Know The Context [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Things are rarely what they seem at first glance. One tidbit of information, one step to the left or right and a new perspective opens, the image shifts, and everything comes into focus. Change need not be monumental. More often than not it happens in the tiny steps, the subtle rearrangement of expectations, full understanding alights with proper context.

The picture comes into view. A nice way of implying comprehension. The penny drops. The light bulb goes on. I knew immediately what this was a photo of – I know the context. It’s familiar to me. Outside of my context this photograph might be a mystery. A Rorschach inkblot. A request for a psychological interpretation. A blob on mesh.

It’s Dogga, taken through the screen door. He’s looking back at the camera. Even at rest he tracks us, he knows we are watching before we know we are watching. Even at rest, he is invested in our well-being. Our safety. He delights us with his antic awareness.

Things are rarely what they seem at first glance. Although it may not be immediately recognizable, it is a photograph of quiet joy. An image of home. Heart warmth. A sign that all is right in the world.

All My Loves, 24″x40.5″, mixed media on hardboard

read Kerri’s blogpost about the SCREEN DOOR

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buymeacoffee is…nothing more. nothing less.

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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buymeacoffee is….

Language Blossoms [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

I just experienced something new: a visual route to a find synonym. That might not seem like a big deal but for a visual-guy like me it fundamentally changes my relationship with language.

I wanted another word for “shine” and, instead of finding a static linear list, a blossom of interconnectivity unfolded on my screen. Shine in the center, five interconnected primary synonyms, with each of the five subsequently sprouting five fingers of word possibility. I was gobsmacked. Like a child with a new toy, I clicked back into the site again and again so I might see the word bloom.

I’ve directed (and loved) many of Shakespeare’s plays. I am an avid reader. I write everyday and spend more time than I care to admit chasing down words. Yet, had you met me when I was a wee-lad of 22, none of these things would have seemed possible. It hurt to read. The worst hell imaginable for me was diagraming sentences. My knuckles were rapped by stern-faced English teachers more than once for poor use of language, rotten sentence construction. And, although I had an undeniable enthusiasm for the theatre, I literally hated reading plays when I was in high school.

Linear sequential is not my friend.

One day in my 24th year an actor introduced me to Shakespeare. Active language. Delicious sounds and living images. The penny dropped. The world opened. I have been a voracious eater-of-language ever since. When rehearsing, I dance my words.

Words matter. They are alive when not forced to toe-the-line. Symbol and sound, makers of meaning, each intimately connected to the other. When I come back to this earth I will hopefully be a poet, attempting to capture in language that which is impossible to articulate. The beauty of a pink tulip. A flower selected by a mother for a rare visit from her daughter. Our daughter. Our daughter: a surprising and remarkable combination of words I never thought I’d utter.

Language unfolds and reaches deep into pools of meaning. Words blossom. And nothing is ever the same.

read Kerri’s blogpost about PINK TULIPS

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buymeacoffee is exactly what you make of it. the meaning is yours to give.

Animate! [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Hydro: relating to water.

Hydra: a problematic many-headed serpent in Greek mythology. The problem: every time some hero tried to cut off one of its heads, the old head was replaced by two. The original myth behind compounding interest. Hercules finally rid the world of the monster. You’ll have to read the myth to find out how. I don’t want to spoil it for you.

Hydra lived in Hydro. Water serpent. In the 18th century Linnaeus named a water critter after the mythic serpent because, when severed, the critter regenerates a new part. Language is an amazing thing, drawing connections in many directions across eons of time. All words, like all people, have origin stories.

And this brings me to the flask. My first flask, pocket-sized, was a gift for participation in a wedding. It was often filled with spirits. To be clear, the spirits my flask contained were distilled and not ghost-ish or soul-like, though both the distilled and the ethereal notions are capable of the same outcome: animation.

This flask, my Hydro Flask, is reserved for coffee exclusively. Coffee is also a source of animation. It brings me to consciousness each morning.

Anima. From the latin: life or soul.

Coffee. From the pot: life-giving. Soul restoring.

My flask keeps my morning soul-juice hot for a long, long time. It’s small but it’s mighty. Herculean, one might say.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HYDRO FLASK

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buymeacoffee is an opportunity for you to support the work of non-linear thinkers. It is cleverly disguised as a water feature, though in truth it is a soul restorer.

Better Than Nectar [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

My dad used to call coffee “the nectar of the gods.” Kerri and I feel the same way about a good strong cup of black java. There’s nothing better. The smell of fresh coffee brewing is hard to top. We giggle each night in anticipation of the coffee we will sip the next morning.

So, on those rare mornings that the coffee is brewed, the scent fills the house with rich warm delight, I bring the “errand of mercy” to my sleeping wife and announce the arrival of the nectar…and she doesn’t open her eyes…

It has been THAT kind of a week. There’s always more coffee to make, but sleep, real deep rejuvenating sleep, now that is hard to come by. Better than nectar. A welcome gift from the gods.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SLEEP

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buymeacoffee is, apparently, a gift you deliver to artists straight from the gods. get to it!;-)

Learn About Silence [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Sometimes an action is not what it seems. For instance: she decided to sell her cello. It sounds so simple, doesn’t it?

When she broke both of her wrists in the same fall, she worried that she’d lose the ability to play her many instruments. To bow a cello requires a flexible and strong wrist. It healed and she recovered. Bowing the cello was not a problem. And then there was the second fall. A newly mopped floor with no signage. Her first words, laying on the wet linoleum, writhing in pain, holding her right wrist: Oh God! Oh, god, I can’t believe it!”

She lost degrees of movement in the second fall. It sounds mathematical, doesn’t it? Simple math. On a good day she has half the degrees of movement that she had before she met the wet floor. Enough to open a door but far short of bowing a cello.

After three years and countless hours learning about degrees of silence, she decided to sell the cello. “It needs to be played,” she said. “It deserves to be with someone who can play it.”

A simple action. A very complicated story. A heartbreaking moment when the luthier handed her a check. She touched her cello, turned, head down so the man could not see her tears, and walked away.

Last I Saw You/This Part of the Journey © 1997/2000 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CELLO

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buymeacoffee is what you make of it.

I’ll Leave It To You [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Yesterday we sat in these chairs, ate lunch, and took a few minutes to close our eyes, faces to the sun. And then, late last night, the temperatures stepped off a cliff. The snow you see on the chairs is not really snow. It is encrusted ice. If I hit the chairs with a hammer they’d shatter.

I took down the chimes in anticipation of the wind gusts. The arborist tells us that the tall pine tree standing outside of our bedroom is strong but his assurance does not keep us from laying awake on the nights when the wind roars. We imagine the worst. Last night we lay awake listening to creaks and groans of the swaying pine, readying ourselves to roll off the bed in a desperate act of survival.

We are both artists. There is no lack of imagination going on in our home. There’s no lack of drama when our imaginations entertain certain demise.

I probably made up the part about the chairs shattering. I wanted to test my theory, the product of my imagination sometimes referred to as a “hypothesis,” but Kerri intervened. She stood between me and the backdoor. “You can’t hit the chair with a hammer,” she said. She was calm and also she knows my weakness. “Besides,” she added, “It’s really cold out there.” She knows how much I hate the cold.

Okay. I made up the part about Kerri standing between me and the popsicle chair. Plus, I was only thinking about getting a hammer to test my theory. I imagined what she’d do if I actually gave into my imagination and went for the hammer. She suffers me.

Okay. I didn’t make up the part about her suffering me. That’s not my imagination. Call it observation. To be fair, she is given to improvisational madness, too. I’ve had to stop her from testing an unreasonable hypothesis a time or two. Or at least try to stop her.

Okay. I made up the part of trying to stop her. I imagined it. I know better than to get between her and a theory. She’s more dangerous than the pine tree. At least in my imagination. And my experience. Believe it or not.

Okay. I’ll leave it to you to sort out what’s true and what’s imagined. It’s a snow day so we have to stay inside. Imagination is the way we keep ourselves entertained. Or terrified. Or confused. Or filled with gumption.

Icarus, 30.5″x59.5″, acrylic on canvas

read Kerri’s blogpost about SNOW DAYS

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buymeacoffee is not a figment of your imagination.

Word Play [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“Do you know what these are called?” she asked.

The homeowner, smiling that someone was appreciating his garden, replied, “I don’t know but they’ve been there since I was a kid.”

She whispered to me, “I know what they’re called but I can’t remember.” And then, as we continued down the road, she abruptly stopped, arms thrust high as if she’d just kicked the winning goal, “Snowdrops! They’re snowdrops!” The celebration of a thought retrieved from a long lost corner of the mind. “Snowdrops,” she smiled and strutted.

Beyond the strut-and-dance of word retrieval, there’s a great opportunity in this time of lost words. I adore the words we invent to replace a missing word. We stray far beyond the boundary of thing-a-ma-gig. Whos-e-what-see is child’s play compared to the sounds that come out of our mouths. They sometimes sound like remedial German: Schodenhammer. They sometimes sound like dinosaurs: Velocimapper. Shakespeare, the greatest of word inventors, reminds us that language is not a fixed thing. I think he’d be delighted by our spontaneous additions to the English language. “Make it rhyme!” he’d cheer!

And then, when a word goes missing and spontaneous-word-invention fails, there are the delicious descriptions. “Dough with things stuffed inside. You know! You cook them!” Ravioli? Pot Sticker? Gyoza? “That thing you fold and put in your pocket. It has money in it. Sometimes. And credit cards.” Oh, yes, even the most mundane word can hide for a while. The green thing with a big pit inside. Poor lost avocado.

Where do these words go? Vacation? I loved the homeowner’s response: I don’t know but they’ve been there since I was a kid.

read Kerri’s blog about SNOWDROPS

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buymeacoffee is a word…well, three words smashed together to make a clever title for a donation site.

Choices?[David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Today we walked our trail and the frog symphony was in full swing. It stopped me in my tracks. They are about 3 months earlier than last year. Enough said, I suppose. Except for this: it’s not a surprise, is it?

Tom used to ask, “When does a story begin? When does it end?” He was struggling to find a logical place to begin his Lost Boy narrative. Did it begin when he found the box hidden in the wall? Did it begin when the boy died and his mother plastered his life possessions into the wall of the farmhouse? She told no one. Did the story begin with the mother, when she was a little girl crossing the prairie in a covered wagon, the day they buried her little brother on the trail, never to be found? All are good choices. None are right or wrong. They are choices.

The sunset illuminated the brick. Blonde cast with orange and pink. A shadow is cast in the low light. It’s February and feels like May. Tomorrow it will feel like February again…for a day. I told my friend in California that, this year, I’ve not yet touched my snow shovel.

When did this story begin? I can’t point to the moment since the story has been with us for so long. My college sociology teacher was the first person I heard utter the words, “Global warming.” Decades ago. He gave a lecture on choices. “At this point, we have choices.” Not an exact quote but close enough. It was lost on us, the future seemed so far away. Someone else will make the right choices.

It is certainly more present. The tulips are popping up. We are, as I write this, under a tornado watch. In Wisconsin. In February. “Weird!” we say.

A pertinent question: When does this story end?

read Kerri’s blogpost about SHADOWS

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buymeacoffee is a leap of faith, a choice to make, a cake to bake. A gratitude we shake.

Take The Curve [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

I understand that there are no straight lines in nature. In life, either. Curves, bumps, potholes…surprises… are the spice of an interesting life. A full palette experience. Note: I did not write “an easy life.” Easy is a one-color painting.

That there are no straight lines in life or in nature (same thing) makes this warning sign something of a curiosity. If there are only curves of varying degrees, why warn me that there is a curve coming. I’m presently standing in a curve. There will be a curve after the upcoming curve. And another after that.

I’d be much more interested if the sign warned me of smooth sailing ahead. Or calm waters. Or momentary peace.

I suppose I’m less interested in the geometry of my travels and more concerned with the quality of my journey. I understand that the sign is attempting to help me manage my expectations, moderate my speed, prepare for what’s ahead; it’s a type of crystal ball. It knows what the future holds if I continue on this path.

I already know that there is a curve ahead. I have no expectation of straight paths. Or narrow paths, for that matter. I do, however, expect to be surprised. Although there is no sign in yellow and black warning me of the beauty, I understand that there’s an amazing vista ahead, somewhere just beyond the curve.

read Kerri’s blogpost about CURVES

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buymeacoffee is a sign on the road that we are not tossing our words and work into a e-void. it’s hope in a modern era.