Accept The Gift [on Two Artists Tuesday]

The third time she said it, I finally heard it. “This is a gift.” It stopped me in my tracks because it was true. We see life as a gift.

It is mostly unspoken. When we go out on the trail, we leave the stresses of our life behind. We slow down. We live the famous John Muir quote: “And into the woods I go to lose my mind and find my soul.” Our walks become a meditation on “the daily gorgeous;” gratitude, surprise, the bombardment of the senses with color, bird song, and the scent of winter grasses. Appreciation of the moment. Soul is nothing more or less than connectivity. We drop the tale of woe-and-separation and join the abundance of the trail.

I want to believe in the signs. We’ve seen more deer in the past two weeks than in the past two years. Sunday was extraordinary. We caught a glimpse of flashing white tails early in our walk. It was the middle of the day and unusual so we counted ourselves lucky. Later, by the river, there were 3 more. And then the young deer just off the trail, staring at us. And then, a deer jumped across our path, with another 2 disappearing into the woods just a few steps down the trail. “This is a gift,” she said for the third time.

As we wound our way back toward the car, another deer crossed the trail right in front of us. The entire herd broke through the woods and bounded across the trail, disappearing into the thick brush on the other side. We were speechless. She didn’t need to say it. A gift.

A sign? I think so. Heart. Inspiration. Grace in the face of difficult situations. If this is nature talking to us then there is only one thing to say: thank you for this gift.

read Kerri’s blogpost about ANTLERS

Sip The Hope [on Merely A Thought Monday]

I keep a Post-It note by my computer. It reads: Grace. Questions not answers. It’s there to remind me to write about possibilities rather than rants. There’s so much in this world that seems upside-down to me; it’s easy to get lost in the weeds. For instance, in preparation for this post I was doing a comparison of the percentage of GDP dedicated to the arts, to education, and to the military. What if we lived in a world in which the percentages were flipped? What might be possible?

And, then, I saw my note. Get out of the weeds! To embrace a world of possibili-teas begins with embracing the world as it is.

Possibilities. Wouldn’t it be lovely if a cup of tea opened hearts and minds to hope? In fact, I believe a hot cup of tea is capable of such a monumental feat. I warm my hands on the cup. I smell the comfort. I sip the hope. There are other, similar, small gestures capable of big-heart-opening: A smile. A hug. A helping hand.

I stared at the word “grace” on my Post-It note. Simple elegance. Refinement of movement. I like this definition: courteous goodwill. Or. combine both definitions: to move in the world with simple courteous goodwill. Intentional benevolence.

As I’ve learned, the flaw opens space for grace to enter. Wabi-sabi. Beauty in imperfection. Compassion in our world is possible, especially if we embrace it as more necessary than lobbing insults or bombs. Friendliness, thoughtfulness, decency…As my Post-It note suggests, I am left with a question: What if we lived in a world in which amity garnered more attention than aggression? What might be possible?

Just like a cup of hot tea: a wee-bit of warming hope.

read Kerri’s blogpost about POSSIBILI-TEAS

See The Signs [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

“You know you’re getting older when…” you delude yourself into thinking life used to be simpler. Lately, I am a festival of delusion. Or, perhaps, I’m a keen observer of social trends! Yes. That must be it. I can’t possibly be like other people!

Case-in-point: most people have muses or angels that sit on their shoulders. I have a “Savvy.” My Savvy tells me things like this: we live in app mentality: the notion that we can personalize our “screens” with an infinite selection of choices is post-modern bubble madness. Choices for the sake of choices but not necessarily meaningful choices. Personal preference run amok!

Of course, my Savvy might be taking advantage of my weakening eyesight. Just like angels that perch on shoulders, I have two Savvies. A Good one. And a Savvy with a sense-of-humor dedicated to making me the butt of every joke. Actually, the good Savvy has probably already retired and is sunning herself in Boca Grande. Bad Savvy is having too much fun to retire. I can’t really tell if Good Savvy is still around because I can’t see like I used to.

In addition to seeing Good Savvy, I mostly want to see the traffic signs at night. That’s it. How many choices are required to achieve my simple desire?

read Kerri’s blogpost about GLASSES

smack-dab. © 2023 kerrianddavid.com

Shape The Story [on KS Friday]

“It’s amazing how a little tomorrow can make up for a whole lot of yesterday.” ~ John Guare

Jen’s question sparked a many-days-conversation between Kerri and me. She asked about my favorite childhood birthday memory. I stared into space. My memory pool was empty. There was nothing but white noise between my ears. I sputtered something about awkward valentines in elementary school. Later, on the drive home, I confessed to Kerri how unnerved I was to have little or no distinct memory to recount. Both Jen and Brad had palpable stories to tell – and many of them.

Since that evening we’ve talked about the power of reminiscing. Neither of us has lived near our families. We’ve had relatively few opportunities to sit around a table and tell stories of childhood, recount foibles, ask questions, laugh at where we’ve been and what we’ve done with the people who shared the experiences with us. During our recent trip to Florida I was startled at Bill’s precise memories of his time in Vietnam. Each year he gathers with the surviving members of his squad and they tell stories of their service. His memories are clear because he regularly tells and hears the stories. It’s a ritual meant to keep vital the thread of connection to the past. Shared story is the glue that holds together a family, found-family or otherwise.

Last night we were wide awake at 3am. We turned on the light and returned to our conversation about the power of reminiscence. The power of enlivening stories with others who hold the same memory. Kerri can tell me stories about raising her children but I wasn’t there. We were not parents together so I am able ask questions but I am unable to spark a visceral memory with, “Do you remember when we…” A one way street is not as accessible as a memory street shared by two.

Inevitably, as the sun began to rise on our sleepless night, our conversation turned toward what we want to create. Together. What are the shapes of our dreams? We began to tell stories in the other direction. We imagined and, so, we created. The power of reminiscence balanced by the power of aspiration. We laughed and built metaphoric houses. We populated studios with creations. Kerri challenged me to paint in a new way, not images but to give color and shape to my feelings.

Feelings. Suddenly, I remember a birthday from a time I was very young, single digits. In the basement, made from refrigerator boxes, Columbus built a birthday surprise. A train or an airplane? I can’t remember. But I felt like it was yesterday, the thrill of running down the stairs to see what my father had made for me.

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE TRACKS

meander/as it is © 2004 kerri sherwood

Step Off The Path [on DR Thursday]

At first we were horrified. The forest filled with machinery. Trees down and the underbrush annihilated. Our beloved trail decimated. We read that the seeming destruction was part of a woody invasive species clearing project. The clearing would allow the native species to rejuvenate.

Later, after the machinery was removed and the air cleared of diesel fumes, we returned to walk the obliterated forest trail. And, on our walk, I learned – or re-learned – a very valuable lesson. The change pulled us from our well-worn path and invited us to explore. Because we could now see all the way to the river, we left the trail. We stepped into the unknown. What had been comforting and known now beckoned us to see anew. To wake up.

We walked in places where previously we could not because the brush was too dense. We followed an animal trail through the snow into a part of the forest we’d never been. It was a place we’d never before considered investigating. We deviated and hiked all the way to the train tracks. We took photos. We felt the thrill of stepping into new territory. Our eyes wide open, our ears attuned to every nuance of sound, we took nothing for granted. Everything was pristine and unknown.

Change is like that. It makes you pay attention.

Returning to the trail so we could make our way back to the car, enlivened by our off-trail adventure, we wondered aloud about the wildlife. We worried for the deer. And, just as the words left our mouths, Kerri stopped and motioned to the forest’s edge. A deer was watching us. And then there were two. Three. Five. After determining that we were not a threat, they nibbled on branches. We stood very still; quiet appreciation.

It felt like a reward for taking the step off the beaten path. It felt like reassurance that the devastation was akin to a forest fire; necessary for renewal.

From a cue invisible to us, the deer leapt in unison, white tails flashing, and disappeared into the forest. It broke the spell. We returned to the car, eyes scanning the forest in case the deer returned. Our senses keen, I felt fully alive.

Change is like that. A clearing project, disrupting comfortable complacency, nothing can be taken for granted, making way for new seeing and discovery. Anything becomes possible.

a work in progress: train through trees, 48x48IN

read Kerri’s blogpost about RIVER BEND

train through trees (in progress) © 2023 david robinson

Commune [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“Art is communion of one soul to another, offered through the symbolic language of form and content.” ~ Alex Grey, The Mission of Art

I just looked up the word “mystic” in the dictionary. Just as a word can clarify, it can also obscure. “Mystic” is one of those words. Mystic implies intention. A seeker. A receiver. Someone unique; out of the ordinary. Yet, who isn’t searching for a truth that dances beyond the intellect? We will – all of us – be “absorbed into the absolute” someday and each of us, in our own way, must reconcile our individual lives with our inevitable disappearance into unity. Everyone is a mystic, whether they realize it our not.

I’m sitting in our bed, it’s February, and the birds are singing outside. The sun is pouring through the window and I’m thinking of looking up another word: bask. The birdsong pulls my heart into springtime yet I want to issue a caution. Be careful, birds! Today feels like spring but tomorrow will feel like winter. Suddenly it occurs to me that, in their song, the birds are issuing a caution to me: Sing! Today is all you have. Luxuriate in the sun and quilts.

A few nights ago, at dinner, Brad told us of an initiative he’s launching at his work. It is cathedral building. Rather than legislating behavior they are, with great intention, cultivating an environment of inclusion. Equity, not rooted in reinforcing distinction and separation, but fostering a culture of belonging. Unity. Reaching for the truth that lives beyond words or intellect or legislation or rules or pronouns or… An everyday intention: the “communion of one soul to another.” A corporate initiative borne from a mystic impulse? Float all boats? Equality beyond lip-service? A bottom line AND a service motive?

It can happen. It is happening. I find that incredibly hopeful. Mystical, in fact. Artistic.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE MOONRISE

Change Your Name [on Two Artists Tuesday]

With great fanfare, I announced to Kerri that I was changing my name to Zdravko! I gleaned from her scowl that my new name might not be an acceptable idea.

Zdravko is Saint Valentine in Slovenia. I was curious about the origins of Valentine’s Day and what I found is a trail of martyrdom and subsequent reliquaries enshrined in churches across Italy and beyond. There may or may not have been more than one Saint Valentine with various legends embellished over the centuries to transform their demise and dismemberment into a day of lovers, hearts and chocolate.

Good gracious.

I was born on Valentine’s Day. All of my life, when people learn that this day is my enter-the-earth day, they get doe-eyed and say things like, “Of course you were born on Valentines Day.” All of these years I thought their comments referred to my soft soul and chocolate heart but now I’m suspicious.

Deep in the wiki I found a reference that brought some comfort. Zdravko. “…the saint of good health, beekeepers and pilgrims…it is also said that birds propose to each other or marry on that day…” Imagine it! On this day, that chirping you hear might be a bird getting down on one knee and popping the question! Now that’s an association I can embrace!

Besides, Zdravko is a much better name for an artist. When people learn that my name is David Robinson, I inevitably hear the joke, “Wow! You’re smaller than I thought.” The artist identity gets lost in the basketball player joke every time. By the way, he’s younger than I am. And NOT born on Valentine’s Day. And much more successful. And, he already has an entry in Wikipedia so I’ll have to change my name if I want a unique wiki page. Zdravko!

Kerri’s still not buying it. In the spirit of domestic bliss I’ll drop it for now. Mostly, I’m grateful that I didn’t have to compose my valentine from a prison cell or while hiding from the emperor’s centurions. She’ll scowl when she reads it but I can’t erase the crayon signature…

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Love,

Your Zdravko

read Kerri’s blogpost about VALENTINES DAY

Drop In [on Merely A Thought Monday]

It happened again. Last night, sitting at the table with Dan and Charlie, sipping wine and talking about fatherhood and life lessons, I dropped into a hyper-focus. I was completely present and utterly cherished these two men. The moment was so full that I ached, a tree splitting its bark unable to contain the enormity. Trying to hide my tears tossed me back into the blur.

Presence is vulnerable!

As I write this I am aware that language is incapable of capturing the experience. Cherish. Dropped into.

It happened again deep in the night. Kerri and I pretzeled under the warm quilts, the window open to the cold night air, a gentle rain, Dogga asleep on my feet. It’s as if the past and future part like the Red Sea and there is nothing pulling me away from this moment, this breath. Any story or fear or regret or justification or…dissipates. Life comes into crisp focus. There are no edges to the savoring. No end to the vastness of love.

“Remember this,” I tell myself, and the act of trying to capture it, separates me again. The future/past rush over me and time’s return tumbles me back into the mind-flood.

Trying “to do” something with “it,” confuses “it.”

During our call I told Rebecca of Saul-the-Tai-Chi-Master’s wise instruction: stay on the root and let the energy move you. It’s been over a decade since I studied with Saul. At the time, his words seemed aspirational, an abstraction. An achievement to strive for. “The field of opportunity.” “Focus beyond the opponent and the opponent drops away.”

In stopping the chase, I’m only now beginning to understand.

read Kerri’s blogpost about BEING ALIVE

Face The Rain, 24x24IN, mixed media on panel

Stack The Crate [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

I was getting calf-cramps almost every night and then my mom told me about the sock-trick. I was dubious at first but in the months since I’ve initiated the sock-strategy, I’ve only had one cramp. And it was mild. Who knew!

My night-table used to have a stack of books and a digital clock. That was it. My current version has books AND reading glasses, socks (yes, more than one pair), multiple notebooks with pens, phones with charging cables and a computer, also with a charging cable, Post-it notes, and the manual for a humidifier. There’s room for my coffee cup but just barely. Apparently, aging comes with paraphernalia.

The good news: Dogga’s crate sits next to my night-table so, as my accessories multiply, I have ample room for spill-over. The top of the crate is like a garage: a place for piling random stuff for possible use someday. And, since it’s technically not my night-table, I don’t have to acknowledge the growing stacks.

read Kerri’s blogpost on this SATURDAY MORNING SMACK-DAB.

smack-dab. © 2023 kerrianddavid.com

Meet Sketchy [on KS Friday]

One of my favorite budding traditions is our Sunday walk with Brad and Jen followed by a foray into a sketchy unknown bar for an end-of-hike-drink. We live in Wisconsin so there’s no end of sketchy bars to explore. Many sit close to trailheads so our options are abundant.

Years ago I participated in a similar tradition though I can’t remember what we called it. Dubious lunch? Someone in the group chose a suspicious lunch spot and together we’d give it a try. Very few diners lived up to their facade. Most were terrific discoveries. Diamonds in the rough.

Our post-hike-sketchy-bar-tour has produced surprisingly warm memories. Treasures in coarse wrappers. The cliché is, of course, to never judge a book by its cover and, as is always the case, what we consider “sketchy” says more about us than the roadhouse we’re dubious to enter. Ultimately, our fear is the that the good folks inside, the regular customers bellied up to the bar, will look at us and think that we are sketchy.

And, so far, that has been true! They do. And, we do. Sketchy meets sketchy. It’s like the moment in the movies when the cowboy enters the saloon and the music stops. Eyes narrow. Scrutiny abounds. And then, the tension breaks, the music picks up where it left off, and everyone has a good time. The cover of the book disappears when the saloon doors swing open and everyone shares a tiny-bit of their story, sketchy together, under one roof.

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about OUR TRADITION

time together/this part of the journey © 1998 kerri sherwood