Plant The Seed [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

And just like that, fall is in the air. The harvest is happening and jalapeno poppers are on the menu. We have a bumper crop of tomatoes and are making an extra batch of pesto since the basil is outdoing itself. In the middle of nature’s man-made erratica, our garden thrives and reminds us to appreciate abundance where she shows her face.

Over the Labor Day weekend, a woman, an elder on the block, decided to host a neighborhood gathering. People came out of their houses with platters of food to share. Kerri has lived here for 36 years and has a long history with many of the people who sat in a circle and chatted. I’ve lived here for 13 years and although I’d seen many of the faces before, I’ve waved to many of the faces as we walked by, but I’d never actually had a conversation with most of my neighbors. They are delightful and quirky, each with an interesting story to share.

I decided that the people of this nation need one-big-block party with one rule: no talk of politics. Bring food to share. Shake hands. Ask, “How are you?” Talk about the real stuff, the plumbing problem or share photos of grandchildren. Talk about the zealous garden that the hot and humid summer weather ignited.

Kerri and I used to host many, many gatherings: slow dance parties, midnight X-mas eve bonfires, ukulele band rehearsals and choir potlucks. Since COVID and with the rise of ugly-maga-madness, we’ve “pulled up the drawbridge”. We keep and guard a tight circle of friends. We cultivate a sanctuary in our backyard.

This morning I read a quote by Noam Chomsky:

Neoliberal democracy. Instead of citizens, it produces consumers. Instead of communities, it produces shopping malls. The net result is an atomized society of disengaged individuals who feel demoralized and socially powerless. In sum, neoliberalism is the immediate and foremost enemy of genuine participatory democracy, not just in the United States but across the planet, and will be for the foreseeable future.

Maga is neoliberal. Project 2025 is neoliberal: it promotes “liberalizing” markets, meaning the removal of all regulation and oversight, while eliminating anything that smacks of service or a social program. Neoliberalism has been a disaster in the past; it promotes oligarchy and fosters dictatorship. Our Civil War and our Great Depression were in large part produced by a neoliberalist agenda. It worships business, undermines service, and fosters division. It is the toxic philosophy creating the national disaster we currently endure. Neoliberalism is a Roman orgy for the wealthiest few. It is an economic speeding car with no brakes and cares not-a-whit for who or what it runs over. It always ends in a nasty crash.

The phrase in Chomsky’s quote that struck a chord was “The net result is an atomized society…” Here we are. Atomized. It is undeniable. It is antagonistic.

On my growing list of responses to the question, “What can we do?” I am adding, “Host a neighborhood gathering.” Breaking bread together is an ancient tradition, perhaps as old as humanity itself. At the very least it is a step toward connection. Social power is a group sport and begins when neighbors gather and talk. A neighborhood gathering plants the seed for participation and active community, a someday-place-of-appreciation, a mighty harvest, where abundance will gladly show her face.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HARVEST

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Harvest [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

“It is very nearly impossible to become an educated person in a country so distrustful of the independent mind.” ~ James Baldwin

The first tomato of the season. We plucked it and, after its photo shoot, we split it and ate it. It tasted of the sun. We delighted in the first harvest of what we sowed.

I just read a million quotes about harvests. They all boil down to essentially the same platitude: you reap what you sow.

My favorite quote of the week is by Brian Tyler Cohen: “All of these alpha republicans instantly become beta the minute Dear Leader tells them what to do. He tells them to jump. They jump.” They swagger around, talking tough, but their actions reveal lemmings in cowboy clothes. Currently, at Dear Leader’s behest, they protect the identity of wealthy pedophiles instead of the rights of the little girls they violated. They gut social programs to give tax cuts to the morbidly wealthy. They’ve fully funded a terror squad currently plucking people off the streets and disappearing them into concentration camps. Rather than protect the nation, they are moving in lockstep to turn the military on the citizens. Do they know what horror they sow? Do they understand or even consider the crop that we will reap from such a planting?

Of course they do. It is the reason they are dismantling the Department of Education. It’s the reason that universities across the nation are under assault. It’s the reason arts funding has disappeared. It’s the reason that the free press has been cowed. It’s the reason DEI is being scrubbed and history thoroughly whitewashed. “Authoritarians despise universities, journalists, experts, artists and free thinkers – because truth is their kryptonite. Lies are the scaffolding of tyranny. A tyrant’s power is directly proportional to the population’s ignorance.” [youtube.com/@theintellectualist] This quote, by-the-way, is not a platitude. It is a siren call, an all-hands-on-deck alarm to the dismantling of democracy.

The party that swaggers and follows-the-leader-who-excessively-boasts is currently fearful and hiding from their constituents. Their constituents are angry because their representatives have become the poster-children of group-think. Their representatives no longer represent them. Independent thought seems anathema to the republicans. They are all swagger and no substance. We-the-people would like to ask them if they know the corruption that they sow – but can’t because they are ashamed to face us.

Do they know? They do. That is the reason they no longer hold town hall meetings. They fear the will of the people, so rather than listen to the people they move to rig the next election. Blatant gerrymandering. Purging voter rolls. Legislating obstacles making it harder for people of color and women to vote. Sowing authoritarianism. “Authoritarians despise…free thinkers – because truth is their kryptonite.”

There is one thing we can all agree upon: the harvest of what they currently plant will taste like something other than the sun.

read Kerri’s blogpost about the FIRST TOMATO

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Catch-Up [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

It just took me awhile to catch-up. At least that’s what I tell myself. I’ve always had friends and acquaintances who kept herb gardens. They grew herbs in the yard, on roof tops, and in windowsills. They took great delight telling me the rosemary was from their garden or the delicious pesto was made from the basil growing in the pot “just over there.” I was too much a wanderer to commit to anything that needed soil and attention. It was enough for me to rub the leaves between my fingers, appreciate and breathe in the fresh smells of other people’s herbs.

Of course, now, that I have put down roots of my own I am more capable of tending things with roots. I have joined the ranks of herb growers. I have found the deep delight of making a meal delicious with something just clipped from the garden. Tomato soup with basil. Rosemary on potatoes. Chopped parsley with almost anything.

To be honest, Kerri is the primary herb farmer in our house. I carry pots, heft bags of potting soil. I am support services for the herb garden. I double as the substitute plant waterer when she is otherwise engaged. My role is to admire. To appreciate.

It’s a good role because I receive all the benefits of the garden. I even share the credit for the successful harvest. I carry the herb knowledge we’ve acquired. Yet, I rarely worry about the garden. I rarely think about how to improve it. As support services, my role is less about the health and well-being of the herb and more about the health and well-being of the herb farmer. I attend to the tender.

I suppose that is all of our roles in one way or another: attend to the people who attend to us. But, as I wrote at the beginning of this post, I am a slow study. It took me awhile to catch-up. I’m like a good soup. I needed to simmer for a very long time. Oh, yes. I also needed some fresh basil. Grown from the pot just over there. At least, that is what I tell myself.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HERBS

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See The Bounty [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

I doubt that our bird feeder experience is different than most people. The chipmunks and the squirrels get most of the bounty and the birds play clean-up.

In another life, were I to aspire to be an acrobat or gymnast, I’d study the amazing antics of chippies and squirrels. They scale the impossible pole. They leap the impossible leap. And then they fill their cheeks to bursting, kick gobs of seed to the ground, and fling themselves – fully loaded – into space and somehow catch a limb or bit of fence and escape into the great unknown. They are fearless.

The birds alight on the feeder, too, but mostly they find their fortune on the ground.

Over the summer, directly beneath the feeder, corn plants appeared. We let them grow for a while. I confess, the corn made us smile. “We have corn!” we’d giggle at the absurdity even though the origin was obvious. Apparently we are easily amused.

And then the corn plants sprouted across the yard. A stalk grew right next to Breck-the-Aspen-Tree. And then we found a few lively plants pressing through the tall grasses in the front yard. We’d unintentionally set into motion a small-sample-experiment of corn migration as carried by birds and mini-beasts.

Across many cultures, corn has long been a symbol of prosperity and representative of the cycle of life. It’s easy to understand why. The fields are magical places. In our film mythos, baseball teams of yore emerged from the corn, bringing good fortune to the family that built a field on their farm. Giver of dreams. Fulfiller of hope. Ancestors return to the corn.

In addition to the summer of the bunny and the surprise frog-named-Hope, this is the summer of corn-on-the-move. As the leaves begin to turn, as the harvest comes in, we take comfort knowing that we are surrounded by so many symbols of plenty.

read Kerri’s blogpost about CORN

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Harvest Tales [on KS Friday]

We sat on the back porch of the farmhouse. Columbus stared across the fields and told stories of his youth, working on a farm. He never talked about that time in his life, at least I didn’t remember hearing about the harvest times.

We rented the airbnb to take him back to his hometown. He wanted to see it one last time. He was slipping deeper into dementia and knew this visit would be his last. Earlier in the day, I found him in the kitchen. He was lost. He couldn’t remember how to make coffee. I’m not sure he knew who I was. We made coffee together and pretended all was well.

I was surprised that he didn’t want to spend more time in the little downtown. He wanted to walk the cemetery. He wanted to tell stories of his friends. He knew where every headstone was located. He knew right where his friends were and I listened, gathering more stories from his life. Sometimes I asked questions, prompts, to keep the storytelling going.

After the cemetery, we found the little house his grandfather built, the little house where my grandfather was born. It was being used as a storage shed because it was no bigger than a storage shed. It was in someone’s backyard. There wasn’t a fence and no one was home so we crossed the yard and walked around it. Holy ground for my dad. Now, it is sacred ground for me, too. He was a salmon swimming upstream returning to his origin. He was planting stories in us, reaching deep into his beginning tale. I was quiet, now. Listening.

We ended the day on the farmhouse porch. Staring across the field. Harvest tales.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HARVEST

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

millneck fall © 1997 kerri sherwood

Walk To The Fence [on Merely A Thought Monday]

“When people disliked each other or wanted to damage each other, they often did it through destroying the person’s harvest. This is the world of pisreoga.” ~ John O’Donohue, Anam Cara

Pisreoga is a Celtic term and lives beyond the reach of Google. It is ancient. The desire to do damage to others who are different or disliked is also ancient. Destroy their harvest. Define them as less than human. Erect obstacles to their participation or power. Starve them.

It’s exhausting.

In Rolling Stone, Wade Davis wrote these words in early August: “In a dark season of pestilence, COVID has reduced to tatters the illusion of American exceptionalism. At the height of the crisis, with more than 2,000 dying each day, Americans found themselves members of a failed state, ruled by a dysfunctional and incompetent government largely responsible for death rates that added a tragic coda to America’s claim to supremacy in the world.”

Four months on, now more than 3,000 Americans are dying everyday. Our death rates and infection rates soar while our government proves itself again and again to be dysfunctional and incompetent each and every day. Our citizenry is divided with several million growing fat on a diet of delusion and misinformation. Our insatiable hunger for misinformation – to believe the worst with nary a fact check or thought-stop – is our nation’s Achilles’ Heel. It poisons our harvest. Our gullibility poisons us.

What is going on? The world of pisreoga.

It’s a precarious community in which neighbors, out of vindictiveness, destroy each other’s harvest. No one thrives when no one can be trusted. Poisoning the neighbor’s harvest eventually – and always – blows back. All are poisoned. The harvest of a poisoned community is its unraveling.

That is what is going on. An emperor with no clothes. Red-hatted-screamers riding the Titanic of party loyalty all the way to the bottom; a nation goes with it. Oaths-of-office that mean absolutely nothing. Sowing the seeds of doubt and misinformation as a tactic to retain power. Useful idiots signing on to garbage lawsuits, undermining the very harvest they were sworn to protect, cheering for a bloated naked ego.

Pisreoga. A failed state. To obstruct. To do damage. To destroy the harvest rather than deal with the realities, rather than walk to the neighbor’s fence and say, “We have a problem. Can we talk?”

read Kerri’s blog post about WHAT IS GOING ON?

Knead And Listen [on Two Artists Tuesday]

rustic bread copy

I am now among the legion of people that turned to baking bread during the pandemic-stay-at-home era. This loaf is gluten free, made with rice flour, since Kerri is allergic to gluten.

In truth, I’ve wanted to bake bread since I knew Brad the baker in California. He was a genuine hippie, a believer in peace and simple living. “Bread is a living thing,” he once said as I watched in fascination his kneading of the dough. You can tell a true master craftsman at work by watching their hands. They feel something in the dough or the wood that the rest of us do not.

My loaf was not made by a master. Not even by an apprentice.

Bill sent a photo of his first loaf and I asked for the recipe. It came as screen shots and I scribbled them into a recipe on notebook paper. Easy steps to follow but I knew from watching Brad that I would not find in my recipe any easy guidance on how to feel the life in the dough. That would come with time. Maybe. If I was lucky and diligent and practiced listening through my hands.

I’m not surprised people are turning to bread during this time of pandemic uncertainty. It is essential. The making of bread, the cultivation of wheat, made civilization, as we know it, possible. It is, therefore, a central symbol in many belief systems. Separate the chaff from the wheat. A time for harvest. This is my body. Eat.

Brad told me that the dough kneads you as much as you knead the dough. It’s a simple relationship between living things and requires complete focus. Mutual respect. Attention must be proffered.

Perhaps that is why we turn to bread in times like these. Simple relationships of attention and mutual respect are increasingly rare. Bread reminds us of what is possible, what is healthy. It reminds us of the patience that is required if we are to find our way to harvest. It reminds us of the necessity of knowing what is chaff and what is wheat, or remembering that there is a direct relationship between what is planted and what is grown.

 

read Kerri’s blog post about BREAD

 

ely website box copy

 

Mark It [on KS Friday]

millneck fall songbox copy

I am marking the coming of fall. Each day on our walk I see a bit more red, yellow and burnt orange. A week ago I pulled on a sweatshirt. There was a chill in the air that penetrated the afternoon sun.

The fall brings a sweet melancholy, an inward look. We are moving slower on our walks. We can see deeper into the woods. The deer are everywhere. The apples are down. Last night at dinner, Steve had a fire in the stove. I sat beside it and let the warmth find my bones.

It is my favorite time of year. We make soup with friends. The air sharpens. I yearn for my studio. I write really bad poetry. I remember vivid yellow quaking aspen leaves. I secretly look forward to raking the front yard.

Tradition awakens with the harvest. The fruit and leaves have had their time, now the root gets its nourishment. Reaching down. Letting go. The wind encourages the resistant to release. It’s this deep ritual of return that beckons in Kerri’s Millneck Fall.

 

MILLNECK FALL on the album BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL is available on iTunes & CDBaby

 

read kerri’s blog post about MILLNECK FALL

 

 

shadow bristol woods website copy

millneck fall/blueprint for my soul ©️ 1997 kerri sherwood