Reach The Moon [on KS Friday]

and goodnight copy

Today is Kirsten’s birthday. “My daughter is turning 30 today…” Kerri said, disbelief washing over her. In non-pandemic times we’d most likely have driven to Colorado to see Kirsten – even if it was only for a day or a meal. I’ve learned that motherhood knows no limits where love for a child is concerned. “She might as well be on the moon,” Kerri whispered.

Not being able to see Kirsten, Kerri hatched a plot that involved over 60 people, a kind of virtual surprise party. For weeks she’d secretly collected love and birthday wishes from friends and family from all over the country. She spent the entire day yesterday assembling the wishes into a slideshow. There was a second slideshow with virtual gifts.  They were the perfect projects for a mom trying to reach the moon.

I worked all day in the studio (staying out of the way – it was perfect for me, too) and could hear the giggles, the gasps, and the curses of slideshow creation. Every so often I’d sneak a peak and watch her building the rocket ship to carry momma’s love through space and time. It’s a paradox, this gentle intensity. This thing called motherhood. Composer of lullabies. Protector of babes. Dedicated traveler through space and time.

 

AND GOODNIGHT on the album AND GOODNIGHT…A LULLABY ALBUM is available on iTunes

 

read Kerri’s blog post about AND GOODNIGHT

 

MotherDaughter (full)

 

 

and goodnight/and goodnight…a lullaby album ©️ 2005 kerri sherwood

 

 

Count Six [on KS Friday]

silent days 6 feet copy

“I am bound to everyone on this planet by a trail of six people.” ~John Guare, Six Degrees of Separation

Six degrees of separation: the notion that all people on earth are only six – or fewer – social connections away from each other. A swelling world population. A shrinking world. Has there ever been a time in which our interconnectivity was more apparent?

Six feet: the distance we are told is generally safe enough to keep my breath from entering your body and vice versa. Distance slows but in no way interrupts our interconnectivity.

The number six in numerology symbolizes the caretaker. It is also known as the motherhood number: caring, healing, sacrificing, protecting. I find it oddly comforting that distance and separation in measures of six are associated – at least symbolically – with caring, protecting, sacrificing for others. Six is other-focused. Six, I just read, is the glue that keeps a community together.

Last night we sat on the deck in silence. Listening. Earlier, during our walk, we spoke little. We mostly listened to the creaking of the trees, the sounds of the birds, the chorus of frogs. In a pandemic, we are learning, there is very little to say that isn’t rooted in  fear. So, we say very little. We hold silence, a vigil of sorts. The silence turns our minds toward listening, toward living. Caring.

This is the warm quiet ripple that rolls through Kerri’s SILENT DAYS: caring. The number of motherhood. A symbolic six. A turn toward living. Inextricably bound together.

 

SILENT DAYS on the album BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL is available in iTunes

 

read Kerri’s blog post about SILENT DAYS

 

 

luminaria website box copy

 

silent days/blueprint for my soul ©️ 1996 kerri sherwood

Will Her Safe Passage [on DR Thursday]

MotherDaughter morsel copy

a morsel: motherdaughter

Lately I am learning about parenthood. Actually, to be more specific, I am learning about the power of motherhood. Even though her children have flown the nest and are living vibrant lives a thousand miles in either direction, Kerri senses their movements. She feels their triumphs and their pains as if they were her own. We have a game: mention Kirsten’s name in casual conversation and she will almost certainly text or call within minutes. It is uncanny. The daughter and the mother are deeply connected.

This winter, Kirsten taught snowboarding lessons in Telluride and coached a team in Aspen. It required a four and a half hour drive on Friday night to Aspen and a Sunday night return trip to Telluride. Friday and Sunday evenings, Kerri tracked Kirsten’s travel path. Snowy roads. Ice. Avalanches. The mother’s eye casting a cloak of protection over the daughter, willing her safe passage. Holding her in a mother’s sheltering embrace.

Anyone who doubts the power of sympathetic magic has never been a parent, a mother willing the universe to keep her girl safe.

 

 

read Kerri’s blog post about MOTHERDAUGHTER

 

drc website header copy

 

arches shadows k&d website box copy

 

motherdaughter ©️ 2019 david robinson

Recognize It [on Not-So-Flawed Wednesday]

beaky text copy

I love this text. It is from 93 year old Beaky to her daughter. The specific context is not important. What I love is the universality of this sentiment, a text  every mother across the ages might have written to their children. It is a text Kerri could write to Kirsten or Craig. What mother does not know more than they say, think more than they speak, notice much more than their underestimating children realize?

I’ve learned, as I watch Kerri not-say things to her children, letting them make their own mistakes and untangle their own webs, that the effort involved in not-speaking is herculean.

Sisu sometimes requires silence. When every impulse in a mother’s body is to reach, Sisu sometimes demands stillness.

As a child who routinely underestimates his mother, Beaky’s text gives sends chills up my spine. I’ve certainly made a mess of things and I can only imagine the fortitude (unrecognized by me) my mother displayed – and continues to display – by letting me fall down. Sisu. Sisu. Sisu.

Of course, the flip side of the coin is that the interruption-of-the-reach, the silence-in-the-midst-of-knowing, comes from a deeper mom-like-faith. Mothers know that the great trip-and-fall-down moments come with some necessary pain but will always end with a return to standing, a re-entry to the game.  It’s a cycle. It’s how moms everywhere awaken Sisu in their children. Like all good life cycles, it’s a paradox, to be sure.

The second thing I love about Beaky’s text? She signs her dope-slap to her daughter with ‘Mom.” This love-thing is tough!

 

read Kerri’s blog post about BEAKY’S TEXT

 

momma, d & k website box copy

 

Give Them Dandelions [on KS Thursday]

a mother’s day gift from studio melange on ks friday.

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FFOD product box THIS BAR copy

Some things need no interpretation and this song, going into Mother’s Day, is one of those. So, from studio melange, a gift-song from a mom, Kerri, to mothers everywhere.

FISTFUL OF DANDELIONS available on iTunes and CDBaby

FISTFUL OF DANDELION gifts and cool products

ffod square pillow copy

read kerri’s blog post about FISTFUL OF DANDELIONS

www.kerrianddavid.com

fistful of dandelions ©️ 1999 kerri sherwood

fistful of dandelion designs and products ©️ 2018 kerri sherwood & david robinson

Hold Them Close [it’s DR Thursday]

a painting morsel for your DR Thursday from studio melange.

cropped I Will Hold You - Society 6 copy 3

For the entire span of my artistic life I have painted mother’s holding their children. I don’t know why . Once, years ago, I set up the many mothers-and-children paintings that lived in my studio and sat for a long time pondering them. I liked them all. As Horatio has said about my work, they were/are motion in stillness.  Beyond that, I have no words. Most of the important stuff, I’ve learned, lives beyond language.

Kerri chose this morsel in honor of the coming of Mother’s Day and calls this morsel, “Closely I Will Hold You.” From studio melange, a quiet nod of gratitude to moms everywhere.

CLOSELY I WILL HOLD YOU gifts & products

CLOSELY I WILL HOLD YOU product box BAR copy 2

read kerri’s blog post about I WILL HOLD YOU CLOSE

www.kerrianddavid.com

Closely I Will Hold You – designs & products ©️ 2018 david robinson & kerri sherwood

I Will Hold You In The Storm ©️ 2017 david robinson

 

Two Artists Tuesday

CHILDRENarethebestwithframe jpegI knew from a very young age that I would never have children of my own. I knew. It was an intuitive knowing, not an intellectual resolve. My life, I knew, would be a wandering through the wasteland. I would tilt at windmills. I would seek for things that can never be found. Children, I believed (and still believe), needed the kind of stability that a restless seeker like me would never have been capable of providing.

Last night we went to the foreign film festival and saw an inspiring, funny and poignant Irish film called Sing Street. The ingenue explains to her suitor, an aspiring musician, that love is happy-sad. To love is to experience both.

I now have two amazing step-children. They were adults when I came into their lives and both live far away. I am slowly developing relationships with them, creating memories with them. I listen with fascination (and sometimes horror) as Kerri converses with her friends, mothers all, about their children.  There is so much suffering, to want to be near their children and yet want them to fulfill their dreams and fly. They want to be present and available BUT not too present or available; those wacky offspring want full support AND they want mom to stay out of their business. Motherhood, I’m learning, is a bottomless yearning, a constant ache, and there is nothing better. There is nothing more fulfilling.

Fathers, I’m observing, are mostly confounded. They shake their heads, not so much in agreement, but in concession. Their spouses are capable of reconciling and celebrating the ambiguity of parenthood. Fatherhood, it seems, is a surrender to the unsolvable. A submission to the mystery. The ache is no less profound. The joy is no less intense.

Happy – sad. A full spectrum of living. Love. From studio melange on this Two Artists Tuesday.

CHILDREN ARE THE BEST THING merchandise

TwoArtists childrenAre TOTE BAG  TwoArtists ChildrenAre FRAMED PRINT  TwoArtists ChildrenAre PILLOW

kerrianddavid.com

read Kerri’s thoughts about this Two Artists Tuesday

children are the best thing ©️ 2016 kerri sherwood & david robinson

Look To The Living Thing

my latest, as yet un-named, painting

Kerri looked at this painting and told me it captures how she feels when our daughter is hurting and calls home. “Describe that feeling to me?” I asked. She pointed to the painting, and said, “Just like that.”

Some things are universal and understood regardless of political affiliation or religious belief. What does a mother need to know to support her child? The political investments and religious doctrines are abstractions, separations. Motherhood is direct; it lives beyond the capacity of language to capture and articulate. It is the impulse to unity. It transcends all divisions. It knows nothing of conceptions like the rational and irrational.

Jim and I just had one of our famous phone calls. Our discussion romped through many fields but we returned again and again to the notion that the important things in life cannot be rushed. For instance, relationship takes time. Relationship takes attention and tending. It is fluid and dynamic so it is nearly impossible to slap a single word-label on it. It changes. It grows. In a single day it can pass through many descriptors. Dog-Dog can drive me crazy in one moment and melt my heart the next. The important stuff, like relationship, is not static or containable. It is not a concept. It is a living thing.

So What?

The best language can do is point to the living. Language can describe experience but can never be experience. Language, of necessity, reduces while the important stuff – like relationship – like love – expands. Language, as a tool of abstraction, can never be true. It can only point toward truth. Language separates. Truth is like relationship. Truth is a living thing, dynamic and changing. To be known, it must, like motherhood, be experienced directly.

Again, so what?

Direct experience is always (obviously) personal. Truth is not so easily captured. Is it exclusively liberal or conservative? Is it Christian? Buddhist? Is it unique to Islam, Judaism, or the Tao? Leave the city lights some night, take a good long look at the stars, and realize what you are staring into.

Last week we rushed 20 to the hospital. He couldn’t breathe. He walked to the edge of the abyss and looked into it. We watched him teeter on the edge. As we watched, all other concerns, pursuits, bills, frustrations, news,…, dropped away. The stuff of separations and abstractions went to dust in the face of the actual. Ask me what I experienced watching 20 grasp for life? There are no words. Ask him what he experienced in those long hours and he will shrug his shoulders. There are no words – but it is clear in his eyes.

The important stuff, the stuff beyond words, leaps the boundaries of separation and abstraction; all else falls away. The important stuff always leads to a universal place, a common ground. It is a beautiful paradox.  As a test, try this: if language can reach it, ask this very important and often absent question: Is it really true or merely another entrenched point of view?

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