Making and Unmaking [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Barney-the-backyard-piano is disintegrating. His shiny facade has long since faded and now peels away, revealing the underlying layers. Those, too, are fragmenting. The textures of a lifetime exposed and made beautiful in contrast. The story of his making fully revealed in his unmaking.

We spread birdseed on Barney’s lid so he plays host to the black-capped chickadees and cardinals. The squirrels sun themselves on his disintegrating keyboard. His keys are almost unrecognizable, a comment my grandmother once made about her hands. “Almost unrecognizable,” she said and laughed, holding her hands to the light. She marveled at her translucence.

On a rare day of warmth, we sat in front of Barney in black plastic Adirondack chairs soaking in the winter sun. Dogga circled the yard barking at the gusts of wind. “This will carry us a long way,” I said, feeling the warmth reach all the way to my bones. She nodded. There is certainly more winter to come.

I closed my eyes and was suddenly lost in thought about the tears-in the-rain monologue: “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe…All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.” Someday I will hold my hand up to the light and marvel at the story of my making revealed in my unmaking.

PEACE 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 BARNEY

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An Experience [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“In the modern era, one of the most active metaphors for the spiritual project is “art.” ~ Susan Sontag (via The Marginalian)

It was within a meditation on silence that Susan Sontag wrote this thought. With planes and trains and automobiles, with cell phones and 24 hour news cycles, with weed whackers and garbage trucks and sirens, with podcasts to plug into and streaming on demand…opportunities for silence are rare, indeed.

All of my life I have retreated to my studio to “get quiet.” I’ve learned – and it seems to me a no-brainer -that there is a direct connection between silence-of-the-mind and presence. And, the experience of ‘something-bigger-than-me” can only happen in the present moment. It’s a direct experience, not an abstraction.

Marion Milner – under the pen name of Joanna Field – wrote that happiness cannot be found in the narrow focus of purpose because it lives “out there”, it promises fulfillment somewhere in a distant imagined future. It’s only in the broad focus of the senses that happiness can be found because it is immediate. Happiness is only possible/available/accessible in-the-here-and-now. It’s an experience, not an abstraction.

Art brings us into the present moment. Art has the power to break through isolating mental abstractions into the shared space of experience.

Joseph Campbell wrote that our endeavor in meaning-making is the opposite of our distant ancestors. For them, meaning was made (or found) through the group. We are tasked with finding it within ourselves.

“It” is never found in insistent preachers or rule-books or exhibitions of righteousness. These are the noisy aspects of the narrow focus erected on a platform of “should”.

If “it” is to be found, if “it” is to be experienced, inner silence is the threshold.

Take a walk in nature. Become captive to the color of the leaves. Entice the quiet found in the studio. These are the secrets of the composer whose music lifts your spirit, the poet who stirs your humanity, the dancer who challenges your idea of what’s possible…all bringing you into the dazzling present moment. It’s a place the artist knows well, an experience beyond words.

read Kerri’s blogpost about RED LEAVES

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Become The Raft [David’s blog on Flawed Wednesday]

It was during Covid that we started calling it “The Raft”. Our warm bed. With two broken wrists, all jobs lost and no work to be found, the heat turned down to save a penny, we felt like we were hanging on for dear life, afloat in the turbulent waters of the spinning universe on our tiny refuge. With Dogga asleep at our feet, we searched the horizon for hope, we launched our messages-in-a-bottle.

Our raft. It was one of the few places we felt safe and warm. Comforted. It was, during those scary and chaotic times, with the world in isolation, a haven where we might approach making sense of the senselessness. And, we survived.

I feel as if we are now back on the raft. The adults have left the capitol and the feckless man, the same nincompoop who suggested that we ingest bleach as a cure for Covid is now shoving Project 2025 down our throats – the ultimate aim is a Christian Nationalist Authoritarian State, a fate for our democracy that is far worse than swallowing bleach. He has returned with his clown car of bad clowns. Incompetents all, picked for their dull loyalty rather than their knowledge, experience or expertise. They know nothing of governing, or of creating or of problem-solving; they are solely capable of destroying.

Afloat on the raft we know that this time there is no refuge. There is no bubble thick enough to protect us from the virus that now infects our nation. There is no vaccine capable of minimizing the damage. There is no shot of courage available to legislators who have lost their moral compass and abandoned their spines along with their oath to protect the Constitution.

The isolation that helped saved us from Covid will now harm us. Of course, we necessarily practice social distancing from those contaminated by maga and made stupid by the fox but for the rest of us, the vast majority of the nation, we will eventually need to step outside, find each other, lock arms and become the raft for one another.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE QUILT

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A Joining With [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

I had a minor revelation (again) while we were working on this cartoon. What’s the question we ask when we go to the dictionary to look up a word? We ask, “What does it mean?” The operative word is “it”.

English speakers are bound by the word “it.” “It” magically, unconsciously, turns everything into an object. A thing. A thing to be pursued, chased, grasped. Found. Possessed. Bought. Sold.

Hope. Happiness. Kindness. Aspiration. Desire. Yearning…Love.

And what if “it” can’t be found or bought? What if “it” can only be tended, nurtured, like a flame? What if “it” can only be shared. Felt. What if “it” wasn’t a “thing” – an object – at all? What if “it” isn’t a transaction?What if “it” is a warmth? What then?

Is it possible for me to give you hope? Or is it more likely that hope is how we experience the sunrise after a cold dark night? A dawning both inside and out. A joining with…

Regardless of what our language might lead us to believe, hope, like love, is a how, not a what.

I know this: if we could find “it” and wrap “it” and give “it”, we would. Our hope for this season? That “it” finds you.

read Kerri’s blogpost about BUYING HOPE

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Caterpillar Kindness [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

It seems an odd time of year to see caterpillars. I am not a caterpillar expert. I’m not even a caterpillar novice so my perception of caterpillar oddity is based on nothing. Were we at a party and the conversation swung to caterpillars, I’d express my baseless opinion with forceful conviction. “Isn’t it strange!” I’d proclaim, “Caterpillars on the trail in the fall! Who’s ever heard of such a thing!” My conviction would have the other party-goers nodding their heads in agreement. Conviction without substance would make me a man of my times.

Of course, confessing my caterpillar ignorance compelled me to consult with the great oracle Google. I do not want to be a man of my times. As it turns out, as nature would have it, as is easily found with a simple-one-second search, Woolly Bear Caterpillars are abundant in the fall. They will someday transmogrify into Isabella Tiger Moths. And, as folklore would have it, farmer’s lore, the severity of the upcoming winter might be predicted based on the color of its bands. Fuzzy black indicates a harsh winter. Abundant brown bands indicate a milder winter. This fully black fuzzy caterpillar has me dusting off my snow shovel.

There is, however, a caveat: the great oracle Google was careful to note that the caterpillar-color-winter-prediction-method is not scientifically accurate. It is not as reliable as The National Oceanic Atmospheric Administration. By-the-by, NOAA is on the cut-list of the incoming administration. Who needs science when there’s an unreliable old-farmer’s-tale-method of weather prediction!

Another Woolly Bear Caterpillar weather prediction myth is based on the direction it is traveling. If it is scootching along in a southerly direction, that indicates to old-farmer-information-less believers a severe winter. If it is wiggling its way north, then the winter is meant to be mild. I didn’t have my compass on the day that we saw this caterpillar crossing the path but I can assume by its full-black-fuzziness that it was sprinting to the south. Again, Google cautions that the caterpillar-direction-method-of-winter-severity is unreliable, not scientifically accurate.

This is the only part of this post that is verifiable: had we been on a path traveled by bicycles, Kerri would have lifted the Woolly Bear Caterpillar from the path and carried it out of harm’s way. She wants to do everything in her power to ensure that the little critter will meet its miraculous destiny and awake someday as an Isabella Tiger Moth. In this case, we watched it all the way until it reached the far side and disappeared into the fall grasses. I could tell that part of the story at a party and be absolutely certain that I was relaying accurate information. I have data. And experience. I’ve seen her caterpillar kindness with my own eyes.

read Kerri’s blogpost about CATERPILLARS

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Step Out. Step In [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“In rivers, the water you touch is the last of what has passed and the first of that which comes: so it is with time present.” ~ Leonardo da Vinci

I might say that, in the mountains, in the sanctuary, we stepped out of time.

We sometimes forget that time is a relatively new invention in human history. The mechanical measurement of our moments. So, when we say that we “stepped out of time”, I literally mean that we temporarily exited the quantification of our moving experience. Future/past. To-do lists and locators. It begs the question, “If we step out of time what do we step into?”

Everyone knows the word “present”. The present. It’s a very big little word. The English language would have us understand it as a place. An arrival. We look for it, strive for it and, paradoxically, we enter it by forgetting to look or strive. It is where we are – always – and yet we so rarely know it. It’s where meaning is found and connection. It’s where peace and beauty are realized.

A poet might write that to die is to step out of time. To be born is to step into it. It’s the epicenter of our mythology, this cycle of dying and rebirth. Into and out of time. Winter and spring.

We stepped into the sanctuary and stepped out of time. Our cares dropped away. We took a deep breath. Sometime later, we stepped back into time and both felt renewed. Of course.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PRESENT

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All The World [David’s blog on KS Friday]

When I was on the verge of realizing my dream of creating an experiential learning school/program, I kept a poster on my office wall – the alphabet in butterfly wings. It was a layer cake of reminders: Nothing is original. Mimicking nature is a really good idea. We project our meaning onto the world and are oriented into a world of projected meaning. In other words: it’s all made-up. So, make it up!

Teachers are meant to follow a student’s questions, not stuff them with a heavy diet of unattached answers. Create a container of hot pursuit and feed the curiosity. Someday they will create and hold their own container of hot pursuit, if they are lucky enough to survive the system. That thought is not original to me. Every great teacher who I’ve known has told me some version of my borrowed-assertion.

Some day, if you are fortunate enough to take a walk with Kerri, be prepared to stop. Often. “Lookit!” she gasps for the umpteenth time and aims her camera. Stepping off the trail, kneeling in the weeds, tipping her head back to capture the clouds, hovering above an intrepid caterpillar… Catching the miracle is one of her hot pursuits. “I won’t take any more,” she says and I smile, knowingly. My job is to hold the container.

“Lookit!” she said. We were in the lobby of the theatre. Her hot pursuit is also an indoor passion. All the world is her studio. “It’s the letter K!” she smiled. “In lights!” Before I could respond she stepped away, aiming her lens at the ceiling. “It’s so cool!”

From butterfly wings to lights on the ceiling.

It occurs to me (now) that creating or holding containers of hot pursuit is one of my hot pursuits. All the world…

The Box/Blueprint for my Soul © 1996 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about K

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

“In a Google world, we are all experts for a moment,” she said. Somewhere out there, in the ethers, I heard Marshall McLuhan applauding. I heard Neil Postman guffawing. It was the perfect statement encapsulating our times. The medium of our message. Knowledge need not stick. No need to remember. Teflon brains.

And, because I had no idea what it was. And, because I suddenly needed to make a statement to myself about living, I ordered it. I happily mispronounced it. So I might experience it firsthand with no intermediary. No curator. Unprotected. So I could have the experience first – before my machine made meaning of it for me.

All the way around, the experience was mysterious and delicious. Unforgettable.

read Kerri’s blogpost about GOOGLE KNOWING

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Answer The Call [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

As is always true, the color calls me and I stop. You’d think I’d get used to the pop of red vine against the winter grass. You’d think that I’d expect it and, therefore, no longer see it. But that hasn’t happened yet. Or maybe I’m refusing to let it happen. The color calls. I answer.

Sometimes I feel as if it is a requirement to move slow enough in the world to actually absorb it. Move too fast and the extraordinary bounces off. Moving too fast makes us Teflon. Non-stick living. I want to soak it up. I want to feel it, the whole spectrum.

It’s a consumer mind that thinks, “I’ve seen it,” and races fast “to get there,” forever on the freeway gobbling miles and eschewing the backroads. Gobbling achievement while missing the experience. Checking life off the list. I am not the same as I was yesterday. When the red vine calls I might be open to a wholly new conversation. The red vine certainly is not the same as yesterday. I can see it because I “took the time” to see.

Like the red vine, the phrase “take time” called so I answered. I Googled it and, no surprise, most of the synonyms were negative. Culture betrays itself. Dawdle. Dally. Waste time. Fritter away. Goof off. Lolly gag. And, the cherry on the top of the Puritan heap: lose time.

It’s a regular deathbed revelation for people to wish they had not raced through their lives to hang yet another plaque on their wall of respect. If there is a strategy for losing-the-time-of-your-life it is to race-through-to get-to-the-end. Goal achieved. There’s another way. Walk slow enough to hear when the red vine calls. Then, take the time to stop and answer.

read Kerri’s blogpost about RED VINE

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Rely On It [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

Our old window AC unit weighs a ton. On the day I haul it up from the basement and heft it into the window, Kerri retreats to the bedroom. “I can’t watch!” she says, fleeing. It’s part of our ritual. For some reason we always wait until the last moment to resurrect it. We wait until we’ve sufficiently suffered before we look at each other and say in unison, “I can’t stand it any more!” That, too, is part of our ritual.

We can’t afford to replace it with something made in the current century though, truth be told, I’m not sure we would if we could. It’s a workhorse! It comes from a time when planned obsolescence was not yet on the plan. It’s like our stove and will likely outlive us all. Built-to-last.

This week, while firmly under the heat-dome, with temperatures soaring to the ridiculous, our too-heavy-not-pretty-waaay-too-loud-ancient-old-AC was not only up to the task, it was a champ. We knew it would be. We’ll take steadfast over fast, dedicated over disposable, any day of the week. Loyal. Committed. Dependable.

Confidently relying on the extraordinary relevance of age and experience. How odd! It’s something we increasingly identify with. It’s rapidly becoming part of our reality.

read Kerri’s blogpost on RELEVANCE

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