Magic Things [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” ~ W.B. Yeats

Standing at the back of the theatre watching a performance of a play that he’d directed, Roger whispered a frustration that most artists whisper at some point in their career: the audience will never get all of the layers of story. Very few will appreciate the totality of the hard work, the heart, the intention, the nuance…So much goes unseen, un-felt.

There is, of course, only one response to his whispered frustration. They may not get it all but you – the artist – does. Sometimes I think the skill of the artist is to slow the world down so that they can more fully see it. Or, more accurately, slow down so they can see the magic in the world. And then their work is to help their community see it, too. The great gift of artistry is that the work is never finished. The process – the capacity to perceive and share more of the magic – is never ending.

I regularly ponder the impact of the pace of work and life in the age of the internet. It’s a raging river of information that never slows. In fact, “progress” is understood as an increase of speed. We worship at the business alter of efficiency-and-effectiveness; people are rewarded for striding at an ever faster pace – so anything, like artistry, that suggests slowing down might be beneficial, is radical. There is a reason that an audience might not “get it”.

I’ve been aware this week, as we deal with the impacts of the snow and cold on our house and car, that we’ve mostly unplugged. Necessity has made us present. It is not an accident that the prompt-photos for this Melange week are mostly close-ups. Detail. We’ve been staring at the miracle of the icicles. The patterns in the snow clusters on the Adirondack chairs have captivated us.

Yeats knew only pen and ink. He stared at blank pages and not at flickering dynamic screens that pulled his attention this way and that and filled his mental bucket with information. He did not sort through hundreds of emails each day or navigate the mind numbing onslaught of social media. Yeats took walks and stared out windows to clear his mind. He sought other poets and thinkers, he spent time with them so he might challenge and expand his ideas, his perceptions, his capacity to see and feel.

The world of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper, knows that our senses are so inundated with information and noise and stimulus that we are less and less able to sense anything at all, especially the magic things. We are distracted, often misinformed and thoroughly entertained – and less and less capable of sustaining a span of attention, let alone sharpening our senses.

Sharpened senses – otherwise known as presence – opens the door to the ubiquitous magic things, things that patiently wait for us to slow down enough to fully appreciate them.

BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL © 1997 Kerri Sherwood

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

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Spell-Words [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Wow. Siri so easily sent to us something that Kerri and I are struggling to send: good vibes. Warm little boosts of joy and confidence.

A few months ago I started writing a picture-book featuring Chicken Marsala, our imaginary child who pops in at inopportune moments. The struggle to send warm-boosts-of-joy in the midst of a national dumpster fire brought this Chicken-snippet to mind:

I confess. I am sometimes hard on myself. On a day that I was feeling particularly hopeless, Chicken appeared behind me, mimicking my gloomy face and sad posture. His arrival startled me. I was about to shout at him not to scare me like that, but then I recognized myself in his sullen rendition. It made me laugh. “I don’t look like that!” I protested. He giggled and I have to say, as a side note, that his giggle always kills me. He giggles like a chipmunk. At least that’s what it sounds like to me. “Adorable!” as K-Dot says.

Later I thanked him for helping me lift the dark cloud on my brain. “Everyone should have a Chicken that arrives just in the nick of time to the break the dark spell!” I said.

“What’s a spell?” he asked, not at all interested in my gratitude.

“Well, it’s a kind of magic,” I said.

Magic?” he asked, alarmed and confused. “Magic made you feel bad?”

 “A spell is magic made of words,” I tried to explain. “And sometimes words make people feel bad.”

“Who made spell-words on you?” he asked, alarmed.

I admitted, “I guess I did.”

There’s a distinction between the spell-words we cast on ourselves and the spell-words cast upon us by others. By media. How else do we explain maga-mind other than as a spell cast on otherwise good people by a pathological liar, magnified by a malicious fox? How else do we make sense of those who voted for the nation’s suicide all the while proclaiming themselves as the saviors of democracy?

I would love to send you warm little boosts of joy and confidence. Maybe someday. In the meantime, I will continue to ask my angry fearful brothers and sisters across this land to consider the question Chicken asked me: “Who made spell-words on you?”

Like Chicken, I am alarmed.

“Everyone should have a Chicken that arrives just in the nick of time to the break the dark spell!”

read Kerri’s blogpost about SIRI

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Goblins After All [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“To me, every hour of the day and night is an unspeakably perfect miracle.” ~Walt Whitman

It’s called Goblin Valley and for good reason. It’s a vast landscape of rock sprites of all shapes and sizes. They beckon. They are impossible to deny. We tried not to run down the hill but could not wait to frolic among them.

We tried but failed to maintain our adulthood in their midst. That is their magic. That is the power of their spell: unfettered playfulness. We giggled and rollicked as we explored their world. The goblins conjure an irresistible charm that prohibits all serious matters. Their enchantment provides an immediate return to childhood, a refreshing return to wild imagination. Time dissipates. Lists dissolve. Future fear and past regrets melt away; they are no match for the goblin’s mojo.

We were with them for a moment or an hour, I do not know. These mischievous beings restored our spirits, enlivened our fancy, and then released their hold on us. Having planted the seed of our return, they knew with certainty that we would someday be back. We will not be able to help ourselves from answering their summons. Their call to our better nature, their invocation of our artistic child-heart-enthusiasm, cannot be denied.

We are, like them, goblins after all.

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Our Better Natures [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

MM read somewhere that the use of periods in texting is considered “aggressive” and ellipses are “confusing”… He puzzled over the abundant and mysterious abbreviations. The lack of punctuation. He asked, “Is it any wonder folks are having trouble understanding each other these days?”

Miscommunication. Misunderstanding. Thought abbreviation. Misinformation. It seems that human beings are a hot mess of babble-confusion.

If, like me, you seek experiences that restore your faith in humanity, my best suggestion is to go find a butterfly house. Pass through the protective curtain into the butterfly sanctuary and all the layers of discord, reduction, ill-will, eyes-to-screens…drop off in a nanosecond. The butterflies have the power of bringing us back to our selves, to our essence. Pass through the curtain and all eyes look up. Pass through the curtain and courtesy is restored. Generosity is immediate. Social armor falls away; people – complete strangers – easily talk with each other. Smiles grace the faces of young and old alike.

In the butterfly house, standing still is valued. There is no hurry. There is nowhere-else-to-be. Watching where you step a necessity. Making space for others a given. Giggles, cooing and quiet excitement are the norm. No deciphering required.

In the butterfly house, no one has any trouble understanding each other. No one has any trouble helping others; the focus is outward to “something bigger”, the butterflies.

Susan told me that the butterfly wings are actually scales. “They’re literally dragons!” she smiled as a zebra stripped dragon circled her, looking for a place to land.

More than once I heard someone say, “They are magic!”

The magic, I thought but did not say, is how quickly the butterflies bring forth our better natures.

read Kerri’s blog about BUTTERFLIES

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Magic Is Found There [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Noah Lyles, in an interview after winning the gold medal in the 100m, asked a question meant to inspire all dreamers to ask of themselves, “Why not me?” He has worked hard to arrive at a place of confidence and self-belief.

I appreciate a sentiment shared by free-solo climber Alex Honnold when asked how he handles fear. He said that he never attempts to conquer fear, rather, he expands his comfort zone.

Expand your comfort zone. Ask, “Why not me?”

Like almost everyone I know, I have had my bouts with imposter syndrome. I’ve filled my cup with self-doubt. I’ve been certain of my unworthiness. I’ve run from the magic.

To ask, “Why not me?” is to let go of the comparison with others. It is to set down the never-win-self-measuring stick. It is to run your race, paint your painting, play your song…love your gift.

To expand your comfort zone rather than fight your fear is to shake hands with yourself. To stop the inner fight and work with your magic instead of running from it. It is to make a friend of fear, to understand its value, to retire the inner-foe so you might place it in the proper perspective. Fear dances in a made-up future. An ever-expanding comfort zone guarantees presence in the moment. Magic is found there. You are found there.

There have been many loud voices in my life (inside and outside my head) telling me that I can’t. They are the voices of mediocrity. The voices of fear. And then there are the few precious quiet voices that say, “Yes, you can,” or ask “Why not…?” Those voices, both inside and out, are the voices of magic. They are the voices of joy. Listen to those voices. Unlike the others, they will never lead you astray.

read Kerri’s blogpost about MAGIC

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Enter Happiness [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

The day brought to mind Avalon, the mythical island hidden from sight by the spells of the wise women who rule there or perhaps by charms cast by King Arthur’s sister, Morgaine. It is where Arthur was taken after he was gravely wounded in battle. To heal or to die. It depends on which version of the legend that you read. As I watched her take the picture I wondered if Avalon could pop-up off the coast of Lake Michigan. If it can be spelled and disappear from sight it certainly can be spelled to appear wherever Morgaine chooses. Magic is magic. Possibility is open-ended until doubt or belief renders it otherwise.

While I was studying the photo, pondering what I might write, Kerri played a song by John Denver. I didn’t recognize it and looked over her shoulder. It was the last song he wrote before he died. Yellowstone (Coming Home). He did not know it would be his last song. He had no expectation of dying on the day his plane dropped from the sky into the ocean. I have sometimes wondered what would be my last painting or the final piece I might write. In my imagining, I always know. “This is the last,” I think and set down my brush, one more step in preparing to enter the mist.

I read somewhere that the real key to happiness is to lose your self-importance. It’s counter-intuitive in a culture that identifies through individual achievement. Climbing the ladder. Top dog. Happiness as a by-product of achievement and possession. Yet, it seems simple if you think about it. Happiness, not as an acquisition but as as an aspect of presence. Happiness enters when we are present in our moment and, in order to actually be present in the moment, the eyes and heart and mind need to let go of the desire to be other places, future or past. Happiness finds us when enough is truly enough and everything else, all the imagined importance, the yearning and the lack, disappear into the fog of time’s illusion.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FOG

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Take Heart! [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Look carefully at the top of this photograph and the story will become clear. There is a giant pursuing this caterpillar.

The fuzzy critter must have taken something from the giant. A golden goose or magic potion for transformation. And then, in the dead of night, made a run for it. I’m not sure how but the caterpillar climbed down the bean stalk or leapt the crevasse or…navigated whatever obstacle separates the land of giants from the land of future butterflies.

It might seem hopeless for the racing caterpillar -as is true in all worthy stories. The fuzzy hero seems doomed. The giant might in a single stride catch it and reclaim the stolen treasure.

But take heart! Carefully note that the giant is standing still! It has yet to spy the fleeing larva. Just beyond the photo-frame is a field of tall grasses! A meadow without end! A chance of escape, though not yet visible to us, is within reach!

Imagine it! The giant catches sight of the caterpillar as it rushes for the cover of the meadow. He steps, his foot thundering just behind the caterpillar, bouncing the vulnerable critter off its feet. The giant reaches! The caterpillar rolls and in a miracle of impossibility, regains its footing and in a desperate leap disappears into the grasses, wriggles into the shrubbery.

The giant howls and thrashes at the tall grasses, pulling apart the Milkweed, tearing up the Wild Carrot, to no avail. The caterpillar, against all odds, escapes.

And now that it has safely absconded with the magic potion, the golden goose, what will it do with the power of this great unknown? What possible future does it imagine this adventure will bring?

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CATERPILLAR

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Life Spilling Out [David’s blog on KS Friday]

If this beautiful winter skeleton of Queen Anne’s Lace was a sculpture – my sculpture – it would be titled The Impossibility of Containment. Trying to hold on to the magic movement of life. It spills out in every direction.

I once had an espresso martini in Aspen, Colorado. It was the single best drink I’ve ever had. It was so good I did something I never do: I had two. I savored every sip. Occasionally since then, in other watering holes on earth that offer a drink by the same name, I’ve tried to replicate the past. To no avail. The bar in Aspen no longer exists so, like a good sand painting, my espresso martini revelry lives where it belongs, on the wind and in my yearning.

This week I completed another trip around the sun. I look in the mirror and am sometimes surprised by the face that stares back at me. My eyes remain consistent, yet what my eyes are capable of now seeing has changed dramatically. Although I occasionally yearn for my younger face, I would never exchange my current eyes for my former sight.

I see possibility spilling out in every direction. Simplicity. I see extraordinary friends all around. Each morning I open my eyes to the one face that fills my heart to bursting. I am, as Nietzsche suggests, loving my fate. Every pothole, every mountain-to-climb, every seeming obstacle, every frustration, a magic moment, a heart-seed leading to who-knows-where. Life spilling out in every direction.

I’m practicing the skill of opening wide my arms, welcoming the impossibility of containment.

Sweet Ballet/Released From The Heart © 1995 Kerri Sherwood

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

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Tend The Daisy Magic [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

The simple daisy is central to our relationship mythology. She held a daisy the first day I met her at the airport. A few weeks later I flew in a second time to test whether or not I’d merely imagined the power of our first meeting – and she met me with an armload of daisies. She carried daisies the day we were married. On special days we opt for daisies over roses every time [note: daisies are nigh-on impossible to find in February. The only time I sent Kerri roses for Valentines Day they arrived exploded; naked stems in a pile of rose petals. No doubt a message from Daisy].

Each year on the trail we await the arrival of the first daisy. “LookIt!!!” Kerri sings, “It’s here!” Simple joys. Simple celebrations that touch back to our root-story. I delight that we attend to and nurture these source connections. With intention we keep them open and vibrant. It is how we “story” our life, translating moments like the first daisy sighting as an affirmation or our togetherness. A powerful meta-story: Mother Nature says to us, “This is good.”

The other day, walking through Costco, we passed the flower cooler. Kerri was having a-very-bad-no-good-day. Hot steam was swirling above her head. Small children sensed the coming cauldron and scurried from the aisle. I ducked into the flower-fridge hoping to find a bundle of daisies in the hope that they might help her find more peaceful thoughts. There were none but to her puzzled look I said, “I wanted to give you some daisies.”

The impact was immediate. Daisy-calm washed over her, squelching her inner fire. She smiled. Our root story rushed in, a restorative perspective that released her monster-mind-madness. It is the power of a well-tended root story. Peace of mind in the midst of a storm. Mother Nature reached through Costco’s concrete floor, wrapping us in daisy-magic, reaffirming, “This is good.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about DAISIES

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Celebrate The Symphony [on Two Artists Tuesday]

The return of the frogs. No, it’s not the title of a b-grade-horror film. It’s one of our favorite rites of spring. Their chorus is deafening, a sound celebration of the season’s cycle into renewal. We look forward to and celebrate the day of their return.

A short month ago we walked across a snowy field, still a bit in shock at the scrape-clearing of the tall grasses and brush. Broken bits of stick and root poked through the snow. The picture of devastation. In just a few short weeks, the field became a bog – evidently the perfect performance hall for the musician-frogs signaling life’s return with their playing.

They’ve always played in this spot along the trail but this year their symphony is made particularly poignant by the seeming wreckage of their environment. This year, to our ears, they perform a rousing song of perseverance. A composition of resilience.

They’ve also awakened a question in us. We ask it every year but this time it is made more mysterious because the bog is exposed. We can see everything except the frogs. The air is alive with sound while the water is still. We’ve stood, awash in the noisy vibration, yet can see nary a ripple in the surface.

How is it possible to shake the limbs of trees with joyous sound without disturbing the fen? The musicians are invisible.

There can only be one explanation: They are magic, these frogs in their spring renewal, popple-free playing while stirring our hearts and imaginations.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FROG BOG