The Smallest of Things [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

We’ve taught Dogga not to bark at the dachshunds next door. He stands vigil on our bed where he can see out the window and over the fence. He waits, knowing their morning routine. When the moment arrives, when the dachshunds come outside, Dogga groans and moans – like a character in a melodrama – to suppress his bark. He leaps off the bed, turns to look at us, and vigorously complains. His indignation is among our favorite morning rituals. We giggle at his yawling discord. We tell him to, “Go get candy cane!”, his favorite toy, useful in chewing away his dissatisfaction. He races into the next room returning with his plastic candy cane in his mouth, looking somewhat like Groucho Marx gnawing on a red and white striped cigar.

In those moments I couldn’t be more in love with my life. It’s the smallest of things.

We were like small children overrun with anticipation as we awaited the blossoming of the peonies. Last fall Loida gifted Kerri with two new peony roots. Elsa Sass and Amalia Olson. We planted them with great care, following the instructions to the letter. In the spring, little green adventurers broke through the soil. Soon there were leaves and then the tiniest buds. And then, one day, the buds began to swell; nature’s Jiffy Pop. Like Dogga peering out the window, we’d race outside each morning to hold our vigil. This week, the buds burst open, radiant flowers unfolded. Kerri was beside herself. The photo session has been ongoing for days. “I just love them!” she exclaims with each and every snap.

It’s the smallest of things.

This weekend, people left the comfort and safety of their homes to walk together in the streets. They showed up for each other. They showed up en masse to remind their elected leaders that they serve the public and not their party; they are meant to serve the needs of the public and not the whims of a criminal. People walked together to remind the absent/silent Republican members of Congress that they swore an oath to uphold The Constitution – and they are betraying their oath. Millions of people stepped out of their houses to walk together, to express their dissatisfaction with the brutality, the attempted authoritarian take-down of our democracy, to join together their voices to say, “We will not abdicate our responsibility to each other as you have abdicated your responsibility to us.”

It’s the smallest of things. To step out of the house. To walk with others. To speak truth to power, especially when power is a bully threatening violence.

Recently I’ve asked myself – as I’ve heard many others ask, “But what can I do?” This weekend we experienced an answer: Do the smallest of things. Step out of your house. Take a walk with your neighbors that sends a clear message to the cowards in Congress and the supremely corrupted court: The democracy that our ancestors planted here is precious and worth protecting.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PEONY

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No Words [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

It’s ironic to me that the “progressives” – Bernie Sanders and AOC – are waging an all out effort to preserve our democracy (one might use the word “conserve”) while the “conservatives” are waging a campaign of destruction meant to change the very essence of our governance; they’re calling it “progress”.

The Republican party of “small government” and “fiscal responsibility” are once again blowing the deficit into outer space while weaponizing the government to strong arm anyone who opposes their agenda or suggests that the Constitution ought to be honored.

Tucked into the grotesque big beautiful bill is language that “disarms the courts.” With the Republican Congress already cowed, the courts are the only remaining line separating us – a democracy – from an authoritarian state. The Republican members of the house actually voted to forward a bill that effectively ends our system of government. Is their a word more appropriate than “betrayal”? Perfidy? Treachery?

Their bill, the horror that they call big and beautiful, blatantly and without shame takes from the poor and gives to the rich – a reverse Robin Hood maneuver.

There just aren’t enough words to describe how base, how vile, how utterly chicken-hearted…they convene their sham-committees in the dark of night because they know how repugnant their big beautiful bill actually is. They know. They do not care. Neglect? Disregard? What words can we use to describe this level of depravity?

Vampires work at night because the light of day is lethal to them. Republicans, like vampires – as is apparent in their big bill – desire to drink the life-blood of the most vulnerable. We can only hope that there is enough light let into their chamber to kill this horror-bill before it sucks the life-blood from the most vulnerable people of this nation – and for no greater purpose than giving a massive tax cut to the already ultra-wealthy…and calling it progress.

No words.

[There is, however a ubiquitous question: What do we do?]

read Kerri’s blogpost about NO WORDS

smack-dab © 2025 kerrianddavid.com

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Allow A Glimpse [on KS Friday]

lost sketch copy

One of the challenges arising in our Melange is what to publish on DR Thursday or KS Friday. After 130 weeks, we both feel the need to produce and publish new work and not draw from the archives. It’s a good sign.

Today, after reading Wade Davis’ must-read article about the end of the american era in Rolling Stone, Kerri decided to go into the studio, focus on a single word, in this case, “lost,” and improvise. It was thrilling. I cannot describe the feeling of watching her finally and at last do what she is meant to do on this earth. Standing at the open end of the piano holding the iphone to record, I can feel the vibration of her playing ripple through my body, the pounding rhythm through the wood floor enters through the soles of my feet.

There is a moment 15 or 20 seconds after she begins playing when the music takes over, when she is no longer playing from her thinking-mind but from the deeper place. Her face relaxes. Her posture changes. The piano hops. She merges with the music and I feel like weeping or laughing or both the handful of times I’ve seen it happen. When she merges, it opens the door for me to enter, too. That is the power and magic of an artist: access to the deep-beautiful.

I’ve never met an artist more resistant to their artistry than Kerri. I’ve met artists before  that feared their artistry because they get lost in it. They walk to the edge but fear the leap. That might be Kerri’s plight but I don’t think so. My New York girl routinely stomps on edges, shouts profanity into canyons and leaps into voids. She is no shrinking violet. No, I think she feels betrayed by her gift so she betrays it in return. I think she feels lost. It is why the word resonated with her this morning.

And now, add two broken wrists to this complexity. It’s six months since her fall and her right wrist, her melody hand, is not recovering. It’s limiting. Her motion is greatly impeded. I cannot hear it but my ears are not the ears that matter in this equation.

This morning she improvised a few different pieces. For me they were gripping. For Kerri they were frustrating. So, rather than give you the full recording, she chose to offer a short sketch, a phrase. A timely piece and appropriate metaphor on almost every level: lost.

 

Kerri’s albums are available on iTunes

 

read Kerri’s blog post about LOST

 

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lost (a sketch) ©️ 2020 kerri sherwood

all my loves ©️ 2020 david robinson

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Step Toward Faith

My latest. An unusually small canvas.

My latest. An unusually small canvas: Will Is Belief.

I began writing this post a few weeks ago, just before the run to Florida and the launch of Beaky’s book. It was a very busy week and I’d forgotten that I started but did not finish the thought. This morning, wanting to get back into the rhythm of writing, I opened my iPad and found these words already written and awaiting my return:

I’m sitting in the choir loft watching the evening sun illuminate the stained glass window. I’m tired tonight and listening to Kerri, preparing for the Maundy evening service, rehearsing Nancy’s solo. Nancy’s voice is like a warm cello, deep and rich, and is working like a sound-massage on my tired bones. I’m giving over to it.

This cycle of services on Easter week is relatively new to me so I’m paying attention to all of the symbols and rituals of this story of rebirth. As is true of every great story cycle, the night is darkest before the dawn (thus, the cliché). This night, called Maundy Thursday in the cycle – I’m told that Maundy means mandate – is the night of the last supper and all the betrayals that followed. It is the segment of the story that is chocked full of crises of faith. If, like me, you are a lover of story you will recognize that some form of betrayal usually precedes a crisis of faith and, in turn, a crisis of faith always leads to growth and new direction; it always leads to sunrise.

Others betray us. We betray ourselves. Betrayal happens on the edges of the dark forest and forces a step into the unknown. Betrayal happens when we fall asleep (that is most often how we betray ourselves – sitting in front of the television to numb us to the richness of our lives). Things crumble: the relationship that we believed was secure, the truth into which we rooted our belief, the career that we thought would carry us to retirement. Security dissolves, identity dissipates, and then what? All the fears bob to the surface. All the dragons come out of the closet.

This was the unfinished thought I found this morning. I have no recollection of where I was going with it. Now, two weeks and a lot of life later, I read it as if someone else wrote it. However, there was one other sentence, detached from the others. It now reads like a mystery to me. When writing, I routinely float a sentence at the bottom of the page because it is the point of what I’m trying to reach. My floating sentence read:

A crisis of faith often has very little to do with faith.

And, as I try to resurrect my thought of a few weeks ago, I can only smile and write the first thing that occurred to me when I scrolled down and found the floater: Faith, like love or truth or time or anything else, is not something fixed. It moves and grows as we move and grow. A crisis of faith is really a step toward faith renewed. It enlivens. It helps us retire old dragons or let go of empty promises. It gets us out of our easy chair and helps us fully feel the day.