Messages [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“We forget that the soul has its own ancestors.” ~ James Hillman

A hard day driving, made three hours longer by traffic and incessant construction, we were bleary-eyed. There has never been a time that we needed respite more than at the end of this day. In the dark of night we almost missed the driveway into the farm. It was shielded from view by the fields of corn. At the back of the property we found the little cottage that we’d booked for the night. Upon first view, illuminated by the headlights of the truck, we released all expectation of comfort.

We couldn’t have been more wrong.

Entering the cottage was like walking into a loving embrace. It was beautiful, warm and cozy. Recently renovated, it literally sparkled. We wandered through its rooms saying, “Wow!” Baskets of snacks, thick plush towels, a bedroom that seemed made for a photo shoot for Grandin Road. The Andes candy on the pillow brought Kerri to tears. “These were my mom’s favorites,” she said, holding the small chocolate as if it was a precious letter, a message from Beaky. You could almost hear her whisper:

“Rest now. Everything is exactly as it should be.”

In fact, our entire journey seemed punctuated by visitations. Pa was there when, driving into a tropical storm, the rubber seal on our windshield failed. “Gorilla tape!” we heard the command from the ethers. There was a Home Depot at the next exit.

“I think your dad has our back,” I said as we taped the broken seal, a solution good enough to get us through our journey. The torrential rain was no match for Pa’s magic fix.

Big Red, our truck with Gorilla tape on the seal, was my dad’s. His truck came to us when he could no longer drive. We’ve always thought of Big Red as his truck, not ours. After he passed, Big Red was a notorious prankster, breaking down in the middle of Kansas, stopping without reason in rush hour traffic and then starting again only when the tow truck was on the way. Once, after prepping for a trip, an oil change, new belts, and service checks, we loaded up Big Red, jumped in – and it simply refused to start. “Columbus is playing with us,” she said as we transferred the suitcases and cooler to LittleBabyScion.

“Again,” I said.

As Kerri placed the gull feather and rocks from Crab Meadow Beach in the cab of the truck she turned to me and said, “I think Columbus is finally giving us Big Red. I think Big Red is ours now.”

I felt it, too. Columbus was laughing the laugh he saved for squirt gun surprises, his famous midnight raids when I was a boy. “You’ve got this,” he smiled, “And, don’t forget to have a little fun.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about ANDES CANDY

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Above All Else [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“Life is strange. You arrive with nothing, spend your whole life chasing everything, and still leave with nothing. Make sure your soul gains more than your hands.” ~ unknown

As a young artist Roger often asked, “What is sufficient?” If you solely choose an artist’s path – or an artist’s path chooses you – the odds of realizing a modicum of financial prosperity are slim. An artist in the USA necessarily makes peace with chasing a different kind of wealth. Soul wealth. Yet, the question of sufficiency is important to ask since it is the thin ice that many artists – especially as they age – disappear beneath. It is impossible to live on the bottom of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs indefinitely. Perpetually struggling for food, heat, and shelter will inevitably drown the muse.

What is sufficient to keep the muse happy and fed?

Kerri came home and told me of a conversation she had with Steve. Most people – including us – want nothing more than to live a simple life. We do not need to own yachts or mansions. With the disappearance of the middle-class, the stagnation of wages, the wealth of the nation running to the top 1%…more and more people in these un-United States are sliding to the bottom of the Hierarchy of Needs. It’s one reason why there is so much anger out there. Safety is further and further out of reach for more and more people. Sufficiency is nowhere to be found.

We watched a conversation between two people who make their living on social media. Their discussion revolved around the cancer that social media has become. They explained that the algorithms sort to the extremes. The middle ground is nowhere to be found in social media conversations. Extremist views are elevated while moderate voices are minimized. In their conversation, they asked their substantial viewership to turn off their screens and go outside and sit with real people. Real connection is only possible when sitting face to face with real people – and that’s the only place where we might reclaim our common ground, our communal sufficiency, our safety – especially with those whose opinions differ from our own. Middle ground is a shared space.

Craig enticed me into a long text conversation about artistry. It made me reflect on what I believe and how many great mentors and teachers I have enjoyed. In my life I have been rich in life-guides. I still am. I told him that all of the great artists I have known – or who have been inspirations for me – have wrestled with their demons and, therefore, were fearless at asking hard questions of themselves and of others. Their hard questions, in the form of lyrics or images or dances or compositions or characters that they played…ultimately transformed their demons into teachers. They walked toward their fears and made them into something beautiful.

I lost three of my guide stars in the past few years. They created lives of sufficiency. They thrived beyond any measure that money could bring. Simple lives marked by a real connection with real people. Lives lived in conscious – and joyful – support of other people. Three rich souls who gained in their lives more than a mansion or piles of money that they would have never been able to spend. They brought people together.

The single thing that I remember about these three artists – above all else – above all that they taught me – is their abundant laughter. Isn’t that the sign of a good life well-lived? A life to emulate?

read Kerri’s blogpost about SOUL GAIN

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Be Unbearably Small [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

“We fought so long against small things that we became small ourselves.” Eugene O’Neill

“On my last day of work, the back wheels of my car won’t be out of the parking lot before they erase everything I’ve worked for,” Tom said. He was right, of course. I was there and witnessed the dismantling. His words were not resentful. They were matter-of-fact. He helped me understand that a life’s work is not about achievement. Rather, it is about integrity of process. Relationship. Bringing instead of getting.

“I’ve fought my battles. It’s time for someone younger to pick up the fight,” another in my tribe of dear-wise-guides reminded me when I was pushing him hard to care. I am a few years down the road now and I understand to my bones his position. I have limited time here. I have (mostly) turned my eyes away from the fight and toward the wonder-of-it all. I have no idea how to paint it so I am reticent to touch my brushes. How do you contain – or try to contain in an image or word – the inexplicable? It’s the artist’s dilemma and I love it.

Sitting on the back deck staring into the pastel sky, I thought about their words. Quiet summer nights are prime for reminiscence and reflection. I thought about the battles I have fought in my life. The hills I chose to die on. The art meant to heal or change or provoke. To reach and touch a heart. To shake a sleeper awake.

I have been fortunate to have had such wise guides showing me the way. To give me the rare gift of perspective. I am fortunate to understand how unbearably small I am in this limitless universe. Were I to believe myself grand I would not have access to the awe of this summer night, this rolling pastel sky.

read Kerri’s blogpost about the PASTEL SKY

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*happy birthday, columbus.

See The Angels [on KS Friday]

Like most people I have had some dark nights of the soul. Fortunately, I also have a life rich in beacons, special people that shine bright and light the way in my darkest hours. Best-of-all, my beacons are visible on sunny days, too. Some of my beacons have been around for the long haul. Some show up in a moment and disappear as fast as they appeared.

It’s hard not to believe in guidance when surrounded by so many living lighthouses.

Once, on a snowy day in a local store called PeaceTree, the man behind the counter told Kerri that she was surrounded by good angels. It was a comfort and gave her courage to head out into the storm.

Yesterday, Jonathan’s passing had us talking about good angels. He was certainly an angel for us. It made me realize (again-and-again) that the good angels that surround us are not ethereal unseen spirits. They are visible. Humans. Folk. Peeps. 20. Brad and Jen. The Up-North-Gang. Horatio. They are the friends that show up to help, Arnie and Dwight. The people that call out-of-the-blue to check-in. They are the world’s best mechanic that fixes our car and then delivers it to our driveway. The notes from Judy or Jim. The texts of encouragement from Rob or Mike or David. The “likes” from Alex and Buffalo Bob that revitalize us everyday to keep writing, keep creating. Brenda and Cris reaching out to us when they hear one of Kerri”s compositions streaming and share how much her music means to them. The bright lights that we just know are out there. Guy and Charles.

We are, indeed, surrounded by good angels, more than I can name or count. We would not be here were it not for the people who catch us when we were falling, the voices of encouragement that cheer when we consider stopping, the many, many people who stand with us in the storm and whisper, “How can I help?”

Beacons. Warming fires on the hill. They are all around us – all the time – and we are more than grateful for their bright light, infusing us with courage as we sail into the next unknown.

Adrift/Blueprint For My Soul © 1997 Kerri Sherwood

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read Kerri’s blogpost about THE LIGHTHOUSE

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The Heart Of The Matter [on Merely A Thought Monday]

“Well, there goes wine and coffee…” I thought when I read the headline. At 100 Years Old, I’m ‘The Oldest Living Doctor’ – 5 Things I Never Do To Live A Long, Happy Life. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The good doctor’s advice is sound, simple, and sans finger-wagging.

Several months ago, Dwight started an important ongoing conversation: how do we live well this chapter of our lives? I recently read a quote (that I can’t re-find) that suggests we grow old-in-our-minds because we stop being curious about life and living. The quote speaks to the good doctor’s first Never Do: I don’t spend my days retired. His fifth Never Do is an extension of the first: I don’t let my knowledge go to waste. Bookends, encouraging us to stoke the fires of curiosity and to share abundantly our gifts.

Ann used to say, “Find a need and fill it,” and I suspect her good advice knows no age limit. Margaret, one of my great unconfessed inspirations in this world, makes quilts, makes meals, makes smiles.

Since our dinner with Dwight I’ve been paying attention to the many guides that populate my path. I am surrounded by people either approaching or older than the ‘age of retirement” who are younger at heart than most of the 30-somethings I know. They are fully following their star. Horatio is writing scripts and books and making movies, making art, and has an “ever-growing ” idea pile I call his “mountain of amazing things to explore”. Judy is painting and writing more beautifully now than ever, Rebecca is boldly leading people to simplicity, Master Marsh tends a section of the Calaveras River, plays music, and makes trouble. To be clear: they are not “striving to achieve” – a concept-distinction that Dwight has me pondering – they are engaged with life. They are rooting around on their heart path. Each is finding a need in others and filling it. My list of “those-who-inspire” could go on and on.

A moment ago my thoughts turned to H. He visited me in a dream last night. If ever there was a model for how to thrive in the last chapter, it is H. He sang with his barbershop quartet, was a lively presence in Kerri’s choir and famously rapped a song, encrusted in bling, at age 89. His enormous car filled two parking spaces and after expertly landing his machine between the lines, he’d pop the trunk and retrieve his walker. I learned early on not to ask if he needed any help. The answer is “no.” He died in his middle-90’s, boldly making a mess of new technology, stomping around in this strange new world.

All are embracing the good doctor’s 4th Never Do: I don’t restrict myself. It seems to me that all of the good doctor’s rules are encapsulated in #4: it is the heart of the matter.

read Kerri’s blogpost about 5 THINGS

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Reconnect [on Merely A Thought Monday]

“We are healing our souls by reconnecting to our ancestors.” Nainoa Thompson (quote from The Wayfinders by Wade Davis)

There is a house I sometimes visit in dreams. It is a mountain house and, in the dream, it belongs to my Grandma Sue. I’m always comforted when I go there.

I have some of Casey’s tools and some of Bob’s. I think of them every time I use the wrench or the screwdriver. Both were good mechanics, handy, so I imagine their tools imbue me with some of their wisdom when I attempt to fix what’s broken around the house.

I gingerly page through the handmade book where DeMarcus made his notes about color. The pencil marks are fading but his enthusiasm reaches from the page and rejuvenates me. Inspires me.

A few days ago I happened upon my Lost Boy session recordings with Tom. His bass voice reached through my computer, telling me a story I now know so well. It warmed me.

In my studio, on top of DeMarcus’ wooden paint box, is a nutcracker that Grandpa Chan kept by his pool table. It’s the only thing I wanted when he passed. Something he touched. I hold it sometimes when I stare at works-in-progress. I feel him there.

I wear a chain around my left wrist. Kerri wears one, too. It is pull chain. The current version is a replacement of the original that we took from Pa’s workbench. I never met him but I feel connected to him. Kerri tells me stories of her dad. “How do you like them apples?” One of his phrases.

I imagine he and my dad are on the other side of the veil drinking scotch together. That drink warms me, too.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THEM APPLES

Shape The Vessel [on Two Artists Tuesday]

George Ohr was one of the great ceramic artists of the late 19th and early 20th century. Like Van Gogh, he died unknown, never experiencing the success of his work. Robert reminded me of George Ohr’s story and I reminded Robert that Ohr would be a terrific story for him to tell through a one-man play.

What is it to follow your art-call with heart and dedication with nary a hint of financial reward or success on the horizon? Vincent Van Gogh would have been called an amateur during his life since the making-of-money is the flag we plant in the sand marking the line between being a professional and a dilettante. Those lines do not exist for artists with a deeper call. The money does not the artist make.

The Ohr-O’Keefe Museum of Art was designed by renowned architect Frank Gehry, quite a journey for the unseen work of George Ohr’s life to find so much vibrant admiration after his passing. Had he known it would have changed nothing. He’d have spent his days at the potter’s wheel either way.

“Shape clay into a vessel; It is the space within that makes it useful. Cut out doors and windows from a room; It is the holes that make it useful. Therefore, profit comes from what is there; Usefulness from what is not there.” ~Lao-tzu

Profit and usefulness. Shape and space. Mary Oliver asked the question: What will you do with your one wild and precious life? It hits the nail squarely on the head. It was not the pots that George Ohr made or the paintings that Van Gogh painted, it was the space they entered while throwing pots and painting paintings. It was the world they entered through their artistry, more expansive than financial success, more necessary than renown. A wild and precious life lived wildly and with avid appreciation.

Standing amidst the brilliant orchids, some of the flowers were in their last days. Their beauty fading, they cared not a wit. It is not in their nature to stretch their faces and pretend that the cycle of life is more valuable in the early bloom than it is in the late retreat. All is treasured, beguiling. Every last moment, not to be stalled or held onto. The root as necessary as the bloom, the winter as indispensable as the spring.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FIREWORKS