Give Over [David’s blog on KS Friday]

In the pontoon boat I give over. I do not drive so I make no significant decisions. I sit in a sunny spot. I laugh with good friends or am quiet. There are snacks. I open myself to whatever comes my way. I give-over.

It seems so easy on the pontoon boat. To relax. To go with the flow. To forget the all-important-lists. To drop the illusion that I am more than I am. No need to achieve, to prove, to strive, to become. On the pontoon boat I am just this. I am with friends. We move slowly. We chase nothing. We circumnavigate the lake. On the pontoon boat I am enough – and I know because I do not think about it at all. I measure nothing. No need to measure up.

I wonder why I reserve this kind of living to time on the pontoon boat.

Yesterday was an exceedingly hard day. I filled my cup with discord and self-loathing. I was a wasteland.

The boat is not magic. The peace I feel is not given to me by the boat. I give it to myself. My friends are with me whether we ride the boat or not. The reasons for my discord existed only in my mind. A very dark cloud. In my mind I did not measure up. I withheld peace and chose inner-enmity. Why?

You would think the grace I afford myself when riding in the pontoon boat would be available when riding on the earth as we circle and circle the sun. Why is my ride on this earth any different than my ride on the pontoon boat? Why would I choose anything other than grace?

When not on the pontoon boat am I not capable of opening myself to whatever comes my way? What – other than myself – prevents me from giving-over?

I measure illusions against illusions to fully achieve my misery.

The illusions and incessant measurement are what I drop when climbing onto the pontoon boat. They are what I easily-give-over when taking my seat in the sun with friends. How much more important is it to give-over the illusions with the same ease while inhabiting this seat as I circle and circle the sun?

Time Together on the album This Part of the Journey © 1998 Kerri Sherwood

The music Kerri has recorded is available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora.

read Kerri’s blogpost about the PONTOON BOAT

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In Friendship [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“Where self-interest is the bond, the friendship is dissolved when calamity comes. Where Tao is the bond, friendship is made perfect by calamity.” ~ Thomas Merton, The Way of Chuang Tzu

The basket of grasses has moved several times since I first set foot in this house, now my home. Our home. Kerri has a designer’s eye and the basket of grasses migrate according to her latest conception. Of late, they traveled to our bedroom and rest between the gingham chair and her jewelry box.

I know what you are thinking. As a dedicated wearer of black, a lover of earth tones, it is surprising that she has a gingham chair. Do not be fooled by her limited clothing color palette, she is eclectic. I am particularly fond of this unexpected chair since it was where she was sitting when we had our first phone call so many years ago. It all began in a the gingham chair.

I am not unusual in that the great changes of my life have been punctuated by the culling of friends. The forces of change topple the rootless relationships. Yet, while many drop away, a precious few transcend the moment. Not only do they endure, sinking deeper roots, but they grow in strength and fondness.

It is an understatement to suggest that, for us, these past few years have been rife with calamity. It is also not an understatement to say that we are emerging from the hot fire with a band of fast friends. Forged and polished. Beautiful.

Over time I’ve learned to read the movement of the basket of grasses. They are my personal Farmer’s Almanac, my home-decor-tarot. Kerri moves them after a life-storm has passed. She rearranges to re-ground. With every movement of the basket of grasses, I know we’ve come through the latest chaos. And, I know without doubt who stands with us, who we stand with, who will be with us no matter the circumstance or calamity.

In friendship, in our friends, we are the wealthiest people alive.

Helping Hands,
53.5″ x 15.25″

read Kerri’s blogpost about GRASSES

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How To Harmonize [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“Nature, in the intimate and in the vast, is not designed. It is designing. Our own nature confirms it.” ~ N.J. Berrill, You and the Universe (via The Marginalian)

 In one of our famous conversations, Horatio suggested I read Ernest Becker’s Pulitzer Prize winning book, The Denial of Death. So, I did. Horatio has never led me astray. Boiled down to an essence, as a unifying principle for religion and science, it unpacks the human dilemma of being a finite animal with an unlimited imagination. We are unique among creatures because we know we will die yet we have the capacity to imagine ourselves infinite. And so, to live beyond the veil, we think we must leave a mark, to serve a greater purpose. We must seek or give meaning to our limited time. No other animal carries so great a burden, this split-dance of separation and unity.

It is an understatement to suggest that it has set me to thinking. It is the ultimate in creative tension.

For ages, artists have painted the Danse Macabre. Some are a painting a warning: it’s coming so be ready! Some are painting an appeal: it’s precious so live every moment of it!

And this is what Horatio’s recommendation has me thinking: It’s a cycle of movement, like the tides or the cycle of the seasons, the movement of the earth, spinning around the sun…It is movement. Life is movement.

I was hired at the software start-up, not because I know anything about technology or coding, but because I see movement. Dynamic whole systems. In my brief foray into the start-up, I learned that, in order to be successful, software has no end. It is never finished. It must constantly iterate. It must never assume a completion. It is, in that way, like a human being, constantly becoming, cycling through periods of stability and periods of chaos, through lostness and found-ness, each generation supporting the cycle of the next generation.

We confuse ourselves by seeking an answer to our end, as if the design is finished. As if we are complete. That is a statement of our denial. We are movement. Relationship. Cycle. Never complete.

She knelt to take a photograph of the daisies, each at various points in their life cycle. A perfect visual for the single question-with-no-answer at the core of our short season on earth:

“…how to harmonize our cosmic smallness with the immensity of our creaturely experience…” ~ N.J. Berrill

read Kerri’s blogpost about DAISIES

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On The Morning Breeze [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

The first hint of fall was in the air this morning. Is it a scent or something I feel riding on the breeze? I’m not sure. Maybe both. I stood at the door and breathed it in. It is like the return of a favorite friend.

I’ve been waiting for this moment. The plumes on the grasses changed color a few weeks ago – a sure sign of autumn approaching. The vine coiling around the rocks by the pond has already passed through crimson and yellow to brittle brown, a transformation that usually happens later in September. Breck-the-aspen-tree, stressed by all the rain we’ve recently experienced, is not yet changing. She must wonder if she’s been transplanted to a rainforest. I imagine she refuses to put on her fall color until she’s had a chance to wear her finest summer wardrobe. The bees are out in force and a little aggressive, a sign of summer’s end.

I’ve been meditating on my conversation with Judy. We talked about life’s changes. The hot fire that tests us and transforms us when we finally understand that we must let go of who we think we are. “Either I die or this dies and I’m not going to die!” she said, laughing the laugh of someone who has been forged in fire, someone who has let go of seasons past and moved with nature into the surprising new.

Standing at the backdoor, feeling autumn to my bones, I felt the ash of the fire all the way to my core.

Beyond the dictionary definition, I am learning about resilience. Resilience is not a rigid bulwark. It is an open hand. Breck-the-aspen-tree bending with the wind. New sprouts arising through the ashes after the forest fire. It is autumn announcing its arrival on the morning breeze.

read Kerri’s blogpost about PLUMES

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Simply Say, “Enough.” [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

She snapped. I watched it happen, the moment when there was no more room for tolerance, no more space for grace. Had she spoken she simply would have said, “Enough”.

You can’t make up this stuff.

A hot mic on the Access Hollywood bus should have ended it.

Being found liable for sexual assault (rape) by a jury of his peers should have ended it.

Being accused of sexual assault and misconduct by 25 women should have ended it.

His recent repost of repugnant tweets about Hillary Clinton and Kamala Harris should end it. But it won’t. As a survivor of sexual abuse she’d had enough. She snapped.

Misogyny in the United States is not only alive and well, it is being celebrated by at least half of the voting population. The man-who-would-be-king has no bottom to his baseness. How is it possible that so many are so willing to follow him into the pigswill? How is it possible that this miscreant* is the person the red hats have chosen to emulate, to support, to uphold as an example for their children, as the standard bearer to lead them into the future?

In a recent interview James Carville warned that this miscreant “under-polls” meaning that the people who support him are ashamed to admit that they support him and his reprehensible views. So they hide their support. They mask their truth. I suppose being so ashamed of your beliefs that you lie to conceal them implies at least some small shred of self-awareness. A gutted morality. Or perhaps it is plain cowardice.

Misogyny: the hatred of, contempt for, or prejudice against women or girls. It is a form of sexism that can keep women at a lower social status than men, thus maintaining the social roles of patriarchy.

Running a campaign on hatred. Contempt. Amplifying prejudice and sexism. In other words, the miscreant and his hate-party are empty of vision and ethics. This paucity of heart and thought leaves them with no recourse but to demean others – as it seems their single goal is to maintain at-all-cost the rusty social roles of a collapsing patriarchy.

Strumming the strings of those who fear equality, whipping up a crowd terrified that they will come up short on an even playing field.

This is what I wanted to tell her when she snapped: drowning men push all others underwater to elevate themselves.

Those who support the miscreant, like the miscreant himself, are drowning. It’s easy to see: working to restrict voters, gerrymandering maps, desperate to change voter laws and procedures so they can tilt the outcome in their favor no matter the result of the election. The miscreant has proclaimed that, once in office, he will “fix things” so we need never vote again. It’s the statement of a sad little man and his party swallowing water, afraid to compete, afraid to say, “This is what we believe.” (see Project 2025 and the lengths they now go to disavow it). It betrays a fundamental disregard – and disdain – for the system they proclaim to protect. If they truly believed in our system of governance, if they truly believed in the values they purport to conserve, they’d not fear an even playing field. They’d defend it. They’d welcome it. They’d arrive at the table with a fierce dedication to protect the right of all citizens to freely vote. They would not tolerate so crude and base a man as their leader.

If his party will not hold him accountable or at least condemn him, if the law -as it seems – is incapable of holding him accountable, then the voters must. We need to end it.

Never mind the impeachments, the felony convictions, the dozens of indictments awaiting trial, the evidence-free claims and incessant whining of an election he lost, the violent attempt to stop the transfer of power…with the once-stiff spine of the republican party now a swampy puddle on the floor, it’s time for this nation to snap and say “Enough.”

His repulsive rhetoric is not locker room talk. His party’s “boys will be boys” excuse needs once-and-for-all to be swept into the dustbin of history with the miscreant and his privileged-hate-speak.

There is no excuse for misogyny. It’s way past time for the old boys to man up and learn to play on an even and equal playing field. American woman are not stupid. And that’s exactly what the old boys are afraid of.

*miscreant (noun): a person who behaves badly or in a way that breaks the law.

read Kerri’s blogpost about MISOGYNY

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Feel It [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

I worked in or consulted with many schools and businesses. I was always amazed at how much the organization mirrored the personality of the principal or CEO. An angry boss always made for an angry organization. A bright light at the top of the org chart shone in every corner and heart of the community.

And so it goes for nations. This week I had two important calls with dear friends that I have not seen for over a decade. Both commented on the lightness of spirit they feel since Kamala Harris became the Democratic nominee for President. Hope is in the air. A leader who laughs. A candidate who speaks of opportunity, equality and possibility…The energy of optimism is palpable, the uplift is trickling down. You can feel it.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TRICKLE DOWN

smack-dab © 2024 kerrianddavid.com

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Straw Into Gold [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.'” ~ Kurt Vonnegut, If This Isn’t Nice, What Is?

At this moment the heat index is 107 degrees. Dogga is in the coolest spot in the house, sleeping between the window air conditioner and the fan. Our strategy for keeping cool includes frequent bites of cold watermelon.

I recently heard someone say that surviving is about getting through the day while thriving is about being fully alive within the day. With two forks and a large bowl of cut-up watermelon between us, I can safely say that we are thriving. “This is delicious,” I coo. She nods, savoring her bite.

As artists we have of necessity developed a healthy frugality. Our thriftiness is not tight-fisted or in any way austere. The opposite is true. We revel in the simple things. We appreciate small moments. We delight in tiny triumphs. We are not trying to survive the heat, we are making an adventure, moving slowly, mindfully, deliciously within our day. Our cold watermelon a feast-to-be-savored.

Last night we had dinner with 20. We make dinner for each other twice a week. It’s something we’ve done for years, something that began as a way to save money. It’s become the single ritual that gives shape to our otherwise fluid days. Sitting around the table, laughing, we acknowledge that “life doesn’t get any better than this.”

We spin our straw into gold. Out of frugality, deep abiding appreciation.

Good Moments on the album This Part of the Journey © 1997/2000 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about WATERMELON

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Wonderland [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

And just how did the katydid get into the kitchen?

It sounds like the question at the heart of a children’s book to me! We have visits from flies and moths and the occasional ant or two. Never before has a katydid been in the kitchen.

Did it ride on the dog or sneak in the open screen door? It there a secret katydid portal, a wardrobe into our kitchen which, to a katydid, must have seemed like a strange new land? Did it wonder how to get back home?

How long had it adventured inside the house? Did it puzzle over inedible carpet and taste-test the plants-in-pots? Did it run from the giants who did not see it? Did it dance to the music that came from nowhere or was the noise thunderous, strange and unnerving?

Did it know it was learning inside from outside? Was the window glass a complete surprise? An impossible impediment to the known world?

Did it understand the giant lady when she marveled at its beauty? Did it pose for its picture? Did it show us its “good side” or did it not-care-in-the-least how it looked?

Was it terrified when the giant lady trapped it? What did it feel when constrained and rushed through the door? Was it disoriented, suddenly finding itself once again in the grassy world it recognized? Was it relieved? Did it think the adventure was a strange dream?

Will it seek the wardrobe again? Will it once again seek passage on the dog to confirm its peek into Wonderland?

The Storyteller emerges from the forest.
Lucy & The Waterfox

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE KATYDID

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Open [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“Each of us is an artist of our days; the greater our integrity and awareness, the more original and creative our time will become.” ~ John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings

Divemaster Terry’s teaching was based on a simple principle: get neutral. In neutrality, there is no struggle. There is no fear. There is surrender to the movement of the ocean. The water cradles the diver.

The point? In the absence of struggle and fear, in the surrender to the natural movement of “something bigger,” only then is it possible to see. Only then is full awareness available beyond the control-story. Only then is it possible to experience the grace in the dive. To become.

Divemaster Terry was an artist. All the world was his studio. Every moment was his canvas. He was teaching me the essential lesson in artistry: surrender to the greater movement of the ocean. Flow with it rather than fight it. To fight the ocean is folly. And dangerous.

I thought of him as we harvested our peppers. We’ve never grown peppers before so this was new territory. Anything in the garden is relatively new territory. We do not know what we are doing. Our gardening is the equivalent of listening. She was giddy when she harvested the first peppers.

I recognized it. It was the same giddiness I felt the first time I understood – and lived – Terry’s lesson, “get neutral”. My eyes opened. My heart opened. I was inside the miracle, moving as the ocean, seeing without the obstruction of a story.

She plucked the first vibrant red pepper. For a moment she held the whole living earth in her hands. Eyes open. Heart wide open. No separation.

“Take time to see the quiet miracles that seek no attention” ~ John O’Donohue

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PEPPERS

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A Double Sign of Hope [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Since they do not show-up every year, we take it as a sign of hope when a frog suddenly appears in our tiny pond. It’s late in the season so we thought this summer was a no-frog-year. And then, on Thursday, the final night of the DNC, as I finished scrubbing and refilling our bird bath, I heard the tell-tale splash. I turned and saw it nestled on a rock just beneath the water line.

“We have a frog!” I whispered to Kerri. She gasped, grabbed her camera and hurriedly tip-toed to the pond.

A sign of hope.

It is a hallmark of our relationship that we look for – that we assign and actively celebrate – signs of hope. Deer on the trail? “That’s a good sign!” The brilliant sunset on the day of our wedding? “We’ve been given a remarkable gift – a sign!” A dragonfly landing on our shoulder, a hawk that flies across our path, the owl that calls in the night, the turtle that meets us on the trail, our car that against all odds gets us home…Messengers of hope. Spirit lifters.

We find what we seek.

We named our frog DeeNCee Lullabaloo. DeeNCee came on the night that Kamala Harris accepted her party’s nomination for president. A spirit lifter. A trailblazer. A bright light. A sign of hope and joy arising from a very dark night. So, DNC. DeeNCee. The surname Lullabaloo is a moniker marking this time we have chosen to inhabit, to create and embrace: the lull. I laughed aloud when this morning a quote by Georgia O’Keeffe crossed my screen: I have done nothing all summer but wait for myself to be myself again.” A perfect description of the lull. Lullabaloo.

DeeNCee Lullabaloo. Jumping out of nowhere. A double sign of hope.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DeeNCee

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