Weep [on DR Thursday]

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‘and so he weeps.’ a morsel of weeping man

And so the story goes that one day, deep in the forest, Parcival was knocked from his stallion by a warrior who wore no armor. His magic sword, the object that he believed carried all of his power, was shattered. He lay on the ground like a turtle on its back, trapped by the weight of his shiny armor. He was tired of fighting. He was sad that, despite all of his victories, – he’d never been defeated – the world kept getting worse and worse. And so, laying on his back, exhausted from the fight, he stopped struggling. He gave himself over to his death. He let go.

But the nature-warrior disappeared. Parcival, alive but shattered, for the first time in his adult life, stripped off his armor. He dropped what remained of his sword. And, sitting amidst the wreckage of his life, the fragments of his power, he wept. He let go.

There is a path out of the wasteland. It necessarily leads through weeping. Through loss of illusion. P-Tom would call this a sacrament. Joseph Campbell would call it a threshold.

In any case, letting go of the illusion is necessary before the next chapter can begin.

 

 

 

read Kerri’s blog post on WEEPING MAN

 

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weeping man ©️ 2015 david robinson

Enjoy Your Ride [on Merely A Thought Monday]

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Navigating a transit system can be confusing. The skill is knowing where you are relative to the end-of-the-line and which end-of-the-line is the direction you wish to travel. It’s a process of orienting. Here I am now. There is where I want to be. Inevitably, learning the system comes from of getting on the wrong train a few times.

It turns out that navigating life requires the same skill. Knowing where you are relative to where you want to be. Getting lost, getting on the wrong train is a necessary part of the process. Who hasn’t looked out their window and thought, “This isn’t where I wanted to go.” Or, “I’m not doing with my life what I wanted to do.” The real challenge, so I’ve  been told, is not in the knowing of where you want to go but in being honest enough with yourself to recognize where you are now.

Recently, climbing the stairs to catch a train in Chicago, we saw this helpful guide. Loop. This train will take you to the downtown loop. I laughed. Transit-Life-Lesson #2: whether you recognize it our not, learning lessons in life happens in loops and not lines. They call them “life lessons” because they come back around again and again and again…. There is no wrong direction in a loop. So, I suppose, whether you know where you are going or not, it’s best to enjoy your ride. Your unique life lesson will most certainly come back around.

Of course, in any case, in every case, asking for help is always…helpful. So, if you don’t mind, please tell me again, where am I?

 

read Kerri’s blog post about LOOP

 

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Fly Above The Clouds [on Two Artists Tuesday]

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I was eighteen years old the first time I was above the clouds. It was a revelation. Even then I was in awe that I live in a time that I can see above the clouds. In the history of humanity, that makes me one of the few. One of the fortunate.

Miracles become the new norm and so, routine. Unseen.

Last week I was once again above the clouds. The sun was rising and the colors magnificent. I was propelled back in time to my first flight, my first sight of the thing Leonardo da Vinci could only dream about, what Van Gogh could only touch through imagination. I was revisited by my eighteen year old self and was once again awash in awe.

The cloak of routine drops and the miraculous is revealed. It is merely a matter of seeing it.

As I sat buckled into my seat, I wondered how much of my life I lose to the notion of ‘routine’ and, so, miss the obvious crackling truth: I’ve never lived this day before. I’ve never experienced this moment before. I am flying above the clouds every day. I have no idea what is about to happen, what I am about to see.

 

read Kerri’s blog post about FLYING ABOVE THE CLOUDS

 

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Be The Magic [on Two Artists Tuesday]

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A modern dinosaur hopped by our car. It left tracks in the snow otherwise we might have never known! What I love most about the local dinosaur population is that we never tire of seeing them or evidence of their travels. We have a dinosaur feeder just outside our sun room window and have wiled away more than a few hours watching them fly in for a seed fix.

I believe we are all the time surrounded by magic and miracles but remain largely blind to their existence. Birds are ancient. If you want to take a step back into the Mesozoic Era, just listen to the sound of a Sandhill Crane. Magic and miraculous.

Every time that I hear that there is only one true religion I’m tempted to take the speaker by the elbow and lead them outside to look at the night sky. If they understand what they are seeing – indeed, what they are experiencing – they should laugh aloud and clap their hands with glee at the utter absurdity of their smallness and the enormity of their unimaginable existence. “Astronomers estimate there are about 100 thousand million stars in the Milky Way alone. Outside that, there are millions upon millions of other galaxies also! “  In the midst of millions upon millions – an infinity beyond any of our smallish brain pans to comprehend – might it be a bit of hubris to claim ownership of the one true anything? Go outside and consider it. Miraculous. Magic.

The dinosaur tracks were gone the next day. Melted. My 30’s and 40’s are gone, too. Passing. Tracks merely.

I suppose it is our lot to squeeze ourselves into these too tight boxes. Rushing life most certainly will have you focus on your long list of things to accomplish, on the empty places pocking your wall of respect, the plaque engraved on your legacy. In the face of so much track-making, it takes a bit of effort, an intention of slowing down to pay attention, to listen to the bird song, to see that the dinosaur recently hopped by, to turn your face to the stars and fall with abandon into the night sky. To be the magic. Miraculous.

 

read Kerri’s blog post on SWEET TRACKS

 

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Hear It [on KS Friday]

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When I was sixteen years old, a new driver, I made a left hand turn in front of a delivery truck that I did not see. I’m not sure how it missed me. At the time I had the illusion that it went through me. I saw the grill, felt the rush, and watched as it skidded to a stop in the turn lane I’d just vacated.
After college I went to Europe with my pal, Roger. I was penniless (almost) when we flew back to the USA. We landed in a snowstorm. Roger’s connecting flight to California left without a hitch. I missed mine to Colorado. I was stranded and desperate, knowing I didn’t have the resources to get home. A man standing in line behind me heard my plight and told me of an announcement – a limited number of cheap fares. I raced across the terminal and bought the last ticket, flying the next morning. I had the EXACT amount of money in my pocket. I used my last penny. Literally.
I have thousands of these stories. As, I believe do all of us. I suspect they happen every day, though go largely unnoticed. A single moment this way or that…a stranger’s hand that pulls us back to the curb. A generosity. A gut feeling. An inspiration. A knowing. A calling. A touch. Sisu.
In a world with no compartments, no division between life or death, fall and winter, it’s all divine intervention, isn’t it? Life?  Helping hands are everywhere. There’s no need to believe in a god with a big G or small to appreciate the quiet magic of it all. The scope and mystery of being. The assistance from ‘beyond.’ That’s what Kerri captures in her Divine Intervention. It’s there if you can hear it.

DIVINE INTERVENTION from the album RELEASED FROM THE HEART available on iTunes & CDBaby

 

read Kerri’s blog post about DIVINE INTERVENTION

 

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divine intervention/released from the heart ©️ 1995 kerri sherwood

Laugh Together [on Merely A Thought Monday]

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“Why don’t people care?” I frequently loop back to Stephen’s question – asked so many years ago – about art. He’s a prolific and gifted painter. I have so many responses, mostly contradictory. Everything from ‘People do care, it’s just inaccessible,’ to ‘Why should they care, it’s so personal to the artist (not communal, not inclusive) that it’s not accessible.”  The common word in all my inner-Stephen-musings is ‘access.’

My pot was irrevocably stirred during my time in Bali. There, the arts are practiced in the temple – a place, the central focus – for everyone and everything in the community. Every aspect of life is rooted-in and practiced-through the temple. That is to say, all things are still considered sacred – even and especially ‘the arts.’ As sacred, the arts belong to everyone, not just the artist or the elite who can afford it. They are accessible because they are not a possession, they are a sacrament. Additionally, the temple does not stop at the end of the compound. The whole world is the temple. In this temple, the arts serve as the binder, the carrier of the story that holds the treasure of the community: its identity.  The arts are not only accessible, they provide access. They affirm belonging.

In this temple, through this sacred story, laughter is highly valued. Laughter, foible, whimsy, – all reminders that, 1) we should not take ourselves so seriously, and 2) laughter is a potent force, like gravity. It joins us. It cuts through division, turns fear into powder. It provides perspective. Laughter is the sound of appreciation, the music people make together when worshiping the great mystery of life.

read Kerri’s blog post about THE NOBLEST ART

 

 

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Ask Why? [on Two Artists Tuesday]

 

On a recent walk I was lost in thought and suddenly realized Kerri was no longer holding my hand. When I turned to find where she’d gone I saw the usual. Kerri crouched on the ground, phone in hand, photographing something. It is common on our daily walks for her to gasp, pull out her phone, and snap a picture or capture some small critter adventuring through its existence. She has hundreds of beautiful photographs of leaves, curious bark markings, corn stalks, seed pods, sunsets, spiders, shadows, grasses, and butterflies. Each photograph is her record of a marvel, a snapshot of a miracle. “Look at this!” she exclaims, her voice rich with awe.

Showing me her caterpillar movie, she said, “Why would anyone do that? Why would someone shoot a video of a caterpillar!” It’s an existential question.

“I will call this, “Why’d the caterpillar cross the road?”

Another existential question.

Kerri edited the final few seconds of her film. She cut the part where I warn her of an oncoming cyclist. Fearing for the safety of the caterpillar, she stopped shooting her movie and stood in the path of the cyclist, protecting the caterpillar. The irritated cyclist, unaware of why this crazed woman refused to step aside, swung wide around her.

My favorite existential question in this sea of existential questions is this: Why did the woman help the caterpillar cross the road?

 

read Kerri’s blog post on CATERPILLARS CROSSING ROADS

 

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