The Simplest of Actions [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Every morning we have a ritual opening of the blinds. Each evening we have a ritual closing of the blinds. Most people would not call these routine actions “rituals” but I want to see them as such. I want to acknowledge the moment that we open our house to the light; it is the act of letting the world in. I want to appreciate the moment we decide to close out the world. The action is carried in the blinds. It’s a rhythm of life similar to the tides.

Our opening-of-the-blinds often corresponds to sunrise. Dogga is our chief priest of the coming day. He alerts us to the impending first rays of the light. We open the blinds, sip coffee, listen to the birdsong and watch the sunrise. I learned long ago that if I understand my actions as ritualistic, I would pay conscious attention. I would be less likely to reduce my moments to the ordinary. In my ritual of opening the blinds, letting in the light, I am aware that this day is unique, I have no idea what’s coming. I have never lived a day quite like this before. Open the blinds to surprise.

The same is true at the end of the day. The ritual of closing the blinds serves as a retreat to sanctuary. The darkness descends. “Are you ready?” she asks. I nod. I am ready to withdraw and retire. We close the blinds with gratitude.

Surprise and gratitude. Beginning and ending. I adore the cycles that punctuate our day. I’ve come to understand my appreciation of ritual as something that grounds me. I think this is true of all rituals; they ground us. They need not be religious yet they can’t help but elevate the ordinary to the sacred. The sacred is often nothing more-or-less than paying attention. Open the blinds. Welcome the unknown. Close the blinds. Appreciation for all that transpired.

Opening the blinds. Closing the blinds. Learning again and again that the littlest things, attention paid to even the simplest of actions, matter.

read Kerri’s blog about BLINDS

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If I Look For Them [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

If I look for them, there are signs of normalcy in these abnormal times. This week the striped squill popped up in the front yard. They are always the first comers, the flower-harbingers of spring. I am grateful that the plant life does its best to maintain nature’s routines. As far as the squill and day lilies are concerned it’s business as usual.

It’s a surprisingly powerful phrase: If I look for them. The striped squill would run amok in the front yard whether or not I decided to see them. They bring their promise of warmer times with or without my appreciation. Most years I look for them. I watch the patch of grass where they always first show themselves. I like to witness the pioneer squill, the early risers that poke through the winter grass and unfurl their striped-hope-petals. “Spring’s-a-comin’!” I sigh.

This year they surprised me. Lost in the daily crazy, the national nightmare, I simply forgot to look. In fact, I didn’t see them until the full striped squill chorus had arrived. There were so many that I couldn’t miss them. “Hello, old friends”.

This year, instead of being the augury of spring, they served a different purpose, perhaps a far more important purpose: a reminder of an age old lesson: I have the power to focus on hope just as I have to capacity to focus on all that is amiss in this nation. Both are necessary and it is far too easy to miss the hope in the onslaught of abuse. The assault on our democracy may be immediate but hope is by far more powerful.

If I look for them, I see the bearers of hope everywhere. I see them in the No Kings protesters, I see them in the volunteers at the food pantries, I see them in Marc Elias and Heather Cox Richardson, I see them in my friends and neighbors. Everyday I see multiple acts of kindness – but only if I decide to look for them. They are easy to miss, especially in the multiple acts of violence that dominate the media, the ubiquitous language of violence that permeates our politics. And yet, if I paid attention, if I counted and compared, the hope and kindness far outnumbers the ugliness.

The striped squill put me on notice: it is far too easy to get lost in the horror show. It is, indeed, important to pay attention to the arsonist’s fire burning through our democracy but it is equally important to keep sight of the many hundreds of thousands fighting the fire, the legions of people supporting the firefighters, calling out the lies, lending helping hands, stepping up to help in any way they can. They are everywhere, bearers of hope, believers in goodness, guardians of decency, heralds of the coming spring.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SQUILL

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Their Spell [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Had it been my job to name them they would have never been associated with mourning. Instead of sad or haunting, I find the song of mourning doves reassuring. It is soothing. Calming doves. Reassuring doves.

In the spring and summer their song is often the first thing I hear in the morning. While the coffee brews I let Dogga out; I pause at the backdoor and appreciate the cool morning air and the mourning dove serenade. They are quiet heralds of appreciation for all-the-life approaching in the upcoming day.

This year we have a mourning dove couple in residence. I’ve not yet discovered their nest but they are regulars, pecking in the yard. They are daily visitors at the bird-bath-drink-n-spa. They perch on the wires or the roof of the neighbors garage and sing their siren song, spinning a spell of serenity over us as we sit and absorb the sun. Dogga chases them. They squawk and complain but always return when he settles on the deck for a snooze.

In these disconcerting times I am especially appreciative of their spell, their gift of equanimity. Serenity is slippery in the daily dose of malicious chaos but the mourning doves, our singers of tranquility, always bring me home to my heart, slow my breathing, quiet my troubled mind. Magic doves.

read Kerri’s blogpost about MOURNING DOVES

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Come See This! [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – whether or not any absence of the happenings of the day, whether or not the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.

The theme uniting this week’s Melange photo-prompts is light. My response to the prompts are surprisingly (to me) amalgamated: the illumination discovered through differing points of view. A birds-eye-view versus the view from the ground; inviting the outside furniture inside the house, and vice-versa. We have a chiminea in our sunroom and a piano in our backyard.

What opens our eyes to new possibilities? What opens our eyes to what is unseen and right in front of us?

“You have to come see this!” she exclaimed. We stood on the front porch in the bitter cold and watched the full roll-call of winter sunset colors, from vivid to pastel. Warm-cold.

A new year. A year gone by. What do I hope will happen? What did I learn from what just happened? What do I think I can control that I cannot? What can I control that I do not?

What is important now that Dogga is growing old? What is he helping me to see?

What is important now that I am aging? What do I fundamentally understand about importance that I did not understand even three years ago? Has importance changed or have I? The smallest things now seem the most profound. They call me to life, fill me with light. Not so long ago I overlooked the small things in pursuit of lofty dreams. What a waste!

Can I share what calls me to life? Beyond reporting or narrating? Can I be like the sunset, calling others out of their locked doors to marvel at the roll-call of life’s colors?

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SUNSET

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For Every Little Thing [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

If you came to our house over the holidays you’d find trees, trees, trees everywhere. Trees of all shapes and sizes. Some wrapped in lights. Some adorned by a single silver ornament. Some without adornment of any kind. The outside invited inside. Until recently, when we moved it to the back deck, a large tree-sized branch wrapped in happy lights dominated our living room, 24/7, 365 days a year.

It should not then come as a surprise that last year we moved the aging wooden glider from the deck into the living room. It now sports fuzzy white pillows. Dogga knows that when we say, “Let’s go to Minturn!” it means we are headed for the glider. He meets us there.

Our most recent outside-in addition is the chiminea. It was a wedding present and over the past decade we’ve loved it and used it often. Sitting on the deck one night this past summer, Kerri was eyeing the chiminea. “What?” I asked.

“In the fall, when the weather turns cold, I think we should move it inside,” she said.

And, so, we did. The chiminea now lives in our sun room with a plant sitting atop the chimney. Happy lights pop on within the burn chamber at sunset. Each evening at snack-time we sit at our bistro table and enjoy the warmth of the light glowing from within the natural clay.

20 recently said, ‘I hope you two appreciate each other.” We laughed and reassured him, we literally recounted for him, the many ways that we, each-and-every-day, express our appreciation for each other. She thanks me for making breakfast. I thank her for washing our clothes. We have, in our past lives, taken for granted the daily kindnesses that others offered us and that we offered to others. We’d somehow allowed the myriad tiny-generosities of our past relationships to lapse into the mundane. We learned from our mistake.

In this, life’s second chance, we take advantage of every opportunity to express our appreciation.

In fact, the idea behind our Minturn, the force that brought the chiminea inside, is the creation of opportunities for appreciation. They are spaces we create, places we stop so we can sit solidly in the moment, sharing a simple snack of bread and cheese, sipping a glass of wine, and feeling the full abundance of our lives. And, the greatest abundance of all is the conscious cultivation of appreciation for every-little-thing, especially cherishing the time we have together on this earth and the opportunity to fill each moment with appreciation for each other.

*****

about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – whether or not any absence of the happenings of the day, whether or not the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CHIMINEA

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Magic Things [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” ~ W.B. Yeats

Standing at the back of the theatre watching a performance of a play that he’d directed, Roger whispered a frustration that most artists whisper at some point in their career: the audience will never get all of the layers of story. Very few will appreciate the totality of the hard work, the heart, the intention, the nuance…So much goes unseen, un-felt.

There is, of course, only one response to his whispered frustration. They may not get it all but you – the artist – does. Sometimes I think the skill of the artist is to slow the world down so that they can more fully see it. Or, more accurately, slow down so they can see the magic in the world. And then their work is to help their community see it, too. The great gift of artistry is that the work is never finished. The process – the capacity to perceive and share more of the magic – is never ending.

I regularly ponder the impact of the pace of work and life in the age of the internet. It’s a raging river of information that never slows. In fact, “progress” is understood as an increase of speed. We worship at the business alter of efficiency-and-effectiveness; people are rewarded for striding at an ever faster pace – so anything, like artistry, that suggests slowing down might be beneficial, is radical. There is a reason that an audience might not “get it”.

I’ve been aware this week, as we deal with the impacts of the snow and cold on our house and car, that we’ve mostly unplugged. Necessity has made us present. It is not an accident that the prompt-photos for this Melange week are mostly close-ups. Detail. We’ve been staring at the miracle of the icicles. The patterns in the snow clusters on the Adirondack chairs have captivated us.

Yeats knew only pen and ink. He stared at blank pages and not at flickering dynamic screens that pulled his attention this way and that and filled his mental bucket with information. He did not sort through hundreds of emails each day or navigate the mind numbing onslaught of social media. Yeats took walks and stared out windows to clear his mind. He sought other poets and thinkers, he spent time with them so he might challenge and expand his ideas, his perceptions, his capacity to see and feel.

The world of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper, knows that our senses are so inundated with information and noise and stimulus that we are less and less able to sense anything at all, especially the magic things. We are distracted, often misinformed and thoroughly entertained – and less and less capable of sustaining a span of attention, let alone sharpening our senses.

Sharpened senses – otherwise known as presence – opens the door to the ubiquitous magic things, things that patiently wait for us to slow down enough to fully appreciate them.

BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL © 1997 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about SNOWFLAKES

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Clepe Incredible [David’s blog on KS Friday]

This is the time of year that color in nature becomes shocking. It is the consequence of nature’s contrast principle: the greys and browns of oncoming winter meet the vibrant yellow, orange and red of the leaves-last-stand. Last week, while walking Dogga, I stood for several minutes beneath a tree made electric by the morning light. I felt as if I had entered another reality.

Contrast principle is really about how comparison shapes perception. I only know that I’m having a bad day because I believe that I’ve had good days. Last night I watched Anderson Cooper interview Tig Nataro for his series exploring grief. Tig Nataro recently lost her friend, poet Andrea Gibson. The love of life comes clear in the moment of the loss of life. The appreciation of life sharpens when the end rolls into view. Contrast principle.

I bumbled into an archaic word that is new to me: clepe. It means to give someone or something a specified name. To name. I was cleped David. As my end rolls into view I am more and more resisting the impulse to clepe my days. Why should my days be labeled either good or bad? On my last day, what will I be willing to give to have one more moment of this life? Why not clepe incredible each and every moment that I am fortunate enough to experience?

LAST I SAW YOU on the album THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY © 1997 Kerri Sherwood

Kerri’s heart is available for sharing on iTunes and streaming on Pandora

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE VIBRANT LEAVES

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Nothing More Or Less [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

These days, our old Dogga enjoys lounging on the back deck, doing nothing more or less than watching the day unfold. He reminds me of my dad who, in his later years, enjoyed sitting on his back patio, doing nothing more or less than enjoying his moment.

A younger version of me did not appreciate the simple pleasure of inertia. Now, as we sit in the autumn sun watching the birds and squirrel antics, I understand. A younger version of me thought he had all the time in the world so paradoxically needed to fill up the time with things-to-do. When the illusion of immortality collapses, appreciating the limits of time takes precedence. Life. There is nothing more important than being present in the moment, and, in that fleeting precious moment, the world is alive with movement and sound and sensual pleasure. There is too much to take in. The broad awareness of the senses rules the day over the tight focus of a to-do list.

It’s a paradox, is it not? Abundance reveals itself in the presence of a limit.

The sunset on the night we were married was beyond belief. The sky exploded in deep purples, vibrant orange and crimson. I took it as a sign that this great spinning universe was delighted in our marriage. I’m a romantic that way. I like to think the universe affirms us and never thought I’d see its equal. So, ten years later (plus a day or two) the sunset over the harbor rivaled in color and power our marriage sunset. It literally pulled us to the water’s edge. It was so intense that people stopped talking, children stopped playing. There was no sound other than the clanging of buckles on masts. Awe is mostly quiet.

This great spinning universe gave us another impossibly beautiful sunset. I took it as an affirmation, a reason to be still. I took it as an opportunity to cherish the majesty of this unfolding day, with nothing more or less to do than hold hands and appreciate the vibrant colors of simple abundance as the sky moved through every color of the spectrum.

They Draw Sunsets In The Sand, mixed media on canvas

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE HARBOR SKY

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Metal Monster Box [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

In every great story there are trials to be faced, especially at the thresholds. A Sphynx with a riddle. An ogre with an attitude. St. Peter with a book. Boulders that smash. Forests that come alive. Guardians of the great beyond. I thought about the trials as we crawled for hours through traffic toward the George Washington Bridge. New York did not grant us easy passage home.

The riddle must be solved. The ogre defeated. A reckoning must be made. The trials on the journey provide valuable lessons and useful tools necessary to fulfill the hero or heroine’s destiny. She plucks a single hair from the breast of the Crescent Moon Bear. It is the secret ingredient necessary to cure her husband. He enters the Grail Castle for the second time, this time with no need to pretend. They are both transformed.

The two people who drove into the city, straight into winds and sheets of rain from a tropical storm, were not the same two people who left the city. They met this trial but the story is far from over. The destiny is not yet met.

Surrounded by giant metal monsters, trapped on all sides as we followed the asphalt trail, there was no escape. There was only one way and that was through it. Ours was a lesson in patience. Ours was a lesson in presence. We-are-here-so-enjoy-this-moment. The metal monster box reinforced tools that we already possessed but too often ignore.

Enjoy this day. Appreciate this moment. Faster forward movement cannot be forced. There’s nothing gained in the metal monster box of frustration. I know patience will come in handy in the next section of our journey.

The Balinese have a phrase I’ve long appreciated: Jom Karet: it will happen when it happens.

read Kerri’s blogpost about MONSTER TRUCKS! (TRUCK MONSTERS!)

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Feed The Marvels [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Last year Carl Blanchet walked all 2650 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail in less than 90 days, a feat that would have killed most of us. This year he’s walking the PCT again, not to break his previous personal record, but to do the opposite. This time Carl is taking his time. He’s moving slowly. He’s watching sunsets. He’s smelling flowers. He’s making new friends along the way.

Carl’s gratitude is magnetic. His enthusiasm for small things is contagious. He finds magic in a tiny swimming hole. He exudes appreciation and simple kindness. He giggles at the colors of the sunset. He can’t wait to walk another mile and share it with his audience.

He has become one of our favorite bright lights in this dark time. Each night we look forward to his next installment, to spending a few moments with someone who intentionally immerses himself in the love of life.

He is a stark counterpoint to those immersing themselves in hate. He reminds me of what is possible. He reminds me of the power of the cliché: where you place your focus grows. Carl’s enthusiasm for life comes from a decision; it is an intention.

He reminds me to look for the light, to feed the positive, to not let a single sunset go by unnoticed and without celebration. It’s not so difficult to beat back the darkness when our dedication is to see – to focus on – and feed in each other – the abundant marvels readily available in this life.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SKY

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