Too-Small-Of-A-Pot [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

We love our licorice plants so it was with great sadness that, after watching it struggle and become entangled in a mysterious webbing, that we decided it was time to start over. I removed it from its pot, noted how root-bound it had become and dumped it by the garage, our graveyard for withering plants at seasons end. A week later, while emptying grass clippings into the bin, I noticed that the licorice plant was showing signs of life. The mystery web was gone. The color was coming back into its leaves. I moved it into a spot where it would get more sun and decided to check in with it every few days. Out of the confinement of its pot, it thrived. A bigger pot, new soil, a different spot in the yard, and the licorice plant was in full resurrection-mode.

Not to stack metaphors but the new place for our rejuvenated licorice plant is on the old wicker chair that found a new home at the garage-end of our driveway. It has become a resting place for birds, squirrels and baby raccoons. A second chance rests on a second chance in the home of two people who each day are grateful that life somehow brought them a second chance.

In second chances, not only is there more appreciation for the day-to-day, the capacity to see the extraordinary in the ordinary, but there is a sense of deep gratitude – a source of deep gratitude – that was not available in the first go-round. Second chances verify that the impossible is possible. Second chances affirm that there is another side to even the most dire of circumstances; today’s tragedy is tomorrow’s boon so why not live it all as a boon?

I have been a plant that was de-potted and tossed by the garage. As it turns out, the problem was the pot. Being tossed was the best thing that could have happened although it felt devastating at the time. A little air, a little sun – and someone paying attention – it’s a magic formula.

Isn’t that the magic path for anyone in too-small-of-a-pot? And who hasn’t at one time or another been in too-small-of-a-pot?

read Kerri’s blogpost about A SECOND CHANCE

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So We Might Endure [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“An aspen root system is a massive, interconnected underground network that links entire groves into a single living organism. Individual trees (called ramets) act as above-ground shoots, sharing identical genetics, water, and nutrients across roots that can endure for thousands of years.” ~ National Forest Foundation

Our aspen tree, Breck, has just revealed a baby Breck, a tiny tender shoot reaching through the soil at the edge of our pond. We couldn’t be more thrilled.

Knowing how aspen trees propagate, we’ve been keeping a careful eye in the backyard. We didn’t want to inadvertently step on or accidentally mow any new additions. This delicate shoot makes an appearance at the time, in the same summer, that Breck has broken all records for growth in a single season. Our little aspen tree easily added three feet to its height and now we know that the underground growth is as healthy as the visible tree above ground.

Literal interconnection. Even though the aspen groves appear as individual trees, they “endure” thanks to their underground network, the reality of many individual expressions growing as a single living organism.

Are we really so different from an aspen grove?

I have read that in indigenous communities banishment is a punishment worse than death. They are closer to the realities of nature and are not so lost in abstraction. Survival is a function of interconnection, of community. To be made separate, to be rendered individual, is a death sentence.

Are we really so different from indigenous communities?

Here is my revelation of the past week. It is actually a simple thought that arose amidst all the religious fundamentalism currently run amok in the sad politics of the USA: Hate is selective. Love is all inclusive. The worship of a god of love is a very different thing than the worship of a god that selects.

Democracy is by definition inclusive. Autocracy is by definition selective.

My hope: the truth of our democratic interconnection overwhelms this sad chapter, this invasive weed – and banishes it; that our literal interconnection chokes out and summarily removes the fascist invader. And then the grove can return to the business of sharing nutrients across our roots so we might endure in health for thousands of years.

CONNECTED on the album RELEASED FROM THE HEART © 1995 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about LITTLE BRECK

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Naturally [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved.” ~ Kurt Vonnegut, The Sirens of Titan

It used to really bother me that the squirrels ate all the birdseed, that they lapped up all the grape jelly meant for the orioles. And while I was sitting in my Adirondack chair twisting in my bother, Kerri would be laughing. “They are so cute!” she’d exclaim. One day it occurred to me that it probably felt better to laugh rather than to be bothered so I gave it a try.

It not only felt better but it also exposed the folly of my vexation. Imagine! I was putting food into feeders and exasperated that a critter was eating it. Oh, spare me from the desire to control all things!

In laughter I can see with amazement the acrobatics of these furry little ninjas. Every obstacle I erect is a challenge they accept. In case, like me, you find yourself lost in a frustrated bother, I can attest that delight is a much better use of your life than is irritation. Every obstacle they overcome is a challenge I accept. It is a dance. In delight, I have become symbiotic with my squirrels.

I can also attest that underneath all of that angst and aggravation is an attempt (a fantasy) to control the uncontrollable. It’s a fool’s errand. The squirrels will behave like squirrels. Naturally.

Humans will behave like humans. I have a choice! I can delight in the impossible or clench my fists until I am red in the face. As it turns out, an open hand feels much better than a tight fist. Naturally.

“We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.” ~ Kurt Vonnegut, If This Isn’t Nice, What Is?: Advice for the Young

*****

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about SQUIRRELS

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A Sap Older Than Memory [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

“Look, we don’t love like flowers with only one season behind us; when we love, a sap older than memory rises in our arms.” ~ Rainier Maria Rilke

If I knew then what I know now. The younger version of me had love all wrong. It was something I chased, pursued. Why does it take so long to understand that Love is something I give? It’s what I bring to life rather than something I get from it.

Maybe my younger self tried to squeeze love into a too-small-box. The Greeks understood the word “love” to have 4 different meanings. The young seeker of romantic love, Eros, eventually arrives at the doorstep of Agape, unconditional love. Self-Less. It takes some life experiences, some serious folly and shedding of skin to approach the house of unconditional Agape.

Maybe I didn’t have it wrong after all. Love has age-and-stage progressive revelations. Agape rarely opens its door to the young. “Go out and play!” Agape instructs the young-and-wild-at-heart. Love is an ancient actor that wears many masks.

“Do not divert your love from visible things. But go on loving what is good, simple and ordinary; animals and things and flowers, and keep the balance true.” ~ Rainier Maria Rilke

It rained all day. Not a pitter-patter rain but a raucous downpour. After – or in between the waves – I can’t remember, we went out back to check the garden, to upright the tomatoes. The air was clean and humid-heavy; a paradox. Dogga grew damp from inspecting the grasses. Kerri bent close to the flower to capture the raindrops resting on the purple petals. Superbells. Plum made more plummy.

It was like a light going on or, yes, a door opening. “I” disappeared, “I” burst like a soap bubble, and for a moment there was only this. Agape. Love.

“Trees do not force their sap, nor does the flower push its bloom.” ~ Rainier Maria Rilke

read Kerri’s blogpost about SUPERBELLS

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Simple And Innate [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Dogga is a master digger. Mostly he digs to produce cool dirt to lay on; a heavy black coat in the heat of the summer months requires cooling ingenuity.

Originally, we tried to stop his innate digging abilities. Then we realized that he’d already worn several serious velodrome paths in the yard from his enthusiastic circle-running, so what possible damage could an unsightly hole or two do to our backyard aesthetic? Besides, his efforts have a delightful side benefit: they create the perfect bird-dirt-bath dirt. Everyday the neighborhood birds flock to the Dogga-dirt-spot like Romans to the baths.

Lately, since he is grown wobbly in his old age, I periodically fill-in the canyons-he-creates so he doesn’t accidentally swing wide in his circle-running and trip in a hole-of-his-own-making. Besides, it gives him more cool dirt to excavate.

It’s the pure joy he experiences in a hole-well-dug that makes us smile with every new crater. Dirt flies, he occupies his new cool dirt mat, and revels in deep Dogga-Dogga satisfaction.

Sometimes I am astounded at what actually fills me with love and appreciation for life. It’s not complicated. It’s simple – and innate – as Dogga digging a hole.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DOGGA-HOLES

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Extraordinary [David’s blog on KS Friday]

The morning sunrise sky was vivid mango. It rained overnight so as I stood in the cool morning air marveling at the color of dawn I also breathed deep the newly washed earth. Life is extraordinary.

Dogga was sick again this morning. We are doing what people do when they don’t want to admit that there is nothing to be done that will change what is inevitable. We are preparing ourselves for heartbreak. Life is extraordinary.

She brought the peace sign from her studio and placed it on the branch on our deck that now serves as a way-station for the finches and the sparrows. “Do you like it?” she asked. The symbol is made of glass and softly glows when the sun catches it. It is a symbol that almost everyone on earth understands. Language is not a barrier to understanding it. Culture is not a barrier to understanding it. Religion or politics cannot cloud its meaning. Common ground. A shared symbol is a shared aspiration. An impossible dream? An invocation? Life is extraordinary.

We do not miss an opportunity to say to each other, “I love you.” We’ve both walked life paths that made those words nearly impossible to utter. Scary. We’ve learned that they are not just words to be tossed away, an easy sentiment scribbled on a birthday card. They are fresh water to the garden. We do not speak those words lightly. We are careful to whisper them into Dogga’s ear each day.

Vivid mango sky. Side-by-side writing about reverence in the form of a shared symbol. She takes my hand in hers. Life is extraordinary.

PEACE on the album AS IT IS © 2004 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about PEACE

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A Purer Music [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“Education in the true sense is helping the individual to be mature and free, to flower greatly in love and goodness.”~ Krishnamurti

I like to think that Barney-the-piano’s flowering-in-love-and-goodness began the day he was moved into our backyard. For decades he was held captive in a dark church basement boiler room. Not only was he forgotten but the dry heat from the boiler destroyed his soundboard and, therefore, destroyed the purpose he believed was created to fulfill. We caught the junk man just in time. Instead of hauling Barney off to be dismantled and discarded, we paid him to bring Barney to our house.

Barney lived into a second purpose. It took a while for him to settle in, to learn that making music was not his exclusive talent or destiny.

As he lost his keys to weather, as his veneer curled and fell away, he became a refuge, a safe spot for birds and squirrels and chipmunks. The critters rest on his lid, build nests in his sound box. Each day the birds mingle on Barney and sing. Although he himself is not making the music, he knows that the sanctuary he provides gives the birds reason to sing. He inspires a purer music.

We have watched Barney flower-in-love-and-goodness. We have had the good fortune to witness his transformation, no longer resisting the forces of nature but moving in harmony with them. He is free and most certainly mature, no longer bound by a too-narrow definition, no longer invested in how he looks or what others might think of him. He is content. The dark times no longer define him nor does he bother to hold onto those memories. They get in the way of the birdsong. They distract him from enjoying the moment. He knows that distractions of the past interrupt his other newfound purpose: teaching us, his students, the power of letting go of all that we cannot control.

GRATEFUL on the album AS IT IS © 2004 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about BARNEY

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A Growing Up [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“The role of the artist is exactly the same as the role of the lover. If I love you, I have to make you conscious of the things you don’t see.” ~ James Baldwin

It’s always been dangerous to be a jester. It’s akin to working on electrical lines in the rain. Rarely does power like to be contradicted or hear the truth or be the target of a joke – but it is never-the-less the role of the comedian, the artist, to strip away the illusion. To tease forward the truth. Throughout time despots have tried in vain to silence the voice of the jester, the song of the composer, the vision of the painter. Hitler. Pol Pot. Stalin. Kim Jong Un. And now? Sadly, we have produced one of our own. Take heart: artists are servants of love while despots are prisoners of rage, and, in the end, love is always bigger than hate. It is possible for a period of time to silence the individual artist but the love of truth always transcends the volcano of hate. “Truth will out.” (William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice)

Stephen Colbert and Jimmy Kimmel will be making us laugh long after this rage has burned itself out.

A truth? Our nation, my nation, refuses to grow up. It turns its back on its history. It runs from its shadow. It is like the spouse of an alcoholic pretending that all is good. It is akin to a parent who abuses a teacher who dared give their child a well-deserved failing grade. Appearance is all.

Love is substance.

Proof of our Peter Pan nation lives in the White House. He has surrounded himself with a band of lost boy pirates. The despot-wanna-be is not an aberration, he and his pirates are the ultimate expression of entrenched immaturity. They are boys who swear the dog ate their homework, responsible for nothing, responsible to no one. They do not care to compete, earn or work for betterment yet desire every trophy for their shelf. They gild themselves like the ballroom. They celebrate the vapid and court superficiality. They somehow believe 19th century nonsense that whiteness makes the man. They build their clubhouse high in a tree and post a sign: No Gurls Aloud! Their skins are thin, their intentions self-serving.

It is why artists are such a threat. They see the childishness and make fun of the lost boys vapid antics.

In such an immature playpen, there is no love, there is no capacity for love: only a competition for toys. “Mine, mine, mine!”

“Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.” ~ James Baldwin

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART LEAF

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It Takes Two [David’s blog on KS Friday]

If you visit my About page you will find this quote by Reynolds Price: A need to tell and hear stories is essential to us – second in necessity after nourishment and before love and shelter.” Although I have updated my blog site several times over the years, I’ve not found a quote that better encapsulates what I believe.

I’ve read this quote hundreds of times. And, to my utter surprise, I recently learned that I’ve never fully understood it. I thought it was about story.

It’s funny how a brain works. Standing on the dock, staring into the harbor at sunset, Kerri snapped and then shared her photograph of a single boat moored in the harbor. In the frame the boat is alone – an image of loneliness – the synapse that fired in my noggin was the quote, “A need to tell and hear stories…”. A need to share. A need to be connected. A need to be a part of. Essential to us. Necessary. Story is what we share. The indispensable is that we connect through story; we create it together. The quote is about relationship.

Relationship, the need to tell and hear stories, need not be positive. For instance, we are witness to a propaganda machine that intentionally spins a tale to divide the nation. A hungry maga gobbles and regurgitates it. Make no mistake, maga needs woke because without an enemy, without something to fight, maga would have no identity. The straw man called “woke” is maga’s story glue; woke is the monster hiding under maga’s bed. Woke is a windmill erected so maga might have a reason to tilt.

A negative story can transform. It is the reason we came to be standing on the dock at sunset. A lifetime of running led to the necessity of stopping. Turning around meant facing the monster. Facing the monster meant returning to the dock. What was once lonely and broken became reconnected and whole. When faced, the monster shriveled to nothing. A destructive story is not destructive after all but a chapter in an inevitable march to well-being. That should give all of us hope. That is a worthy story to share.

It takes two at the very least to tell and to hear stories. It is essential.

THE WAY HOME on the album THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY © 1998 Kerri Sherwood

Kerri’s music – at least the compositions that she has recorded – is available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora. The vast majority of her music lives in her heart and in a notebook that rests on her piano.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE HARBOR

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Squirrel Lore [David’s blog on KS Friday]

My dad had a special relationship with squirrels though I doubt he thought of his squirrel-connection as special. He kept a BB gun at the ready to keep the little varmints from eating the peaches from his tree. He never aimed to hit them. He’d shoot the leaves close by to scare them. Once, when his eyesight was failing, he accidentally hit a squirrel. “Did I hit him?” he asked me, horrified. The squirrel was stung but otherwise uninjured. My dad was wounded to his core. “I didn’t mean to hit him,” he repeated, misty eyed throughout the evening. I am not certain but I think that was the last time he touched his BB gun.

Our yard is alive with squirrels. Dogga chases them. He gives them a quick bark as he skids to a stop while they scurry to the safety of the pine tree. And then he prances, triumphant in his mission of yard patrol. Later, we laugh as he lounges on the deck, uninterested in the yard-antics of the squirrels.

The squirrels have easily cracked the code of every bird-feeder-squirrel-protection-mechanism on the market. They are furry little ninjas stealing birdseed like their human counterparts heist diamonds. After years of gadgets and guards and placements – and serious thoughts about finding my dad’s leaf-ready BB gun – we’re in full surrender. We now scatter birdseed on the potting bench and on the top of Barney-the-piano. We invite the furry masses. The birds and squirrels dine peacefully together. They take turns. They are well fed.

When I refresh the scatter of seed I think of my dad. His squirrel campaign gave him a sense of purpose. Protecting the peach tree from the squirrels was a worthy-and-fun retirement mission. Without their constant assault on the peaches he would have been left with nothing more meaningful than cutting the grass (note: he edged the yard on his hands and knees with handheld clippers. My brother threatened to buy him an edger but he adamantly resisted. In analogy, my brother assumed the role of a squirrel, threatening my dad’s yard aesthetic routine).

I sometimes wonder if the squirrels watch us in utter fascination. We humans need challenges to feel useful. If we don’t have challenges we invent them; we call them hobbies. It’s the reason that “conflict” is the driver of every human story. A yearning meets an obstacle (Robert Olen Butler’s definition of “story”). Yearning needs obstacle like my dad needed squirrels. And now I have a special relationship with the squirrels: I do not try to deter them. I love watching them. I love Dogga’s daily game with them. They give him purpose. I love scattering seed for them. I love that they make me smile and remember the gentle man who was my father.

YOU MAKE A DIFFERENCE © 2002 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about SQUIRRELS

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