Can You Imagine It? [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

I saw the photograph as a snippet of conversation. “You are beautiful,” he said.

“Stop,” she replied, turning away.

I can count on one hand the people that I’ve met in my life who understand that they are, by the good grace of being alive on this earth, beautiful. They need not deflect, deny or turn away. Beauty is embraced not as an attainment or a visual gift granted to the lucky few, not as a standard to be met or an image to be copied. It simply is. Tell them that they are beautiful and they will smile – their smile saying, “Back-at-you.”

When greeting someone in Bali – or in any Hindu culture – hands press together before the heart and “Namaste” is spoken. “Namaste”… is a word that is tied to the ultimate respect for another person that is based not upon who they are, and what they say or do, but their very presence in this life.”

Budi taught me that Namaste means, “The god in me recognizes the god in you.” Beauty. As a given.

Greeting the essence rather than the idea. Seeing beyond the superficial. Being seen beyond the magazine-model-expectation. Can you imagine it?

Stop. You are beautiful.

read Kerri’s blogpost about BEAUTY

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Make Belief [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

“People must surely be afraid, without knowing it, that their hold upon reason and sanity is precarious, else they would not so resent being asked to look at visual experience in a new way, they would not be so afraid of not seeing the world as they have always seen it and in the general publicly agreed way of seeing it.” Joanna Field (Marion Milner), On Not Being Able To Paint

We saw the little green men at an antique fair. They come in peace. I wondered so asked the Oracle Google why aliens – peaceful or not – are always depicted as green. The AI master responded:

“Green has been associated with aliens in folklore and mythology for centuries…” Forest creatures, fairies and sprites. Leprechauns…

“The term “little green men” gained popularity in the 1950s, coinciding with reports of flying saucers. This imagery was further popularized by movies and other media.” 

“In summary, the “green alien” trope is a creative and cultural construct rather than a scientific expectation. It reflects how we use our understanding of life on Earth to imagine possibilities on other planets.”

A cultural construct. Imagining the possibilities of life on other planets has brought us to the common agreement that green is the color of aliens.

The term “common sense” refers to practical, sound judgment. In practice, however, common sense need not make sense at all. Common sense is not so much about feasibility as it is about group agreement. It is “common” sense, meaning that it is consensus. It need not be factual or practical.

When faced with overwhelming evidence that the earth is round, there are people on this round earth who adamantly insist that the earth is flat. They claim that it is common sense; one need only look at a flat horizon.

Similarly, conspiracy theories are rooted in “common” sense. Mob mentality is not rooted in reason. Lemmings regularly run over cliffs.

Common sense is not necessarily a representative of truth. Common sense need not be rooted in fact. Common sense is just as easily an agreement built on fiction or fantasy. MAGA is an example: a group awash in an agreement of a reality that is sourced in make-believe. Make-believe: make-it-up-to-create-Belief.

Make-Belief. It is the fox’s game. Is there really any sense to be made from an orange man in a blue suit spewing balderdash? Common or not? Simple minds united under red hats of outrage? Do little green men really arrive in saucers that fly? No sense required; only group agreement awash in nonsense. Like the Republican Congress. Common.

read Kerri’s blogpost about ALIENS

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On This Day, Ask [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Conscience (noun): an inner feeling or voice viewed as acting as a guide to the rightness or wrongness of one’s behavior.

This day that we call Memorial Day began as a way to honor and remember the Union soldiers that died in the Civil War. Theirs was a just cause: the end of slavery. The preservation of a nation. Originally, this day was known as Decoration Day. Now it is an observance of all military personnel who died serving – and preserving – the conscience of the nation.

It is important to remember on this day – especially on this day – that the men and women we commemorate, each and every one – swore an oath to “support and defend the Constitution of The United States” against all enemies foreign and domestic. They gave their lives honoring their oath and defending the Constitution.

Today, current members of the military face an untenable conflict. In their oath they have also sworn to obey the orders of the President of the United States. Currently, their oath is to a man who has no interest in supporting or defending the Constitution. He is actively destroying it.

Today, we face an untenable situation. We cannot in good faith both decorate service member’s graves and subscribe to the actions of the current administration. We cannot in good faith whisper words of hallowed remembrance and keep silent while these fallen men and women are being betrayed by a Republican Congress that actively dismantles the Constitution – at the behest of a Republican President that is, himself, a draft dodger, a man who regularly debases service members and ridicules their sacrifice. We make hypocrites of ourselves if we do not defend the sacrifice made by these men and women interred in our cemeteries.

When will our consciences grow?

Our Civil War was fought ostensibly to put an end to horrific human suffering. It was a war fought for the conscience of our nation. That is why we began the tradition of decorating the graves of Civil War veterans – so that we wouldn’t forget them or the cause that they gave their lives to defend.

They knew what was right. We know what is right. We also know what is wrong. So does the Republican Congress, even as they betray their oath.

Standing graveside we must ask why so many who have sworn a similar oath to The Constitution follow the lead of a man who has no conscience, a man who lacks the still small voice. A child-man who cannot see beyond an-eye-for-an-eye. A man who threatens to turn the rifles of the servicemen and servicewomen that he commands upon the citizens of the nation in order to achieve his objective of demolishing democracy as outlined in The Constitution.

What will our service members do in that moment? Will they serve or betray their oath to the Constitution? Will they serve a President who asks them to betray all they stand for, who commands them to ignore their still small voice while he moves to silence the voice of the people and the conscience of the nation?

What will it take for our consciences to grow so tender that we will act to prevent human misery rather than avenge it?” ~ Eleanor Roosevelt

It’s important for us to ask on this day – especially this day – what will it take for us to act, to defend our Constitution, to honor in more than whispered words the sacrifice of those who died defending the conscience of our nation?

read Kerri’s blogpost on this MEMORIAL DAY

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No Words [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

It’s ironic to me that the “progressives” – Bernie Sanders and AOC – are waging an all out effort to preserve our democracy (one might use the word “conserve”) while the “conservatives” are waging a campaign of destruction meant to change the very essence of our governance; they’re calling it “progress”.

The Republican party of “small government” and “fiscal responsibility” are once again blowing the deficit into outer space while weaponizing the government to strong arm anyone who opposes their agenda or suggests that the Constitution ought to be honored.

Tucked into the grotesque big beautiful bill is language that “disarms the courts.” With the Republican Congress already cowed, the courts are the only remaining line separating us – a democracy – from an authoritarian state. The Republican members of the house actually voted to forward a bill that effectively ends our system of government. Is their a word more appropriate than “betrayal”? Perfidy? Treachery?

Their bill, the horror that they call big and beautiful, blatantly and without shame takes from the poor and gives to the rich – a reverse Robin Hood maneuver.

There just aren’t enough words to describe how base, how vile, how utterly chicken-hearted…they convene their sham-committees in the dark of night because they know how repugnant their big beautiful bill actually is. They know. They do not care. Neglect? Disregard? What words can we use to describe this level of depravity?

Vampires work at night because the light of day is lethal to them. Republicans, like vampires – as is apparent in their big bill – desire to drink the life-blood of the most vulnerable. We can only hope that there is enough light let into their chamber to kill this horror-bill before it sucks the life-blood from the most vulnerable people of this nation – and for no greater purpose than giving a massive tax cut to the already ultra-wealthy…and calling it progress.

No words.

[There is, however a ubiquitous question: What do we do?]

read Kerri’s blogpost about NO WORDS

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Keeping Vigil [David’s blog on KS Friday]

I’d rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.” ~ e.e. cummings

Our pals shared an adorable photo: their little granddaughter sits on a plastic chair waiting and watching for a single tulip to bloom. She is determined to hold her vigil until the flower opens.

It’s an adorable picture. Kerri sits on a plastic Adirondack chair waiting and watching to catch a photo of the black-capped chickadee emerge from the birdhouse. She is determined to hold her vigil until the tiny bird makes an appearance.

The birdhouse has been empty for years. We thought of it more as a backyard decoration than an actual residence for birds. We couldn’t believe it when we saw a chickadee squeeze through the hole and disappear. Soon long strands of grass hung over the doorway. The chickadee spouse stands guard. It forages and drops food into the house.

It is no small feat to see the world through the eyes of a child. The wonder of a tulip blooming. The astonishment of a chickadee nesting. I watch her watching and waiting, holding her breath with anticipation and I am full, full, full of gratitude that she has not blunted herself to the utter awe of this life. Reverence is so easy for a child, awash in firsts. It is much more difficult when the miracles seem known, ordinary, well worn, when we wrap ourselves in a blanket of been-there-done-that.

Why would we opt to live each day believing that we’ve seen it all before?

“People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don’t even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child — our own two eyes. All is a miracle.” ~ Thich Nhat Hahn

Grateful on the album As It Is © 2010 Kerri Sherwood

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE BIRDHOUSE

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A Second Glance [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Look carefully and you will see the shadow that the dandelion cast upon the white petal.

Can you see the veining of the leaves? The watercourse way? The ridges in the petals serve the same life-giving purpose although by a subtly different, visibly beautiful design. Can you see it?

There is a small spot of purple. Can you find it? It pulls the eye. It provides the tension necessary for focus, inspiring movement of the eye.

Is the ant adventuring across the dandelion apparent at first glance? Like the spot of purple, it is there though probably not apparent at first glance.

At first glance. To the casual eye. On the face of it.

And then there is the purpose beyond the pretty. Do you see it? The petals of white, the yellow pistil attract pollinators in an attempt to perpetuate their species. The ant does not adventure for fun but for food.

Do you see the dried leaves supporting the green and white, the yellow and purple? Once green themselves, drinking the sun, they now provide sustenance to the next generation, warmth to the root.

It was the shadow of the dandelion cast that caught her attention.

It takes time to see the purpose beyond the pretty. It takes a longer second glance. Seeing – and understanding – interdependence takes more than a first glance. It requires some learning. Observation. Study.

My father used to tell me that I’d educated myself into stupidity. I did not take it personally as I knew that he was captive to the fox. He knew, as do I, that the fox is dedicated to the superficial. He was schooled by the fox to believe that looking beyond the superficial, a thing called “learning”, was a worthless thing. The fox preaches simple idiotic solutions. Build a wall. Deport without due process.

Critical thinkers and active questioners are less likely to eat the smorgasbord of drivel and easy conspiracy served up as sustenance by the fox. The fox relies on the superficial. The fox defends against a second glance. The fox talks fast, a carnival barker, enticing people into the tent with freak-show promises, bearded ladies and conjoined twins, performances guaranteed to shock the most hardy of viewer.

Every carnival barker knows that a longer second glance would shed some light on the subject. It would reveal the make-up, the spirit gummed whiskers, the hollow dumbbells of the strongman. A little study would reveal the purpose: outrage in exchange for your nickel.

The only way to keep the viewer in the tent is to escalate the outrage. Keep them solidly in their reptile brain. The only rule? Never ever provide a second glance. Prevent at all cost a deeper look. Stigmatize learning. Undermine fact. Distract. Gaslight. Blame. Assault education. Oh, and never ever pass up a chance to charge another nickel.

Look carefully and you will see the shadow…

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SHADOW

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The Fog [David’s blog on Flawed Wednesday]

“The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.” ~ Helen Keller

A mile to the west it is 75 degrees and sunny. Here, by the lake, it is foggy and 10 degrees cooler. The inland heat meets the cool lake water and produces a layer of thick fog. Standing on our front porch we cannot see the end of the street.

It is quiet in our pocket of fog. Today I welcome the protective solitude it inspires. It provides a magical respite from the happenings of the world. Fog brings permission to unplug, some breathing space from the news of the day. Sitting on the back deck I imagine that we are on the shores of Avalon, disappearing into the mist, becoming invisible to the rest of the troubled, enraged world.

In the Arthurian legend, Avalon is a magical, mystical place. It is symbolic as a place of virtue.

Virtue requires vision. Choose any adjective that describes virtue – goodness, morality, integrity, dignity, honor… – all serve a clear ideal. A vision. A vision based on the capacity to discern between right and wrong, truth and lie, service and exploitation. A vision that follows a steadfast moral compass.

By this or any standard, our current leadership has sight but no vision. The milksop Republicans in Congress play cowboy while sacrificing themselves on an alter of greed. How else do we make sense of their dedicated impotence in the face of the worst constitutional crisis in our nation’s history? It’s a crisis that they could stop in a day if they honored their oath to the Constitution. If they did their jobs. The Republican president sells the national soul to the highest bidder, personal profit the glutton-master he and his peers serve. A fall from grace, our isle of vice is not disappearing into a fog of uncertainty, rather it reveals itself in the harsh light of moral indifference, it adorns itself in a festival blanket of foxy-lies producing angry maga-followers awash in a cultish brain fog. Sight without vision.

There is nothing mystical going on here. The unprincipled disavowal of ethics, the blatant bribery and unbridled greed, the hard right turn away from truth and democratic ideals – all happening in plain sight – renders us worse than blind.

Is it any wonder I welcome the fog and imagine myself disappearing into the quiet of the mystical island, a sanctuary symbolic of virtue?

read Kerri’s blogpost about FOG

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Be-Longing [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” ~ Oscar Wilde

I am spiraling down a rabbit hole of thought. This morning I read that many Indigenous languages have no verb form of “to be”.

It might seem like a small thing but it is not. We make sense of our world – and ourselves – through the language we use.

“To be” is a verb of separation. It is a verb of identity, placing primary emphasis on the individual, emphasizing difference rather than similarity. It places the identity-accent on “I”. A present tense of “to be” is “I am”. To be is to be alone.

“To be” fosters “be-longing“; the longing to find and express the unique self, and then “to be” accepted, paradoxically through differentiation. Our “to be” imperative requires us “to be” removed, above it all, accenting the ego, so that the highest achievement, the most celebrated “being” is the one who rises above the crowd. The one who successfully separates.

Is it no wonder that the three “great” western religions place humans atop a hierarchy, high above and removed from nature? Our notion of original sin stories us as born bad to the bone; we kick ourselves out of the garden of our own nature so we might strive “to be” better than we are.

Our language, rooted in “I am”, is incapable of storying us as belonging to nature, being a part or expression of nature. We must strive to return to the garden in order to find the tree of everlasting life.

Our language requires us to story a god living remotely in the sky. The god promises an exclusive resort called heaven if-and-only-if we elevate ourselves above our original nature. Separate to belong.

To this day I ponder a conversation I heard again and again in graduate school: people, living in a city of 1.8 million, yearning for community, discussing over and over the need to create community. How is it possible for nearly two million people to live together in a city without feeling a sense of community? It was not community they yearned for, it was belonging. Connection. An identity of inclusion.

Recently Kerri asked me, “I wonder what it would feel like if…?” I carried her question into our hike. I wonder what it would feel like if I did not story myself as separate? What would it feel like if I knew belonging as a given? Not just belonging to a community of people but intrinsically belonging to all of creation.

“Lookit,” she said, showing me the photograph that she’d just taken of the dandelion. “Isn’t it perfect?”

Perfect (adjective): flawless. ideal. magnificent. A word of unity. Belonging.

“Yes,” I said, aware of the story-limits of my language. I wondered what it might take for us “to be-ers” to see ourselves as perfect – as a given- to be as perfect as the dandelion.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE DANDELION

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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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Out The Door [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

Years ago we created a single panel cartoon called At The Door. The image never changed: DogDog and BabyCat sitting at the front door, staring out into the world. Dogga, ever the idealist conversing with a hyper-cynical BabyCat. No syndicate wanted our cartoon so we let it slip quietly into the portfolio of “tried but no takers”.

Smack-Dab is a cartoon that we never intended to syndicate. It was – and is – for fun. The dirty little secret of Smack-Dab is that I’ve never drawn any of it. Kerri has always cobbled it together from earlier Chicken Marsala panels, mixing and matching images that she plucked from one of the hundreds of Chicken strips. That was, until her computer died. Her Photoshop capacity died with it and, being a child of the Depression, she refuses to replace it as long as her dinosaur iPad Mini is still chugging along.

So, Smack-Dab has unintentionally become a variation of At The Door, only instead of our over-enthusiastic dog and our deeply-distrusting cat, we’re the characters staring out into the community, a community that we more-and-more do not recognize. We see a nation that sells its soul for an airplane. A Republican Congress that stands silently by as bribery, grift, and corruption corrode the foundation of our nation. They could stop it in a moment, this Project 2025 public execution of our democracy, but they are complicit. They are now the poster-party of “penny-wise-pound-foolish;” sacrificing the greater Constitution to protect their personal interest. And that is the sickness that poisons the blood of The United States of America: personal gain smothers community service. It is the cancer that is threatening to kill our nation-body.

And we watch out the door. We find ourselves, smack-dab in the middle of middle age, smack-dab in the historical moment when our leadership failed, when morality collapsed and cowardice prevailed: a golden airplane for a bribe and a military parade to mask the shallow men and women who exchange the land of the free and the home of the brave for a few coins, a Saudi golf course, and a chance to keep their seats warm. And we-the-people, all of us, live inside of their sickness.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SICKNESS

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