Belonging [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

It’s hard not to imagine the light-circles dancing on the far wall as a visitation of spirits. Ancestors or angels come to check-in, to let us know that we are not outside but within the circle of their warm embrace.

Last year Kate took us to a cemetery where many of our ancestors are buried. It was a revelation. Although right along the road, this graveyard was hard to find. It was hard to see. Yet, once inside, it opened wide; a bluff overlooking cornfields. As we walked from stone to stone, she told us what she knew of the life of each person. Of how we are connected.

I felt rooted in that place, surrounded by those lives. Like the light-circles dancing on the wall I felt inside the warm embrace. That’s a rare feeling for me.

Many years ago I had a casual conversation with a psychic. I told her that I didn’t feel as if I belonged anywhere and she laughed. “Belonging is not an issue,” she smiled but did not elaborate. Standing on that grassy knoll on a warm Iowa day, the psychic’s words came back to me. Belonging is not an issue.

Belonging is a word with both a horizontal and a vertical plane. There’s the circle that is seen. There is the circle that is felt. There is the circle of warm embrace that is today. There is the greater circle that reaches back and back and back. Those are the light-dancers, the surprise visitors who, on a sunny morning, show up for a moment or two, twinkling to remind us that all is well. We can rest easy knowing that, no matter what, we are and always will be surrounded by their love.

an oldie: Embrace, acrylic

read Kerri’s blogpost about MAGIC LIGHT

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Deal In Imagination [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“The imagination is not a state: it is the human existence itself.” ~ William Blake

I think a lot about artists that were influential but financially unsuccessful. The list is much longer than you might imagine. Most artists fit into that category. William Blake shook the cultural foundations but died a pauper. Mozart. Van Gogh. Artists that are successful according to our recognized standard are the exception and not the rule. Thankfully, there is an imperative that reaches deeper than money. A need to create. A need to come together. There is a resonance that we recognize with the currency of genuine appreciation.

Occasionally I revisit a book by Wayne Muller, How Then Shall We Live. It’s about giving meaning to life, bringing purpose to it as opposed to finding purpose in it. Although Wayne Muller might not recognize it, his book is about imagination. Imagination is what we bring to life (yes, a double entendre). Imagination is where we create our purpose. We imagine ourselves whole.

Wander your neighborhood for an hour and comprehend the truth that everything you see sprang from someone’s imagination. The plumbing and electrics, the structures and finishes; someone, somewhere, imagined it before it came into three dimensions. Form and function chasing each other. Someone imagined how to make life easier or prettier or more secure. We are a rolling anthill of roiling imagination. We might think our imagination is self-serving but even the most dedicated expressionist needs an audience to fulfill their purpose. No one throws paint on a canvas or dances on a stage without imagining the witness of others. The moving of spirits to join together. No one builds a road so they alone can drive on it.

Look around. Imagination is abundant. The paper napkins are designed. The silverware is crafted. In our old house, the wood floors were laid by someone who cared about their work; caring is a function of imagination.

So is remembrance; my wild imagination loves to toy with the past: this is how I remember it! This is how I’d like to remember it.

When I am lost and afraid, like you, I imagine myself warm at home. It keeps we walking.

Artists deal in imagination and, so, are stewards of a special kind of riches: the power to bring even the most lost heart back to itself, the power to bring a room full of dedicated strangers into a single shared story.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FLOWERS

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Take Heart! [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Look carefully at the top of this photograph and the story will become clear. There is a giant pursuing this caterpillar.

The fuzzy critter must have taken something from the giant. A golden goose or magic potion for transformation. And then, in the dead of night, made a run for it. I’m not sure how but the caterpillar climbed down the bean stalk or leapt the crevasse or…navigated whatever obstacle separates the land of giants from the land of future butterflies.

It might seem hopeless for the racing caterpillar -as is true in all worthy stories. The fuzzy hero seems doomed. The giant might in a single stride catch it and reclaim the stolen treasure.

But take heart! Carefully note that the giant is standing still! It has yet to spy the fleeing larva. Just beyond the photo-frame is a field of tall grasses! A meadow without end! A chance of escape, though not yet visible to us, is within reach!

Imagine it! The giant catches sight of the caterpillar as it rushes for the cover of the meadow. He steps, his foot thundering just behind the caterpillar, bouncing the vulnerable critter off its feet. The giant reaches! The caterpillar rolls and in a miracle of impossibility, regains its footing and in a desperate leap disappears into the grasses, wriggles into the shrubbery.

The giant howls and thrashes at the tall grasses, pulling apart the Milkweed, tearing up the Wild Carrot, to no avail. The caterpillar, against all odds, escapes.

And now that it has safely absconded with the magic potion, the golden goose, what will it do with the power of this great unknown? What possible future does it imagine this adventure will bring?

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CATERPILLAR

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Enter And Listen [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

A Haiku for You

A forest critter,

Gnome, Leprechaun or Spirit,

Tree Dweller, Heart Door.

Sometimes I want to believe in magic. I want to think there is an angel at my side. I want to sit in the certainty of Rumi, knowing without doubt that the entire universe, the whole of infinity, is tipping in my favor.

Sometimes I want to know what tomorrow will bring. No surprises. I want to know that the good people will win over the rage-mongers and truth-spinners. Just like in the movies. I want to know that perseverance will inevitably meet ideal circumstance and all will be well in the end. I want to be at the other end of the week so I can tell the story of what happened, the story of stamina and fortitude fulfilled.

Sometimes I want to know that the eagle flying by at just the right moment or the hovering hawk or the owl hooting outside my window at midnight is bringing me a message: we’ve got your back. Fear not. Take another step. From our height we can see the meadow, the sun and tall grasses. We can feel the hope, breathe the calm.

Sometimes when she spies a heart-shape and kneels to capture it for her collection, I want the gentle spirit, the gnome or sprite living in the tree or residing in the leaf shaped like the symbol, to make themself visible to us and affirm that there is meaning in the mystery, that in this life there is more sense than we can possibly imagine. There is reason. A reason. Yet, I already know what it would avow if it allowed us to see it: the meaning of the mystery is always found right where we knew it would be, where we know it to be: in the heart. Our vast open hearts. We do not need to seek it or wish for it. We need only enter and listen – more than just sometimes.

read Kerri’s blog about HEART DOOR

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I’ll Leave It To You [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Yesterday we sat in these chairs, ate lunch, and took a few minutes to close our eyes, faces to the sun. And then, late last night, the temperatures stepped off a cliff. The snow you see on the chairs is not really snow. It is encrusted ice. If I hit the chairs with a hammer they’d shatter.

I took down the chimes in anticipation of the wind gusts. The arborist tells us that the tall pine tree standing outside of our bedroom is strong but his assurance does not keep us from laying awake on the nights when the wind roars. We imagine the worst. Last night we lay awake listening to creaks and groans of the swaying pine, readying ourselves to roll off the bed in a desperate act of survival.

We are both artists. There is no lack of imagination going on in our home. There’s no lack of drama when our imaginations entertain certain demise.

I probably made up the part about the chairs shattering. I wanted to test my theory, the product of my imagination sometimes referred to as a “hypothesis,” but Kerri intervened. She stood between me and the backdoor. “You can’t hit the chair with a hammer,” she said. She was calm and also she knows my weakness. “Besides,” she added, “It’s really cold out there.” She knows how much I hate the cold.

Okay. I made up the part about Kerri standing between me and the popsicle chair. Plus, I was only thinking about getting a hammer to test my theory. I imagined what she’d do if I actually gave into my imagination and went for the hammer. She suffers me.

Okay. I didn’t make up the part about her suffering me. That’s not my imagination. Call it observation. To be fair, she is given to improvisational madness, too. I’ve had to stop her from testing an unreasonable hypothesis a time or two. Or at least try to stop her.

Okay. I made up the part of trying to stop her. I imagined it. I know better than to get between her and a theory. She’s more dangerous than the pine tree. At least in my imagination. And my experience. Believe it or not.

Okay. I’ll leave it to you to sort out what’s true and what’s imagined. It’s a snow day so we have to stay inside. Imagination is the way we keep ourselves entertained. Or terrified. Or confused. Or filled with gumption.

Icarus, 30.5″x59.5″, acrylic on canvas

read Kerri’s blogpost about SNOW DAYS

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buymeacoffee is not a figment of your imagination.

Look To Nature [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Like waves frozen in time, the tall grasses have taken on the persona of an angry sea. We’ve stood in wonder at the whipping wind sending wavelike ripples across a field of wheat; this is not that. These waves are motionless.

They are worthy of Andy Goldsworthy. If they stretched for miles and miles I’d be certain they came from the mind of Christo. Yet no human hand or mind is at work here. Nature mimics herself in these grasses. They merit our awe and attention.

Along our trail there are several nests visible. Sparrows and swallows and hornets. I cannot imagine creating something so delicate and intricate. I have opposable thumbs so would be working with more than a beak yet I doubt I could craft such a miracle. It’s taken a lifetime for me to see beyond the word “nest” and see – really see – these fabulous sculptures made of grass, sticks, and mud.

Admiring the rolling grasses as Kerri kneels to snap her photograph, E.O. Wilson slips smiling into my mind and repeats: “Nature holds the key to our aesthetic, intellectual, cognitive, and even spiritual satisfaction.”

Yes. I remember.

from my long-ago unfinished project: Kichom and Fucci. An illustration study for a story told by Kichom Hayashi

visit my online gallery

read Kerri’s blogpost about ROLLING GRASSES

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buymeacoffee is what you make of it. nothing more. nothing less.

Ding! [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Inspiration rarely looks like we think it ought to look. It rarely comes from the direction we expect. This little bell throws Kerri into advanced fantasies about her “store.” Her imagination is unbridled; her internal space is large enough to hold more than one store. For instance, she has visions of a food truck called And Sauce. Hungry people come to the window and order her special pasta sauce on a variety of delivery options. There are many variations of craft and clothing shops, art stores, there is a series of online products that follow The Little Pillow world-wide explosion. This composer, singer-songwriter has a heart for retail. It’s why she owns her own label and mourns the onset of the age of streaming: selling CD’s was too much fun.

The little bell also makes an appearance (in her mind) each time she sells something unearthed from the basement. “Ding!” she sings with excitement, when the folding screen or the bag of books find a new home. Sometimes, as we sort through the next layer of stuff in the basement, I hear her sing, “Ding!” Another sale made in her mind.

To be clear, we do not own the bell. We saw it one day in an antique store. “I have to take a picture!” she said. “To remember.” It’s among the many lovely quirks that she developed through her life as an artist. Wanting does not necessarily mean possessing. When we first met, showing me a magazine of women’s clothing, she explained, “If I stare at the picture long enough I don’t need to have it.” The yearning is satisfied by the yearning, not the having.

And, the yearning inspires new ideas, clever combinations of what’s already in her closet. This little bell works on the same principle. Retail mania in many configurations rolls out of her yearning for the bell. You’d be amazed at all the clever combinations on the menu of And Sauce. You’d be be delighted – as I am – with the joy-feels that ripple across the house every time the sing-song imaginary bell rings. “Ding!”

Another sale.

Unfolding/As It Is © 2004 Kerri Sherwood

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

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buymeacoffee is whatever you imagine it to be.

Stir It [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Kerri explained to the woman at the shop that she rarely uses things for their intended purpose. For instance, we have a collection of old coffee pots that she uses as canisters in the kitchen. The end-table beside our couch is the drawer section of an old desk. It was sawed-off when she found it. Our walls sport old window frames and screen doors. We have a stack of old suitcases that we call “special boxes”. They hold the memorabilia of our life together: programs to performances, adventure day train tickets, cards from friends…

Things used as other things. It’s the hallmark of a creative mind. It’s the joy of her creative mind.

At the time, she wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the chunk of concrete. She just knew it had to come home with us. The woman at the shop had no idea what the chunk of concrete was originally used for – and the mystery made it more attractive to Kerri. It was signed and dated on the bottom. More mystery. More attraction. “What are we going to do with it?” I asked, wondering if I could actually lift it into the truck.

“I don’t know yet,” her eyes sparkled, the imagination-wheels turning. “Something.”

“Something,” I gasped, hoisting the chunk of concrete to the tailgate of the truck. I was grateful that it was round and rolled it the rest of the way into the bed. “You are something. You will be used for something.” I sat on the tailgate, catching my breath as Kerri and the woman disappeared into the shop to look at things-used-for-other-things.

I remembered once, running a spotlight for a show, the light broke mid-performance and I fixed it between cues with a frostie cup from Wendy’s, duct tape, and the sleeve of a jacket. It’s a valuable skill in the theatre: things used as other things. Ask any prop-master. The entire art form is recognizing the multitude of potential uses inherent in the most mundane objects.

My artist group once challenged me to explore beyond of my known art form so I sculpted crows from found objects. Wood, clamps and wire hangers. I loved it. It stirred my imagination.

Stirring the imagination. It’s what I appreciate about the home Kerri creates. Nothing is what it was intended to be. Everything is a wonder and can be transformed. Even a chunk of unidentifiable concrete. After a move into the house that made me appreciate the toil involved in building the pyramids, the chunk of concrete has now met its destiny. It is a side table and sports an old-school iPod sounddock. It couldn’t be more perfect. “I love it,” she says every day.

Me, too.

read Kerri’s blogpost about the CHUNK OF CONCRETE

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buymeacoffee is anything you can imagine it to be.

Remember Heaven [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

A lifetime ago my live-work space was above a movie theatre. It was once an office space but somewhere along the way it was converted it into a quirky living space. The largest room had 16ft ceilings and an expanse of wall where I could staple canvas. I loved it. I painted up a storm in that space.

It had been vacant for a long time. I imagine most people took one look and ran away screaming. It needed a serious cleaning. It needed some attention and a few fixes. It needed someone with imagination to see the possibilities. Mostly, it needed some life and energy infused into it.

I put candles everywhere. At that time I painted at night, after the city went to sleep. I had a ritual to begin my work: turn off the light in every room but the studio, light the candles, choose my music, sit far away from my canvas for a few moments until I heard the call, and then begin. Usually I blew out the candles after sunrise, the work session ended with the awakening of the day.

Working after the world went to bed was my pattern for years. It started when I was a child. The house grew quiet. After my parents, brothers and sister tucked into sleep, I’d light a candle, turn on the light, and paint on the wall. There was nothing more comforting or inspiring to me than the quiet of the night, a candle or two for company, and a blank canvas calling me out to play.

Hans told me that “Everyone has their heaven.” Last night, deep into the night, as I lay in bed and listened to the chimes make sweet music of the howling wind, I was suddenly thrust back in time to my movie-theatre-studio, to a particular era in my life, I could feel the candles and the quiet of the night, a brush in my hand…my perfect heaven.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CANDLE

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buymeacoffee is a warm studio late at night, alight with candles, and a clear reason for being.

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about SPINY STICK

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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.