Breathe Again [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

To say I sobbed is a bit of an overstatement. I’d been raking leaves all morning. It was clear and crisp. I’d just finished stuffing the last green bio-bag in the front yard and hauled it to the curb for pick-up. All that remained was to collect the bags from the backyard and move them to the curb. That’s when I heard her playing the piano. I couldn’t believe it! I slipped beneath her studio window and listened. This was no small moment.

She played after she fell and broke both her wrists. She couldn’t open a doorknob or button her shirt but, somehow, she found a way to play. She had to. The pandemic had already taken one of our jobs. Her bosses could not find the heart or moral compass to afford her time off to heal. One hand in a cast. One hand in a splint. Nine useful fingers and an immobilized thumb. She played. Nine months later, nearing complete healing, she fell again. A wet floor. No signs. This time, the injury was debilitating. The depression that followed was a deep dark crevasse. She stopped playing altogether. She sometimes stood at the door of her studio but rarely entered.

These past few years I can count on one hand – well, two fingers – the times she played. When Rob visited I asked her to play for him. She chose a few pieces. Rob was moved to tears. I could tell it hurt her. She was asked by an old friend to play for a transgender memorial service. With her brace she was able to play the two 15 minute sections.

Sitting beneath her studio window, listening, the pain and loss, the weight of the past few years flowed out of my eyes. A flood of relief. She was playing. For herself. For no other reason than to feel the muse. It was a step forward. A step toward. A step back into the light. A moment of possibility.

I felt as if I’d been holding my breath these many years. Now, perhaps, on this crisp fall day, it was time to breathe again.

read Kerri’s blogpost about LEAVES

like. share. support. comment. sit beneath the window, sigh and smile.

buymeacoffee is a moment of possibility, a sigh of relief at the continued creation of the artists you value.

Choose [on Two Artists Tuesday]

“It’s a serious thing just to be alive on this fresh morning in this broken world.” ~ Mary Oliver

Were I to have been born in an earlier century I would not be alive today. Twice on my life-path doctors have declared that, “You are now a miracle of modern medicine.” Leeches and blood-letting would not have cured what ailed me.

This thing called ‘science’ is what gave me more days of life. It is the same science that developed vaccines for a pandemic but also made possible the technology that makes mass-media-misinformation possible. Here is the medicine. Here is the disease. It is exactly as Sophocles wrote: Nothing vast enters the life of mortals without a curse.

One morning, deeply tired, I arose to go do a job that I did not like. It was a means to an end and I dreaded the day ahead of me. Stepping out the door, the cold morning air stopped me in my tracks. It slapped me awake. The air was crisp and clean, the neighborhood was quiet. The light in the sky was brilliant. I drank it in. I vowed never again to dread a day of my life. In truth, I had no idea what the day held for me. Why then, would I story my day with a frame of dread? Why tell myself a tale of just-getting-through-it? Why not open to the possibilities of surprise and miracle? Why not embrace the already-stated-obvious-thing: I had no idea what the day held. That simple fact would be true every single day of my life. Dread was a choice, not an inevitability.

To be alive on this fresh morning. It is a serious thing. In this world, broken by the little story of us-and-them, the tiny tale of power-over. Choices. The miracle of the new day is present whether it is seen or not. We can cloak it in dread or gratitude, in support or division. It doesn’t care either way. The miracle of the new day, the gift of being alive on this fresh morning in a world that is broken or healed, whole or fragmented – it all depends upon the story-frame we wrap around it. The story we tell is a choice, not an inevitability.

read Kerri’s blog post about JUST TO BE ALIVE

Chase Out The Spirit [on DR Thursday]

Let’s just call it intentional superstition. With apologies to DogDog and BabyCat, at midnight tonight, we will fling open the back door and bang big pots and chase all of those bad 2020 spirits away. And then, we will rush to front door and open it to let in the new good spirits of 2021. It makes no difference whether the good spirits or bad spirits actually exist, whether the ritual is ridiculous or not. It makes no difference. We want 2020 out of the house. We want to invite some positive change into our lives. We’ll do whatever it takes.

2020 made me feel like Lieutenant Dan strapped to the mast of the shrimping boat shouting at the storm. Bring it on. It’s you and me! 2020 was a violent storm. It was a reckoning. It is a reckoning.

We know there will be a new day. Calm waters. Peace. This storm will pass. Perhaps with banging our pots and flinging open our doors we can speed it up a bit.

Years ago I had a student who was about to boil over. I bought a box of ceramic plates for him at the thrift store. We took them out back and he hurled them at the brick wall. At first he was timid. And then the storm took him and he smashed plates and screamed at the universe and wept. And then he laughed and laughed and laughed.

We are at the laughing stage of things. Thus, intentional superstition. Imagined causation. 2020 has been utterly irrational so why can’t we meet it on its own ground? Play by its rules? Fear the big pot, 2020!

We just changed our menu. Kerri read a list of Irish folk wisdom for the new year. It recommends pork. Pork it is. Black-eyed peas. Great! Also, if you have red hair, we will not let you over the threshold until someone with dark hair enters. Sorry about that. Our Celtic magic must be honored. There’s a good-and-ancient-story in there somewhere but we don’t really care what it is.

Goodbye 2020. See ya’. So long.

read Kerri’s blog post about 2020-BE-GONE

Welcome The New Day [on KS Friday]

Strip the religiosity out of the word ‘Alleluia’ and you’re left with its essence: a sunrise. Pure and simple.

Last year – a decade ago – Kerri needed a song for her cantata. She noodled for a few minutes. There was a phrase. A line of music. The next day she said, “What about this?” She played and sang. Magic. I took out my phone and recorded it. “Someday,” I tell her, “someday we’ll record it in a studio.”

She sings of our broken lives, our shattered hearts. Strip the religiosity from it and her song is about tension seeking resolution. Natural order. Basic physics. Broken lives and shattered hearts seek wholeness. Sunrise. A new day. Pure and simple.

Joy does not have to complicated. No symphonic soundtrack necessary. No fireworks required. Yesterday, after spending a few moments with her son in Chicago, we drove the back roads home. It was dark. Gently snowing. She was heart-warm after having received the single item on her wish list. A few moments. No more. No less. Joy, like the first quiet rays breaking over the horizon, announcing a new day.

Years ago, decades ago, standing in the self-made-wreckage of my life, I sent a change of address card to friends so they’d know where I was. An arrow pointing to the earth. “I’m here,” it read.

We’re here. A new day. Pure and simple. Alleluia.

Kerri’s albums are available on iTunes

read Kerri’s blog post about YOU’RE HERE

you’re here ©️ 2019 kerri sherwood

rest now ©️ 2016 david robinson

Attend To The Ritual [on Two Artists Tuesday]

jelly jars & sunset copy

If you knew us, if you came to our house for some wine, chances are we’d serve it to you in a jelly jar. Drinking wine from a jelly jar is more than a simple quirk. For us, it is a ritual, a touch back to our beginnings. It does for us what rituals are supposed to do: it reminds us of what is important. It roots us into our deep story.

And so, it was important that on our first night on island, our first night in our little house, we poured special wine into two jelly jars, went to the water’s edge, and toasted this new chapter of our lives that, perfectly enough, began at the end of a day. And, as we sipped our wine and watched the sunset, we reminisced, we mused about the winding path that brought us to this house on this island at this moment in time to do this work.

With our jelly jars empty and the sun beneath the horizon, we walked back to the little house, deeply rooted into the story of ‘what has been’ and looking forward to a new day and the story of ‘what is yet to be.’

 

read Kerri’s blog post about JELLY JARS

 

sunrisewebsite copy