Peek Behind The Facade [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Two people sit at a bar, late in the afternoon, and order far too many appetizers. Then, when offered, they say “Yes” to a peek at the dessert menu. They split a second glass of wine. They seem as if they have not-a-care-in-the-world.

Things are rarely as they appear.

I often remind myself that I can never know the full story of another person’s life. My reminder comes in handy when I am judging or comparing. It is the thinnest image slice that invokes judgment. My comparison is made with a facade.

The day of our anniversary was so fraught that we couldn’t reach through the angst to touch a moment of celebration. We sabotaged the day. Lit it on fire and watched it burn.

The next day we took a very long hike. We sorted through the ashes of our angst. We laughed at ourselves. After our hike we decided to have a glass of wine. We did what we almost never do: we spent money on ourselves. Two people at the bar. We decided to order appetizers and, since it was a make-up day for our anniversary, we ordered anything and everything we wanted. Pressure release. We were like kids in a candy store, our eyes a’ poppin’ when the food arrived. We clapped our hands. We giggled. We savored each delicious bite.

Our plates and glasses were empty. So full we could barely move. As a courtesy the bartender asked us if we wanted to see the dessert menu. He was as surprised as I was when Kerri said, “Yes.” And then she ordered another glass of wine for us to split. And then, a slice of flourless chocolate torte.

This was a first. In our decade of life together, frugality has been our necessity. A first taste of excess, a moment of generosity to ourselves, was a healing balm. An anniversary celebration.

We laughed at the story the bartender must have told of this care-free couple. Of their excess. He could not have known.

“For one person to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of our tasks…” wrote Rainier Maria Rilke. “Loving…is a tremendous responsibility.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about DESSERT

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Face Downwind [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

Mighty regrettable breath! I laughed so hard when I read this that tears came to my eyes. She didn’t back up when I laughed so I’m fairly confident that I’ve taken care of the problem. Either that or I’ve permanently damaged her sense of smell.

Note: She also ate the dip. That I didn’t write a cartoon about my point of view (smell) is why she loves ALMOST everything about me. Well, okay. She probably likes a lot of things about me. I think. I know she tolerates a very long list of eccentric character traits and quirks. All-in-all, I generally get a passing grade if I point my mighty regrettable breath downwind. And open the wine. And make the coffee.

read Kerri’s blogpost about MY BREATH!!!!!!!

(Oh great. She just said, “You don’t really have bad breath.” And laughed raucously.)

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Learn A New Word [on Merely A Thought Monday]

I learned a new word today. Actually given the divisive climate in our current epoch, I’m surprised that I did not come across it sooner.

The word: Agnotology: the study of deliberate culturally induced ignorance or doubt, typically to sell a product, influence an opinion, or win favor, particularly through the publication of inaccurate or misleading scientific data.

Speak these words slowly so you might taste the sounds: deliberate culturally induced ignorance…Once you’ve tasted the sounds, think about the ramifications. Deliberate ignorance. Head in the sand. Deliberate ignorance is, of course, a necessity on the road to hate. And, not just any form of hate. Hate as a product. Hate meant to influence opinions. Hate that thrives on misleading information.

Deliberate ignorance eschews knowledge and refuses to ask questions. Non-curious, hard-edged-belief that refuses to check reality. Hard-edged-belief borne of purposeful misinformation. Hate is learned. Acquired.

My new word came across my path when a stream of transgender hate crossed my screen. A post on Facebook.

I’ll call them Sam. Sam was my student when I taught at an independent learning center. My appointments with Sam were scheduled after hours. Sam fled the main campus. Sam was transgender and Sam’s parents feared for their child’s life. Sam feared for their life, too.

Transgender (adjective): a person whose gender identity does not correspond to the sex registered to them at birth.

Start with the word “person”. A person. Now, roll around your mouth and mind the word “identity”. Speak the words slowly so you might taste the sounds.

I remember being a teenager. Do you? It was mostly a festival of confusion and an intense desire to fit in. To be accepted. About 5% of young adults are transgender. Sam, like all teenagers, was awash in a festival of confusion and wanted what every other student wanted: to fit in. To be accepted. And, the acceptance Sam sought most was… from Sam. Just like you and me.

Sam’s mountain-to-climb was significantly steeper than most. Sam’s walk toward wholeness demanded deep questioning, knowledge seeking, personal reflection, assumption challenges, fact checking, and a dedication of self-love that most of the populace, approximately 95%, can’t begin to imagine. I taught Sam geometry and world lit but I learned from Sam the great expanse of the human soul.

We vilify what we don’t understand, or more accurately, what we refuse to understand. Lemmings learn to hate en route to the ledge.

Lemming (noun): a person who follows the will of others, especially in a mass movement, and heads straight into a situation or circumstance that is dangerous, stupid, or destructive.

Lemming. Speak the word slowly so you can taste it…Now, think of the ramifications.

The path to love and understanding always begins with a step toward: Asking a question. Challenging a belief. Bursting the misinformation bubble. Fact-checking the information and especially checking the agenda of the source.

Love is a very old word yet it’s never too late to learn it anew.

read Kerri’s blogpost about LOVE

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Come Home [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

It’s a big day. Kerri has lived in this house more than half of her life. I am approaching a decade in our home. In other words, I’ve lived in this house longer than I’ve lived anywhere in my adult life.

The first moment I stepped foot into this house I felt and saw in my mind the word, “Home.” It unnerved me a bit since, after several months of correspondence, Kerri and I had only just met in person. Also, I was a dedicated wanderer, the kind that is never lost, so I didn’t believe I would ever experience the feeling of “home”. It wasn’t in my cards.

Life changes fast. That first night we crawled out a second-floor window, sat on the roof and sipped wine. It was cold so we wrapped ourselves in blankets. I’d been waiting my entire life to find someone who wanted to crawl out the window with me. Home. My wife and our house. Inseparable stories woven together through time. I am unbelievably fortunate that her house has become our house and it loves us as much as we love it.

Home. I feel it. It was in my cards all along.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HOME

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Play With Life [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

On my list of things to think about: raindrops are water held together by surface tension. The elements of air and water at play. And then, as if that were not enough, there’s refraction!

Now you know why I’m such a bore at parties. While everyone else discusses recipes or the antics of their children, I’m captured by the drip of water on the houseplant. Talk to me at your own risk.

It’s a question of attractions. Water molecules like hanging out with other water molecules more than they like hanging out with air molecules. Like seeks like. The liquid contracts. An inward force of attraction creates a surface tension at the crossroads with air. Don’t worry. Beyond the metaphor I don’t really understand it, either.

In my next life I’m going to be either a gospel singer or a physicist. If a physicist, I’ll still be an outrageous bore at parties but at least I’ll understand the forces behind what I’m seeing. If a gospel singer, I’ll be great fun at parties and I won’t for a moment think of the forces at play. I’ll sing with the power of unquestioned faith.

Our backyard is a sanctuary. The birds love it. The chipmunks race along the fence line. The bunnies eat the grass and lead Dogga on wild-bunny-chases. The pond gurgles. The plants thrive. All are interfaces of forces. Water and air. Life playing with life.

It gives me plenty of fodder to think about. And, plenty to love.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HOSTA

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Define It [on KS Friday]

“Dangerously soft-hearted. Derogatory. Informal.” Thus, the great book of words begins its definition of Bleeding heart. It’s no wonder we’re value-confused. Poke around the word “compassionate” and you’ll find a string of synonyms that are soft-hearted without the informal-derogatory in the mix: sympathetic, pitying, caring, understanding, empathetic…

Qualities to be admired.

If I care for you, if I feel your pain, if I consider your feelings, if I make space for your grief, if I feel sadness for your suffering…am I dangerously-soft-hearted or caring? The associated verb that pops up again and again is “to feel”. The portal to standing in another person’s shoes is through feeling.

We caution our little tykes not to let their emotions cloud their judgments. It’s good advice when understood that emotion…feelings…are necessary to arrive at sound judgement. Mind and heart are indivisible dance partners. Separating the two is a recipe for psychosis. And meanness.

Does compassion cloud or clarify? In the Christian tradition a bleeding heart, the bleeding heart, is the spirit that nourishes. “The salvation of humanity.”

Empathy is an epicenter of artistry. Love is a word of the heart, soft or otherwise.

It’s quite a mix of meanings! I suppose that’s why the wise advice found in all wisdom traditions is to find the middle way. “Balance” as a Buddhist might recommend. “Get neutral” as divemaster Terry instructed. Parcival; pierce the veil with the arrow aimed straight through the middle. There, the grail is found.

A bleeding heart is a plant, too. Beautiful and it always evokes a sweet sigh from Kerri. Life giving. Instant presence. Now, isn’t that an apt example of a spirit that nourishes? Try to find that in a dictionary!

kerri’s albums are available on iTunes or streaming on Pandora and iHeart Radio

FREEFALLIN’ IN LOVE © 2002 kerri sherwood, sisu music productions inc. (Note: this is not jazz, nor does rumblefish own any copyright or publishing rights to this song).

read Kerri’s blogpost about BLEEDING HEARTS

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Cheer The Artist [on Merely A Thought Monday]

Even with our earplugs, the music was loud. Our son was the artist on stage, his spontaneous composition making movement irresistible. We danced. The crowd whirled and cheered. I was proud. It was the first time we’d seen him perform live. He was fully in his element. This is what he is supposed to do: Make music that sets people free.

In our current world I can imagine nothing more potent or necessary. I wish his music might reach into the cold heart of Texas, dispel the manufactured fears of Florida. I hope his music rattles the foundations of the tightly held and airless “norm”. It is imaginary. Norm depends upon where you stand and, last I knew, there were many places to choose – all of them central to one. I will cheer on the day that his music pierces the veil of man-made-ugly-and-exclusive rules that are attributed to one angry god or another.

The best artists practicing the best of their artistry erase boundaries and lead people into their shared, common center: a place called love. It’s a boundless place, a place where people celebrate each other, where people dance for the joy of being alive, for the deep appreciation of being-just-who-they-are: unique in all the universe.

I saw it this weekend. Of the artist and the bountiful revelers I can truly say I am Proud.

read Kerri’s blogpost about PROUD

Dance [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

We find that the balm to most of life’s greatest challenges is to dance. Anxious? Dance! Confused? Dance! Worried? Dance!

In truth, most of our worries, anxieties, and confusions don’t have a solution or a single answer. They are passing circumstance. Monkey mind run amok. Unsolvable dilemmas. In the face of uncertainty, quandary, or existential mess, it feels really good to dance. And that’s precisely the point. No sense to be made? Dance. Dance. Dance with the one you love! In the kitchen. In the front yard. In the airport.

And, isn’t that the name of the balm! The epicenter of existence! The purpose of life? To dance with the one you love. Preferably a slow dance. There’s no reason to rush when a solution feels so good.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DANCE WITH ME

smack-dab. © 2023 kerri sherwood

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Show Us The Way [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Our Sweet Boy is getting older. A few night’s ago, for the first time, I watched him struggle to stand up; for a moment his back legs refused to cooperate. I felt a hot rush of panic, Kerri caught my eye to acknowledge that she saw it too. And then, in a miracle moment of instant transformation, he caught sight of Boris-the-cat next door and all signs of decrepitude vanished in his hot-dogga-dogga-rush to bark at the window. Crazy Boy was back.

He’s always had two distinct personalities: Crazy Boy in the daylight hours and Sweet Boy after the sunset. Each evening, Crazy Boy herds us to the living room. Once we are settled safely into the couch, the signal that his duties for the day are done, he collapses on the floor between the living room and dining room. When next he raises his head, Crazy Boy is gone. The spirit of Sweet Boy fills his furry being. Our now gentle dog checks in for a head-pet, and nestles in beneath our feet.

It’s the ratio that is pulling at my heart. Once, Crazy Boy dominated the hours of the day, wearing deep circle-paths in the backyard in his exuberant patrol. In the past year, there is a new more-equal balance of Sweet Boy and Crazy Boy hours. His ebullient patrol still wreaks havoc with the backyard flora and fauna, just not so often. He’s become more content to observe his vast territories from the cool of the deck rather than continually clear the yard of marauders. Now he sleeps more of the day away.

When we are away on errands he sleeps in the sunroom by the backdoor but is joyful and bouncing by the time we get the key in the lock. He is the world’s best welcoming committee. Yesterday, we were completely inside the house before he was aware that we were home. “Some watchdog!” we quipped. Once again he struggled to get up. Kerri knelt by his side, ruffling his ears, she said, “Don’t worry, Dogga, our joints hurt, too.”

We’ve joked that Dogga had a tough assignment with us. A hyper sensitive dog with two overly sensitive artists. He’s been part weather vane – I know when Kerri or I are about to storm because Dogga looks at us and heads to the bathroom, his quiet space. We’ve averted many-a-storm because Dogga turns and slinks toward his sanctuary. “It’s okay!” we call after him. Not wanting to upset the dog has taught us how to not upset each other.

“I guess we’re learning how to grow old together,” Kerri said.

And Dogga – as always – is showing us the way.

read Kerri’s blogpost about CRAZY SWEET BOY

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Tip The Cup [on KS Friday]

“We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out.” ~ Ray Bradbury

My grandmother famously hid a horse in her kitchen when the truck from the glue factory showed up to take it away. What makes that story remarkable to me is that my grandmother was 4’7″ tall when she stood on her tiptoes. Although her physical size was diminutive, her spirit was grande.

Another detail of the story that confounds me: from the backdoor, there were stairs up into her kitchen. And then a hard left turn. It was no small feat getting a horse into the kitchen. Sometimes I ponder what it must have looked like, watching this teeny-tiny woman hurriedly coaxing a big-big horse through the backdoor, up the stairs and into the kitchen. I wonder if she shushed it as she peeked out the kitchen window, waiting for the truck to drive away. I can’t help but laugh heartily every time I imagine the scene.

Once, she and my mom drove me to college in Santa Fe. On the way we stopped to have lunch. I was grateful for their efforts, driving me several hours to school, so I reached to pick up the check and my grandma pinned my hand to the table with her fork. We burst out laughing. She was fast and left no room for debate.

The sun streaming into the farmhouse brought grandma to mind. Standing in the kitchen, looking at all the food we’d prepared, the mountain of snacks and beverages Kate and Jerry hauled from Minnesota, the bins of cookies and sweets, I thought, “This place is just like grandma’s purse.” Her purse looked like a punching bag and she could produce anything you needed at anytime from that bag. Screwdriver? Yep. Saltines? Yep. Duct tape. Of course! Water? How much do you need? It was the clown car of purses. Were I to be lost in the desert and had one precious wish to be granted, I’d wish for my grandma’s purse.

Tiny woman. Endless supply of love and support. She knew how to fill our cups. She knew how to tip herself over so all the beautiful stuff could rush out.

where i’m from/blueprint for my soul © 1997 kerri sherwood

Kerri’s albums are available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora & iHeart Radio

read Kerri’s blogpost about SUN IN THE FARMHOUSE

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