This Vast Universe [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

We’ve been on the road. It daily reminds me to make a list of all the things I take for granted, the too-many-things-to count gratitudes that I miss each day.

What more is there to say?

read Kerri’s blogpost about TINY

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Empty To Refill [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Last week I wrote about a realization I had while cleaning my studio: I was cleaning it to close it for a while. As Karola used to say, “Let the glass go empty.”

The day my studio-cleaning-post published, we discovered a waterfall in the basement. Yet another waterfall. The waterline failed in the ceiling above my studio. More than a cleaning, the burst pipe facilitated a complete studio dismantling. My decision to let the glass-go-empty has some serious water-feature assistance.

My current hardcover sketchbook was directly beneath the break and was mush by the time we discovered the waterfall. My ancient beloved studio rocking chair was damaged to the point of needing a complete overhaul. Sometimes I am in awe of the sense of humor of the universe. The quirk of serendipity. There is no going back. There are metaphors a-go-go.

It will take awhile to sort out the wreckage just as it will take some time to completely empty-the-glass. Perfect timing.

In the meantime, fall is in the air. The leaves are changing. There is a call to the canyon lands that we will answer. There are walks to take. Space to create. Life to appreciate.

There is a glass to empty and to refill.

read Kerri’s blogpost about AUTUMN

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A Simple Equation [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“…to the degree that each of us is dedicated to wanting there to be peace in the world, then we have to take responsibility when our own hearts and minds harden and close.” Pema Chödrön, Practicing Peace

Inside, I am wrestling. This political era is challenging everything I believe, everything I believe about humanity, everything I believe about myself. For instance, as someone who spent years facilitating DEI workshops, I have found the hard wall of intolerance; my intolerance.

My intolerance reduces difference to a simple equation. An example: My wife is a survivor of sexual assault. The harm inflicted on her by her rapist ravages her to this day. The maga candidate has been found liable for sexual abuse. He has been accused of sexual assault by dozens of women. For me, a vote for the maga candidate is no more or no less than a vote for a serial rapist. It’s a simple bottom line. Support of the rapist bespeaks acceptance of rape. Never mind the the incessant racism, the misogyny, the lies, the grift…

Another simple equation: A person who votes for the maga candidate is complicit.

For the first time in my life I am finding it impossible to stand in the other’s shoes. I can’t understand it and, more to the point, I am no longer willing to try. And so, the growth begins. I have found my edge.

I’m finding that there are very good reasons to be intolerant. There should be – there need to be – hard lines drawn in the sand. We have laws for a reason. We have separation of powers for a reason. There is a line between moral and immoral, between right and wrong – for a reason.

We’ve been watching past seasons of Alone. Our pals got us hooked on it and I am finding it helpful as I stand on my edge. People left alone in the wilderness quickly learn about their basic needs. They learn about themselves. Although adept survivalists, most nearly starve to death in a matter of weeks, yet it’s not the lack of food that defeats them. It’s the lack of human contact. As they move through their ordeal of aloneness, they become increasingly grateful for the people in their lives. They become humble. They weep. These rugged outdoors-types speak openly about what they fear. When stripped down to the basics, they meet themselves as if for the first time.

They become effusive in their gratitude because they become clear about what matters and what does not.

I feel that I am – we are- learning about ourselves as a nation. We are certainly in the process of being stripped down. The basics of our beliefs – beyond the rhetoric – are being excavated and revealed. And, as I discover the inflexibility of my intolerance, clear about what matters, I am also plumbing the depths of a deeper well of gratitude.

It is not an exaggeration to say that I am thankful for people who ask questions en route to the truth – people who desire to be informed beyond their own comfortable belief. I am thankful for courageous people who can no longer stomach the rot – who place country over personal gain. I am thankful for people who honor and fight to hold the line of decency and democracy.

I am grateful for meeting my intolerance.

I am grateful for people who still think sexual assault is a crime and anyone who sexually assaults should be imprisoned rather than rewarded with the highest office in our land. A bottom line. A line drawn in the sand. A simple equation.

read Kerri’s blogpost about GRATITUDE

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Shadow Singular [David’s blog on KS Friday]

She began taking pictures of our feet when, early in our lives together, we traveled to The Netherlands, Belgium and France. The point was not to capture our feet, rather it was to record the variety of surfaces we walked upon. Cobblestones and ancient wood. Mosaic tile. The unusual and the seeming ordinary, though, when traveling, no surface is ordinary. For awhile we entertained assembling a collage of the many many surfaces were we found our feet standing. A quirky memory wall.

Adding to her series of traveling feet she began capturing our shadows. It’s now common for her to say, “Wait!” I know exactly what to do. No questions required. My job is to hold still until she snaps the latest edition to her shadow collection. I love them. To me, they are our version of the Balinese shadow puppets. Wayan Kulit. At best we are aware of the shadows we cast, the projections of our minds. Our lives a moving grand illusion.

Like the feet series, the shadow collection serves as markers of our life together. Trails we’ve hiked. Bridges we’ve crossed. Friends who entertain without question our odd request for a shadow portrait.

I just read a story about a man who tried to outrun his shadow. He was, as you might imagine, unsuccessful. It was a particularly poignant story for me since I spent many of my younger years trying to escape my shadow. I was, like the man in the story, unsuccessful. Though, unlike the man in the story, I stopped running. Some small grace whispered in my ear to stand still, to turn and look at it. To really look. To walk with it.

Isn’t it poetic that after all that time running, I now hold hands with a woman who regularly stops me on the trail, not only to look but to capture our shadow – singular – as it stretches out before us, leaning in, two people blending together as one?

Good Moments on the album This Part of the Journey © 1998/2000 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about SHADOWS

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A Tale of Whoa! [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

We take so much for granted. Flip a switch and the lights come on. Twist a knob and water pours from the faucet. Turn the key or touch the button and the car starts. Flip open the computer and access the entire info-world. And then, one day, with little or no warning, the flip, the turn, the twist, the touch doesn’t produce the expected result. Easy-life evaporates.

For us, these easy-life-evaporations usually arrive in hard-clusters of three. For instance, a few weeks ago, Kerri’s computer ceased to compute. A few days later our trusty LittleBabyScion went down for the count. And then, to complete the trio, in a surprise move, our kitchen sink, in coordination with our bathroom sink, refused to drain. No amount of plunging, baking-soda-and-vinegar-elixirs, pipe-removal, coaxing or cursing…made any difference. To taunt us, black stinky muck arose from the depths. There was nothing to be done but call the plumber who listened to our tale-of-whoa! and recommended that we skip his services and call the drain guy.

There’s a nice metaphor at play in our tragic tale. First, after the drain guy successfully cleared our pipes (the blockage was deep in the system), we decided that, just like our pipes, we also had a deep blockage that required clearing. The pipe-clog not only stopped the drains from working, it also stopped us from working – something we desperately needed to do. Take a break. Think about something else for awhile. Clear our minds.

Yesterday on our hike I asked Kerri what she was thinking about and she replied, “Nothing really. My mind is just wandering.” There could be no better answer. An un-fixated mind. Thought-flow with no blockage. Spaciousness.

The computer. The car. The drains. Three modes of movement, together locking up and inhibiting our movement. They made us slow down. They made us stop. They made us hyper-aware and appreciative of our easy-life and how quickly it can evaporate.

Each morning since the drain guy came, we run to the bathroom sink and turn on the water. Full blast. “It’s draining!” we cheer. Then, we race to the kitchen. “Look!” we high-five in celebration of successful drainage. Something so simple. Something so completely taken for granted. But, for a few glorious days, before the gratitude disappears into the easy-life-expectation, we will celebrate the flow of water, the light at the flick of switch, the turn of a key that easily sparks the heart of LittleBabyScion into life. Each time, we will look at each other and sing with gratitude, ‘It works!”

read Kerri’s blogpost about SINKS

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Straw Into Gold [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.'” ~ Kurt Vonnegut, If This Isn’t Nice, What Is?

At this moment the heat index is 107 degrees. Dogga is in the coolest spot in the house, sleeping between the window air conditioner and the fan. Our strategy for keeping cool includes frequent bites of cold watermelon.

I recently heard someone say that surviving is about getting through the day while thriving is about being fully alive within the day. With two forks and a large bowl of cut-up watermelon between us, I can safely say that we are thriving. “This is delicious,” I coo. She nods, savoring her bite.

As artists we have of necessity developed a healthy frugality. Our thriftiness is not tight-fisted or in any way austere. The opposite is true. We revel in the simple things. We appreciate small moments. We delight in tiny triumphs. We are not trying to survive the heat, we are making an adventure, moving slowly, mindfully, deliciously within our day. Our cold watermelon a feast-to-be-savored.

Last night we had dinner with 20. We make dinner for each other twice a week. It’s something we’ve done for years, something that began as a way to save money. It’s become the single ritual that gives shape to our otherwise fluid days. Sitting around the table, laughing, we acknowledge that “life doesn’t get any better than this.”

We spin our straw into gold. Out of frugality, deep abiding appreciation.

Good Moments on the album This Part of the Journey © 1997/2000 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about WATERMELON

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A Narrative Of Hope [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Sometimes the car breaks down. Sometimes the car breaks down and you are hours away from home. When it happens, as is now happening now for us, it’s best to count your blessings. On the top of the list of gratitudes: we are in a beautiful place, up north, surrounded by good friends. Our dear 20 is keeping our Dogga safe. All is right in the world.

Circumstance changes. Plans change. Indeed, plans go out the window. The center holds. Life comes into simple focus.

As we sort out what to do, how best to get home – get the car home – we watch our nation sort out what to do. In our lull, counting our gratitudes, we watch the joy and enthusiasm ripple out of the Democratic National Convention and inspire the nation. A narrative of hope. A narrative of remembrance of who we are. A narrative of community, people helping people, a narrative of service to something bigger…

We are, right now, in a position of needing help. I cannot tell you how important, how gratifying it is to know that the support we need is immediately and lovingly available. It’s what we do for each other.

Why would we do any less for our community? Why would we want any less for our nation?

No one navigates this life alone. Today, Kerri and I know this viscerally, in our bones. This November we can vote for selfish poverty, the angry narrative of the former Republican Party, the lie of every-man-for-himself – or – we can vote for the Democratic ideal that lives at the very heart of our nation: we are our brothers/sisters keepers – because they are also our keepers, our support, the epicenter of our thankfulness. It’s called community. In service to the betterment of all. The choice is ours and it has never been more clear.

Helping hands are everywhere – as it should be.

read Kerri’s blogpost about VOTE

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In All The World [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

There’s nothing better in all the world.

Love is like that. It’s the way it’s supposed to work.

And aren’t we beyond fortunate?

read Kerri’s blogpost about DOGGA

smack-dab © 2024 kerrianddavid.com

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The First Sign [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

It is the morning after. After talking about how life can change in an instant, we took our coffee and walked around the car looking for certain damage and were surprised that there was no more than a few additional scratches. Little Baby Scion has her share of dings and dents and it was difficult to discern what was old and what was new. Thank goodness. At the time it sounded much worse.

The storm was upon us in a moment. We were driving the backroads home from Chicago Pridefest. Jen was texting us about tornado warnings when the alarms sounded on our phones. Take cover. We’d been watching with trepidation the intense lightning to our north, the direction we were headed. The rain came first. In buckets. And then, like a one-two-punch, the wind. Shrapnel pelted and rocked the car, bits of bark and limbs – at least that’s what we surmised. And, as Kerri said, suddenly Little Baby Scion wanted to take flight. She fought to keep the car on the road. We pulled into a parking lot, away from signs, trees and telephone poles. We maneuvered close behind the brick building, a wind block because, once again, Little Baby Scion was no match for the gusts and was attempting to lift off. Cars, as I understand them, are supposed to keep their tires on the ground.

And we sat, eyes-wide-open. “Better to be hit by things falling off the building,” she said, “than to be airborne.” A tale of no good choices.

We pulled up the radar images (now, isn’t it a miracle of technology that, hunkered down in our car in the middle of a storm, we could see a colorful satellite view of the storm’s angry trajectory) and saw that north of us, home, the storm was breaking. However, where we were sitting, a restaurant parking lot in Waukegan, was about to get clobbered. So, when the wind took a breather, when we no longer feared taking flight, we drove north, dodging downed limbs and debris.

We pulled into our driveway. The rain had passed. I had to peel her fingers from the steering wheel. “We’re safe,” I said. “Let’s get inside.”

I knew all was well when she looked at me and asked, “Do you think we could have a glass of wine?” The first sign of gratitude…

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE STORM

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Turtle-Slapped [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

A turtle appeared on the path at just the right moment. As I like to say, our “jammies were in a bunch” and we were about to go over the edge and fall into a dark abyss of circumstance-dissatisfaction. We rounded the bend as our discontent began spiraling out of control, and then we saw the turtle.

Everything changed in an instant.

She cooed, knelt, and stroked the turtle’s shell. Not expecting a tsunami of affection, the turtle retreated into its fortress. But after a moment, realizing that this assault was indeed loving, it peeked and then poked its head out into the light. It slowly pivoted so she might get a better angle for her photoshoot. The turtle was a patient model and didn’t seem to mind her multiple-broken-promises of “Only one more, I swear,” as she continued snapping photographs.

We admired the orange markings, outlined in black, set in the field of green. “Gorgeous,” she whispered, tracing the markings with her finger.

After an appropriate visit, we left it to return to the marsh, and continued on our way. “What were we talking about?” I asked.

“I can’t remember,” she said, her prior frustration having completely dissipated. Mine, too.

In truth, we both remembered but no longer needed to grouse about what we could not control. We probably didn’t need to spin frustration tales to begin with. Thankfully, we were turtle-slapped into the recognition that what we needed most in our dedicated-exasperation was to slow down and appreciate our walk.

The wisdom of distraction. A turtle suddenly appears on the path at just the right moment…

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE TURTLE

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