we”.

Kerri played this brief instagram video while I was wrestling with an end-thought. This says it all [close the “see more” pop up and make sure to unmute the sound]

read Kerri’s blogpost about WITH OR WITHOUT

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The Shears Are A Comin’ [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

“A concept of a plan.” Buckle up. Our already exploitative healthcare system is about to become a full-on-rodeo of fleecing.

Consider this: In the United States of America, medical bills account for 62% of all bankruptcies. That’s up from 40% in 1999. Even the advent of the Affordable Care Act – an act that made healthcare more available with government assistance – yet an act without regulating the amount healthcare providers can charge – has created what Horatio aptly named, “A money-gouging-machine.” An unregulated market was born; skyrocketing costs by design – a surprise to no one .

“As it turns out, medical bankruptcy is almost unheard of outside of the United States.”

It’s no wonder. Our healthcare spending per capita is “almost twice the average of other wealthy countries.”

The night Kerri broke both of her wrists we stood outside the medical center debating which door to go through: The Emergency Room door or The Urgent Care door. The question we debated while she writhed in pain: which door would be a slower path to bankruptcy. We had a healthcare plan with exorbitant premiums but like most Americans were afraid to use it.

And now, as if the exploitation were not egregious enough, coming down the pike is the great maga-republican repeal of the ACA on the promise of a concept of a plan. I feel the shears-a-comin’.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEALTHCARE SEASON

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More Than Enough [David’s blog on KS Friday]

The wind arrived late last night shaking the leaves free from their grip on the limbs. They are late to fall this year. The chimes rang, announcing the leaves parachute-esque descent to the ground. Dogga played the role of sentinel, sitting on the deck, watching, making sure nature dropped her color in an orderly fashion.

Their was laughter in our house last night. In a surprise last-minute announcement, Craig and Justin arrived for Thanksgiving dinner. We couldn’t have been more pleased. Luckily, we’d made a big pot of Guinness stew and mashed potatoes so there was more than enough. Warm bread, too. And wine. Salted caramel ice cream and blueberries for dessert.

More than enough.

Roger used to regularly ask, “What is sufficient?” For him it was a meditation on how to live a good life. Sufficiency. Knowing what is ample is necessary in order to recognize abundance.

Crawling beneath the quilt at the end of the day, Dogga asleep at our feet, we sighed, “What a great day.”

“Beyond sufficient,” I thought, a gratitude wrapped in a memory of my now distant friend. It was much, much more than enough.

Grateful on the album AS IT IS © 2004 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about LEAVES

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The Great Gift Of Purpose [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“In oneself lies the whole world and if you know how to look and learn, the door is there and the key is in your hand. Nobody on earth can give you either the key or the door to open, except yourself.” ~ Krishnamurti

In the United States of America, today is the day we give thanks. Imagine it! 364 days dedicated to dog-eat-dog grousing with one day set aside for thanks-giving. Envision for a moment a flip of our dedication: a single day devoted to complaining-and-selfish-taking with the entire rest of the year committed to gratefulness and appreciation.

Is it possible for gratitude and cherishing-others to be the norm?

Tom Mck’s grandfather told the story of two Civil War veterans who owned adjacent ranches. One vet fought for the north and the other fought for the south. They shot at each other every day creating a dangerous situation for the whole community since their ranches were on the road to town. Finally, no longer willing to dodge bullets just to go to the market, the community brought the two men together and negotiated an accord with them: the vets agreed to shoot at each other only one day a year, the same day each year. Their fellow citizens knew not to go to market on the auspicious day.

I thought about those two men this morning. Their entire reason-for-being was to hate each other. They gave to each other the great gift of purpose. An unspoken detail of the story, perhaps the most important aspect of the whole story, is this: none of the bullets they fired over many years ever hit the mark; they were either terrible shots or they didn’t really want to eliminate their reason-for-being. They intentionally missed. They loved to hate their neighbor.

It’s a complex game we play, is it not? The tale of the two Civil War vets is a story for our times.

Is the great-gift-of-purpose as easily given to loving, uplifting and supporting our neighbors? Is our capacity for generosity and consideration really so limited? Is there only enough for a single 24 hour period?

Is aggression and hate really more magnetic and satisfying than kindness and love?

Our nation chooses this day as Thanksgiving. Kerri’s and my wish for this troubled land on this day of laying down our weapons: a genuine flip of our dedication.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THANKSGIVING

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Wound Together [David’s blog on Flawed Wednesday]

In my mind it is a toss-up. Whether we are witnessing the collapse of our system or the reaffirmation of the system, doing exactly what it was designed to do.

We listened to an interview with Isabel Wilkerson. She said that through the lens of caste, this divisive time, maga and the election make perfect sense.

Perfect sense. Our system was designed and constructed along a distinct line of division, black and white. Initially, the division kept the indentured and the enslaved at each others’ throats so they didn’t turn their eyes and ire on the ruling class. The army protecting the elite was an ocean away. Division was – and is – protection. It’s the first chapter in the colonialist’s handbook. Divide the people. It’s discussed at length in our nation’s colonial legislative record.

And so, here we are again. The system is doing what it was designed to do. Amplifying the divide, keeping we-the-masses distracted by focusing our ire on each other instead of the burgeoning oligarchy currently salivating to exploit us and our cheap labor.

Systems are living things and will fight to the death when threatened. As Isabel Wilkerson suggested, this is the system reasserting itself. Unity threatens it.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? A true paradox. This caste divide works like dna strands, fibers wound and bound together by their opposition. The force that binds us is division. We are a fractal of disunity.

The strands:

The maga right spits the word “woke” but to date has failed completely to define what that means.

The progressive left spits the word, “ignorant” and has no doubt what that means. I am guilty of wielding this word.

The “woke” believe in equality and unity.

The maga right is hyper-protected against “woke” notions of equality and unity because their media has steeped their minds in the bogey-man-word, “socialism.” I am certain, just like the word “woke”, they have no idea what socialism means or how it is as distinct from equality as lived in a democratic society. I am also certain they don’t want to know what the word means.

It’s “woke” to know what words mean. It’s un-woke to obey without question.

The woke want to know. The un-woke do not care to know. The woke want to dissolve the caste system. The un-woke do not. The woke see societal gain in unity and equality. The un-woke see personal loss of privilege and power. Woke and un-woke wound together by the gravity of their division.

The flashpoints in our history – like the Civil War or the Civil Rights movement – happen when the people, the indentured and enslaved, begin to question the falseness of the division, when they dare to turn their eyes away from each other and turn their unified eyes toward the ruling caste, and begin asking questions. The flashpoints occur when we-the-people step toward the promise of a more perfect union.

The flashpoints are aptly named. Civil (adjective): relating to ordinary citizens and their concerns…Civil War. Civil Rights. Ordinary citizens attempting to challenge the gravity of their false-division. I wonder what historians will name our current flashpoint?

Systems are living things and will fight to the death when threatened.

Is the fascism fast approaching the death of the system? Or, is it the caste system, threatened by the actual promises of democracy, liberty and justice for all, reasserting itself? Or both?

The path toward the promise of our democracy begins with curiosity and questioning, an openness to ideas and others. It requires a populace dedicated to learning rather than book-banning and indoctrination. It facilitates opening eyes rather than closing hearts.

I look forward to the day that the un-woke awaken and see how completely they are being exploited, suppressed and taken for a fascist ride. Maybe then we can unite, turn our eyes and focus our ire where it belongs and, once and for all, turn the page on this hateful colonist’s game.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FIBERS

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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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So We Do [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

When I began blogging nearly fifteen years ago I believed that I would in a matter of days run out of things to say. I’ve now completely flipped in my belief: not only have I not yet run out of things to say, I now know that there’s not enough time in my life to write all that I want to write. My list of ideas is longer than my remaining days.

Kerri and I through our Melange have been writing together for six years and eight months. We’re having a hilarious experience that is becoming increasingly more and more frequent. When we are with friends and family and start to recount a story from our recent past, they will cut us off and say, “Yeah, I read about that in your blog.” It always takes us aback and makes us giggle.

We are an open book – perhaps too open! But we also edit. Our posts are rarely longer than 500 words. We write snapshots, not totalities. We know that people in our social-media-world won’t read what we write if it’s too long. Each day we ask, “Is this too much?” or, “How can I condense this?” Each day we ask, “Should I stop here?” We rarely tell the full tale. There’s always a next thought, a detail, a longing…There’s always so much more to say, much more that could be written.

It’s become a gift to me, a reminder that I can never know the whole story of any other person’s life. The important stuff as well as the little moments can never be fully expressed. Feelings and yearnings can’t be captured in words. Poetry is the art of attempting to express the impossible.

Lately, after we hear once again, “Yeah, I read about that in your blog,” when we are alone, Kerri asks me, “Are we too much?” It’s become something of a ritual.

Are we too much?

Rilke wrote, “Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart…” This is what I know: we love to write together so we do. And, we love to share what we love. So we do.

read Kerri’s blogpost about A BLANK PAGE

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