The Smallest Thing [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Yesterday was a hard day for me. It sometimes happens that the smallest thing – a comment, a slight – rubs, becomes a hotspot, and blisters. The rub became the focus-of-the-day and I made myself miserable. Obsessing. I blistered.

Until the sunset.

Sunset came like a soothing balm. Towering storm clouds passed through earlier in the evening. We heard the thunder and saw flashes of lightning (emblematic of my inner state of mind) but the system moved to the north so we had nary a sprinkle. And, just before sunset, the clouds parted. Suddenly vibrant yellow and orange clouds danced on a field of light cobalt blue. By the time the purples appeared, I was back in-my-right-mind. The rub vanished with the waning sun. The blister began to heal. I sighed and was careful not to ponder why I gave away the day to the smallest thing.

The smallest thing. What other people think. What happened yesterday. What I fear will happen tomorrow. What I think (ask Kerri, I have more than my share of opinions and perspectives and I sometimes lack an internal editor. If you are a compassionate human being you will immediately send to her your condolences).

What I think. The sunset dissolved my roiling inner monologue. And, again, I learned that what I think is… just that. No more, no less. I heard this phrase a hundred years ago and again last week: where your thoughts go, so too will your energy. Yesterday my thoughts went into a very dark place. So, too, went my energy. A day of my life.

The sunset brought me to a lesson I learned a hundred years ago and apparently needed to learn again yesterday: I have choice. My thoughts need not be reactive. I can aim my focus anywhere I choose. I can attach my thought like a barnacle to any-old-whale-of-an-idea-stream that I desire. And, the deep dark secret to making the thought-choice-of-the-day easy? Recognize that what I think is just that – what I think – no more and no less. Lose the import. Drop the judgment. Let go the valuation. Recognize it for what it is.

The smallest thing.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SUNSET

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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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Look Closer [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

It is not in my nature to look closely. I more easily jump into the sky and see clearly the lay of the land. It’s why I am drawn to metaphor and appreciate the universal stories. It’s what made me useless as a consultant: no one really wants to know where they are going or what icebergs lurk over the horizon. They particularly resent it when you tell them that the big horse is filled with Greek warriors. Ask Cassandra!

Detail, on the other hand, has been an acquired skill that I am and will be forever acquiring. Kerri is a master teacher. Detail is her forte’.

What I am learning at this phase of my life: the real riches come in tiny packages. The miracle of a snowflake. Holding hands. 20’s laughter. The sound of crunching leaves. A hope held close. Savoring the broth. A gesture of kindness, like a smile or holding open a door. Expressing appreciation to the bus driver or the wait staff. Sitting still inside a poem to fully taste the sound of words.

Paying attention. I know I write about this often. It’s a part of the learning…

Of course, the tiny doors (a closer look) always open on infinite passageways so there remains great worth in jumping into the sky to see how vast is the landscape of the heart. Both/And. Beautiful either way.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SNOWFLAKE

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Start There [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

The rest of her quote went like this: “And not everyone has had that chance.”

A simple gratitude too often missed.

For years I’ve made it my practice to list my gratitudes at the end of each day. It became my practice because I was – in my original orientation to time on this planet – hyper-focused on what was wrong with me and the world. Obstacle focused. Conflict obsessed. Judgmental of my every move. Refocusing my eye on the abundant generosity of this ride was – at least initially – an act of survival. I’ve come to realize that is was the most self-loving choice I’ve ever made. I’ve found that I am now counting gratitudes in real-time, as they happen.

See the glimmers. Note the kindness. Do not miss the sun on your face. Appreciate the smile. My nightly gratitudes rarely recount monumental happenings. The first sip of coffee. A message from a friend. The Dogga made us laugh. We wrote together. Warm bread and camembert cheese. Kerri held my hand.

I had a full day of life. Let’s start there.

read Kerri’s blogpost about CHANCE

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Arrive At Wisdom [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

The meeting of sand and surf. In the children’s-book-of-my-mind, at the beginning of the story, sand and surf have completely different points of view. They have radically different understandings of each other and opposing orientations to ebb-and-flow, to the movement of the earth and their place in it. They insist that they are in conflict.

And yet, they meet. Every day. In the story of sand and surf they eventually learn that they can focus on their differences or they can focus on what they have in common. They are surprised to learn that one could not know itself without the other. They are gobsmacked by the knowledge that one would have no purpose without the other! In fact, they would have no identity without the other!

With their new understanding, sand and surf begin to ask a different question: who do they want to be together.

At the end of the story, the climax of this children’s tale, they come to understand that their reason-for-being is each other. They are not, in fact, separate. They are symbiotic. They transform each other in their mutual dance. Thus, they arrive at wisdom.

Sand and surf. Harmony, in the children’s-book-of-my-mind. Nothing really changes other than their choice of where to focus. And then, of course, everything changes.

my favorite illustration from Lucy And The Waterfox

Peri Winkle Rabbit Is Lost. A book I wrote and illustrated for a hurricane Katrina relief project. The organizers asked for an original story to help children understand and cope with loss. Original illustrations, no copies. I loved making this little book and i hope some child, somewhere, now an adult, loves it, too.

My gallery site

read Kerri’s blog post about SAND AND SURF

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Keep Your Nickel [on Merely A Thought Monday]

The second part of the quotes reads like this: “The ability to observe without evaluating is the highest form of intelligence.” It’s another way of saying, “Be in the moment.”

Being in your moment is harder that it sounds. Lately I’ve been pondering two Buddhist practices that came by way of Quadzilla. First, develop the capacity to discern between the fear raging inside and what’s actually happening outside. Unless there’s a tiger chasing you, the fear is most-likely manufactured. Second, learn to discern between what-you-feel and the story you layer on top of what you feel. Feel the feeling, chuck the story. Develop these two practices of discernment and arrive at equanimity: “mental calmness”, the ability to observe without evaluating.

The first part of the quote reads: “It is no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society.”

Each time I scroll through the news-of-the-day I hear Tom’s voice in my head: “When I was a kid and the circus came to town I paid a nickel to go into the tent to see the ‘freak show.’ Cows with two heads, etc. Now, all I need to do is watch what’s on tv.” In his final years, Tom retreated to his ranch and spent his time cutting the grass and tending the land. He watched baseball games. For a time I was concerned with his isolation but now I understand it completely. He was a deeply sensitive man, a gifted theatre artist, and rather than grow numb to the “freak show,” to try and make sense of the sense-less, he put his hands in the soil. He watched the sunrise and sunset. He found his health in the quiet place beyond the sickness of the society.

Pasting the quote back together in proper order: “It’s no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society. The ability to observe without evaluating is the highest form of intelligence.” ~ Krishnamurti

The lessons keep coming. Late in life Tom made the choice to keep his nickel and stay clear of the world concocted inside the tent. The world inside the tent is manipulated. It’s meant to rile, to confuse. He discerned between where to place his focus and where not to place his focus. Stay out of the tent. Focus on the soil. The movement of the sun. Family. Ancestry. Helping. Chopping wood. Carrying water. The real stuff.

Outside the tent, outside the made-up-horror-story, there’s no reason to evaluate [to judge]. It’s another way of saying “Appreciate your moment.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about KEEP YOUR HEAD UP

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Focus Pocus [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

The technical term is “hyper-focus.” I am gifted at becoming absorbed in my tasks. I have a knack for stepping out of time. Especially when my task is an art project. A painting. A cartoon.

Kerri will tell you that my hyper-focus is less a gift and more a maddening quirk or slightly annoying defect of character. She quips that, when I am painting, the house could blow away and I wouldn’t notice.

She’s exaggerating, of course. I would definitely notice if the house blew away. Eventually.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HYPER FOCUS

smack-dab. © 2023 kerrianddavid.com

Restore The Heart [on KS Friday]

Last night I sat on the floor in the corner of the bathroom. It was very late and I couldn’t sleep. I said to no one, “Something, sometime, some way, has to tip in our favor.” I was disheartened after a day of exceptionally discouraging news.

“Disheartened” is an interesting word. Heart removal. An empty cavity where the energy should be. The thought made me laugh and laughter is always good for the disheartened. My laughter brought me back to my senses. I sat on the floor, shifted my focus from woe-is-me and placed it squarely on all that I am thankful for. The list is long and runs through creature comforts like hot showers and electric light to soul-comforts like a crazy Aussie dog to heart-comforts like an incredible wife. Also, there is wine on the deck. Walks in nature which imply good health, walks through imagination which imply an artistic spirit, walks with awe which imply an insatiable curiosity. Through the right lens, my life-view from the bathroom floor is remarkable.

My empty cavity filled to overflowing.

I find it’s a good practice, when fresh from a bout with self-pity, to wander the house slowly. To intentionally touch the stories that live in the furniture or the glasses or the plants. To step out of the fear-mongering and into the riches of the present moment. Laying on our dining room table is a bundle of branches Kerri gathered from a fallen pussy willow. The furry catkins glowed silver and caught my attention. They warmed me with a memory. A walk with dear friends on ground so muddy that we laughed and hopped in search of solid footing. It was cold. Trees were down; the day before the wind and rain was brutal. Finding the pussy willow branch on the ground made both Kerri and Jen giggle with delight. A treasure! So simple. Their excitement turned toward possibilities. Vases or ribbon?

Enhearten: to restore strength and courage to a saddened spirit. The memory was good medicine and sent me to bed where I fell into a deep sleep, paradoxically enlivened and peaceful. Heart restored.

Kerri’s music is available on iTunes or streaming on Pandora

read Kerri’s blogpost about PUSSYWILLOWS

watershed/as it is © 2004 kerri sherwood

Choose A Double [on Merely A Thought Monday]

The storm that blew through last night was ominous. The thunder shook the house. I lay awake, marveling at the force of nature. And, while I lay awake, counting the seconds between flash and boom, I also counted myself lucky. I rolled gratitudes through my mind, enumerating all the things I was thankful for in the previous 24 hours. There were more than I could count.

It is very easy to get lost in despair. It’s very easy to count all the things that don’t work, go wrong, hurt a lot, and didn’t-go-my-way. It takes a bit more intention and effort to turn the eye toward the good stuff. Counting gratitudes requires aiming focus.

It reminds me of an exercise I used to do with groups, revealing to them how easy and fun it is to blame-the-universe or other people for our woes. Blame is like sugar. It’s addictive. The groups would tell outrageous blame stories and laugh. Blame lightens the load. It’s an easy answer to the mysterious question, “Why?”

It’s much harder to see and embrace participation and choice in a life path. Ownership comes with responsibility. There is circumstance – that which I can’t control. There is what I do within my circumstance – that which I can control. The moment I suggested to the groups that they transform their blame-story into a story-of-choice, they fell silent. Every group. Every time.

Blame requires allies and layers of story; it happened to me. Choice needs no audience. It is the story. I made this happen.

On any other night, between flash and boom, I might have tossed and turned and counted my woes. I am more than capable of diving into dark holes and indulging my blame story. I have and will again drown my sorrows in pity and it’s-not-my-fault denial. But, on this night, during this storm, I was filled with awe for the power of nature, for the abundant good that boomed through my life, for the chance to live another abundant day. A double double of appreciation.

read Kerri’s blog post about A DOUBLE

Spot Her [on KS Friday]

We decided to go off trail. There was a stand of birch trees that she’s always wanted to photograph but getting to them meant crossing the marsh. An untenable task in the warm months, but since it was a cold day, below freezing, the grasses and ice made a step-selective pathway possible.

We zigged and zagged our way toward the birches, my eyes cast down, carefully choosing the next step. I hoped that she was following my path but inevitably the crunching and crackling behind me ceased. I knew I needed to stop and prepare myself for a rescue. Something caught her eye. To get the photo she’d forget about the marsh.

Every artist needs a spotter. The dangers may not be as readily apparent as a gymnast but they are no less real. My friend Albert used to pull me from my studio when I was there too long. He saved my life more than once. Artists are given to self-doubt that congeals into dark despair. I’ve learned to be ready to throw light into the cave just as Albert did for me.

Artists are also myopic when the muse grabs hold of them. Before I met her, Kerri, looking through the lens of her camera, stepped backward off a cliff. Her muse is powerful. Her capacity for instant-hyper-focus is unparalleled. My muse clutches me in safer places like a studio or on a stage. Kerri’s seizes her in marshes and on cliff side. I am her spotter.

“Isn’t this cool!” she giggles as the ice beneath her feet groans.

“Maybe take a step to the left onto the tall grass,” I say. She takes a brief look at her feet, adjusts to slightly safer footing and then returns to the camera. “Maybe one more step?” I suggest.

Later, when we return to the car, she asks in all seriousness, “Are your boots wet? Why are my boots wet and yours are dry?” She studies her soggy boots, indignant.

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “Show me your pictures,” I suggest, deflecting her focus from her wet feet and back toward the muse.

“Oh, you’re going to love this!” she sits next to me, flipping through the many close-up shots of cattails, narrating her experience getting the photographs. Her narration does not include cracking ice, sketchy edges and near missteps into knee deep water holes. “Don’t you just love it!”

“Yes,” I smile. “Yes, I do.”

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about CATTAILS

untitled interlude/released from the heart © 1995 kerri sherwood