Posted on September 2, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative
And isn’t the true wealth of life about the extraordinary people that walk the path with you? I am, every day, astonished by my good fortune, especially by this woman who chooses to walk this life with me. In this measure, I am unbelievably rich.
Posted on August 30, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative
We slept on the living room floor last night. Our chugga-chugga air conditioner doesn’t reach our bedroom at the back of the house. Record breaking heat drove us to improvisation. “We’re camping!” we exclaimed, spreading blankets on the throw-rug, Dogga jumping with enthusiasm into our bed-making-attempts, ruffling our efforts.
In the morning, we could barely move. “My shoulder is killing me!” I whined.
“My hips are burning,” she frowned.
We laughed and together howled, “OUCH!” I creaked to the kitchen to make coffee.
While waiting for the coffee to brew I thought of the underpass. On Saturday we explored a new part of the river trail that ran beneath several busy roads, including the interstate highway. As we left the heat of the sun and entered the cool of the underpass, Kerri asked, “Do you think people sleep under here?”
“Yes, I do.”
Standing at the coffeemaker I was awash with thankfulness. I slept on the floor by choice. Our dog woke us this morning nuzzling our faces. Our ancient air conditioner kept us cool through a brutally hot night. We laughed at our aches and pain.
It’s funny the way thoughts tumble and connect with memory, constellating into well-worn images or plowing new conceptual pathways. Udayana University, Bali. One of my graduate school peers had just completed a presentation on homelessness in the United States. The Udayana faculty was horrified. “But you are the richest country on earth,” a wide-eyed Balinese professor stuttered. “How can you let a member of your community go without a home?” To him, it was the height of shame for a community not to care for their own. It was, in fact, inconceivable. This moment was central to my memory: I saw in his eyes the high esteem he held for us fall into the dark basement. He was suddenly very proud to be Balinese. His community might not have financial resources but they had a form of wealth that made paupers of his American guests.
“It’s the contrast principle”, 20 says. Oppositions illuminate. Cultural differences clarify. What we normalize we cease seeing. I’ve stepped over people sleeping in the street. In Seattle, I routinely rode my bike on paths under a freeway lined with tents and shopping-cart-possessions. In Bali, a man stopped his work in the fields and walked with me because it was rude to let a guest walk alone. We did not speak because we did not share a common language. When I reached my destination, we nodded and shared through our eyes that most universal of gratitudes: genuine appreciation for the companionship of the other; an authentic wish for the well-being of all.
Even with our earplugs, the music was loud. Our son was the artist on stage, his spontaneous composition making movement irresistible. We danced. The crowd whirled and cheered. I was proud. It was the first time we’d seen him perform live. He was fully in his element. This is what he is supposed to do: Make music that sets people free.
In our current world I can imagine nothing more potent or necessary. I wish his music might reach into the cold heart of Texas, dispel the manufactured fears of Florida. I hope his music rattles the foundations of the tightly held and airless “norm”. It is imaginary. Norm depends upon where you stand and, last I knew, there were many places to choose – all of them central to one. I will cheer on the day that his music pierces the veil of man-made-ugly-and-exclusive rules that are attributed to one angry god or another.
The best artists practicing the best of their artistry erase boundaries and lead people into their shared, common center: a place called love. It’s a boundless place, a place where people celebrate each other, where people dance for the joy of being alive, for the deep appreciation of being-just-who-they-are: unique in all the universe.
I saw it this weekend. Of the artist and the bountiful revelers I can truly say I am Proud.
After several weeks with its face to the wall, I turned the painting around to see it with fresh eyes. “OMG!” I thought. “This needs some serious work!” It’s too tight in some places, not finished in others, and it’s missing an all important element. The florals are rock hard and the dog – part of the original composition – is nowhere to be found. What was I thinking!
I’m a bit too famous for painting over paintings. It’s a habit that evokes finger-wagging from friends. Kerri has been known to fling herself between me and a painting that I put on the easel-chopping-block. “I hate it!” I cry.
“Touch it and I’ll break your fingers,” she quietly threatens. I like my fingers so I relent.
Actually, she’s provided me with the perfect response to gallery-goers when they ask the ubiquitous question, “How do you know when a painting is done?”
In the past I’d say something amorphous like, “It’s not something you know; it’s something you feel.” Intuition. Gut feeling. Artistic argle-bargle.
Now, my perfect reply is definitive and goes like this: “Oh, it’s easy! I know it’s complete when my wife threatens to break my fingers.” She might look like a delicate columbine-flower but watch out.
It’s a conversation stopper but the real fun comes when I add, “She’ll break the fingers of anyone who doesn’t appreciate my work.”
I turn and walk away as they debate asking the obvious next question: Is she here?
My “word-of-the-day” is bedight. Adorned. It seems most appropriate that this adverb popped in my box on this day of Forsythia. The trail was bedight in Forsythia. A sudden explosion of vibrant yellow.
I always look forward to the first Forsythia sighting. It’s the day Kerri dances in delight, chanting, “They’re back! They’re back!” Her relationship with Forsythia reaches into her childhood and has deep love-roots. My association is more recent: it’s the flower that makes Kerri dance. She runs to the vibrant petals to take a close-up. I stand back and appreciate the glee.
Dogga acts as if we are Forsythia. When we return home from errands – even if we’ve only been gone a few minutes – he jumps vertically at the backdoor, so excited is he to see us. Sometimes I like to go on errands just so I can come home to such a glorious welcome. Who doesn’t want to be greeted with out-of-control enthusiasm!
Yesterday, after a particularly arduous slog through the day, Kerri sat on my lap and declared, “We are successful at nothing!” We burst into laughter. Zero. Nil. Nada. Zip. Bupkis. Nought. Naught. And Zilch. And, into that vast nothing, we pour our good laughter and heart until our nada-cup runneth over.
She did not say that we are unsuccessful. Our particular form of success, apparently, is no-thing. Like Glee. Or enthusiasm. Or music. Or beauty. They are hard to wrap your fingers around. They are even harder to assign concrete monetary value. What is our work worth? What – exactly – is our work? Beyond no-thing?
Yesterday I asked Arnie the to ponder the same question I’ve asked many of my wise-eyes pals: why would people support us? Financially? Beyond caring for us or liking us (trust me, we are wildly abundant in love and friendship), why would someone – anyone who doesn’t know us – support our work? What do we bring of value to the community? For us it’s confusing. Approximately 1,500,000 people listen to Kerri’s music every year through streaming services and she receives nearly-nada. Our blogs and cartoon have reached people in over 80 countries. We love to write together. We love to share what we create. Is there concrete value to what we offer? No-thing? If so, what is it called? What could it be? What shape is graspable? We are sitting on the mountain so we cannot see it. What are we missing?
Mostly, we hope to bedight the life-trail – yours and ours – with the vibrant yellow that lives beyond words and evokes spontaneous dancing. Mostly, if it doesn’t make you dance, we hope it helps you stand back and, like me, appreciate the glee.
Kerri’s albums are available on iTunes or streaming on Pandora
We have “go” bags packed. One contains our important papers. The other has a change of clothes and the dog’s leash. It’s not that we’re paranoid. During the civil unrest a few years ago – buildings ablaze and murder on the streets just a block or two from our house – the local authorities advised people to be ready to leave on a moment’s notice. We prepared our “go” bags and thought it such a good idea that we’ve never unpacked them. Now, when the tornado sirens wail, we simply grab our bags and the dog and descend into the basement. Easy-peasy in times of scramble.
Each night we watch Youtube videos of people hiking long distance trails. Often the hikers talk about the moment that they “leave” the mindset of the city and enter the freedom of the trail. Everything they need they carry on their backs. They cease dealing with what is supposed-to-be and fully enter life with what is right in front of them. There is a plan and the plan is constantly in flux. There is little to no consistency. What they can and cannot control becomes readily apparent.
What is most important, what is consistent to all of their stories on the trail, is how important other people become to their experience. Leaving the mindset of the city brings them back to the basic tenet of their humanity. They are totally dependent upon the kindness of others. They enter an ecosystem of mutual support. The illusion of “every-man-for-himself” falls away. They open. They share. They fill themselves with gratitude for others. The people who try to go-it-alone don’t make it very far.
I think that is why, at the end of each day, we watch these people on the trail, with their “go” bags on their backs and their hearts bursting with appreciation for their lives and for those who walk with them, if only for a day. They remind us of what’s most important. They cut through the noisy abstraction of news and ratings and likes. They don’t expect their walk to be easy or comfortable or pretty. They remind us to fill our days with gratitude for others, to turn toward our fellow travelers rather than turn away. They offer a hand and accept assistance. They share. They remind us, in our scramble to find safety in the storm, that life in an ecosystem of support is what it’s all about.
The storm that blew through last night was ominous. The thunder shook the house. I lay awake, marveling at the force of nature. And, while I lay awake, counting the seconds between flash and boom, I also counted myself lucky. I rolled gratitudes through my mind, enumerating all the things I was thankful for in the previous 24 hours. There were more than I could count.
It is very easy to get lost in despair. It’s very easy to count all the things that don’t work, go wrong, hurt a lot, and didn’t-go-my-way. It takes a bit more intention and effort to turn the eye toward the good stuff. Counting gratitudes requires aiming focus.
It reminds me of an exercise I used to do with groups, revealing to them how easy and fun it is to blame-the-universe or other people for our woes. Blame is like sugar. It’s addictive. The groups would tell outrageous blame stories and laugh. Blame lightens the load. It’s an easy answer to the mysterious question, “Why?”
It’s much harder to see and embrace participation and choice in a life path. Ownership comes with responsibility. There is circumstance – that which I can’t control. There is what I do within my circumstance – that which I can control. The moment I suggested to the groups that they transform their blame-story into a story-of-choice, they fell silent. Every group. Every time.
Blame requires allies and layers of story; it happened to me. Choice needs no audience. It is the story. I made this happen.
On any other night, between flash and boom, I might have tossed and turned and counted my woes. I am more than capable of diving into dark holes and indulging my blame story. I have and will again drown my sorrows in pity and it’s-not-my-fault denial. But, on this night, during this storm, I was filled with awe for the power of nature, for the abundant good that boomed through my life, for the chance to live another abundant day. A double double of appreciation.
Posted on February 24, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative
“…where there are people, there is art.” ~ Alex Grey, The Mission of Art
Have you ever Googled the definition of art? I have: (noun) the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.
It’s necessary to pay attention to the two phrases comprising the definition: 1) expression or application of human creative skill and imagination…2) to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power. Appreciated expression. The value measurement is beauty or emotional power.
A deeply personal expression that touches the universal. The art in a small child scribbling is not in what’s “produced” – it’s in our witness to the beauty of a new-human being discovering the joy of expression. Moms, full to overflowing with appreciation, hang the scribble on the refrigerator. There is no purer experience of art.
Very few children survive the moment when free expression tangles with expectation: now we make art. Scribble meets intention. Appreciation is less easy to attain when the circle grows beyond mom’s refrigerator. “Art” meets a bottom line valuation where beauty and emotional power sometimes take a back seat.
It sounds bleak until you look around and recognize what you see. People pointing cameras everywhere. Painted rocks on the trail. A chalk drawing on the sidewalk. Homes decorated. Magazines with recipes and gorgeous shots of possibility. Sculpture on the beach. Youtube videos abound. Architecture and the design of apps. Music! My god, the music. I passed a man whistling a tune that lifted his step and mine.
Expression. Appreciation. Imagination run amok. Mom’s refrigerator is everywhere. What could be more human?
Kerri’s albums are available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora
Posted on February 16, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative
At first we were horrified. The forest filled with machinery. Trees down and the underbrush annihilated. Our beloved trail decimated. We read that the seeming destruction was part of a woody invasive species clearing project. The clearing would allow the native species to rejuvenate.
Later, after the machinery was removed and the air cleared of diesel fumes, we returned to walk the obliterated forest trail. And, on our walk, I learned – or re-learned – a very valuable lesson. The change pulled us from our well-worn path and invited us to explore. Because we could now see all the way to the river, we left the trail. We stepped into the unknown. What had been comforting and known now beckoned us to see anew. To wake up.
We walked in places where previously we could not because the brush was too dense. We followed an animal trail through the snow into a part of the forest we’d never been. It was a place we’d never before considered investigating. We deviated and hiked all the way to the train tracks. We took photos. We felt the thrill of stepping into new territory. Our eyes wide open, our ears attuned to every nuance of sound, we took nothing for granted. Everything was pristine and unknown.
Change is like that. It makes you pay attention.
Returning to the trail so we could make our way back to the car, enlivened by our off-trail adventure, we wondered aloud about the wildlife. We worried for the deer. And, just as the words left our mouths, Kerri stopped and motioned to the forest’s edge. A deer was watching us. And then there were two. Three. Five. After determining that we were not a threat, they nibbled on branches. We stood very still; quiet appreciation.
It felt like a reward for taking the step off the beaten path. It felt like reassurance that the devastation was akin to a forest fire; necessary for renewal.
From a cue invisible to us, the deer leapt in unison, white tails flashing, and disappeared into the forest. It broke the spell. We returned to the car, eyes scanning the forest in case the deer returned. Our senses keen, I felt fully alive.
Change is like that. A clearing project, disrupting comfortable complacency, nothing can be taken for granted, making way for new seeing and discovery. Anything becomes possible.
Posted on February 8, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative
This morning I awoke agitated. Restless. I’m blaming my dreams. I know I had tons of dreams last night but I can’t remember a single one. I find it useful to blame my restlessness on something as slippery as an unremembered dream. It prevents any significant self-reflection or responsibility for my unease.
I just popped Rob on the head for diminishing his own work. He’s a prolific and gifted playwright and referred to his latest piece as “…another corpse being thrown on a mass grave of scripts.” After I sent the email-head-pop I admitted to myself that I was actually ALSO popping myself on the head. I used his head as a proxy. Popping other people on the head is also useful for avoiding any significant self-reflection. Although I admitted to myself that my head deserved a good slap, I successfully transferred the impact to Rob. No further self-reflection needed! I’ll wait for Rob to write me back with a return dope-slap. He’s a great friend and I deserve nothing less. Really, I deserve a good slap but I refuse to slap myself. That would require taking responsibility for my actions and my indulgent restlessness is getting in the way.
I’ve known for years that Dogga is a master teacher. Among his many lessons is contentment. And, what constitutes contentment is unique to each individual. For instance, most folks want to find a nice beach to lay on. Not Dogga! His nirvana is found in a deep pile of snow. He’s never happier than when the temperature plummets and the white stuff falls. He can linger for hours on the snowy deck in blissful satisfaction, doing nothing more than appreciating his moment. His teaching method is gentle. Unlike me, he eschews head slaps. He lives his peace, affording me the opportunity to emulate it or not.
The other thing I appreciate about Dogga’s lessons: he has absolutely no investment in how long it might take for me to learn. He is not concerned about whether or not I ever learn his lesson of contentment. His job is to make the offer. He is not concerned at all with the reception.
Perhaps the cure to what currently ails me is a few moments sitting with Dogga in the snow. I think I’ll invite Rob. It’s the least I could do after using his head to slap mine.
The Direction of Intention 