OY! [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

In an act of divine intervention, we removed the fallen “J” from the message on the ledge high above our kitchen sink. It now reads “OY”. It delights me each time I look up. I am in search of a matching exclamation point. The kitchen-statement-of-our-times won’t be complete without it.

Oy: an interjection to express exasperation or dismay. As in, “Oy, what a mess!”

Oy: the contraction of “OY VEY!”

Oy (noun): a type of harsh, aggressive punk music popular in the 1970’s and 80’s. “OY! OY! OY! BANG, BANG! CRASH! OY! The music of dismay.

A few months ago I told Kerri that to keep my sanity I might have to resort to draw cartoons of the news of the day. Making fun of the obviously-ridiculous is low hanging fruit but making myself laugh is a high priority these days. In keeping-with-the-wisdom-of-the-kitchen I will call my cartoon: OY! As in, “Oy, what a mess!” or “Oy, this ignorance is killing me!” Master Marsh tells me that he has a box-full-of-dumpster-fire-cartoon-ideas! OY! OY! OY! BANG, BANG! CRASH! OY!

I’m pestering Kerri to channel her discord-at-our-times into a new music of dismay. So far she’s rejecting my pester outright. I’ll keep at it. This world needs a good heart standing strong and singing into the storm. I hope one day to report the moment she shares her new music with me and asks, “What do you think?”

It will put the “J” back into my “Oy.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about OY

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In All The World [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

There’s nothing better in all the world.

Love is like that. It’s the way it’s supposed to work.

And aren’t we beyond fortunate?

read Kerri’s blogpost about DOGGA

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Work On It [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

In my pre-Kerri-era, I took a 20 minute power nap every afternoon. I’d hit the studio floor at about 3:15, snooze like a champ, and be ready to go for the rest of the day. All that changed when I moved east. All of my work patterns and life patterns changed.

Although she definitely does not see herself as a nap person, occasionally, after a loooong night awake, I have been able to coax her into a dedicated-nap-fest. And, as a rule, she is fast asleep before my head hits the pillow. It tickles me. I confess: I am plotting to expand her definition of herself to include more naps. I tell her it’s a sign of sophistication. I tell her naps are sign of arriving at adulthood. I’ll tell her anything as long as we eventually arrive at the return of the power nap. The only thing better is a good hot bath.

In time. I’m working on it.

read Kerri’s blogpost about NAPS

smack-dab © 2024 kerrianddavid.com

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Count On It [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

It’s true. There’s rarely been a punch-clock in either of our careers. No one who actually holds the service imperative of a mission-driven-not-for-profit counts minutes and hours because it would only serve to confirm what you already know: if you are good at what you do, you’re working for pennies-per-hour. There’s a reason it’s called a not-for-profit. There’s a reason they call it a service organization instead of a business. Those folks dedicated to the gods of efficiency and effectiveness, those bottom-line devotees, can never fully grok it. It’s almost impossible to see actual service through an accounting focus and a forest of numbers. It’s very possible – in fact, predictable – to strangle a service organization by attempting to make it run like a business.

It’s also true that we used to be night owls. There was a time that my best work, my most productive time in the studio, began at 10pm and ended with the sunrise. There was a time when we took midnight walks. Now, we are transformed. Night is for sleeping. Or at least the attempt at sleeping. We delight (I exaggerate) in rising at the crack of dawn, the birds sing us awake. Dedicated 9-to-5’ers!

read Kerri’s blogpost about 9-to-5

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Maple Dreams [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Tiny helicopters capable of catching the wind and carrying the seeds of a maple, each a pod of wild-tree-possibility.

They require something more than luck to let-go and launch into space. With no control over the direction or force of the breezes, once aloft, they twirl to their seemingly random destiny. Some will find fertile soil and ample light. Most will not. The strategy of the mother tree is nothing more or less than to freely scatter potential, to litter the area with maple-dreams. The evolution of hope.

Some pods never launch just as some ideas never take hold. No matter. Creativity in all its permutations is an infinite game. The idea that lands in just the right spot at just the right moment may, in time, grow into a mighty tree. It may not. The perfection is in the process of plenty, not in the illusion of a single flawless ideal. “Throw many pots.”

On her piano is a notebook of songs and compositions. Hieroglyphs to me but she need only open her burgeoning notebook, decipher the magic writing, and play a song or composition capable of making me weep. Or smile. Or feel something so deeply that I lack words to express it. Her compositions are pods waiting to launch. Pages of plenty, ideas-in-sound, waiting for the force of the unpredictable wind to carry them…somewhere.

She is like the might-maple-mom. Freely scattering potential, littering our lives and those around us with ideas in word and music and paint. She’s so abundant – her idea-pods so ever-present – that we take them for granted. Each carrying the pip of a mighty potential, the germ of a forest of possibility. They are everywhere.

Some have found her intimidating and tried to constrain her promise, to lasso her imagination. Too bad.

Today she completes another spin around the sun. I can already see the next generation of magic seed pods forming. I can’t wait to see what wonder-of-her-spirit will take root and reach for the sky.

[happy birthday]

read Kerri’s blogpost about PODS

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

Kerri is back.

She disappeared over 4 years ago. A world-class pianist who fell and broke both her wrists. And then, fell again. Her artistry fractured, her community blew apart and then consumed itself. Pandemic isolation. Depression. Confusion. Hurt. Despair.

And then, in a moment that I can only describe as miraculous, in the most-unlikely-scenario, she let it go and laughed. The choice was easy. The heaviness fell from her spirit. Sitting next to her, I felt the light return. It was so startling that I turned and stared. It was like watching a sunrise. There she was. She came back. After 4 years, she came home.

We walked down the hill, hand-in-hand, and got into the car. We drove away. We literally giggled for miles, overwhelmed with the return of spaciousness in her spirit, the bright light shining in her eyes. Ahhh.

Perfect.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HOMECOMING

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After All [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“Food is the most primitive form of comfort.” ~ Sheilah Graham Westbrook

In anyone’s book, our circumstances at present are extreme. And so, we cook.

My role in the kitchen is sous chef and clean-up. Kerri is the master chef though she is generous and does not require me to address her as “Yes, Chef!” Dogga is the third member of our team. He is an enthusiastic taste-tester and also serves the role of floor clean-up. We are a good team. The simple action of cooking together is large part of our recipe for cooking-up-comfort. We love it.

The actual food that we cook is, of course, a huge part of the comfort infusion. We range from chicken soup to Kerri’s pasta sauce. Lately, we’ve been making grilled cheese sandwiches and, I’ve noticed, recipes that require mashed potatoes. Truthfully, we could probably strip everything else off the plate but the mashed potatoes are the essential. They are the epicenter of comfort. We have in the past made mashed potatoes all-by-themselves and feasted on an intentional mainline of food-cheer.

My theory of comfort food is paradoxical (and obvious). Comfort food takes you back in time. Kerri’s mom made comfort-mashed-potatoes so they are a direct connection to Beaky. Comfort food also drops you into the present moment. The delicious fulfillment of warm expectation. There’s nothing like taste and smell – a happy dance of two senses – to pull everything into the right-here-and-now. And in this moment, wrapped in a yummy warm blanket of tasty comfort, all is well. At least for now. And, in the end, it makes us realize that this bite, this moment, is all that we have. Things are not so bad after all.

right now/right now © 2010 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about MASHED POTATOES

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Learn About Silence [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Sometimes an action is not what it seems. For instance: she decided to sell her cello. It sounds so simple, doesn’t it?

When she broke both of her wrists in the same fall, she worried that she’d lose the ability to play her many instruments. To bow a cello requires a flexible and strong wrist. It healed and she recovered. Bowing the cello was not a problem. And then there was the second fall. A newly mopped floor with no signage. Her first words, laying on the wet linoleum, writhing in pain, holding her right wrist: Oh God! Oh, god, I can’t believe it!”

She lost degrees of movement in the second fall. It sounds mathematical, doesn’t it? Simple math. On a good day she has half the degrees of movement that she had before she met the wet floor. Enough to open a door but far short of bowing a cello.

After three years and countless hours learning about degrees of silence, she decided to sell the cello. “It needs to be played,” she said. “It deserves to be with someone who can play it.”

A simple action. A very complicated story. A heartbreaking moment when the luthier handed her a check. She touched her cello, turned, head down so the man could not see her tears, and walked away.

Last I Saw You/This Part of the Journey © 1997/2000 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CELLO

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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

read Kerri’s blogpost about QA LACE

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Uncover The Story [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

Cleaning out, for Kerri, has been like an archeological-story-dig of her life. I am a relative newcomer to the house and came with a truckload of paintings and not much else, so we are mostly excavating her life before me. Sometimes there is a gasp. Sometimes hysterical laughter. Sometimes I know she has found something important because of the profound silence. Sometimes there are tears.

Always there are stories. Treasured stories. Memories stirred by the simplest of finds, a shirt, a cassette tape, a teething ring.

I am the lucky recipient of her story-archeology and delight every time I hear her say, “Come look at this.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE TEETHING RING

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