Weather Beautifully [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“…happiness, when pushed to an extreme, becomes calamity. Beauty, when overdone, becomes ugliness.” ~ Thomas Merton, The Way of Chuang Tzu

I am early in my slow-read of The Way of Chuang Tzu. I already love it. This morning I read these words by Thomas Merton slowly, again and again, tasting them like poetry: “…a system constructed on a theoretical and abstract principle of love ignores certain fundamental and mysterious realities, of which we cannot be fully conscious, and the price we pay for this inattention is that our ‘love’ in fact becomes hate.”

The abstract ideal contorts us. The “what is” always loses in a comparison to the “should be”. Thus, a world of nature’s beauty swirls down the drain.

Marketing ideals and mirrors reflect theoretical and abstract principles. Constructed systems. They readily twist our natural love of self into a hatred of our bodies and faces. Is beauty really the exclusive province of the young? Jessica Tandy and Hume Cronyn grew more and more beautiful, more and more brilliant with age. Aging is among the “fundamental and mysterious realities” of which Thomas Merton wrote. There is profound beauty in aging, a mysterious reality that is not accessible to the young.

On Saturday we published a Smack-Dab cartoon about aging. We poked fun at my discovery of new wrinkles when looking in the mirror. Poking fun at ourselves is a good strategy for embracing the “fundamental and mysterious reality” of this beautiful life. There’s so much pressure to do otherwise, to resist, to deny, to pretend. Laughter is a great eye-cleanser.

We live in a society slathered with memes and messages of self-love while, at the same moment, we drown in messages to be other-than-what-we-are. Is it any wonder we are conflicted and seem incapable of sorting out what is real and what is not?

I know with certainty, like every other human that walked before me, I will disappear into time. Why spend another moment of my precious limited time on this earth resisting the gorgeous life that I enjoy? Why try to hide my age to match a manufactured ideal?

There is a reason the clothes I wore a decade ago no longer fit. There is a reason my beard is grey and the light in my eyes is less fierce than it was twenty years ago. I am different now. No more or less beautiful.

I said, squeezing her hand, “Let’s become apple-dolls together.” Her eyes welled with tears. What could possibly be more beautiful?

read Kerri’s blogpost about WEATHERED BEAUTY

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Find Your Right Place [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

A box of drawer pulls is a box of stories lost to time. Many are worn from long use, polished by human hands. Some have never been used, rarely touched, except by those of us that casually sift through the box.

It’s easy to personify a drawer pull and turn it into a story of yearning. A story of yearning for purpose. A story of being chosen. A story of finding a home.

As I lift a tiny knob from the box I ask, “And what about you?” I am tempted to buy the little knob for no other reason than to get it out of the box. To give it a home. I have already projected a personality onto this tiny pull and laugh heartily at myself.

The shopkeeper eyes me hopefully. It is unusual for the box of knobs to elicit laughter. She’s giving change to another customer.

I rub the tiny knob like a worry-stone and place it back in the box. “Have hope,” I tell the tiny knob. It is worn smooth from a long life of good use. “You’ll find your right place, your next life, someday soon.” I can feel it.

Were I a sculptor, an artist that worked in three dimensions like Louise Nevelson, the whole box would be coming home with me. I know the right artist will find this box and when they do, this little drawer pull, rather than sit forgotten on my shelf, will be delighted to transform, serving a less-functional but more heart-inspired kind of beauty, sublime as a work of art.

read Kerri’s blogpost about KNOBS

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I Am Like That [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

She saw it in the shop on the river road and fell in love with it. A coneflower sculpture. Asymmetrical. Beautiful in its imperfection. It came home with us and immediately found its place in our garden. Each morning as I look out the kitchen window, waiting for the coffee to brew, I recognize that it is the perfect symbol for us.

A coneflower is a symbol of strength, joy, resilience, endurance, and optimism. Perseverance. Healing. Prosperity. That’s quite a list!

Most symbols are many-layered yet point in a singular direction.

One of the few choices we actually have in life is which symbols we choose to embrace. To choose or align with a symbol is to say, “I am like that.” The symbol becomes both a description of the path already walked and a guide-star for choices to come.

Kerri fell in love with the coneflower. She wasn’t thinking about symbols. I was. And I couldn’t imagine a better symbol for her – for us – for the landscape we’ve just traversed and for where we intend to go.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CONEFLOWER

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Beautiful And Prickly [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Thriving in an unlikely and inhospitable place, this thistle served as a sign, a testimony to possibility, the rugged beauty available only through dogged perseverance. Stretching up through a tiny crack in a busy sidewalk outside aging buildings in a bustling city, these thistles stood nearly five feet tall. Their colorful flowering heads brought us to a full stop. We set down our knitted-brows and absorbed their vibrant pink and purple stick-to-it-ed-ness. “Gorgeous,” she said, reaching for her camera.

More than beauty-through-resilience, these hardy thistles spoke to me with the veracity of an oracle. As I watched Kerri take photographs, the oracle whispered in my ear “Both beautiful and prickly,” she said, “Her prickles protect her against herbivores and others.”

“Ahhh,” I sighed. A well-rounded plant, indeed. No shrinking violet could possibly survive in this environment, let alone thrive. Bloom.

For a moment I stood watching the passers-by. Few took notice of the gorgeous thistles. Some scurry-ers glanced sideways at Kerri cooing and snapping photos of what, I imagine, they thought of as weeds for someone else to pull. No time for beauty. No time for responsibility. On-to-the-next.

“I’ll bet those people think I’m crazy,” she said, tucking her camera inside her purse.

“Yep,” I agreed. “You are definitely more like the thistle than you are to the people passing-by.” She gave me a sideways glance but decided to accept the compliment.

I winked and whispered to the thistle-oracle. “All the time in the world for beauty. All the time in the world for responsibility. Nowhere else more important to be.” Beautiful and prickly. Resilient to the core.

Divine Intervention/Released From The Heart © 1995 Kerri Sherwood

Kerri’s music is available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora and iHeart Radio

read Kerri’s blogpost about THISTLES

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Just Gorgeous [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

It wore a small plaque, a designated historical landmark. Even so, it’s a study of contradiction in decay. The building is a little worse for wear. Like an old skin, weathered tar shingles crack and peel from the corners. Pieces are falling off. And yet it is beautiful in its collision of textures. The weather-beaten wood carries the same green and orange as the copper hinge.

And, oh-the-hinge! Made in a time when function was an opportunity for ornamentation, now grown more beautiful with the patina and wreckage of age. It’s missing part of the pin. It’s crudely screwed into the wood, an after thought. Still, it is the first thing we noticed when we walked by the decaying structure. “Look at that hinge!” she gasped, reaching for her camera. Its imperfections make it a siren, a luring call to an aesthetic eye.

There’s a beauty that only age and imperfection can muster. Wabi-sabi; the riches of imperfection. The glory of transience. The building was happy to be noticed. It was more than patient with our photo shoot and made no attempt to hide its bumps and barnacles. “You see me!” it seemed to say, so used to people passing-by with nary a glance.

“You’re gorgeous,” she sighed, her lens focusing tightly on every intricacy, reveling in the smallest detail. “Just gorgeous!”

All My Loves (newly reworked), 24″ x 41 3/8″ mixed media on hardboard

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE HINGE

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Barnacle And Beauty [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Let me describe the present moment. It is morning. A gentle rain is falling outside, tap-tapping a steady rhythm on the gutters and pools in the driveway. The window is open just enough so the smell of new rain is carried on a slight cool breeze. We sit, feet beneath the quilt, writing. Dogga was asleep in his favorite spot at the doorway but must have sensed I was about to write about him. He stretched, yawned, groaned, and jumped up on the bed. He nestled in and is once again asleep. Oh, yes, and there is coffee.

I was compelled to write about the present moment because I just read to Kerri an article in the New York Times about the social side of artificial intelligence. AI companions. At first it begged the question, “What is real?” but then I caught my prejudice. Are the conversations I have in my head real? Are my perceptions of the world real? Why should the conversations people are having with their AI companions be any less real than the nonsense that daily runs through my noggin? There is, according to the report, an epidemic of loneliness in these un-United States and true companionship is, apparently, hard to come by. It smacks to me of another layer on the bubble: people create their AI companions and AI companions learn how to respond to their creators from their creators…

There was no filter used to capture this pink-purple sky. It’s one of the things I appreciate about Kerri’s urge to aim her camera. She rarely attempts to alter the image. To make it something else. She is drawn to photograph the present moment with all of its flaws and barnacles. And beauty and grace.

Last night, during our 3am banana-and-trail-fest, we bumbled into a series of videos: people who have decided to live off the grid yet are documenting and sharing their homesteading process on YouTube. We’ve been following Martijn Doolaard for a few years and delight in the travels of Foresty Forest and his dog Rocko. Alternate lives. Old world craftsmen-and-women using-but-not-lost-in the wonders of new world technology. Sense-making.

My 3am revelation? I’m drawn to these people because of the balance they seek to establish: hands and feet firmly rooted in the traditions of dirt and toil and presence, while at the same time appreciating and using technology to capture their present moment. To share. To create. To suggest to us 3am sleep-deprived watchers that there is, indeed, a balance to be struck. No need to get lost. Barnacles and beauty available during this time of intense change.

meander/as it is © 2004 kerri sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SKY

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Pass Through [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

“Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does.” ~ James Baldwin

We watched each day as the pink tulips passed through their many phases of life, each beautiful and surprising. As they neared the last chapter, I thought they echoed orchids. The subtle pinks ran to the edges of the wrinkling petals, heads bowed, devotees in quiet prayer.

Initially, the tulips brought hope and light into our house. For weeks the table had been stacked with so-much-paper, a mammoth project. We cleared the table of its heavy burden and replaced the weighty paper with a row of delicate tulips. We’d catch ourselves staring into the dining room; inevitably one of us would say, “I love this.”

20 would call it the contrast principle. The delicate lightness of the tulips were made more pronounced because of the heaps of paper that preceded it. Perhaps. All I know is that the tulips lifted my spirit like few other things have in these winter months. They became a celebration of love. A symbol that joins daisies in our canon of symbols and will forever signify a step into love. A new chapter. A next chapter.

As it bowed its petals, as they began to fall, we found ourselves more rapt in their beauty, not less. Their age made them translucent. Fragile. Their impermanence somehow made them eternal. As it should be. Passing through transformation.

“I love this, she said, squeezing my hand.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TULIPS

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Take The Curve [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

I understand that there are no straight lines in nature. In life, either. Curves, bumps, potholes…surprises… are the spice of an interesting life. A full palette experience. Note: I did not write “an easy life.” Easy is a one-color painting.

That there are no straight lines in life or in nature (same thing) makes this warning sign something of a curiosity. If there are only curves of varying degrees, why warn me that there is a curve coming. I’m presently standing in a curve. There will be a curve after the upcoming curve. And another after that.

I’d be much more interested if the sign warned me of smooth sailing ahead. Or calm waters. Or momentary peace.

I suppose I’m less interested in the geometry of my travels and more concerned with the quality of my journey. I understand that the sign is attempting to help me manage my expectations, moderate my speed, prepare for what’s ahead; it’s a type of crystal ball. It knows what the future holds if I continue on this path.

I already know that there is a curve ahead. I have no expectation of straight paths. Or narrow paths, for that matter. I do, however, expect to be surprised. Although there is no sign in yellow and black warning me of the beauty, I understand that there’s an amazing vista ahead, somewhere just beyond the curve.

read Kerri’s blogpost about CURVES

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buymeacoffee is a sign on the road that we are not tossing our words and work into a e-void. it’s hope in a modern era.

Stand In A Word [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Poets and philosophers have been trying to define beauty for eons. What is beautiful? It’s an impossible task since beauty is not a “thing.” It’s an experience, meaning that it is a relationship – so it is not possible to squeeze it into a fixed word definition. Like all rivers and relationships, beauty is fluid. The best we can do it recognize and appreciate being part of the relationship. We can approach it through language but will never capture it.

The English language is hard. It turns everything into a noun, a thing. I just wrote “being part of the relationship.” Even if I’d written, “being a participant in the relationship,” I’d still be stuck in the noun-trap. Participant (a thing) in another thing called “relationship”. It’s no wonder we have such difficulty wrapping our small-noun-minds around huge-global-relationships like climate change. Through language we can easily compartmentalize the most intimate of interrelationships; as a dedicated thing, climate, has nothing to do with me, also a thing. Two things rather than one relationship. Where’s a verb when you need it?

It’s always there. Our language prejudices us against our interconnectivity.

If Kerri and I have a cathedral, a place of worship, it is nature. Our trails. We go there to get quiet. To clear our busy minds. We go there when we have questions too big to merely solve. We go there when we are overwhelmed and need to ground ourselves. We go there to fill up on inspiration. We go there for the same reason we each go to our studios – to enter a conscious relationship with something bigger than our little selves. To experience that which cannot be defined. We go there to release the noun-mind, the problem-solver, and enter the relationship with beauty. To stand in another word that, like beauty, is a flowing river, impossible to contain: possibility.

Always With Us/As It Is © 2004 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about CATHEDRALS

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buymeacoffee is an action, a verb, that has positive impact on the pronoun in the phrase.

Cycle Forward And Back [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Last week I saw a suit in a store that was frighteningly similar to the burgundy tuxedo I wore to my junior prom. Fear not, there are photos of a youthful me in my clothing-abomination that you will never see. I refuse to blackmail myself. I generally avoid ridicule unless I’m in the mood to perform a prat-fall.

Beauty is not a fixed idea. Nor is it unique enough to be held in the single eye of any one beholder. Beauty is shared. Communal. And the community is restless. It cycles through contour and color and pattern expectation. Each year a new style born of reaction against the previous styles. When I look at photographic proof of my willing-wearing of a horrific burgundy tux, I shake my head and think, “What was I thinking?” A better question would be, “What were we thinking?” At the time, I thought my tux was cool. My pal, Oz, wore a powder blue tux and strutted his blue-ness all prom-long.

The fashion cycle always returns to itself. The fabrics are improved (less petroleum) but the style is textbook. What’s new is old and what’s old is new. I stood in the store utterly agog at a full rack of wine colored suits. Laughter-tears streamed from my eyes though I can’t be sure I wasn’t reacting to the shock of terrible print patterns on the stacks and stacks of shirts. Terrible to me; beautiful to the other festive and frantic shoppers.

I’ve spent hours staring at our tree. The fragile glass ornaments reach back into the 1940’s and 50’s. They mirror the shape of cars from the era. Appliances, too. Light fixtures. Do you remember the spaceships of Buck Rogers or the marionettes of Space Patrol? The ornaments are Shiny Brites. Massed produced but decorated by hand. They were all the rage in their time. The shapes and story inspire me. That’s how the cycle works.

This year the Shiny Brites are all the rage in our home. Beautiful in our time. What’s old is new. What’s new is old.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SHINY BRITES

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buymeacoffee is a blowback to a time when coffee was a thing that people drank from manufactured glass mugs while sharing the stories of their day.