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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buymeacoffee is a snowflake of infinite possibilities if you choose to see it.

Take A Leap [David’s blog on KS Friday]

According to the myth, ancient Hawaiians believed that the souls of the dead leapt into the next plane of existence at Ka’ena Point.

The ancient Greeks believed the souls of the dead gathered at a specific spot on the shore of the river Styx and awaited the boatman to ferry them across to the underworld. The leap to the next plane of existence.

And then there are the leaping places for the living. The next phase of existence. Sometimes it is a move to a new city. Sometimes it is a career change. Sometimes it looks like an opportunity. Sometimes it looks like a loss. Sometimes it looks like a crossroads with no good choices. Or, too many good choices. Sometimes it looks like a dream come true. Destiny. And all that is required is a leap.

“Leap” is another way of saying, “Let go.”

Today, of necessity we cleaned out most of our society6 storefronts. We populated these stores when we began our Melange. It was an attempt to monetize our art work. Paintings, cartoons, graphic designs, music compositions. Despite a titanic effort, our designs, art prints and products never flew off the shelf. Over the years our store sites have remained mostly inert, so much so that we simply stopped promoting them. Society6 recently changed their business model and we were forced to face the reality of a foregone conclusion: it didn’t work.

The cutting down and clearing out was surprisingly disheartening.

Over the years our Melange transformed from a business idea into a place for Kerri and me to write. To write purely. We love it. It feeds our souls and keeps us grounded. So, I was taken aback by how much hope I still harbored that our artistry might someday, some way – in this way – financially support us.

And so, a letting go. An unexpected step onto the platform. Another leap. Cuts made matter-of-factly. The creation of space.

In a long-ago-disheartened moment, a younger me asked an older-and-wiser-artist, Doug, when the leaping stopped. His answer: It never stops. You just become better and better at leaping.

adrift/blueprint for my soul © 1996 kerri sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about LEAPING.

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Breathe Again [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

To say I sobbed is a bit of an overstatement. I’d been raking leaves all morning. It was clear and crisp. I’d just finished stuffing the last green bio-bag in the front yard and hauled it to the curb for pick-up. All that remained was to collect the bags from the backyard and move them to the curb. That’s when I heard her playing the piano. I couldn’t believe it! I slipped beneath her studio window and listened. This was no small moment.

She played after she fell and broke both her wrists. She couldn’t open a doorknob or button her shirt but, somehow, she found a way to play. She had to. The pandemic had already taken one of our jobs. Her bosses could not find the heart or moral compass to afford her time off to heal. One hand in a cast. One hand in a splint. Nine useful fingers and an immobilized thumb. She played. Nine months later, nearing complete healing, she fell again. A wet floor. No signs. This time, the injury was debilitating. The depression that followed was a deep dark crevasse. She stopped playing altogether. She sometimes stood at the door of her studio but rarely entered.

These past few years I can count on one hand – well, two fingers – the times she played. When Rob visited I asked her to play for him. She chose a few pieces. Rob was moved to tears. I could tell it hurt her. She was asked by an old friend to play for a transgender memorial service. With her brace she was able to play the two 15 minute sections.

Sitting beneath her studio window, listening, the pain and loss, the weight of the past few years flowed out of my eyes. A flood of relief. She was playing. For herself. For no other reason than to feel the muse. It was a step forward. A step toward. A step back into the light. A moment of possibility.

I felt as if I’d been holding my breath these many years. Now, perhaps, on this crisp fall day, it was time to breathe again.

read Kerri’s blogpost about LEAVES

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Taste The Sky [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

I remember closing my eyes, face to the sky, to feel the joy in the snowflakes fall. On another day, separated by years, I walked out into the rain and with outstretched arms, I asked the sky to wash my grief away.

On yet another day, a younger version of me, bundled against the midnight cold, lay in a mountain field with friends and watched the stars shoot across the heavens. Oooo-ing and aahhh-ing. Then there was the winter day I stood with my back pressed against the brick wall and drank in the warming sun. My bones and the sun connected.

In answer to his puckered disbelief that I was yet a non-believer, I suggested he find a spot beyond the city lights, and on a clear night peer into the starry sky, and realize what he was seeing. Infinity knows no tribe.

“Clear blue sky always brings my thoughts to Colorado,” I said. “There’s nothing like the Colorado blue.”

One night, amid raging inner turmoil, I looked to the full moon and whispered, “Okay. I will follow where you lead me.”

It is a welcome common occurrence, she stops mid-stride and points, ” Do you see the duck!” or “Doesn’t that look like a crazy Mickey Mouse?” Cloud watchers. A festival of pareidolia ensues.

And who hasn’t looked to the sky and uttered, “Please…” The yearning heart reaches for a vast wordless sky.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SKY

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Count The Angels [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

One day on the trail we talked of the good angels that surround us. 20 and Brad and Jen. The Up North Gang. Horatio and Guy. Smith and Dwig and Arnie. There are too many to count. Dogga is an angel. John and Michele. People we rely on. People who show up when we need help. People who reach out with a kind word. People who let you know that they are there. Alex. Kim. Kate and Jerry. Buffalo Bob. People who listen when we need to talk it through. People who inspire us. People that we simply know are out there, our spiritual safety net. MM. Master Miller. Judy. People who have walked before us. Tom Mck, Quinn, Columbus. Beaky and Pa.

Too many to count.

I believe County Rainy Day was an angel sent to remind me not to fixate on a single path but to look left and right: what might appear a deviation is, in fact, the heart path. Like County Rainy Day, some angels appear in our lives for a brief moment and then are gone. The security guard who let me stay in the small airport after closing; he knew I didn’t have money for a taxi or a hotel. An angel.

This was the point of our trail conversation: the angels that populate our lives are not ethereal abstractions. They are the people and critters who walk the path with us. They show up in critical moments and during the everyday. They are as messy and confused as we are and unafraid to show it. They, therefore, want to help make our path easier. We want to help make their path easier.

And, in the process of helping, of showing up for each other – together – we fill this very short life window with treasure beyond measure. Presence. Attention. Support. Encouragement. Reflection. Good angel stuff.

[happy birthday, pa]

read Kerri’s blogpost about ANGELS

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Lay On Your Side [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“We are fragile creatures, and it is from this weakness, not despite it, that we discover the possibility of true joy.” ~ Desmond Tutu, The Book of Joy

The heart-leaf lay on its side. Light peaked through its cracking surface. I was afraid to touch it lest it crumble in my fingers.

Only a few short months ago it was vibrant green, connected, durable. It’s destiny was -and is – as certain as mine. My surface is beginning to crack. Only a short time ago I felt myself vibrant. I thought of myself as indestructible. I am, and always have been, on my way to brittle.

It is this very fact that reminds me to slow down, to turn and feel the sun on my face. It is my limited time on earth that prompts me to lay on my side on warm grass so I might see the full beauty of the delicate tilted heart. To feel the warm hand that squeezes mine.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART

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Re-Realize The Beauty [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

I have thrown old journals into the fire. Letters from long lost friends have gone into the flames. Paintings, too. More than once, at a retreat, the facilitator asked us to write about fears or obstacles and ceremonially commit them to the flames. A statement of release. A marker in time: letting go.

When I was young I spent many nights in the mountains. The campfire was primal. Light and warmth against the cold dark of night. The fire was safety. In an experience that, to this day, makes me laugh and blush, camping with my brothers and dad, the fire having burned to soft embers, we climbed into our sleeping bags. Deep in the night a large animal crashed through the brush, sent us scared and scrambling to reignite the embers. We stoked a mighty roaring fire. The savage creature circled our camp for hours, snapping branches, staying just beyond the light. Running low on wood and still hours from dawn, we debated what to do. At the height of our anxiety, the peak of our fear, the imagined mountainous hungry bear moooooooo-ed. Our fire kept us safe from a wayward cow.

In our backyard we have a fire pit (a solo stove), a flame tower (propane), tiki torches of all sizes, and a chiminea. No matter the source, we light the flame and inevitably all conversation ceases. We stare, lost in thought, the flames having danced our monkey minds into quiet peace.

In the story, Prometheus steals the spark-of-life from Zeus. Fire. He wants to ignite the hearts of his creations, his humans, made from clay and sticks. He knows that Zeus will disapprove because he’s made his humans beautiful rather than the crude forms Zeus commanded him to make. That’s why he had to steal the fire. To ignite beautiful hearts, capable minds, generous souls. He was successful though Zeus, according to the story, has worked diligently to corrupt the beautiful humans and infuse them with ugliness, keeping them distant from their true nature.

Staring into the fire, with a quiet mind, it’s possible to hear Prometheus’ whisper. In the flame dances the possibility of safety, quiet mind, the capacity to let go the hurt, and for a moment, to re-realize the beauty, ignited by the spark, beating in the hearts of his humans.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FIRE

This is the first painting in a triptych I created for my performance of The Creatures Of Prometheus – with The Portland Chamber Orchestra. This is “Prometheus:Creation.” 48 x 96IN

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Give A Heart Lift [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

We found a quilted heart. Gently fluttering in the breeze, colorful splashes suspended from a limb, we stopped and said simultaneously, “What’s that?” The truth: we needed a heart lift that day. It was why we were on the trail in the first place. This little quilted heart did the trick.

For me, the story gets better. Suspended from the heart was a note: I need a home. The note included a site: ifaqh.com. We were happy to give the quilted heart a home. We were eager to visit the site. What we found gave us yet another lift. From a simple origin story, people all over the world are making quilted hearts and leaving them in public places for others to find – for no other reason than to bring joy to a stranger, to give their heart a lift.

Simple goodness spreads. Brighten someones day and they will do the same. Read some of the stories written by people who found a quilted heart. They will give you a lift, too.

My favorite phrase on the site is on the About page: IFAQH has had a few minor changes over the years, but our heart is to keep it simple, anonymous, random, and neutral with no hidden agenda. Simply leave hearts in a public place for a random stranger to find to brighten their day

Simple. Anonymous. Random. Neutral. No hidden agenda. Now, isn’t that a refreshing intention in a world obsessed with garnering accolade and attention!

“What did you do today?”

“I brought light to someone’s life.”

“Whose life?”

“Does that really matter?”

read Kerri’s blog about A QUILTED HEART

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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.

Lead With The Heart [on KS Friday]

Do you remember The Little Prince? “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; that which is essential is invisible to the eye.” ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

What about this one: “The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched – they must be felt with the heart.” ~ Helen Keller

Two extraordinary people sharing the same sentiment.

One more from Mary Oliver: “Every morning I walk around this pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart ever close I am as good as dead.”

What is this business with the heart? Seeing the essential. Feeling the best and most beautiful. Vital life an open door of the heart.

It is a simple message that reaches back through Aeschylus and Confucius, it reaches beyond the invention of the written word. You’ll find it scratched in glyphs. It’s a message older than any religion or spiritual tradition yet weaves its way through all of them. Lead with your heart.

I am a student of metaphor and pattern and can say this with absolute certainty: beneath the hoohah of our angry times is a simple enduring pattern, an appeal from wise voices ringing across the ages and cutting across cultures. A single metaphor: seeing rightly has nothing to do with our eyes. To be human is to lead with our hearts. Closing our hearts to one another might seem righteous but leaves us as good as dead.

[Now that I’m finished moralizing for the day, I think I’ll take a slow walk around our tiny pond, close my eyes, feel the sun, and revel in this day of being alive.]

slow dance/as sure as the sun © 2002 kerri sherwood

…and a bonus!

same sweet love/as sure as the sun © 2002 kerri sherwood

Close your eyes and you’ll see that these tracks have nothing to do with Jazz. Open your eyes and you’ll note that Rumblefish has absolutely no ownership right or copyright to these songs though they somehow possess a ridiculous capacity to misrepresent Kerri and her music.

Kerri’s albums can be found on iTunes or streaming on Pandora and iHeart Radio

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART LEAF

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