Whisper, “Thanks.” [on KS Friday]

We found the gratitude wall in a small mountain town. It was a mess of appreciation, overrun with thankfulness. I thought, but did not say, “This ought to be the visual expression of every inner life.”

I didn’t write on the wall. I whispered my gratitude to the wall. Kerri played for my father’s funeral service. This woman, who is a Yamaha artist, considered a modern master at her instrument, after breaking both wrists, after a second fall, an injury from which she will never fully recover, with a middle finger that sometimes responds and sometimes does not, with a pinky that is curling, wrists that cannot bend, hands that cannot reach the keys as they once did…she played. For the first time in many, many months. She stood at a piano and played. Beautifully.

My dad, a great lover of music, spent hours of his life listening to her CDs. He loved her playing, delighted in her compositions.

I cried for two reasons at the funeral. Both reasons overwhelmed me with gratitude. I was a mess of appreciation, so, I whispered my bottomless thank-you to the gratitude wall.

kerri’s albums are available on iTunes & streaming on Pandora

read Kerri’s blog post about GRATEFUL

grateful/as it is ©️ 2004 kerri sherwood

Await The Whoooosh! [on KS Friday]

Although the genre-labels attached to her music, words like “new age” or “easy listening,” might lead you to believe otherwise, Kerri is not a gentle player of her piano. She doesn’t sit at it. She stands. Often, when she plays, the piano literally hops. This diminutive woman is a force of nature when she steps into her music. For her, playing is a full-body affair.

In this day and age of electronically generated music (and art), it’s hard to explain the love of the analog, the delight in full-body art-making. There is a flow – there is no other word for it – that is possible when using brushes and paint on large canvas or making music on keys that aren’t digitally supported. It becomes a dance. It requires opening, getting out of the way.

Early in our lives together we’d listen to her recordings, “Can you hear the whooosh?” she’d ask. “That’s the pedal! I love that sound!” she’d say. “Whooooosh! I don’t like playing on keyboards. There’s no whooosh.”

No whooosh. I’ve watched her play on keyboards – many times. You’d never know it but she has to hold herself back. If she let herself play, full-body-play, she’d knock the keyboard off its stand. She has to contain the force, water through a dam.

It’s anybody’s guess how she’ll play after her wrist recovers from the wet-floor-fall. There are still some months to go. In the meantime, the piano is calling. I know because she’s cleaning her studio. A studio cleanse is always the sign of an artist preparing for the next…Open space. A gathering storm. There’s only one thing I know for certain: on that day, when the pain is gone and she calls, “Come here and listen to this!” DogDog and I will go into the studio, find a safe place clear from potential piano hops, and we’ll take full-body delight in the return of the whoosh.

listen for the whooosh

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

read Kerri’s blog post about PEDALS

that morning someday/blueprint for my soul ©️ 1997 kerri sherwood

See The Break [on KS Friday]

a double haiku:

She crawled in the tube,

face down, arm above her head.

Magnetic portrait.

Miraculous hand,

as seen from the inside-out.

Tiny bone, big soul break.

read Kerri’s MRI haiku

Kerri’s music – what she makes with her hands – is available on iTunes

Suspend And Rest [on KS Friday]

rest with frame copy

Kerri took a fall earlier this week and broke both of her wrists. For a professional pianist there are few injuries more debilitating and frightening. Needless to say, our world stopped. We’ve stepped out of time.

Judy once told me, after her husband suffered a terrible stroke and she became his full-time caregiver, that she could not think about tomorrow or even an hour ahead. The moment at hand, the task immediately before her, was all that existed. I understood in an abstract way what she was experiencing. The weight of presence. The unbearable lightness of presence.  All that exists is now. Today, I understand what Judy experienced beyond a simple abstract appreciation. At this point, there is no sense in thinking ahead.

A sip of coffee through a straw. Move the hair from her eyes. Help her sit up. There is the task at hand. That is all. And in “that is all” comes a great gift: instant perspective on what has actual importance and what does not. In these past several months everything has felt like a fight to swim upstream. Today, since Monday, there is no fight, there is only stream and it carries us where it will. We let go and are resting. A whole rest.

It is ironic to me that since her fall, in addition to the pain and the real fear of losing her capacity to play the piano [read: lose who she understands herself to be], we have laughed more in four days than in four months. We have let go. We look at what-this-time-last-week appeared to be so heavy with importance and merely shrug. Not important. It floats away. Or we float away from it. In this whole rest there is no capacity to push, no desire to paddle or resist. Suspended, we rest. We take this bite, sweet or savory, and that is all.

 

read Kerri’s blog post about WHOLE REST

 

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footprints in sunlit snow website box copy