Stand At The Fork [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Once in a vision
I came on some woods
And stood at a fork in the road
My choices were clear
Yet I froze with the fear
Of not knowing which way to go
One road was simple
Acceptance of life
The other road offered sweet peace
When I made my decision
My vision became my release.

Nether Lands by Dan Fogelberg

It happened again. We were making dinner and, before she said it, I knew exactly what she was going to say. “I’ve been here before,” I thought. Deja vu. I understand these moments as affirmations of being on the right path. The first day we met was a festival of deja vu.

Most of my life I was terrified to sing. A professor in graduate school challenged us to walk into and explore one of our fears so I took a class: singing for the utterly petrified. That wasn’t really the title of the course. I can’t remember the title because I was in a heightened state of panic the whole semester. We had to choose a favorite song to sing. I chose Nether Lands by Dan Fogelberg because it was the first album I ever owned and I used to play it over and over and over. I knew the title track by heart. I figured I’d have a better chance of staying conscious if the song and lyrics were already beaten into my brain. The fact that I am writing this so many years later is proof positive that I survived.

When we met I told her, a consummate musician, “I don’t sing and I don’t pray.” Better to spill the beans upfront than to torture her ears down the road. Managing expectations, yada yada.

“That’s too bad, ” she said. A few short months later I was singing in her choir, band and ukulele band. So much for conviction! She told me that my problem wasn’t singing, it was hearing. I had to learn to hear. I loved the implication: walking into fear requires learning to hear. I’m still learning. Deja vu!

It happened again. Carefully opening the small step ladder between the piano and the cello to hang the lampshade in her studio. “I’ve been here before,” I thought, positioning the legs of the ladder. I knew she was going to tell me to make sure the feather clip was in front. I knew she was going to wrinkle her nose. I had no idea what would come next.

It’s what I love about a good deja vu – you’ve both been there before and have no idea where you are going. It stops you for a moment of appreciation. Affirmation. Always at a fork in the road: simple acceptance of life and sweet peace. I have a feeling that, no matter the choice, all roads eventually lead to the same place. Hanging a funky cool lampshade. A wrinkled nose. Learning to hear. A deja vu. An affirmation of being right where I am supposed to be.

recorded on an old iphone on a piano in need of tuning… A Shred of Hope © 2020 Kerri Sherwood

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

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buymeacoffee is a path you’ve previously walked but only now remember.

Honor The Error [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“Art is human. Error is human. Art is error.” ~ David Bayles & Ted Orland, Art & Fear

I adore all three parts of this syllogism. Just don’t ask me if the reasoning is inductive or deductive since the three characters in the play are suspiciously unreasonable: Art, Humans, and Error. Applying reason to the unreasonable seems dubious for the get-go. In a world of rationalizing the irrational, who cares if the path is general to specific or vice-versa?

We made Christmas dinner at Craig’s house last night. Since he is nose-to-the-grindstone trying to make a career from his music, we talked about what he is experiencing. What he is learning. “It’s hard,” he said. Kerri smiled, knowingly. Yes. The music industry is Hard. Art-making is a joy. Making a viable career of art-making is akin to pushing a rock up a steep hill and never reaching the top. Sisyphus. No joy. Despite common stereotypes, no one works harder than artists-with-a-passion. “Talent and hard work is no guarantee that you’ll make it,” he said, sharing a recent revelation.

Trial and error. I’m currently writing a play and each day I remind myself of John Guare’s famous observation: you have to write ten bad pages to arrive at one good page. In other words, error making is the path. Any master craftsperson can tell you that. Make enough errors and you’ll eventually develop a wee-bit-of-discernment. What works. What does not. Discernment does not stop the error-making, it embraces it. It uses it.

I asked Craig if his definition of “good” had changed in the many months that he’s been producing and performing music. What is good work now relative to good work last year? His answer tickled me. His observation is ubiquitous to all creative pursuits. What seemed good last year often looks like doggerel this year. “I can’t believe I released that track,” he said. It’s a very good sign. He’s stacking his errors. He’s developing discernment. That, too, is a life-long pursuit, a steep climb with no top. Van Gogh looked back at his early work and wrinkled his nose.

So hope-full. The courage to follow an inner imperative. Honoring an undeniable impulse makes no sense. Intuition-listening. Eschewing illusions like “perfection” for a more gritty heart-filled error-strewn path. A more realistic human path, riddled with blunders and happy accidents. Now, isn’t that a lovely paradox! So honest. So art-full.

Kerri asked, “What does this post have to do with the pink ornament?” My answer: “These are the very pink thoughts I hang every day on my thought-tree.”;-)

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buymeacoffee is an error filled path that leads to appreciation of the very flawed artists you appreciate.

Consider The Landscape [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“We are a landscape of all we have seen.” Isamu Noguchi

In my landscape of life, there is a mountaintop at sunrise. There is a nurse shark hiding in the coral. There is a boat with orca whales breaking on all sides. There is leap of faith after leap of faith after leap of faith. There are betrayals and loyalty. Lightning strikes and earthquakes. There are stages and audiences. Two times living under martial law. Revelations and reckonings. Leaves rustling. A white dog and a black dog with amber eyes. Fresh baked bread and hot coffee. Visits to the past. Fingers stinging with cold so near to frost bite. Shame and embarrassment. Triumph and encouragement. Near starvation and too-much-food. Friends suddenly appearing from nowhere and friends suddenly disappearing into the same nowhere. There is unbridled hope. There is a wasteland of despair. There is cursing the heavens and genuine thanksgiving. So many empty attempts at being clever. So much reinforcement of the fullness of my ordinary. There are so many yesterdays that blur and wash together, a raging river.

There is one today. A single now.

Certainly there is landscape enough to fill a thousand canvases with childlike play. There is enough to fill a million million pages with wonder. Cicadas and sunsets. The smell of fresh basil. To sculpt with words ideas that may or may not help others see the fullness of their unique landscape and how infinitely conjoined it is with mine.

pax, 24x24IN, mixed media on panel

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE BOWL

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buymeacoffee is a landscape of opportunities to support the work of the artists you appreciate.

Imagine It [David’s blog on KS Friday]

It looked like a spiny dragon’s tail or Nudibranch that abandoned ship eons ago and, somehow, its petrified remains traveled from the deep of the sea to a trail in Wisconsin. Perhaps it was the skeleton tip-of-the-tail of a dinosaur. My imagination flooded with mythic-creature-possibilities. As Kerri knelt to snap her photos, I carefully scanned the woods. One cannot be too careful when dragons and dinosaurs might be lurking about.

While I was pretending to be watched by Jurassic critters, it occurred to me that imagination is a muscle. In order to exercise it, to make it strong, it must be used. With intention.

In truth, we (humans) daily exercise our imaginations though we don’t know it. Imagining that we can control what other people see or think. Imagining that the worst will happen. Imagining what might have been. Imagining that our day will be mundane. Imagining ourselves too small in the story of our lives. Imagining ourselves as superheroes saving the day.

That’s one way of exercising the muscle. Another way is to imagine possibilities. Imagine the ridiculous. Pop open the expanse of conceivability. In this direction of imagination exercise, it’s hard to take yourself so seriously.

And, I suppose, that’s the point. Hope slips in when life is held lightly. Hope and imagination-in-the-direction-of-impossible-possibilities are one and the same thing. Spacious. Surrender. In my reckoning, when I have been in the tightest bind or stuck in the worst scenario, the person who shows up, the door that opens, the hand that extends…is beyond my imagining and arrives when I let go.

Last night, deep in the night, I lay awake and listened to Kerri’s soft breathing and Dogga’s gentle old-dog snores. The window was cracked to allow in the cool night air. The chimes sang softly in the midnight breeze. A decade ago, I couldn’t have believed such riches of life would be mine.

But like a dinosaur watching me in the woods, I must have, somewhere way back then, closed my eyes and imagined it.

blueprint for my soul © 1996 kerri sherwood

Kerri’s music is available on iTunes or streaming on Pandora and iHeart Radio

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buymeacoffee is a dragon tale whispered to your soul from the deep woods in hopes that your imagination will take over and run wild. It could happen.

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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See Hope [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

The sun had set. The pond lights aglow. The night was quiet with occasional bursts of the cicada chorus. We were exhausted from the day. I saw its silhouette when Dogga ran his usual circuit by the pond. It leapt across the light and plopped into the water. A frog.

“What are you doing?” Kerri asked as I jumped from my chair.

“But it’s late September!” I said. She narrowed her eyes, my reply too random for synapse connection. “I just saw a frog!” I announced and she was instantly by my side. We stayed by the water for several minutes, searching, but saw no further sign. “I didn’t imagine it,” I whispered. “I saw it. We have a frog.”

“I know.”

I’d like to say that we didn’t need some sign of hope, some whisper of encouragement, but it would be a lie. This unlikely frog, coming so late in the season, seemed like a sign or at least we decided to make it so. “Things are going to change for the better,” she said. I nodded. I was so tired I wanted to blubber with giddy-frog-inspired-relief.

“I’ll take my hope anyway I can get it,” I said.

“That’s what we should name it!” she replied. “Hope.”

Yes. Hope. A silhouette flashing across the light on an otherwise quiet dark night. A leap. A glimpse. And suddenly, anything is possible.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE FROG

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Love Both Ends of the Spectrum [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

Training manual for an artist’s life: there are times of plenty. There are times of pain. In the times of plenty it is impossible not to know there will be times of pain. In times of pain, it is impossible not to believe that there will be times of plenty. The tide rolls in. The tide rolls out (just as in every other life).

The results? There are two that accompany both times of plenty and times of pain. 1) The ever-present weird comparison. This meal = a week’s groceries. The weird comparison is probably why we love to cook at home. And we do. We love it. 2) The unassailable hope. It’s an exercise in focus-placement. It’s never really about the cost; it’s about focusing on the experience. We regularly split a burger and a glass of wine whether in times of pain or times of plenty. We regularly love every minute.

Pain and plenty are both worthy experiences on the full palette of life. We are capable of savoring a side salad. We laugh all the way home because the tip is often the most expensive portion of our bill (our daughter and my mother did serious time as wait-staff and we know the value of a great tip).

Loving both ends of the spectrum simply means that we are fully loving life. And we are. It’s not really about the food anyway.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SIDE SALADS

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smack-dab. © 2023 kerrianddavid.com

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

If we call someone “green”, we mean that they are inexperienced. Innocent or new. The term “green-on-green” implies a team that has little experience. Young pilots. Mixed doubles swatting at tennis balls. Newly minted detectives. New growth. Immature. Seedlings.

A green issue is environmental. Renewable energy. Wind power. Green is the color of nature.

In street slang, green has two possible meanings. Money. Green is the color of currency. Or, weed. Green is the color of marijuana. A surprising twist on green-on-green!

I can be green with envy. Or green with jealousy. Green is the color of illness. Apparently coveting makes us sick. “Do you feel okay? You’re looking green.” The Romans thought so. Shakespeare, too.

Google the meaning of green and you’ll find it symbolizes peace, hope, and harmony. Optimism.

In spiritual circles, green refers to fruitfulness and fertility. New leaves. New growth. And so, a full-circle return to the first meaning of green, only “new” need not imply ineptitude as much as promise. Hope. A weave of the many meanings of green!

I’m left pondering why I rarely use green in my paintings. Van Gogh did not shy away from green. He was bold enough to smear his green adjacent to vibrant reds and orange. Opposites on the color wheel. A bang to the eyes. Perhaps there is some green in my future.

On our hike today I can say with all honesty that I was completely taken with the many shades of green.

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Grow The Return [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

A lot of love and attention goes into Kerri’s garden. It may be small but it is a mighty source of pleasure and satisfaction.

I’ve found that there is no better antidote for feeling defeated in the world than taking a break and smelling the basil. OMG. The lavender makes me close my eyes and smile. The mint clears my mind. The tomatoes fill us with hope and renewal as we daily cheer them into existence.

What goes around, comes around. So much love and attention goes in to her garden and what comes around, what comes back to us, is nothing less than a miracle. Smells and tastes that affirm how great it is to be alive. Tastes and smells that can turn a dark day into something brilliant.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TOMATOES

smack-dab © 2023 kerrianddavid.com

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Ponder It [on DR Thursday]

As you know, Breck-the-aspen-tree almost didn’t make it. Three years in a pot and one ill-conceived planting in the backyard left our poor Breck withered. A new spot in the yard restored Breck’s health but her growth was minimal. We removed dead branches. We assumed we’d stunted Breck’s growth so she would always be beloved and diminutive.

And then…It seems Breck is growing an inch every day. We began the summer looking down at her. Now, we crane our necks to see the new leaves sprouting at the top of her gangly reach. We joke that Breck is doing her Jack-In-The-Beanstalk imitation, though, at this rate of growth, it’s no joke. I confess to having a sit-down chat with her, cautioning her to not grow up too fast.

Last night I was awake most of the night. I thought about Breck and new growth. I thought about the cicadas, a surprising new form emerging from a discarded old body. I hoped against all hope that nature was talking to me, sending me a message. Be patient. All in good time. I’ve been sitting in the hallway for a very long time.

Perhaps, like Breck, I too am waiting for the optimal time, some intrinsic trigger and, suddenly and without warning or inhibition, I will reach to the sky. Perhaps, like the cicadas, in a moment of surprise, my new form will burst out of the old body, amazed at the sudden addition of wings.

In the meantime, I continue to do as I was taught: my job is to “put it out there”. The rest is out of my control [meantime: the intervening time. The hallway]. The operative word is “it”. It. I write and publish almost everyday. I paint and publish. We cartoon and publish. I toss resumes into the wind.

In the dark of night, thinking of aspen trees and cicadas, I ponder worthy questions. Breck needed assistance to move to new soil and then required recovery time. Storing energy for the right moment. The cicada lived underground until it felt an internal imperative to climb – an imperative that I imagine made no sense but had to be heeded just the right moment. For me, if nature is talking to me, it has me pondering what else – that I’ve not yet considered – might “it” be that I should “put out there”? Or better, does “it” matter at all? Perhaps all that I lack is the right moment. And there’s nothing to be done about that.

weeping man, 48x36IN, mixed media

My Site. Up and Running. At Long Last.

read Kerri’s blogpost about BRECK

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