Meet The Expectation [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

In our house they are called “happy lights” because they make us happy. And, because they make us happy, happy lights can be found in almost every room of our house. They wind around the headboard of our bed, they outline the window in the sitting room, they wind around the aspen log in our dining room. They wind around the big branches in our living room.

On particularly dark days, after opening the shades, the first action of the day is to plug in the happy lights. All of them. It’s a task that requires moving room-to-room, intentionally inviting happiness into the space. It’s not a bad way to start the day. It’s not a bad practice to stumble around the house, half awake, and expect happiness to turn on with the lighting of the happy lights. And, not surprisingly, happiness meets the expectation.

At the end of the day the last act of closing-up and tucking-in the house is to unplug the happy lights. It’s become a ritual of gratitude, a thankfulness for the happiness brought by the lights. Our headboard happy light, always the first light of the day, is the last light we turn off before sleeping, the last whisper of appreciation for the day.

In these past few months I have grown more conscious and grateful of our happy light ritual. The intentional invitation and invocation of happiness, the deliberate practice of gratitude, seems more and more necessary amidst the national dedication to maga-animus. If there is nothing to be done about the indecent darkness descending on the country, we can, at the very least, invite light into our home, and perhaps share some small measure of the happiness and kindness that our happy lights inspire.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HAPPY LIGHTS

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A Pendulum With What? [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“Along the way, we have unlearned how to live wide-eyed with wonder at what Hermann Hesse called “the little joys” — those unpurchasable, unstorable emblems of aliveness that abound the moment we look up from our ledger of lack.” ~ Maria Popova, The Marginalian, January 28, 2025

I am aware that reading my recent posts, my letters to the world, are like riding a wild pendulum.

Side note: instead of using the word “pendulum” I was going to use “Newton’s Cradle” only I couldn’t remember what the device was called. I was having trouble Googling it because I couldn’t figure out how to ask the question necessary to produce the result. Kerri pulled up “Newton’s Cradle” in a nanosecond. “How did you do that?” I asked, “What words did you use to get it so quickly?”

“A pendulum with balls,” she said. I burst out laughing. “What?!” she protested, “That’s what it is!” I’m still laughing.

And so, a pendulum with balls. Newton’s Cradle. Lately, reading what I write is like riding that – whatever that is. One day my post rages at the coming storm. The next day my inner Buddha grabs the keyboard and espouses the virtues of presence. Kerri is also writing like a ride on Newton’s Cradle but she’s a better writer than I am, more conversational and heart-full, so her posts are less whiplashy than my raging.

Riding the pendulum is a hot topic of conversation here at the international headquarters of kerrianddavid.com. It’s relatively new to our experience, this bouncing between awe at the little wonders of the day and utter disgust at the titanic horror of our historical moment. Do we honestly give voice to what we are thinking/seeing all the time or only half the time? How much is too much? Who do we want to be in this Brave New World? What is the purpose of writing anything?

When does an artist become trite?

I am reminded of the many, many, many times in my life that I’ve stood in front of school boards, boards of directors, faculty boards, boards, boards, boards, and reminded them that the arts actually serve a purpose in a society beyond entertainment. In fact, neutering the artists is among the first acts of every dictator. No autocrat wants a mirror of truth held up so society might see their reflection.

And so, as we ride the pendulum with balls, we walk through our days with no answers to our questions. We know our job is to see and reflect the full spectrum of our experience, the little joys and the worst nightmares. The sweet cardinal that came to our window, the message scratched in the snow on the side of the trail, all the while ringing the alarm that an arsonist has the keys to the national house. Both/And. Holding on for dear life riding Newton’s Cradle.

read Kerri’s blogpost on Merely A Thought Monday

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Stay Clear of the Avalanche [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

It’s a strategy. “During a typical Gish gallop, the galloper confronts an opponent with a rapid series of specious arguments, half-truths, misrepresentations and outright lies making it impossible for the opponent to refute all of them…” ~Gish Gallop: Wikipedia

We have, of course, unbelievably, elected for the second time, a champion galloper. A liar extraordinaire. The Gishiest of gallopers.

It’s a strategy. Chaos is a distraction. When it’s impossible to cut through the daily avalanche of hooey, be certain that what’s happening behind the crap-curtain is ill-intended, deliberate and self-serving.

As Heather Cox Richardson suggests, the only thing to be done is not get caught in the avalanche. Stand back and look for patterns. In this case, we have a lifetime of pattern available for study, easy to see. A career criminal. A bankrupt soul. A parasite in a baggy blue suit.

And so, we canter the other way, just far enough to stay clear of the avalanche – and do as journalist Mehdi Asan suggests to counter the Gish galloper: Call it out. “…do not be fooled by the flood of nonsense you have just heard.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE GISH GALLOP

smack-dab © 2025 kerrianddavid.com

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No Surprise [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“…the larger story of this moment is the plunder of public land for private gain.” ~ Historian Heather Cox Richardson, Letters From An American, January 7, 2025

When future historians ask the question, “What the heck happened to the United States of America?” they will need only look to Heather Cox Richardson’s encapsulating phrase: the plunder of the public for private gain. Were I one of the future historians I would title my book, The Nation That Ate Itself.

Our Achilles Heel? We worship business above all things so believe everything should run like a business. Government-by-transaction is no way to run a country. The natural conclusion of a nation that confuses public-service with business is the blatant exploitation of its people. It inevitably divides and feeds on itself. I would conclude my imaginary-future-history book with this: “It was inevitable and calculated. Their demise was no surprise”.

We watched the storm roll across the lake. The clouds were ominous and roiling yet the colors were gorgeous. It’s the reason we stopped. The visual collision of beauty and menace. While Kerri snapped photographs I was awash in metaphor (of course). The coming storm.

Our fall is not so different than the fall of Rome. When wealth is consolidated at the tippy-top and controlled by a gluttonous few, a once powerful nation tips over. It’s simple physics. Feasting on the people, the nation rubs its fat belly and decides to protect the privilege of the few over the health of the many. History repeats itself and, as we’ve written of Rome, our demise like theirs, is not and will not be a surprise. Root rot.

Kerri believes that, as people age, they do not change but become more of who they really are. Life boils them down to their essence. The same might be said of our nation. The plunder of the public for private gain is endemic in our system.

There is no mercy in the god of transaction. There is no morality in a worship made hard by the fundamentals of bottom lines. The church of Dog-Eat-Dog has little use for truth.

When asked the question, “Why did so many of the plundered public vote for their own demise?” the future historians will smile and answer simply, “They were manipulated by their social-media-masters into seeing their neighbors as dogs-to-be-eaten.”

Communal root rot. The mighty tree falls. No surprise.

The Way Home 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 STORM

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We See It [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

It’s rare but it happens. We write a post, read it aloud – and then throw it away. It’s too much, usually a rant, and we realize the point in writing it was to vent – so there’s no need to share. Bellowing rarely helps anyone.

Years ago, completely disgusted by the actions of a school administration, my wise friend suggested I write a letter to the superintendent. After I wrote my angry letter my wise friend read my words of discontent. He smiled and then gently suggested that I put my letter in a file. I was confused. “Sometimes the important point is to write it,” he said. “Beyond that, there’s nothing to be gained.”

He was right and I am grateful to this day that I took his advice. My wise friend taught me to discern between a vent of anger and an effective use of voice.

I fairly raged for weeks following the election. Some of my pals checked in, concerned at the dark turn of my posts. A few told me that they had to stop reading since my words only served to magnify rather than mend their own grief and rage. “It was too much.”

As I learned so long ago, sometimes it is necessary to file it and sometimes it is necessary to say it.

My words were intended to be too much. Our village commons is being torched and outrage is appropriate. Ringing the alarm is necessary. It does no good to turn away from the assault on our rights, to ignore the attack on many of our citizens. It does no good to normalize each successive outrage. There is nothing to be gained in pretending that there is merit to malfeasance. There is not.

In silence there is plenty to be lost. Each voice, demanding from our elected representatives to speak truth amidst an avalanche of lies, seems imperative. Asking our government, our courts, to uphold its values and honor its laws does not seem out of place. To look-the-other-way is too much.

It is not the time to put our letters into the file. There is nothing to be gained in silence.

Sometimes the point is to share it. Sometimes it is necessary to shout into the wind, “I see what is happening here.”

Perhaps, someday, if truth and good-intention reclaim the reins of the nation, there will be a time for mending. It is not now. Now is the time to magnify, to shout together, “We see what is happening here.”

from the archives: Pieta with Paparazzi

read Kerri’s blogpost about PRICKLY

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No Comparison [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“So as long as the mind is comparing, there is no love, and the mind is always judging, comparing, weighing, looking to find out where the weakness is. So where there is comparison, there is no love.”
Jiddu Krishnamurti, On Love and Loneliness

The snow was nested in the pine needles when the wind blew the bundle from the safety of the branch. Together, snow and fascicle landed far below on the well-worn path. I would not have seen it had she not suddenly knelt, pulled her glove from her hand with her teeth and braved the bitter wind to snap an up-close photograph.

Many days later, while choosing photographs for our next Melange, she asks, “Which do you like better?” She shows me the snow-and-pine-needle-embrace among many other photographs. I rarely have a coherent answer to the better-or-worse question. Her photos are always beautiful or curious or interesting – they are certainly moments-in-the-world that I would have missed had she not stopped to capture the image. While she gazes at the beauty on the trail I am generally lost in my thought. It is generally impossible for me to compare the worth of one photograph over another.

I am working on a painting and have given myself full permission to make a mess. It’s harder than you might imagine to turn off the inner-critic, the one who demands better work, the one that compares me with others. In comparison, I always lose.

I am employing a strategy to silence my inner voice of comparison: when the critic roars I pick up a rag or wide-tool incapable of nuance and I smear. I am afraid that I don’t know what I am doing – so I make certain that I don’t; I dive head-long into not knowing. In splodging paint, I guarantee that there can be no comparison to others or to any version of my past-artist-self.

“When you are comparing, you are really not looking at the sunset which is there, but you are looking at it in order to compare it with something else. So comparison prevents you from looking fully.”
― Jiddu Krishnamurti, On Love and Loneliness

In the moment she kneels on a bitter cold day to capture the embrace of snow and pine needles, there is no comparison. She is looking fully. What I see when she shows me the photograph is a moment of seeing, a moment of beauty recognized. Love realized. It’s the same reason I stand at an easel and wipe away my trepidation. To see, subject and object undifferentiated. For a moment, no comparison. One.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SNOW AND PINE NEEDLES

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The Future We Plant [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Milkweed seed pods in winter. It’s mauve flowers are by now a distant memory yet their remembrance also must serve as a desire. What would be the point of releasing its seed to the wind if there was no dream of future mauve blossoms?

Kerri and I are not so different from the Milkweed. We write everyday; our words are seeds released into the e-wind with the hope of reaching fertile hearts and minds. Who knows what blossoms our word-seeds might inspire?

Much of what we write is the mauve blossom of word-seeds sent on the e-wind by others. The thought-seed of others lands and is planted in our hearts and minds. Over time, with warmth and consideration, the seed cracks and sends new-thought shoots to the surface, seeking sun and expression. And so we write. We send. Others receive. In turn, they write or draw or dance – they send – and we receive. It’s a cycle of sharing that goes mostly unrecognized. A riot of unseen interconnectivity. It’s called inspiration.

Words, even the most casual, are more powerful than we realize. They are symbols. They are seeds of future-thought in others. Some, like invasive weeds, are capable of doing harm. They choke the inner landscape where they are planted. Some are like acorns. They land in timid hearts and produce towering strength beyond imagination.

When I listen to the discourse in our media and politics, I shudder at the seeds being planted. I marvel at the ease of misinformation, the ubiquity of lies. Words meant to mislead. Words meant to do harm. Words meant to hurt. Mean-spirited seeds.

I can’t help but wonder what fields of flowers we would produce if we understood the real power of our words. I wonder what future we plant in each other through the words we so easily release into the wind.

read Kerri’s blogpost about MILKWEED

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Walk The Path [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

On the first day of the new year we bundled ourselves against the cold and walked our usual loop. It is our custom to go outside, no matter the weather, and visit our trail as a ritual start to the new year.

The wind was bitter. Stepping onto the trail we were surprised and perplexed. The recent snow had melted off the path yet the tread-marks of walkers-past remained. It was as if a small group of people stepped in a pan of white paint and, oblivious of their tracks, continued down the trail.

We’ve seen lots of footprints in the snow. Never the reverse, snowprints on dirt.

“This could be our metaphor for the coming year,” I said. “Everything is the opposite of what is natural. Of what is normal.”

She wrinkled her brow. “I no longer know what normal is,” her quip muffled by her scarf. Too true. We are stepping into uncharted territory. Certainly unnatural.

“Shall we?” she asked, offering her gloved hand.

“Yes. Let’s.” There is nothing to be done now, in this new year, in this unnatural circumstance, but hold hands and walk the path.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FOOTPRINTS

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The Fallout [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

The Economist magazine cover story, Oct 17, 2024: America’s economy is bigger and better than ever. The cover headline blared: The Envy of the World. The subtitle question: Will politics bring it back to Earth? Now we know the short answer: Yes. [check out the link*. You’ll need to sign in to read the full article but the bit you can see actually tells the full story].

The truth of our economy couldn’t penetrate the MAGA misinformation bubble. The truth of the Biden administration – in an effort to restore the middle-class – finally stimulating the economy from the middle out instead of the long debunked trickle down. An economy that is the envy of the world. Too bad. I suppose it’s possible that the promised tariffs, Project 2025, the economics of mass deportation and the full impact of the oligarch’s DOGE will pop the MAGA fantasy. We’ll see.

What’s certain is now it all starts. The fallout of mass-misinformation, the plummet back to hard reality. The full impact of the nation landing hard on its mind-bogglingly-self-destructive choice.

*The Economist is a published in Britain. It has no skin in our game.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FALL OUT

smack-dab © 2025 kerrianddavid.com

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Upside Down and Wide Open [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Years ago I had a dream. It was visceral and has stuck with me. In my dream the world flipped upside-down. What was heavy was now light. What was difficult became easy. And vice-versa. What I once did effortlessly was suddenly impossible. I could move a mountain but I could not lift a paintbrush. I awoke from my dream both frightened and enthralled.

What is possible? What is impossible? These are good questions to ask on the threshold of a new year. Earlier this week I sat down to write some intentions for the new year and the page is still blank. I’ve decided it is best to leave the possibilities wide open. A blank page has become my intention.

This morning a quote by Noam Chomsky rolled across my screen: “If you assume that there is no hope, you guarantee that there will be no hope.”

I was entering 2025 with a sense of dread and then, in a matter of 24 hours, my picture for what’s possible completely flipped over. An unreachable opportunity sparked a series of heart-conversations. My heavy dread dissipated like fog meeting a warming sun. My eyes refocused on the essential instead of the periphery. I stepped across the dateline filled with hope.

Sometimes, when you least expect it, mountains move. Sometimes the world flips over. Sometimes dreams come true.

Riverstone on the album AS IT IS © 2004 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about REFLECTIONS

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