Love The Journey [on KS Friday]

tpotj song box copy

This morning, sitting on the steps off the back deck, sipping coffee, DogDog sniffing around the yard, I watched the eagles fly across the bay, dodging seagulls protecting their brood. I fell into one of those moments, those precious few moments, of profound appreciation for my life. This part of my journey is surprising and as orienting as it is disorienting. Both/and.

I like to travel precisely because it throws me off center. Even the simplest things require attention. Which side of the road am I supposed to drive on? Oh my god, where is the corkscrew? What did I just order (I couldn’t even pronounce it)? Once, in a barter culture, I failed miserably because I bartered myself to a higher price. The merchant and I laughed until we cried and then he patted me on the back and only accepted half of my money. Laughter was my coin. That part of my journey changed the trajectory of my life entirely.

Read the order of the tracks on Kerri’s album, THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY, and you notice that the final two titles on the album are This Part Of The Journey followed by The Way Home. She is hyper-intentional so I believe she did that on purpose. Sitting on the deck this morning, I knew without doubt that this part of the journey, no matter how complicated or lost-feeling or unnerving or uncomfortable…or peaceful, is a great gift. It is a step on the way home. And, it will someday make for the best stories, perhaps the best part of my story.

THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY sparkles like the sun on the lake. It is as abundant as DogDog’s curiosity on his discovery trip around the yard. It is as full of laughter as a merchant in Bali who, to this day, tells the story of the tourist who had no idea what he was doing.

THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY on the album THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY is available on iTunes & CDBaby

 

read Kerri’s blog post about THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY

 

not our best morning minturn website box copy

 

this part of the journey ©️ 1998 kerri sherwood

Paint The Can [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

duke's painting copy

I imagine this still life is a painting that Duke merely tossed off. It was an exercise, something he painted because, well, he wanted to paint but wasn’t awash in inspiration. He looked around for a subject, any subject, and laughed when it occurred to him that the coffee can stuffed with brushes and tubes of paint lying willy-nilly on his table would make a sufficient study. When it was complete, he liked it enough to hang in the hallway of his house. It hung there for years. I imagine he and his wife, Eileen, looked at it everyday – to the point that they probably stopped seeing it. It was the norm. Part of the hallway.

It remained in the hallway after his death.

A few weeks ago Kerri and I helped Duke’s son, 20, move his mom into a nice assisted living apartment. After the furniture was moved in and the dishes and lamps, the final piece was Duke’s painting of brushes in a coffee can. It is the piece that made Eileen’s new apartment feel like home. Before we hung it on the wall we took some time and studied the painting. Duke was great painter!  I imagine that he had no idea on the long-ago-day that he decided old brushes in a coffee can would make a nice study, that his coffee can, like the Velveteen Rabbit of paintings, would come to mean so much. That it would carry associations like “home” and “Duke.”

It’s probably good that an artist cannot know the destiny of their work.

I imagine he put on the final touches of paint, the highlights, stood back and thought, “It’s good. I like this one.” He dropped his brush in some turpentine and made his way upstairs the get another cup of coffee.

 

read Kerri’s blog post about DUKE’S PAINTING

 

 

k&dbw backs website box_ copy

Follow Your Feet Home [on Two Artists Tuesday]

feet copy 2

I’m not sure how it happened. At some  point, early on in our life together, we began documenting our travels with photos of our feet. Feet in snow, on sand, on brick, tile, carpet, turf, and tundra. Our favorite wedding photo features our feet (red carpet, Frye boots). When pet sitting DogDog and BabyCat, 20 regularly receives photos of our feet on the dashboard. “Stop sending me pictures of your feet!” he rants, though I know he secretly appreciates being included in the foot photo loop.

It’s become a ritual and like most rituals no words are necessary. We just know what to do. On the subway Kerri will glance my way, the camera emerges and we raise our feet. In the museum, I point to the floor and we stand together. Click. At a wedding, Kerri raises her eyebrows and our dressed-up-feet know just what to do. In the forest, without notice, our boots come together. Click.

In The Wizard of Oz, Dorothy clicks her heels together, chanting, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” I think of Dorothy and her ruby red shoes every time our feet enter their ritual photo mode, every time we are in a new and strange place and the camera comes out as our feet come together. I think, “Home is here. Home is right now, right where our feet have found themselves. Home.” Click.

if you'd like to see TWO ARTISTS copy

read Kerri’s blog post about FEET

 

www.kerrianddavid.com

 

feet collage image and products ©️ 2018 david robinson & kerri sherwood

Roots & Wings [It’s KS Friday]

A composition of elements from studio melange on KS Friday

jacketrfthjpeg copy 2Kerri and I share this in common: behind each composition there is a story. My favorite moment each week as we prepare our melange blog posts is to ask Kerri about the story behind her ks friday music pick. There is always a top-layer story and then a deeper-layer story. And then a deeper story-layer still.

The best art is like that. It opens stories. It reaches deep down to the roots of being and then, through story, propels the human spirit to soar. Art is communal connective tissue.

This week in her blog Kerri shares the story behind Give Me Roots, Give Them Wings.  My story, as I listen and give over to the music is this: the first time I stepped into this house I was overwhelmed with the feeling of “home.” It was something I’d never in my life experienced. It was a warm rush of surprise and I laughed. Give Me Roots, Give Them Wings reminds me of that moment, of stepping through a door for the first time and knowing that I was finally home.

 

GIVE ME ROOTS, GIVE THEM WINGS on the album RELEASED FROM THE HEART available on iTunes and CDBaby

ROOTS & WINGS gifts and products

ROOTS WINGS product box BAR JPEG copy

read Kerri’s blog post on GIVE ME ROOTS, GIVE THEM WINGS

www.kerrianddavid.com

 

give me roots, give them wings – album released from the heart ©️ 1995 kerri sherwood

roots & wings designs and products ©️ 2018 kerri sherwood

Come Home

790. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

I generally tell stories about others and lately my pals have been asking me to turn the story mirror around and have a crack at myself. I am aloof. Tom once told me in frustration that I was the only person on the planet more aloof that he was. I wanted to deny it but couldn’t so my only recourse was to laugh and accept that I am often a balloon floating just out of reach. If you knew Tom this would be a profound statement because no one in the history of humanity was as aloof as Tom. That is, until me. I chose my mentor wisely. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about his accusation. I am not naturally aloof. No one is naturally aloof. We are pack animals. One of our strongest impulses is to belong. Perhaps “aloof” my way of belonging.

I sit comfortably at the edge of the village. I watch. I translate between worlds. I bridge without knowing it. I have deep diving conversations at the most casual dinner party. People I do not know betray their deepest secrets to me and wonder why. Balloons that hover just out of reach are safe. We balloons are conduits to the spirit world. We are transformers. Someone recently told me that I am a magnet to the island of misfit toys. And aren’t we – all of us – misfit toys?

During these past several months two words have repeatedly thundered down upon my head: 1) receive and 2) availability. These are big words especially when, like me, all established patterns come together in the word “aloof.” With so much thunder the message for me is clear: to grow, to fulfill this big voice, I must walk to the center of the village. I must sit and receive. I must open and become available to the community. This one-way communication is nice but two way communication is relationship and to thrive I must open the two way channel. I will always know how to do aloof. I will always be a transformer. Now I must learn to be accessible, too.

In Holland Chris guided us through a constellations exercise. The entire community gathered in a circle and I remained aloof. When I was beckoned and joined the circle, I quivered and quaked with conflicting desires: to belong and to run. To step in and step out. I have wandered my whole life. I am on a pilgrimage that, until recently, had no destination. And today, like a light turning on in my heart, I understand that “receive” and “availability” will be obtainable only after I finally arrive home. Home is the end of my pilgrimage. Home is a person. It is a place. It is a place inside me and outside me. I can see it from here. So, to my pals, I am soon to sit in the center of the village. Come join me there. I’m ready to come home. I have lots of stories to tell.

Hold The Image

692. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

I’ve shared this image with k.erle a day ago, and with my class this morning and it feels like some kind of message. I can’t shake the image because it is speaking to me. Some images are powerful that way. This image wants me to pay attention. It is the image of the Wayfinder.

I came across the image in Wade Davis’ book, The Wayfinder. The title refers to the navigator in a traditional Polynesian canoe, sitting in the bow, sensing and reading the waves, the air, the stars, the rings of the moon, but mostly, the navigator holds in her mind the image of the island that they are attempting to find. Wade Davis writes that, according to the Polynesian belief, the canoe is still in the water and the Island finds them. The power of the Wayfinders’ image calls the island to them. They must simply point their canoe in the proper direction while the Wayfinder holds the image.

I ask myself as I sit in the bow of my canoe, what image do I hold? What island do I draw to myself? In my urban ocean have I developed the sensitivity to read the currents, the subtleties of energy in the waves that help me point my craft in the direction of the island that rushes from the future to meet me? Or am I out to sea? This ocean is vast. I have an image for home, a smell, a taste, an undeniable energy that makes me shake when I allow myself to fully feel it, and in the midst of this vast ocean I am taking my cue from the Wayfinders to remain still and know that the power and potency of my image will soon call my island home to me.

Be Home

682. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

My weeks of wandering have inadvertently thrown me into a meditation on “home.” In this gypsy time I have stayed in many dear friend’s homes and been treated as one of the family. I have been deeply touched at how many others have offered me places to stay, saying, “You are always welcome in my home. I’ve even camped in the house I grew up in, it’s sitting empty for the winter: a place that I used to call home but without my family is an odd place to visit. “Home” is the people, not the place.

Many years ago I looked for my “home” until I learned that, like happiness, “home” ensues. You don’t find it; you create it. If follows. Like all things valuable, “home” is a relationship. It is not a thing. I grew up in Denver and every time I return I am struck by how familiar are the air, the smells, the weather, the warm sun on a cold day – these are recognitions of a relationship with a place that I knew as a boy. They are like old friends that greet me. My body knows, “This was once home and will be waiting for you if you ever wish to return.”

I’ve lived places for many years and never felt at home; there was no significant relationship. And, I’ve walked into a room and immediately knew the place. I’ve met people that I felt I’d known all my life. The word to pay attention to is “felt.” My body knows home long before my mind knows. How many times in your life have you said, “I just knew….” Home is like that, too.

I am easier in the world now that I’ve stopped looking and started creating my home. I’m easier now that I recognize that I will feel it before I think it. Yes, it is a paradox: I create it and I feel it. In some ways I am home everywhere. I feel it. I now know without a doubt what it feels like to come home. I know what it feels like to be home.