See The Spiral [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

20 asked if we saw the milky way when we were living on the island. As seen from space, two arms spiraling from a center. A spiral of billions of stars. From our seat on the island, as is true from most places on earth on cloudless nights, we saw the milky haze.

John and I often discussed the Fibbonacci sequence. The numbers of spirals, the keeper of the golden ratio. “It’s everywhere in nature,” he said. “We just don’t see it.”

Spirals in the stars. Spirals in the seeds of sunflowers. Macro to micro, through-and-through. And how is it that we routinely miss our interrelationship with all things?

“The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.” ~ Carl Sagan

embraced now, 48x36IN, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about SPIRALS

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Whack! [on Merely A Thought Monday]

This is a tale of coincidence.

If you want to learn some great Italian recipes – or just simply want to pick up some great cooking tips, visit Sip-And-Feast. We stumbled on their YouTube channel a year ago and have been desperately hungry ever since. We fantasize about making a trip to Long Island and showing up on their front stoop just in time to taste test their latest recipe. We don’t care what’s cooking since everything they make looks delicious.

I howled with laughter in a recent installment when Tara Delmage suggested whacking mint leaves to release their oil. My current two-pages-a-day-book is called A Whack On The Side Of The Head: How You Can Be More Creative. In an instant I imagined people as mint leaves needing a whack to release their creative-impulse-oil. It was a hilarious image.

It was an accurate image, too.

I’ve coached a lot of people in my life. The pattern is explicit. Erecting barriers against creative impulses comes standard in all human beings. As social animals, conformity is a vital skill. Fitting-in equates to survival. The dark-side of fitting-in is the requirement of walling-off natural expression. It’s why so many people seek their voice or try to find the time but never find the time to write their book or paint their painting. It’s scary to step out of line.

It’s the reason artists are often seen as wild or dangerous: they exercise the muscles of free expression. It’s also why artists are essential: they counter-balance the conformity. They open doors in the wall. They serve as a gravitational pull toward the mint-oil of natural creativity. They know the secrets of a good whack on the side of the head. They know the right moment to deliver the shock. They know when to encourage chaos and when to infuse some order. The push-me-pull-you of progress.

From the wisdom of Sip-And-Feast I can now offer this piece of solid advice: go make yourself a nice limoncello spritzer. The recipe for the spritzer will provide you all the information you need to pop open your creative flow.

Bon appetit!

read Kerri’s blogpost about MINT LEAVES

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Lead With The Heart [on KS Friday]

Do you remember The Little Prince? “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; that which is essential is invisible to the eye.” ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

What about this one: “The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched – they must be felt with the heart.” ~ Helen Keller

Two extraordinary people sharing the same sentiment.

One more from Mary Oliver: “Every morning I walk around this pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart ever close I am as good as dead.”

What is this business with the heart? Seeing the essential. Feeling the best and most beautiful. Vital life an open door of the heart.

It is a simple message that reaches back through Aeschylus and Confucius, it reaches beyond the invention of the written word. You’ll find it scratched in glyphs. It’s a message older than any religion or spiritual tradition yet weaves its way through all of them. Lead with your heart.

I am a student of metaphor and pattern and can say this with absolute certainty: beneath the hoohah of our angry times is a simple enduring pattern, an appeal from wise voices ringing across the ages and cutting across cultures. A single metaphor: seeing rightly has nothing to do with our eyes. To be human is to lead with our hearts. Closing our hearts to one another might seem righteous but leaves us as good as dead.

[Now that I’m finished moralizing for the day, I think I’ll take a slow walk around our tiny pond, close my eyes, feel the sun, and revel in this day of being alive.]

slow dance/as sure as the sun © 2002 kerri sherwood

…and a bonus!

same sweet love/as sure as the sun © 2002 kerri sherwood

Close your eyes and you’ll see that these tracks have nothing to do with Jazz. Open your eyes and you’ll note that Rumblefish has absolutely no ownership right or copyright to these songs though they somehow possess a ridiculous capacity to misrepresent Kerri and her music.

Kerri’s albums can be found on iTunes or streaming on Pandora and iHeart Radio

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART LEAF

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Look Both Ways [on DR Thursday]

I love our smack-dab cartoon. In a cartoon, dogs can talk, people can transmogrify, we can laugh at the worst of ourselves and reveal the best of ourselves. In other words, anything is possible. I think that’s why cartooning has long been an aspect of Kerri and my relationship. Anything is possible.

Our first cartoon idea popped up when we were punchy on a roadtrip. We asked a “what if” question. What if we’d met earlier in life and had children. What would we have named our little pot roast? Miles of hilarity ensued because we landed on Chicken Marsala. Our boy Chicken was born and for the rest of the trip, the voice of our imaginary child chimed in with commentary about his parents. We submitted five rounds of Chicken Marsala cartoons to the syndicates. Chicken strips and single panel Chicken nuggets (clever, no?). The imaginary child of two artists who met late in life. What a great premise! Especially since the two artists were hot messes and the child was grounded, capable of scaring them into sensibility and taunting them into play. Idealists, all.

It used to be that when I asked a “what if” question I zoomed into the outer reaches of inner space. That’s still true though now I have a second, equally powerful path to imagination. Look close-in at the miracle shapes of plants. Look close-in at the worlds at play all around us. I give full credit to Kerri’s compulsion to photograph minutiae. “Lookit!” she proclaims and shows me a miracle image. I’ve picked up the pattern. I rarely photograph what I see but I am just as apt to look close-in as I am to fly into the Netherworld. I am on a daily basis gobsmacked by color or texture or shape or sound or smell or taste of this amazing world. Look at the lavender! Just look! No, really. Slow down and look.

This morning I read a definition of imagination: thinking that is not bound by real world constraints. I wanted to add this: senses that are capable of experiencing real world detail.

It’s a great polarity, the spectrum of potential between “anything is possible” and “I never could have imagined it.” Chicken tried to tell us to look both ways but, you know, it’s harder than you think to listen to your imaginary child, especially when they understand more about life than you ever will.

my perpetually almost but not quite as yet incomplete holding pen of a website

read Kerri’s blogpost about LAVENDER

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Name It [on Merely A Thought Monday]

The artist, Joe, had us write our names again and again until the lines lost their meaning, until we realized the lines were…lines. And shapes. Until we realized that our names were drawings. Unique and easy. His message? Everyone draws. And, more importantly though less obvious, the lines do not carry the meaning, the person infuses the line with meaning.

Visiting a pal in the hospital, I watched a heart monitor. More lines. Pattern. Waves. Visual indications of the drumbeat of the body. The drumbeat of the body propels the rhythm of the poet’s pen. Iambic pentameter. Short, loooong. Short, loooong. The poet’s lines reach through time and space, heart-meaning yearning to pulse through another person, to perhaps synchronize with their heart-wave pattern. Centuries may have passed between the inky scribbles from the poet’s pen to the person absorbing the meaning into their beating heart. Time travel. Ancient heart touches the living. “When to the sessions of sweet silent thought/ I summon up remembrance of things past…”

Watch a child learning to “write” their alphabet. Assigning meaning to shape. Crayon fist making lines. The refined adults see the shaky line as crude. Cute. Titanic imagination squeezes itself into alphabetic parameter. The little hand becomes a giver of meaning to shape and line. Expression. Learning to combine the limited shapes for greater and greater complexity. The conundrum: among the first lines we learn to scrawl are our names yet these few lines carry a question that can never be answered. Who am I?

The artist, Joe, had us dash off our names again and again until the lines seemed nothing more than a doodle. The meaning is not found in the lines; the lines and shapes merely point the way to the question.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CONTRAIL LINE

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Swim Upstream [on DR Thursday]

Today we travel. Family, like salmon swimming upstream to a place of origin. We’ll meet at the farmhouse. We’ll eat dinner. We’ll discuss what to do tomorrow at the inurnment. I think he mostly would have enjoyed our gathering together. Food and laughter. That is the ritual he would have appreciated.

The Great White Trillium produces “a single showy white flower atop a whorl of three leaves.” The flower opens late spring to early summer. Right now. They are abundant on our trail.

Whorl: a pattern of spirals or concentric circles.

Five years ago we strolled with him through the cemetery. He told stories of his friends. We will, I am certain, tell stories about him.

Kerri and I walked our trail on the ten-year-anniversary of our first meeting. We talked about how we’ve changed in the decade since I stepped off the plane. “I’m more connected to the impermanence,” she said. I nodded my head. Me, too.

Impermanence. A short season. Generations, a whorl. Patterns. Concentric circles. We tell stories and then we join the story.

Today we travel, like salmon swimming upstream.

rest now, 24×24″, mixed media (sold)

read Kerri’s blogpost about GREAT WHITE TRILLIUM

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rest now © circa 2016 david robinson

Read The Shadow [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Kerri said, “Look at that shadow! It makes me think of the collar Ruth Bader Ginsburg wore with her robe!”

Ruth’s collar was not my first thought. I went straight for Spirograph. The colorful spiral drawings made possible by the magic of plastic rings and wheels.

I suppose most people would have their moment of shadow association and move on to other topics but not us. Our association led to another association: what might Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s collar and a Spirograph have in common?

The artistry of mathematics. Action scribed from a center of integrity.

The Notorious RBG once said, “I am optimistic in the long run. A great man once said that the true symbol of the United States is not the bald eagle, it’s the pendulum, and when the pendulum swings too far in one direction, it will go back.”

The colorful line scribes an arc all the way to the edge of the ring and then, in perfect pattern form, scribes an arc across the board to the other side. And again. And again. Until a beautiful pattern, a brilliant complex roulette is formed. A single line that, at its inception looked random or out of control, running to the extremes, weaves – in the long run – a unified, inclusive, connected design.

Optimism in the long run. The symbol in a collar. The certainty of tides. The balance point found in all polarities. So much hope! A visit from RBG and a memory of a childhood toy. And, all of this from a single shadow cast on a dresser on an early spring morning.

read Kerri’ blogpost about SHADOWS

Note The Trail [on Two Artists Tuesday]

Our pin-on-the-map lands between two airports: O’Hare to the south and Milwaukee’s General Mitchell to the north. On clear summer days, or unseasonably warm days like last week, we recline in our Adirondack chairs and watch the planes Etch-A-Sketch in the sky. According to our recent 5 minute contrail-count-study, at any moment, there are more planes in the sky than one might believe.

It always makes we wonder if Ben Franklin or Leonardo daVinci joined us on the patio would they calmly count contrails from their Adirondack chair or would their heads explode at the wonder of it all. It amuses me to imagine Leonardo hopping around with excitement and pointing to the sky.

In my recent past the phrase “digital exhaust” was relevant to my work in the wild, wild world of software development. Like a contrail, the output of our incessant tapping of keys leaves a trail marking our arc through digital space/time. The particular characteristic that had me hopping out of my chair was the notion that “reading” the digital contrail not only marks our past but is a great way of foreseeing future action. Past patterns are terrific indicators of future behavior. Just ask the FBI.

Kerri keeps a paper calendar where she records the significant and insignificant details of every day. It’s a behavior she inherited from her mother. Beaky was a great recorder of events and maker of lists. If I want to know if we had dinner with 20 in November of 2016, Kerri flips open her 2016 calendar and hits me with the details: yes we did and we had blackened Tilapia, small potatoes, and roasted asparagus. I’ve lost many a debate to the entries in the calendar. Her calendars are our personal analog contrail. Our unique life arc through space/time.

It’s helped me answer one of Tom’s questions about his great-grandmother Isabelle. He found a box with stacks of daily flip-calendars that Isabelle kept, each day had a notation about the weather. A hardworking ranch woman, standing on the porch of the farmhouse, in the days before airplanes, she stared at the sky and made a note in her calendar: hot sun, not a cloud in the sky. Tom looked at me as we went through the stacks in the box, asking, “Why would she do that?”

Contrails.

read Kerri’s blogpost about CONTRAILS

Ask The Same Questions [on DR Thursday]

Their call is ancient and beautiful. I imagine their unique voice reaches back to the pterodactyl. Sandhill cranes. We live on their migration path. Each spring they stop for a rest, passing through, heading north. The Des Plaines river, surrounded by abundant farm fields, provide ample road snacks and safe places for respite.

Last fall, during the southern migration, a crane couple took up residence in a cornfield we pass en route to our trail. They stayed so long that they became a fixture. We expected to see them. Statuesque, always together, I wondered if they were as excited to see us as we were of seeing them. “There they are!” the cranes point to our little black toaster car. “Those two are always together,” they observe. “I wonder where they are headed?”

We make the same observations and ask the same questions of them.

When we first saw their tracks in the snow it felt like a gift, like seeing two hawks circling or several deer peeking from the willows. Their prints were huge, almost too big to be real. They were so distinct that they reminded me of something Andy Goldsworthy might create. Patterns in the snow. Marks mysteriously etched across the landscape.

Were it stone instead of snow, white quartzite, these amazing marks would be petroglyphs. Abraded to leave us a message, a symbol whose meaning was lost in time but inspire speculation none-the-less. “Where did they come from,” we ask, knowing there is no answer but we have to ask anyway.

Our footprints cross theirs on the path. Brad does a masterful crane-walk-imitation. We laugh as man becomes bird, eyes intense. The original theatrical impulse. I look back at the our prints crossing the crane’s and marvel at the image. This startling canvas will certainly melt. Another reminder of Andy Goldsworthy. The power of impermanence, like a sacred sand painting, a spirit captured for a brief moment, witnessed, evoking power, and then disappearing into sun and wind and time.

Canopy, 48x48IN, acrylic

read Kerri’s blogpost about CRANES

Canopy © 2008 David Robinson

Appreciate The Simple [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

I awoke alarmed and sat up. Dogga was not sleeping at the foot of the bed! He’s always there! Where was he? And then I remembered. We were “up north” for a few days. Dogga was safe at home with 20. I lay awake feeling deeply his absence. Disoriented.

A few days later we were home. Because of my up-north-late-night-moment-of-bewilderment, I was hyper-aware of how “right” our world feels when we are all together. I adore our daily patterns and rituals. Dogga’s enthusiasm, his Aussie quirks inform every move we make.

Sometimes we think we hear BabyCat thumping around upstairs or awake feeling as if he just jumped onto the bed – we call it “the raft.” When we are all together on the raft, there is nothing better on earth.

It’s such a simple and yet profound thing. Presence. With it, all is right in the world.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE RAFT

smack-dab. © 2023 kerrianddavid.com