Sacred Voice [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

My niece said it perfectly: for the first time in eight years I can vote FOR someone rather than against someone. The direction of intention. Moving toward the light instead of reacting against the darkness. And now, with Kamala Harris and Tim Walz, there is at long last a brilliant sunrise.

Beneath every action is a reason. A purpose or desire.

A vote is an action. It is the single action at the epicenter of every democracy. If there is a sacred action in the idea of democracy, voting is it. It is how we-the-people choose our path forward. It is how we participate (take responsibility) in our development. It is how we give voice to our intentions. To date, the people in the United States have one of the lowest voter turnouts in the world. Only 62%.

Choosing not to vote is…a choice. An inaction.

Over and over again in my career I heard people decry their voice-less-ness. Sunk in the quicksand-belief that their actions did not matter, their voice did not matter, they simply ceased trying. “No matter what I do, nothing changes.” Somehow, the connection between action and impact is snapped. And, the space between the broken pieces fills with the anger of helplessness.

As my former business partner responded to a woman who claimed voicelessness, “If you had a voice, what would you say?”

You have a voice. It’s called a vote. If you choose to use it, what will you say? Will you speak with dark fear or proclaim joy-filled-light? Will you declare possibility or mean-spirited-pout?

Our actions in the next few months, our vote this November, is our voice. I choose the light. My vote, my voice, will speak to a world that serves and shines on the whole community, that reaches for the central ideal: the creation of a nation built on the notion Out-Of-Many–One. Service to all. It is the reason we have a sacred vote, a voice of We-The-People.

There’s never been a better time, a more necessary time, to stand up and speak loud and clear. There’s never been a more important time to help others who have become complacent to claim – to reclaim – their sacred voice.

read Kerri’s blogpost about ACTION

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The Pivot Point [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

There are many, many variations from many, many traditions of the concept of presence. My recent favorite is to “stand on the pivot point of the Tao.” No matter the name attached to “the now” there is a universal understanding: in presence – when fully present – there are no problems.

It’s easier said than done since fixating and worrying about imagined futures is what our brains are wired to do.

I thought a lot about presence during our epic drive home yesterday. The entire trip was an exercise in being-in-the-now. Of necessity we drove very slow, windows down with the heater on high. We stopped every hour, opened the hood, and let the engine cool down. We checked the coolant. And then, when certain that we could attempt the next stretch, we got back on the road.

I can’t report that it was stress-free but I can with all honesty say we made the best of it. We appreciated and enjoyed our stops. We discovered some new places. There was no rush or need to keep up with traffic. We kept to the right lane and let the-world-in-a-hurry pass us by.

We had friends on the road a few hours behind us; a safety net. They tracked and celebrated our progress.

When we rolled into our driveway, 20 had dinner in the crock pot and wine ready to pour. We laughed and told stories of the day.

We are unbelievably fortunate in friendship and support. All problems disappear in the presence of good friends. The pivot point is not a place. It’s a relationship.

We had an adventure with no problems. I’m certain that, even if the Scion hadn’t made it, we still would have had an adventure with no problems – because we decided to be present with and handle any experience that came our way. We decided to rest in the support of our friends.

It’s a decision, one we ought to make every single day.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE ROAD

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Magic Is Found There [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Noah Lyles, in an interview after winning the gold medal in the 100m, asked a question meant to inspire all dreamers to ask of themselves, “Why not me?” He has worked hard to arrive at a place of confidence and self-belief.

I appreciate a sentiment shared by free-solo climber Alex Honnold when asked how he handles fear. He said that he never attempts to conquer fear, rather, he expands his comfort zone.

Expand your comfort zone. Ask, “Why not me?”

Like almost everyone I know, I have had my bouts with imposter syndrome. I’ve filled my cup with self-doubt. I’ve been certain of my unworthiness. I’ve run from the magic.

To ask, “Why not me?” is to let go of the comparison with others. It is to set down the never-win-self-measuring stick. It is to run your race, paint your painting, play your song…love your gift.

To expand your comfort zone rather than fight your fear is to shake hands with yourself. To stop the inner fight and work with your magic instead of running from it. It is to make a friend of fear, to understand its value, to retire the inner-foe so you might place it in the proper perspective. Fear dances in a made-up future. An ever-expanding comfort zone guarantees presence in the moment. Magic is found there. You are found there.

There have been many loud voices in my life (inside and outside my head) telling me that I can’t. They are the voices of mediocrity. The voices of fear. And then there are the few precious quiet voices that say, “Yes, you can,” or ask “Why not…?” Those voices, both inside and out, are the voices of magic. They are the voices of joy. Listen to those voices. Unlike the others, they will never lead you astray.

read Kerri’s blogpost about MAGIC

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Puff, Puff, Poof! [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“But I’ll tell you what hermits realize. If you go off into a far, far forest and get very quiet, you’ll come to understand that you’re connected with everything.” ~ Alan Watts

I recently read an outrageous statistic. The average American by age 20, across all available media, has seen one million commercials. I can’t confirm it but a quick consult with the oracle Google, produced some equally eye-popping numbers. Regardless of the actual number, we are awash in advertisement. My favorite synonym for advertisement: puff (British, of course).

In my recent foray into software development I read that 90% of the world’s data was generated in the last two years. My particular favorite phrase describing data: units of meaning.

We are living in an angry time. It’s a vicious circle: our units of meaning are often – if not always – absent of context or continuity, rendering them isolated. They’re like asteroids hurtling through space.

People seek meaning. It is a uniquely human activity. Meaning-making requires context and continuity. Our ‘puffs’ would have us believe that we will certainly find meaning and connection if we buy what they are selling – but we soon realize that what they are selling, relative to meaning, is just that – a puff. Like me, you will never find lasting happiness in a new car or your identity in your brand of blue jeans. Perhaps you will experience satisfaction for a fleeting moment – which is roughly the lifespan of a unit of data-meaning. Is it any wonder that we are angry and grasping at any ole’ context that conspiracy theories and propaganda might provide? Anger is an expression of fear, and the fear: that we are hurtling through life without meaning.

“And people get all fouled up because they want the world to have meaning as if it were words… As if you had a meaning, as if you were a mere word, as if you were something that could be looked up in a dictionary. You are meaning.” ~ Alan Watts

The lesson of our times (and past times): there is always a populist grifter ready to exploit anger and ignorance, making promises of meaning-fulfillment pulled from an imagined past like a rabbit from a hat. A political puff.

Sometimes I think this is why Kerri and I walk on our trails. To get quiet, to unplug from the incessant info streams, the madness of news-delivered-like-a-commercial. Puff, puff…poof. To re-enter substantial and lasting context. In nature, in the cycles we participate with and experience, we regain – and rejoin – continuity. We stop hurtling through our lives grasping for ‘puff’ fulfillment or trying to make sense of nonsense. We stand in something more tangible. Eternal.

“You are a function of what the whole universe is doing in the same way that a wave is a function of what the whole ocean is doing.” ~ Alan Watts

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE LUSH DAY

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Stand At The Fork [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Once in a vision
I came on some woods
And stood at a fork in the road
My choices were clear
Yet I froze with the fear
Of not knowing which way to go
One road was simple
Acceptance of life
The other road offered sweet peace
When I made my decision
My vision became my release.

Nether Lands by Dan Fogelberg

It happened again. We were making dinner and, before she said it, I knew exactly what she was going to say. “I’ve been here before,” I thought. Deja vu. I understand these moments as affirmations of being on the right path. The first day we met was a festival of deja vu.

Most of my life I was terrified to sing. A professor in graduate school challenged us to walk into and explore one of our fears so I took a class: singing for the utterly petrified. That wasn’t really the title of the course. I can’t remember the title because I was in a heightened state of panic the whole semester. We had to choose a favorite song to sing. I chose Nether Lands by Dan Fogelberg because it was the first album I ever owned and I used to play it over and over and over. I knew the title track by heart. I figured I’d have a better chance of staying conscious if the song and lyrics were already beaten into my brain. The fact that I am writing this so many years later is proof positive that I survived.

When we met I told her, a consummate musician, “I don’t sing and I don’t pray.” Better to spill the beans upfront than to torture her ears down the road. Managing expectations, yada yada.

“That’s too bad, ” she said. A few short months later I was singing in her choir, band and ukulele band. So much for conviction! She told me that my problem wasn’t singing, it was hearing. I had to learn to hear. I loved the implication: walking into fear requires learning to hear. I’m still learning. Deja vu!

It happened again. Carefully opening the small step ladder between the piano and the cello to hang the lampshade in her studio. “I’ve been here before,” I thought, positioning the legs of the ladder. I knew she was going to tell me to make sure the feather clip was in front. I knew she was going to wrinkle her nose. I had no idea what would come next.

It’s what I love about a good deja vu – you’ve both been there before and have no idea where you are going. It stops you for a moment of appreciation. Affirmation. Always at a fork in the road: simple acceptance of life and sweet peace. I have a feeling that, no matter the choice, all roads eventually lead to the same place. Hanging a funky cool lampshade. A wrinkled nose. Learning to hear. A deja vu. An affirmation of being right where I am supposed to be.

recorded on an old iphone on a piano in need of tuning… A Shred of Hope © 2020 Kerri Sherwood

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

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Welcome The Surprise [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“I would love to live like the river flows, carried by the surprise of its own unfolding.” ~ John O’Donohue

Day one. A mimosa. A special breakfast. A question: what will this year bring? In truth, it’s the umbrella question to the question we ask each morning. What will today bring?

Kerri keeps a calendar. Each day of the year she records special events, bills paid, meals made, important phone calls. She records the sacred and mundane. On the last night of the year or the first morning of the new year, we read her calendar. Each review is chock-a-block with surprises. “I forgot about that!” we exclaim.

And, with each calendar review, comes a ritual final summation: the year past was nothing like we anticipated. What was thought to be solid exploded. What was thought to be predictable was volatile. It was a rolling ball of surprises. It was defined by the unforeseeable.

It is always a rolling ball of surprises. Births and deaths. The losses leaving holes in our hearts yet making new space for love’s expansion. New trails discovered and old friends found. New friends, too. The obstacles that jumped in front of our path. The obstacles that suddenly and without warning disappeared. Old fears roaring to be heard. New fears sending us running in one particular direction: away. Then, the deep well of laughter that bubbles to the surface when we realize (as we always do) that our fears are mostly made-up. Tiny monsters. Shadow puppets.

As we read the calendar we are surprised by our courage in some moments and our cowardice in others. We are particularly amused – or not – when our cowardice appeared to be courage and vice-versa. There are days when the only notation in the calendar is an unhappy face, a dark day when together we completely lost our sense of humor. Gratefully, those days are few and far between.

The river flows with no regard of our notation. The trick, we learn again and again, is to welcome the surprise of its unfolding. Rather than try to swim upstream against the current-of-time in an always fruitless attempt to control, to reach for the imagined safety of the known, the lesson learned on every day-one is to give over to the mystery of the unfolding. To relax and choose to be in the flow. To welcome the surprises in all their iterations, the rapids, the rocks, the waterfalls and those rare and cherished stretches of calm.

read Kerri’s blogpost about LOVE

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Peel The Layers [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

We lay awake deep into the night. The window was open and the crisp fall air drove us deep beneath the quilt. And we talked. Lately, for reasons too complex to explain, we’ve been steeped in a comprehensive full-life review. Gently peeling back the layers and bandages of our lives, uncovering the hard choices and left-hand-turns that led us to this place, this cold sleepless night, with the rhythmic rumble of trains in the distance, the lake lapping the shore.

The dark of night rolling into dawn is an ideal time to soul search.

We talked of the times in our lives when we didn’t speak up. We talked of the times when we couldn’t speak up. Fear is a great silencer. We told stories of running from our voices.

We talked of the times when we spoke up and paid a heavy price. We shared the times when we refused to speak up, when we stood in the self-made-fire and balked at screaming. We’ve had our share of fire but do not be fooled: fire does not always purify. What works with minerals does not necessarily work with people.

“It’s like a Viewmaster,” she said. The toy from childhood. “My memories are sometimes like clicking through a wheel of static images.”

More than once, as we shared our memories, I thought of a quote by Hermann Hesse:

“My story isn’t pleasant, it’s not sweet and harmonious like the invented stories, it tastes of folly and bewilderment, of madness and dream, like the life of people who no longer want to lie to themselves.”

As the sun rose on our conversation I understood that our searching souls had at long last arrived at a place of truth-telling. We no longer want to lie to ourselves. It is easy to speak up when there’s no need to hide or run or ignore what we know is true. In loss personal truth is found.

And we both know what is true for us. We know what is ours-to-do.

We lapsed into silence as the light through the window slid from soft grey into subtle pink-and-purple-blue. “We’ve both come a long way,” I thought-but-did-not-say, as we finally slipped into a deep dream-filled sleep.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SPEAK UP

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Take Another Step [on Merely A Thought Monday]

At the end of the Everest documentary, The Fatal Game, Mark Whetu says, “It’s not that you are alive for such a short period of time, it’s that you are dead for so long.” It’s a film about waking up on the other side of grief. It’s a film about choosing to live.

Grief is one of the many colors on life’s palette. Had I bothered to read the small print in my handbook-for-living I suspect I’d have found a surprising number of references to suffering, sorrow, loss and fear. Colors on the palette necessary for an open heart. Essential colors for the full experience of living in the small window of time called “life”.

Last week I threw up my hands and sat down in defeat. “Lots of energy out. Nothing back!” I pouted, “What’s the point?” My self-pity lasted for an hour and then I stood up, realizing there was nothing to be done but take another step. It simply doesn’t matter how old I am or what I’ve done or haven’t done. It doesn’t matter what title I staple on top of my identity or what story I tell myself. My circumstance simply does not matter. The task remains the same. This day, I reasoned, is just as vibrant either way so, rather than bury my head in darkness, I might as well breathe deeply and enjoy the sun on my face.

Sometimes the only point is to take another step.

I am – apparently – a non-stick learner. I learn lessons over and over again. I am particularly gifted at allowing life’s lessons to slide off. I have been known to teach that the actions we need to take are rarely difficult; the stories we wrap around the actions can make any step seem impossible. Dialing the phone is easy until the mind rages with the tale, “I don’t want to look stupid.”

Effortless action is a Buddhist concept. It is a practice of acting without story. Know your target. Act. Respond.

Send a resume. Write a cover letter. Submit. Take another step.

Mix the color. Choose the brush. Spatter. Take another step.

baby steps/right now © 2010 kerri sherwood

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

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Sail Toward It [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Gordon MacKenzie ends his wise little book with this: “You have a masterpiece inside of you, too, you know. One that is unlike any that has ever been created, or ever will be. And remember: If you go to your grave without painting your masterpiece, it will not get painted. No one else can paint it. Only you.”

His analogy – his encouragement – is to let go of others’ expectations and paint your painting, not the paint-by-number painting that you think is required of you.

I wrote this note to myself over ten years ago: you do yourself a terrible disservice to doubt what you know.

I know the world is round. If I set off on an adventure to the unknown I will never touch the horizon. It will always call to me. And, if I sail toward it long enough I will arrive back where I started. Home.

If I believed the world was flat, I would delude myself into thinking that I could catch the horizon – and touch it – merely a moment before I sailed over the edge and into the dark abyss. I know this: no one holding a flat world belief will knowingly sail toward the horizon, the great unknown. That would be crazy! No one willingly sails into the abyss. Better stay safe in the harbor! Color within the lines!

Masterpieces are made by sailing into unknown territory. Releasing control and discovering what’s just over the horizon. And, what’s just over the horizon is more horizon! More questions. More experiences. More discoveries. More tastes. More textures. More sounds. And, to sail toward the horizon with abandon first requires an understanding that the world is round. It is all horizon.

Paint-by-expectation is the road of a flat-earther. Perfection is a false horizon. Try to touch it and the abyss is yours.

Young artists jump back and forth between the flat and the round earth philosophy. They have to. Vulnerability is a learned skill and comes easily when the quest to touch the horizon is abandoned. In other words, painting a masterpiece comes when the quest for a masterpiece is ditched. When making a mess takes precedence over “doing it right.” When following your bliss determines the rules you uphold.

It’s counterintuitive. There’s a place where control and freedom blend into one. You’ll find it when you aim at the unattainable horizon.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE HORIZON

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Join The Receivers [on Two Artists Tuesday]

“…artists take delight in and care for their work, and we are thereby inspired to find delight in our own work.” – Alex Grey, The Mission of Art

Standing in front of the Atmospheric wave wall, an art installation at Willis Tower by Olafur Eliasson, I imagined how much fun he had creating it. Monumental. The colorful waves rolling up the side of a building. I wondered, if on visits to Chicago, he delights in watching the play his wave wall invokes in passers-by. I would. His work is spatial so it invites full-body engagement. I had to touch it and lean in against it. I had to put my face close to a wave and look up. The shock of vibrant red among the blue, purple and green made my eye dance across the vertical water.

It is one of the great joys of my life to be surrounded by artists: people who care for their work and find delight in it. David just completed a year-long project, a rewrite/updating of Six Characters In Search of An Author. He directed the first production of his new script. It was thrilling to witness his delight in the process. It was gratifying to watch how he navigated his doubt and fear. The delight and the fear go hand in hand.

It’s worth noting that caring so deeply for your work comes with a studied courage. There’s a very nice lie about bold artists throwing caution to the wind and creating without caring how their work is received. That, of course, is worthy of a press-release and works for image-branding but fully negates the point of artistry. In order for a work of art to be a work of art, it requires an audience. A giver and receiver. A loop of caring. The armor must come off. Expressing beauty or seeking truth is nothing if not a shared meaning and a shared truth. Artists may reach deep into themselves but the point is to engage and express meaning that comes alive beyond themselves and between others. Vulnerability is the secret sauce that connects the two into one.

I didn’t know about the Atmospheric wave wall until we rounded a corner and I saw people enthusiastically embracing it, standing back and craning their necks to take it in, gently moving forward to run their fingers along the wave ridges. The pull was immediate and I found myself joining the receivers of Olafur’s artistry. Armor down, hands planted firmly on the wall, we snapped a photo and I deeply appreciated his whimsy and moxie. Inspiration ripples to the sky!

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE WALL

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