Reach For What Is Good [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Inundated as we are in the political darkness, we made an effort to steep our minds and hearts in the positive and seek the affirmation of the light. So, we went to the arts. We spent a few minutes with James Taylor’s Shower The People (listen through to the end when Arnold McCuller sings a back-up vocal that will make you smile-weep) and we bumbled into a duet of You Can Close Your Eyes that James Taylor sings with his son Henry. Heart opening.

I spent some time reading and rereading Horatio’s latest poem, The Real Work. It’s brilliant and a reminder to seek what we love every single day of our time on this earth. His poem was good medicine for what has recently ailed me.

“Never, never, never give up.” These words by Winston Churchill hang in Kerri’s studio. We’ve both been witness to too many gifted artists give up, lay down their brushes, close the lid on their piano, step off the stage. An artist’s life can be a very hard road so a reminder taped to the wall is sometimes the only thing that brings you back to the studio the next day. Never give up.

These days the quote rings loud-and-true with the meaning it was originally intended to carry. The quote is a shortened version of what Churchill said in a speech in 1941 as Britain stood its ground against the Nazis. Today, everyday Americans stand their ground against the attempted fascist takeover of our democracy. As Kerri said last week on the trail, “It’s like a depraved checkmate.” The supreme court, the republican congress, the department of justice…are all in the pocket of the tyrant-wannabe. Loyalty to the man has overtaken loyalty to the Constitution. The last line of defense is a citizenry who refuses to give up on democracy.

Anne Lamott wrote a piece for the Washington Post on the 4th of July. It provided her reasons to celebrate in this time of national shame. “This Friday, my friends and I will celebrate the land that embraces political marches and rallies, the ones so far and those still to come. This is “We the people,” and that is the ultimate and most profound aspect of America. We are going to keep showing up and talking about what needs to be done and what is possible right now.”

The power of the people is the power of the imagination. The power of the arts is to access the heart and ignite the power of the imagination. What we’ve witnessed these many months is an assault on the imagination of democracy, a lie-pact of the mean-spirited and dimwitted, those who lack the courage and conviction – and imagination – of “We the people”.

As we keep showing up and showing up and showing up it is vital to fill our heart-tanks with the words of writers like Anne Lamott, the heart-opening music of musicians like James Taylor and Bruce Springsteen…to intentionally and regularly drink from the sources of light that fire the imagination and help us do more than resist the dark but reach for what is good and right and possible.

read Kerri’s blogpost about NEVER GIVE UP

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My Fleeting Moment [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Alone on the trail we heard a loud pop and then a crack – and then the tree fell. We felt the thud through the soles of our feet.

There was no wind. There was no apparent cause for it to fall. We were, somehow, witness to its final moment as “tree”.

If a tree falls in the woods and someone is around to hear it, it definitely makes a sound. If not? For some reason, in that majestic moment, the quotidian philosophical question popped into my mind and it bothered me. Is human observation really the only validation for existence? Philosopher George Berkeley wrote, “To be is to be perceived.” George didn’t mean perceived by squirrels or hawks or any other critter in the woods at that moment who also heard the sound and felt the fall of the old tree. For humans, philosophers, preachers and politicians alike, human perception is the requirement granting something so grand, something so profound, as existence. How many birds nested in this grand old tree during the course of its life span? How many plants will feed on its fibers now that it has joined the earth?

Hubris is our Achilles Heel.

On our drive to the trail we were rerouted. The road was shutdown in both directions. There was a terrible crash. A car was cleaved, barely recognizable. Certainly there were witnesses to this loud final moment of a human-being pass into non-being. I’m grateful I was not one of them. I do not need to have seen or heard the crash to know that it happened.

Perhaps that is why the question bothered me: “If a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” In a single day, in the space of an hour, I was witness to a tree falling in the woods and aware of a human life ending. I heard the tree so I have no need to imagine what happened. I saw the car, the evidence of the end of human life. I can only imagine.

Horatio wrote a beautiful poem about the death of a salmon after its struggle to return to its place of origin. It’s a poem about the impossibility of life and the cycle of constant renewal. The poem offers we-the-perceivers some rare perspective on the end of life.

I wondered how I could read the days news about starvation in Gaza, brutal raids and deportations without due process…and simply turn the page. That, too, must be uniquely human. To perceive and then tune out. To look the other way, to pretend not to perceive when human beings enact horror upon other human beings. It requires a dedicated lack of imagination.

We are not above it all.

“To be is to be perceived.” Perhaps. It begs an all important follow-up question: In my fleeting moment of human perception, who – or how – do I choose to be?

read Kerri’s blogpost about TINY NAILS

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A Refresher [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Jim E guided us – actors and directors – through an exercise he called The Spirit of Play. He was a master teacher. Afterward I made copious notes so I, too, might lead others to their spirit of play.

Through my time in the theatre I guided many groups through the sequence. Later, in the corporate world, finally understanding the essence beyond the progression of steps, I led lawyers, business folk, teachers, coaches, consultants…through variations of Jim’s original workshop, all meant to bring people back to themselves, back to their spirit of play. It was my north star, “People just want to play,” I assured my doubtful collaborators.

Play is an umbrella big enough to safely contain the serious stuff. The serious stuff by itself is too small a container to allow for play. The inspiration-well will always run dry if play is banished from consideration. Unfettered imagination, freedom of exploration and expression, so natural as a child, is shackled when the spirit of play is burdened by a purpose called win or lose.

I recently reminded myself that cloud gazing feels good and requires no other purpose for doing it.

Clearly needing a refresher for my own spirit of play, I went into the studio, pulled out eight canvases, mixed a bucket of paint, grabbed several big tools, scrapers and rags, and to the tunes of Jerry’s jazz band, I spattered, pulled, rolled, scraped, smeared. No thought was allowed, not goal was considered. Nothing serious was entertained. I dropped my very-important-role of “artist” and laughed and laughed.

KDot & DDot See An Owl, 24″x48″, acrylic

read Kerri’s blogpost about CLOUDS

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Everything There Is [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Sometimes she takes pictures when she is driving. “What are you doing?” I cry, my life flashing before my eyes.

“It looks like a feather!” she retorts.

“Oh, great” I say, reciting the last line of my obituary. “If only the cloud had not looked like a feather, he would be with us still.” She rolls her eyes. Apparently she survived the imaginary crash and went on to build an extensive catalogue of interesting cloud photographs. For all I know, having perished for a feather cloud, she gained world-wide fame for her interesting shots of condensed water vapor.

As I lay in bed last night, the window opened ever so slightly allowing the cold air to circulate above the warm-warm quilt where we lay pretzeled, Dogga sleeping at our feet, I had a single moment of presence. I know it because I was completely overwhelmed with intense gratitude. Falling out of the moment, I took a snapshot in my mind and heart so I would never forget how profound life is in each and every passing moment.

This was the thought that washed over me: Beyond the dance of giving and receiving, there is only this: being-with. That’s all there is. That’s everything there is.

read Kerri’s blogpost about the FEATHER CLOUD

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No Faith Necessary [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“And don’t think the garden loses its ecstasy in winter. It’s quiet, but the roots are down there riotous.” ~ Rumi

The fog is dense this morning. It feels otherworldly. Quiet.

I am delighted for the fog. The quiet is welcome.

When I opened the door this morning to let Dogga out, I expected to hear the mournful call of the foghorn. Instead I was met with a sweet bird song. A single singer. A lover of fog. I listened for a few moments, closed my eyes.

What a surprise to expect the distant dour call of the foghorn and instead be greeted by genuinely lighthearted chirping!

A day ago – one single day – the coneflower sculpture was covered in snow. We marveled at it as the snow transformed it, a fancy white umbrella. It has reemerged as a coneflower and, on this foggy, foggy morning, seemed to be listening. I imagined it was holding a vigil. Perhaps it was keeping watch for the spring. “Keep the faith,” I whispered.

“No faith necessary,” replied the coneflower. Or so I imagined. Saucy flower!

I remembered my first experience scuba diving. There was an entire world of color and vital life not visible on the surface. I was giddy with my discovery. Had I never learned to dive I would not know of the vibrant universe that existed beneath the waves, just out of my sight.

“No faith necessary,” I repeated as I closed the backdoor. Turning my attention to making coffee, I pondered what other wonders were bubbling all around me that I simply cannot see.

detail of a work in progress

read Kerri’s blogpost about FOG

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Existence [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Moon and contrail had a conversation.

One was short-lived, appreciating a few moments of life. The other celebrates birthdays that run into the billions of years.

One is made of water while the other is made of metal and stone.

One moves in circular orbits. The other is known for its straight lines.

One is made by humans in motion. The other is made by planets in motion.

Both experience transformation. One began as tiny vapor and morphed into liquid. The other began as tiny bits of earth-debris and transmuted into a solid orb. A satellite.

Although alien to each other in contrast, they recognized their similarity in comparison: their very existence depends upon the movement of others, forces out of their control. The collision of planets. The exhaust of airplanes. People attempting to “get there”. The pull of gravity. Stars tumbling ever further to find what simply may not exist: the boundary, the end of the universe, creating dust in their tumble that reconstitutes as beings on a teeny-tiny blue planet, people imagining planes that make contrails, and rockets that might reach for the moon.

Bonus Track (God Be With You Until We Meet Again) © 1996 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blog post about MOON AND CONTRAIL

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Use The Discrepancy [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Every once in a while I flip open one of my well-loved-and-well-worn books to a random page and read a few paragraphs. It’s my way of giving this wise-old universe the opportunity to drop a pertinent message on me. What tidbit of wisdom might I need to hear today?

Yesterday I opened Robert Fritz’s book, The Path Of Least Resistance, and began reading about discrepancy: what is the difference between where you are right now and what you want to create? I read that most people try to remove or deny their discrepancies. They try to eliminate the tension. Artists, on the other hand, understand their discrepancies as fuel. Creative tension. Discrepancy ignites the imagination. The last thing an artist wants to do is blunt their imagination, deny the discrepancy. An artist uses it. It’s a “process focus” rather than an “achievement focus”.

At the stop sign she stopped just shy of the bumper of the car in front of us, pulled out her camera and snapped a photo of the sticker on the window: I hope something good happens to you today. “Now that’s refreshing,” she said. In our travels we see plenty of aggressive bumper messages. Almost daily Kerri asks, “Why would they put THAT on their car? Jeeeeez!”

A wish for something good to happen to you. Today. What is the distance between us-as-a-nation right now, in this very dark moment, and a community that actually hopes for something good to happen to and for everyone? Can you imagine it? Walking in the world with a hope in your heart for good things to happen to everyone you meet, to everyone whose path you cross?

It is an understatement to suggest that there’s quite a discrepancy between what-is and what-could-be. There is a veritable chasm between the incoming angry nightmare and those who voted for hope, decency and kindness. And so it’s a vital time to be an artist. There’s rarely been a time more in need of imagination to counter the backward-looking-conservative-fascist-fantasy.

There’s plenty of fuel for the imagination borne of our massive discrepancy. Hoping for something good to happen to you today – whoever you are – is a great place to start.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SOMETHING GOOD

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Goblins After All [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“To me, every hour of the day and night is an unspeakably perfect miracle.” ~Walt Whitman

It’s called Goblin Valley and for good reason. It’s a vast landscape of rock sprites of all shapes and sizes. They beckon. They are impossible to deny. We tried not to run down the hill but could not wait to frolic among them.

We tried but failed to maintain our adulthood in their midst. That is their magic. That is the power of their spell: unfettered playfulness. We giggled and rollicked as we explored their world. The goblins conjure an irresistible charm that prohibits all serious matters. Their enchantment provides an immediate return to childhood, a refreshing return to wild imagination. Time dissipates. Lists dissolve. Future fear and past regrets melt away; they are no match for the goblin’s mojo.

We were with them for a moment or an hour, I do not know. These mischievous beings restored our spirits, enlivened our fancy, and then released their hold on us. Having planted the seed of our return, they knew with certainty that we would someday be back. We will not be able to help ourselves from answering their summons. Their call to our better nature, their invocation of our artistic child-heart-enthusiasm, cannot be denied.

We are, like them, goblins after all.

read Kerri’s blogpost about GOBLINS

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Two Moons [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.” ~ Edgar Allan Poe, Eleonora

Looking back it makes me laugh. I advocated – more than once – with skeptical school board members that daydreaming was not only useful but a necessary activity. The inception of every worthwhile invention, every startling work of art, every passionate pursuit, begins with a daydream. An idea somewhere out-there. A student staring out the window is rarely wasting time. I wonder how much life Shakespeare or Einstein or Marie Curie spent gazing into imagination-space?

And what about the light of the moon? More than once we’ve chased the moon and stood at the shore in awe. Moonlight evokes a silent reflection. It pulls me into a different kind of imagination-space: not “out-there” but inside. “When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past…” (Sonnet 30, William Shakespeare) Things past. Memories.

Many years ago, deep into the night, I stood beside a backyard pool and gazed at the full moon. I knew my life was about to change radically. A leap. I was scared. I whispered, “I don’t know where you will lead me but I will follow you.” Recently, standing on the shore of Lake Michigan, watching Kerri snap photos of the brilliant full moon, for some reason I vividly remembered that long ago poolside moment. I smiled and whispered, “So this is where you led me!”

I couldn’t be more grateful.

Tango With Me, 36″x48″ mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE MOON

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Witness The Impossible [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

We heard, in some locations this summer, people experienced a veritable plague of cicadas. They shoveled them off of their driveways like so much snow. Not here. We finally heard their song late in the season. We found a few empty shells floating in the pond or attached to fence, evidence that they’d emerged and transformed. They were present in vibrational rhythmic sound. They remained invisible to our eyes.

Sitting quietly on the deck one evening in August, enjoying the cicada symphony, Kerri said, “It’s not summer until I hear the cicadas.” Markers of our passage around the sun. Symbols of the cycle. The first color on the leaves. First snow. The first dandelion of spring. The first turtle emerging from the muddy river. Cicada song.

Last week we talked about stew and soups rather than watermelon and burgers on the grill. In this way, in old and new recipes, we chase the coming season. Anticipation and imagination.

We found the cicada on the driveway. It was in its last minutes of life. Crawling like a drunken sailor, it could no longer fly; one wing undamaged but seemingly useless. “It’s so sad,” she said as she knelt to take a photo.

Reverence overcame the sadness. “Look at the color! How beautiful!” she whispered, showing me the photo. We knelt again to witness the dying cicada.

Appreciation. Sometimes I think our only purpose on this earth is to cherish its treasures, to recognize something so small and impossibly grand as the movement of life.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CICADA

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