Study With Dogga [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“Why do so many of us, as we grow into so-called maturity, become dull, insensitive to joy, to beauty, to the open skies and the marvellous earth?” ~ Krishnamurti, Think On These Things

Dogga, in his old age, is doing what my father did in his last years. He sits on the back deck and watches the world. He is not watching the world go by. No! He is taking the world in. I imagine that he marvels at the beauty of it all. The robins taking dirt baths, the squirrels robbing grape jelly from the oriole feeder, the mint and lavender, the smell of earth after the rain. His appreciation of every-little-thing comes from contentment. After a life-long journey he feels no need to achieve or change a thing.

I am watching him and learning. His joy is immediate, quiet and boundless.

The Buddhist tradition posits that desire is the source of all suffering. The desire to be some-other-place. The desire to be some other person. The desire to attain some new thing. Separation from self is separation from the current moment. Dogga, like Columbus in his backyard meditations, is empty of desire, opening present-space for the fullness of life.

Though I cannot claim to be free of desire, I experience those moments sometimes. I drop-in. We walk along the lake after the rain, cool air off the water breaking the heat of the day. Holding hands, we marvel at the sailboat braving the lake so soon after the violence of the storm. She stops to take a picture and I am suddenly open space, empty of desire, beauty rushing in. It is neither too enormous nor too small. I am not a witness or performer. I am simply marveling. Part of. And then, with the thought that it is fleeting, comes the ache, the desire to hold on to all of it. I laugh, knowing better but not able to practice what-I-think-I-know.

Clearly, I have more learning to do (another desire!) and will happily study Dogga. How does he do it? How does he immerse in the beauty of it all and yet not yearn for it to last forever?

WHEN THE FOG LIFTS on the album THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY ©️ 1998 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SAILBOAT

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The Order Of Things [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

It had been over a month since we walked our loop trail. Walking a loop is good for processing life since no navigation is necessary. Keep walking and you will arrive back where you started.

We had a ton of life to process. It is remarkable what happens in a life in a month.

While processing life it is not uncommon for us to stop mid-sentence for a photo-treasure-op. A Downy Wood Mint paused our conversation. At the beginning of our relationship I found it jolting when I was in the middle of a full-blown-rant and Kerri broke off to snap a photograph. It was disorienting. I’d lose my rant-thread. “Now, what were you saying?” she’d ask after her photography deviation.

Now I understand and appreciate the order of things: beauty before rant. In fact, after I stopped being surprised by her spontaneous-photo-combustion, I understood that I was not being dis-oriented; rather I was being re-oriented. A good rant should never stand in the way of appreciation of the moment. Like most people on earth, I have missed a raft of the miraculous because I was too busy complaining about days-gone-by. I missed the greater by insisting on the lesser.

Our loop-walking has made me easier in the world. If I lose my rant-thread in a moment of nature-admiration, then it was probably not worth hanging onto in the first place. It is amazing how a pause for beauty or a moment of simple appreciation can lessen or even transform the forest fire burning in my brain.

“Now, what were you saying?”

“I honestly can’t remember.” A spontaneous pause on our loop to visit the tiny purple Downy Wood Mint cooled and soothed my mind.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DOWNY WOOD MINT

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Simple And Innate [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Dogga is a master digger. Mostly he digs to produce cool dirt to lay on; a heavy black coat in the heat of the summer months requires cooling ingenuity.

Originally, we tried to stop his innate digging abilities. Then we realized that he’d already worn several serious velodrome paths in the yard from his enthusiastic circle-running, so what possible damage could an unsightly hole or two do to our backyard aesthetic? Besides, his efforts have a delightful side benefit: they create the perfect bird-dirt-bath dirt. Everyday the neighborhood birds flock to the Dogga-dirt-spot like Romans to the baths.

Lately, since he is grown wobbly in his old age, I periodically fill-in the canyons-he-creates so he doesn’t accidentally swing wide in his circle-running and trip in a hole-of-his-own-making. Besides, it gives him more cool dirt to excavate.

It’s the pure joy he experiences in a hole-well-dug that makes us smile with every new crater. Dirt flies, he occupies his new cool dirt mat, and revels in deep Dogga-Dogga satisfaction.

Sometimes I am astounded at what actually fills me with love and appreciation for life. It’s not complicated. It’s simple – and innate – as Dogga digging a hole.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DOGGA-HOLES

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Having Enough [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

When we are in need of a quick and easy sunset getaway, a mental and emotional break from a hectic day, we drive 15 minutes south to Winthrop Harbor and slow-walk the boardwalk that runs along the marina. The sound of the gulls, the rhythmic clang of buckle-on-mast, the quiet plop of a line cast by someone fishing from the dock, the breeze off the lake…it quiets the mind. On the weekends, bands play from a small stage to people sitting on the grass adjacent to the boathouse where Harbor Brewing runs a pop-up beer garden throughout the summer months. It sometimes feels old-worldly: people gathered together to drink a beer at sunset, tapping their feet to music from a local band. Some folks surround fire pits. Others sit in fold-up chairs, blankets at the ready in case the wind shifts off the lake. The siren-smell of brisket and burgers wafts over the gathering.

It is enough. It is more than enough. Simple people enjoying their simple moment.

Last week Kerri wrote a post that hit-the-nail-on-the-head. She asked, “What’s missing?” in the hearts and minds of the republicans and the administration currently robbing the country blind. Her answer? Reverence. In this cohort there is no reverence for nature, for people, for ideas, for science, for the future, for the past. There is only insatiable hunger for more, more, more. They are hungry ghosts. “In Buddhism…These beings are depicted with scrawny necks, tiny mouths, and huge bellies, representing an eternal, painful inability to satisfy their desires.” (Wikipedia) We are subjected to a gaggle of people who live in the existential emptiness of “never having enough”.

Reverence. Awe. Wonder. Veneration. These are born of respect. They require a certain humility that comes from knowing-to-your-bones what it is to “have enough.”

If a picture paints a thousand words then all we need to truly understand what’s happening in this republican administration is Paul Cadmus’ painting, Gluttony.

Morbidly wealthy. Hoarders. Absent of reverence. Completely incapable of understanding what makes (or will make) this nation great: simple hardworking people who believe in equality and fairness, gathering together to share the fruits of their labor, the deep satisfaction of neighbors playing music, of the sun setting over the harbor, enjoying a meal or buying a beer for friends. Slow-strolling the boardwalk. Knowing to their bones the enormity of appreciation that comes from having enough.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SUNSET AT THE MARINA

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Done! [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

I am losing the recall of words and names. It happens. I threatened to take a brain booster and the notion sent us into gales of laughter because, we concluded, I am a more likable person with a less-sharp brain. I will do better in the world now that the edges are rounding. It is best to walk into the future without the booster and a few less facts-at-my-fingertips.

I confess that with my diminished capacity I have experienced greater contentment. Knowledge was armor and with less access to weaponry I’m having to exercise a different set of skills: keeping my mouth closed, listening, not-knowing…the things I’ve pursued my entire life but am now able to achieve because I have to practice them. Life is funny.

I’m splashing paint. I have a plethora of old canvas and odd shaped boards. Simultaneous to my new less-than-sharp brain, when in the studio, I’m experiencing the deep desire not to think about anything. To paint with no other purpose than to see what happens. Experiment. Art as life in the laboratory. Twice in the last week Kerri has come into the studio to see what I’m working on and said, “I like this one.” When I ask her what she sees, she squints her eyes, approaches the easel, and flips the painting over. Up is down and down is up. It is my clue that the painting is nearly complete.

“What would you call this?” It is always my second question: Without hesitation she gives it a name. I marvel at what she identifies in the splashes. I call the painting, “Done!”

Inevitably on the trail, she “Ooooohs” and kneels to capture the tiniest of blossoms. It is the time of year that nature gives her too much to photograph. We stop every few feet. And, although she has told me several times the names of each flower, the names never stick. That is not new. When I was auditioning actors I asked them to wear the same clothes during callbacks since I’d better remember their work by what they wore, not by their names. Visual memory. For me, the tiny blossoms are like actors. I recognize them without their names getting in the way of my appreciation.

Perhaps my recent word-recall-struggles are merely a matter of me becoming more of who I have always been? I’d pose the question to Kerri but she’d squint her eyes, flip me on my head and tell me that I was “Done!” Make no mistake, I’d be very careful NOT to ask her my second question! I do not want to know what title she’d affix to me, especially flipped over, with all the blood finding its way back to my brain.

After The Storm

read Kerri’s blogpost about TINY FLOWERS

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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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