Sail Toward It [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Gordon MacKenzie ends his wise little book with this: “You have a masterpiece inside of you, too, you know. One that is unlike any that has ever been created, or ever will be. And remember: If you go to your grave without painting your masterpiece, it will not get painted. No one else can paint it. Only you.”

His analogy – his encouragement – is to let go of others’ expectations and paint your painting, not the paint-by-number painting that you think is required of you.

I wrote this note to myself over ten years ago: you do yourself a terrible disservice to doubt what you know.

I know the world is round. If I set off on an adventure to the unknown I will never touch the horizon. It will always call to me. And, if I sail toward it long enough I will arrive back where I started. Home.

If I believed the world was flat, I would delude myself into thinking that I could catch the horizon – and touch it – merely a moment before I sailed over the edge and into the dark abyss. I know this: no one holding a flat world belief will knowingly sail toward the horizon, the great unknown. That would be crazy! No one willingly sails into the abyss. Better stay safe in the harbor! Color within the lines!

Masterpieces are made by sailing into unknown territory. Releasing control and discovering what’s just over the horizon. And, what’s just over the horizon is more horizon! More questions. More experiences. More discoveries. More tastes. More textures. More sounds. And, to sail toward the horizon with abandon first requires an understanding that the world is round. It is all horizon.

Paint-by-expectation is the road of a flat-earther. Perfection is a false horizon. Try to touch it and the abyss is yours.

Young artists jump back and forth between the flat and the round earth philosophy. They have to. Vulnerability is a learned skill and comes easily when the quest to touch the horizon is abandoned. In other words, painting a masterpiece comes when the quest for a masterpiece is ditched. When making a mess takes precedence over “doing it right.” When following your bliss determines the rules you uphold.

It’s counterintuitive. There’s a place where control and freedom blend into one. You’ll find it when you aim at the unattainable horizon.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE HORIZON

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Join The Kerfuffle [on Two Artists Tuesday]

Rob and I have been having a text conversation about AI. For him, an Orwellian curtain is descending. For me it’s a pattern: progress that pushes people into the unknown always ignites a kerfuffle.

Months ago Skip suggested that I jump into the dialogue raging around phrase engineering for AI. Basically, people learning better ways to ask the technology for more efficient and effective results. As a visual artist and a writer, he believed I might be able to stand with a foot in both evolving camps. Cross disciplines. I thought about it. Read everything I could find. I decided against. As an artist, someone who’s taken his artistry into the wilds of organizations, education, change initiatives, DEI, intercultural communication, coaching, software start-ups…a cross-pollinator – I’ve shouted my perceptions at the top of my lungs but rarely found ears that would or could listen. Why should an engineer listen to an artist? Why should a CEO give credence to a theatre artist? There are many many reasons. The notion of doing the same old thing in the same old way in a new context made me…tired.

What is a new way?

I’ve read that the mission of the industrial age was to create technology capable of sparing or lessening human physical labor. The mission of the information age is to create technology capable of sparing us from the rigors of thought. All in service of making life easier.

My last exchange with Rob led me back to Neil Postman’s short forward to his book Amusing Ourselves To Death. “Huxley feared we’d become a trivial culture…” Rereading the forward I thought, “Spot on”. Among the many upsides, having something or someone else think for you definitely has a downside.

Perhaps our AI era will hold up a mirror so we might better see ourselves as part-of rather than separate-from. Perhaps all the space we gain in our brainpans, as we are spared the rigors of thought, will open new frontiers. It always has in the past. In a miracle of biomimicry, one of Skip’s creations in our start-up was a social network view: a visual of personal connectivity, an active map of all the people a user communicates with. The lines of connectivity were profoundly meaningful to me. The ability to see the thriving network active in my working life was a revelation. A pulsing flower, a wild carrot of interconnectivity. I appreciated my peers – my support system – in new ways because I could see them. My social network view made it undeniable: nothing I do, nothing I think, is independent of my community. We create.

Growth and learning is always in the direction of the unknown. Whether we realize it or not, even amidst the greatest kerfuffle, we take these bold steps together.

read Kerri’s blogpost about WILD CARROT

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Take Another Look [on Merely A Thought Monday]

I am surprised that our favorite go-to trail is the yellow route at Des Plaines. The first time we tried it, years ago, we were swarmed by mosquitoes from beginning to end. We ran-walked, swatting the air the entire way. Kerri stopped to take a photograph and I lost site of her in a mosquito cloud. It was a scene straight from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. We swore we’d never go back.

I have no memory of why we gave it a second try. How long was it after the first very-bad-no-good-mosquito-fest? I can’t remember. I only know that I’m grateful that we challenged our first impression and gave it a second chance. It has become our solace, our reset on a bad day. It is the place where we walk away our troubles and talk through our tribulations.

Over time we’ve learned it. We know its rhythms. We know when and where we are most likely to see deer. We know when the cranes will pass through. We know when the turtles will emerge. And, we now know when to avoid it. It has become a significant part of our story.

As we walked it yesterday, in the hour before the mosquitoes come out, I pondered how many opportunities and rich experiences I’ve missed because of a bad first impression. A useful mantra popped into my head from my days facilitating DEI workshops: have your first thought and work on your second. In other words, doubt what you think. First thoughts, first impressions, are often sandy soil.

A single experience is a very small test sample. Give the trail another hike. Go at dawn or dusk. What’s true in spring is different in fall. The same is true with people. I’m an introvert and generally make a lousy first impression. How fortunate am I that others decided to give me a second chance?

Of course, the fly in the ointment of this thought-train is mosquitoes. I have no need to give them another look!

read Kerri’s blogpost about MOSQUITOS

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Line Up [on saturday morning smack-dab]

Costco. Waiting for the next batch of rotisserie chickens. People gather. Like racers at the starting line, chicken-shoppers jokey their carts for prime position. We call it “The Chicken Line”.

While we are in the Chicken Line, I people-watch. I look at faces, changing like the moon as they review their shopping list or life-choices.

Kerri talks to people. She makes friends. She makes people laugh. It’s not unusual, as we depart the Chicken Line with our newly acquired hot bird, for her to wave and call out, “Nice talking with you!”

“See you next time in The Chicken Line,” the stranger (to me) replies and giggles.

“Do we know her?” I ask, oblivious.

“We do now.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CHICKEN LINE

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Appreciate The Caper [on KS Friday]

Kerri’s photos serve as our writing prompts. Sometimes I know exactly what I want to write about. I lead. Sometimes, like today, I stare and follow the first thought that comes to mind, whether or not it makes sense. I let the thought lead me.

Sometimes I follow. Sometimes I lead. Inevitably, during the writing, the process flips. The follower takes charge and leads. The leader gives over and listens. It’s a nice description of a creative process, a tennis match between the intuitive and intentional.

Today’s first thought? It’s perfect design. A still shot masks the truth that this flower is designed for motion. Time-lapse photography reveals the pulse of life, opening and closing. Petals and sepals, pistils and stamen, folding and unfolding with the delicate movement of the planet spinning around the sun. And those tiny hairs on the stem and sepal? Trichome – absorbing life, protecting the dance.

It occurs to me that the word “design” implies a designer and there we go again bumbling into the morass of the godhead. How to explain such perfection? This miracle of life, utter interdependence, as seen in a purple coneflower.

Perhaps it’s enough to acknowledge that my mind is way too limited to grasp the enormity of the concert. I dabble in the power of imagination but will never grasp the infinite, contain the uncontainable, neither in word or way.

Perhaps my desire to affix a definition to the undefinable, to understand the boundless, is no different than staring at a writing prompt. Sometimes I know exactly what I want to write. Sometimes I have no idea. Sometimes I lead. Sometimes I follow. Intuition dances with intention yet neither are capable of explaining the boundless, of measuring the immeasurable, describing the indescribable.

It is enough to perform my part and fully appreciate the caper.

silent days/blueprint for my soul © 1997 kerri sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about CONEFLOWERS

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Look Both Ways [on DR Thursday]

I love our smack-dab cartoon. In a cartoon, dogs can talk, people can transmogrify, we can laugh at the worst of ourselves and reveal the best of ourselves. In other words, anything is possible. I think that’s why cartooning has long been an aspect of Kerri and my relationship. Anything is possible.

Our first cartoon idea popped up when we were punchy on a roadtrip. We asked a “what if” question. What if we’d met earlier in life and had children. What would we have named our little pot roast? Miles of hilarity ensued because we landed on Chicken Marsala. Our boy Chicken was born and for the rest of the trip, the voice of our imaginary child chimed in with commentary about his parents. We submitted five rounds of Chicken Marsala cartoons to the syndicates. Chicken strips and single panel Chicken nuggets (clever, no?). The imaginary child of two artists who met late in life. What a great premise! Especially since the two artists were hot messes and the child was grounded, capable of scaring them into sensibility and taunting them into play. Idealists, all.

It used to be that when I asked a “what if” question I zoomed into the outer reaches of inner space. That’s still true though now I have a second, equally powerful path to imagination. Look close-in at the miracle shapes of plants. Look close-in at the worlds at play all around us. I give full credit to Kerri’s compulsion to photograph minutiae. “Lookit!” she proclaims and shows me a miracle image. I’ve picked up the pattern. I rarely photograph what I see but I am just as apt to look close-in as I am to fly into the Netherworld. I am on a daily basis gobsmacked by color or texture or shape or sound or smell or taste of this amazing world. Look at the lavender! Just look! No, really. Slow down and look.

This morning I read a definition of imagination: thinking that is not bound by real world constraints. I wanted to add this: senses that are capable of experiencing real world detail.

It’s a great polarity, the spectrum of potential between “anything is possible” and “I never could have imagined it.” Chicken tried to tell us to look both ways but, you know, it’s harder than you think to listen to your imaginary child, especially when they understand more about life than you ever will.

my perpetually almost but not quite as yet incomplete holding pen of a website

read Kerri’s blogpost about LAVENDER

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Try This [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

A lonely cloudy day. I wandered through a farmer’s market. The sun-baked-old-man behind the table looked up, waved me over, cut a slice of peach and said, “You have to try this.” I accepted his offer. I couldn’t believe how delicious it tasted. Seeing the taste-revelation in my eyes, he told me a thing or two about peaches. I bought a few and continued on my way, no longer feeling alone.

The other day, after yet-another-day of fruitless job searching (good pun, yes?), Kerri cut a peach and we stood at the counter, savoring. I was tossed back in time to that lonely day, the sun-baked-farmer, the taste revelation. I can’t recall a thing he told me about peaches but I vividly remember the taste. I remember the kindness in our conversation. He wasn’t in a hurry. He had all the time in the world to share with me what he knew.

Sometimes, as I recount these experiences, I wonder if they happened the way I remember them or am I determined to give them a positive spin? Was that old farmer as kind as I paint him? Did he see a lonely man passing his booth and cut a peach to lift his spirits? Or, was he a really good salesman? Or both/and? I want to believe in his generous spirit. I felt it. So I will hold on to my interpretation. He knew about peaches. He knew about loneliness. He knew one thing might help the other.

A second hand lesson from way back: Find the artists. Ask them to tell you about what they know. People like to share their stories, their knowledge, their foibles, their wisdom. And, most importantly, assume everyone is an artist.

Sometimes it’s a simple as cutting a peach…

read Kerri’s blogpost about PEACHES

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Fill The Space With Goodness [on Two Artists Tuesday]

When I was learning to be on a stage there was a phrase I particularly appreciated: fill the space. There was also a companion question that seemed to be more important: what are you bringing to the space?

The assumption beneath both the phrase and the question is that you have a profound impact on your world. Not in abstraction. You are an active participant in creating it. After all, the space is shared, co-created. What do you intend to bring to the shared space? Are you going to “take” energy from the shared space (it’s all about me) or are you going to “bring” energy to the shared space (we are in this together). I understand this choice to be the direction of intention. It’s the origin story behind the name of this blog. A performers job is to bring good energy and light to the shared space, to unify it. To grow the goodness.

I think that’s why Kerri and I are attracted to prayer flags. The mantras on the flags are blown by the wind to fill all the space of the world with good will and compassion. Fill the space with goodness to the benefit of all. A straightforward yet profound intention.

It seems like such a simple thing, doesn’t it? Intend to bring good energy to the space that is shared by all. And, to us, it seems like the number one imperative of our times. In this me-me-me era, rife with “taking” energy from the space, it’s crucial to help reverse the tide.

She was holding black and white bandanas and I saw the thought hit her. She turned and asked, “Do you think it’s a good idea to make our own prayer flags?”

“Absolutely.” I said. “Why not? This world could use all the good intention that we can muster.”

All the world’s a stage, after all.

read Kerri’s blogpost about PRAYER FLAGS

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Light A Candle [on Merely A Thought Monday]

Often, when archiving her photographs, Kerri gives them a title. This one she named Delicate. “Like life,” she said.

Today we light a candle. We light them when we are commemorating an anniversary of loss, the passing of someone we love. The light of remembrance. “He’s been gone 31 years,” she sighed as we placed the candle in the jar, touched fire to the wick. Today we remember her big brother Wayne.

Our remembrance is rarely maudlin. We tell stories. We laugh. I’m particularly grateful for this candle-day because I never met Wayne. He was gone years before I arrived on the scene. But I feel as if I knew him because Kerri’s stories of her brother are rich in memory-texture. Visceral. Deeply rooted. And all roads lead to his love of coffee ice cream so I’m certain he and I would have been great pals.

As I’ve written in the past, the first words that Kerri spoke to me were “I don’t do nutshells.” It’s true. If you desire brevity you’ve come to the wrong place. She layers detail on top of detail in her storytelling of the world. And, she assures me that she is nothing compared to her brother, Wayne. His detail of details had details. An engineer’s mind. An inventor’s heart. An epic storyteller.

In the past few weeks we’ve had more than one reminder of life’s fragility. Dear ones wading through sudden, momentous and scary health challenges. A cousin passing. News of a friend too soon gone. More candle-days.

There’s the stereotype, old folks sitting on the porch recollecting days gone by. When I was younger I thought rocking chair reminiscence was inertia, life winding down. Nothing else to do. I had it all wrong. It turns out that elders tell stories of the past because they are verbally lighting a candle. They are keeping alive the memory of someone they loved. They are feeding the river of life. They are passing love forward.

Thirty one years ago. Today we light a candle. Today we tell stories of Wayne.

[a rough iPhone recording of the song Kerri wrote for her brother: You’re The Wind. © 2005 Kerri Sherwood]

read Kerri’s blogpost about WAYNE

[Bonus track]

Angel You Are © 2002 Kerri Sherwood [Note: this song is not jazz nor does Rumblefish own any portion of the copyright or publishing rights of this song]

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Walk Away [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

In the department of home repair I am mostly known for making things worse. I YouTube solutions and follow procedures. Occasionally I bumble into a triumphant fix but mostly I utter the words, “I think I broke it.”

Kerri, on the other hand, has the savvy. She springs into fix-it mode. And, she knows when NOT to spring into fix-it mode. She knows the line not to cross.

I lack the line so I rely on her to tell me when to stop, when to walk away. Since this particular cartoon happened yesterday, I’ll leave you with a bonus question: Before walking away, did I or did I not crack the sink? Hhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmnnnnn?

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SINK

smack-dab. © 2023 kerrianddavid.com

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