Pull In [on DR Thursday]

I suspect the turtle understood the giant blonde woman with the camera aimed at this face as a threat. He did what turtles do when stressed: retreated into his shell. “I’m not going to hurt you little guy!” Kerri said, on her knees, snapping pictures. The turtle was, at best, dubious of her reassurances.

We were considering going to an outdoor concert until we saw photos of large crowds of people packed together. Covid has made us crowd averse. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that,” we chirped together and laughed at our stereo response. “I wonder if I will ever be ready for that,” Kerri mused.

At this moment I know more people with Covid than I have personally known throughout the entire span of the pandemic. I suppose this virus that rolls on and on, shapeshifting as it goes, would exhaust our guard sooner or later. I am guilty of thinking, “What’s the point?” as I don my mask to enter a store. Yet, every day this week, a new name or group of names has joined my roster of friends-with-Covid. So, I put on my mask. I pull my head into my protective shell.

There are real threats and there are nice ladies with cameras that only seem dangerous. “May you live in interesting times.” We do. A pandemic. Global warming has arrived. Nationalist madness on the rise. We cannot send our children safely to school – or shop at the grocery store – or attend a concert – without the thought of gun violence. We are awash in real threats and, like countless societies before us, we seem dedicated to our own demise. Madmen and women are at the wheel and we are in the backseat whispering, “Slow down,” looking at each other with, “Do Something!” in our eyes.

When Kerri showed me the photo of the turtle I was struck by the calm on its face. I recognize that turtles probably don’t have the facial muscles to fully express their fear but nevertheless I was delighted by the notion that the turtle-in-retreat was calm. Nothing to be done but pull into the shell and wait it out. No reason to panic.

We’ve discussed being more turtle-like in our lives. We live in Interesting times and there’s not a thing to do about it, other than perhaps write. Make art. Change a few behaviors. We need not wrinkle our brows or cry out in fear while pulling our heads into our shells. The sunrise is still as beautiful, we hold hands when we walk, make dinner together, love on Dogga at night. There’s lots of love inside our shell, no matter the surrounding madness, a quiet center in the storm.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE TURTLE

shared fatherhood © 2018 david robinson

Add To The Story [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Our water theme continues though, instead of pipes breaking, surprise waterfalls in the basement, or spontaneous fountains in the front yard, we’re dancing on the other side of the theme. What was broken or compromised is slowly, as we can afford it, being fixed or replaced. And, as metaphors go, I welcome what this implies.

It is our very own kintsugi. Golden repair – or in our case – copper repair.

“…treating breakage and repair as part of the history…rather than something to disguise.” We’ve consciously created our home to be a keeper of stories: the driftwood that adorns our mantel, the rock cairns stacked by the plants, the chairs in our sunroom… all tell a story. A walk on a special beach. A mountain top. The day the car broke down in Minnesota. Adventure. Routine. Accident. Surprise.

We have a series of old suitcases stacked in our dining room. They are our “special boxes.” Each is filled with momentos of our life together. Concert ticket stubs, birthday cards, notes, old calendars, the bits chain from Pa’s workbench that we once wore as bracelets… Our story fodder. Connective tissue to our shared history.

The copper that Mike-the-plumber has installed in key locations around the house serve as connective tissue to the era of water. Our house is a special box, too. It’s nearly 100 years old so we are a chapter in its story, stewards merely. The copper repair is a visual keepsake, a golden repair from a time when the old pipes and fittings, having done good work, let us know with no uncertainty that they were retiring.

We love this house. We love being stewards to its story. We love that it is the keeper of our story. And, lately, we especially love being on this side of the water era, putting all the pieces back together again, adding to our entwined history, with undisguised copper-gold.

read Kerri’s blogpost about COPPER PIPES

“Get Outside, People.” [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

When the Wander Women pulled the plug on their cross-country cycling attempt, my esteem for them, what they do, and how they live, skyrocketed. No small statement since they were already high on my list of the people I admire.

In this age of manicured image, they are refreshingly real. They decided in their retirement to use their precious lives gathering experiences instead of stuff, to open themselves to adventure rather than live in a comfy fortress. In the past three years they’ve completed thru-hikes of the Appalachian Trail, The Continental Divide Trail, and the Pacific Crest Trail.

Although that is impressive, the reason we follow them is the hope they inspire. They’ve developed a community of support that shows up for them. Because they are generous, they attract generosity. Rides appear. Baked goods show up. Offers of places to stay. They say, “Yes” to whatever life throws at them and know that life will throw a “Yes” back to them.

Sometimes saying “Yes” means to stop. The plan falls apart, the elements do not cooperate. Every good adventurer knows it’s not enough to get up the mountain, one must also make the return trip. The variables have to align and, if they don’t, it’s wise to wait. Saying, “Yes” means saying, “Not today.” As Kristy said, “It’s best not to get lost in the goal.”

It’s the reason I admire them: they are not stacking achievements. They are having experiences. They are enriching their moments rather than hanging certificates on the wall. They lead with joy rather than acquisition.

They end each of their vlog installments with encouragements: Live. Get outside, people. Make the tough decision. Say, “Yes.”

read Kerri’s blogpost on this saturday morning smack-dab.

smack-dab. © 2022 kerrianddavid.com

Ask A Peony Question [on KS Friday]

The peony in our yard is sandwiched between tall grasses. We’re careful to cut back the grasses so the peony has space and air to breathe. Kerri watches it. She checks on it daily. She calls me to “Comesee!” when the buds appear. She pulls my arm, “It’s happening!” on the day the buds open into full bloom. In our house peony-bloom is cause for celebration.

The blossoms do not last long, a week, perhaps a few days more if we’re lucky. And then they are gone.

The blooms are passing but the plant is sturdy. Sometimes I feel that the peony is a good artist. It works all year drinking in sun and water and life so it might produce a few moments of lovely. Every single day, through the dog days of August, the harsh cold of winter, the wet and muddy spring, is necessary for the peony to bring its fragile and passing burst of pink beauty – its expression – into plain sight.

Late at night, the tornado sirens sent us to the basement. We sat in rocking chairs and listened to the roar of the storm, the flash and house-rattling thunder. I looked at my easel. Currently, my studio is filled with boxes. Kerri eyes her studio; it’s next up for a good cleaning-out. Revamp and refresh.

In the basement, sirens blaring and storms howling, we talked about whether or not she would ever play again. Whether or not I would ever again pick up a brush. It’s an open question. It’s a deep-in-the-night question.

It’s a peony question. I wonder if, in the dead of winter, roots reaching deeper than the frozen ground, if the peony knows that it will, with certainty, bloom?

In A Split Second from As Sure As The Sun

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE PEONY

in a split second/as sure as the sun © 2002 kerri sherwood

Drive The Backroads [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

I thought I’d always be a city rat. I love museums and galleries and concerts. And then, something happened. Now, the pull is to quiet places. Space. I still love my art museums but I no longer need to live next door.

We drive the backroads as often as possible. We are much more interested in enjoying the ride than we are in “getting there.” Surrounded as we are, by Chicago to the south and Milwaukee to the north, our meandering down the backroads is often speedier than the aggressive congested freeways. We’ve become the turtle in the race with rabbit.

Last Friday, after work, we drove the backroads to The Chicago Botanical Gardens. It was a gorgeous evening. We held hands and Bali-walked the paths through the Japanese Gardens. Walking with no desire to arrive.

read Kerri’s blog post on this saturday morning smack-dab.

smack-dab. © 2022 kerrianddavid.com

Live Wealthy [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

A moment ago I passed the bookshelf and noticed a title. Die Broke. I laughed and said, “No problem there!”

“What did you say?” Kerri asked from the other room.

“You can’t take it with you,” I replied, smiling. I heard the wave of confusion rising in her.

“What are you talking about?”

“Artistry,” I shrugged. “Or, maybe books I’ve never read.” She stared. Flummoxed. “Really, living a good life,” I said and sat next to her. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about!”

“Sometimes you worry me,” she said, returning to her magazine.

“It’s nice to have someone on this earth worry about you,” I said. “That makes me a very rich man, indeed.”

read Kerri’s blogpost on this saturday morning smack-dab.

smack-dab. © 2022 kerrianddavid.com

See Beyond The Numbers [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

200. The number of mass shootings in the United States this year to date. Heck, it’s not even June. Of course, I’m writing this a few days ahead so, at the very least, by the time you read this, 222 more people will be dead from gun violence since we are averaging 111 people a day.

What’s remarkable to me is how many bar charts and line graphs are available. How much data we keep and information we track, all made easily digestible through smart visual analytics and colorful charts. Murdered children and teachers and church goers and concert attendees and folks who simply went to the grocery store – reduced to an abstraction translated into a visual that’s easy for us to consume. Apparently, we’re adept at making the carnage-numbers pretty and consumable but not so accomplished at seeing the numbers as people – children and elders, parents and friends. Scrub it. Nothing personal. That way our leaders* can offer a few more antiseptic thoughts and prayers and we, for some reason, vote them back into office.

[*I wonder if our representatives were required to go to the morgue every time we have a mass shooting and actually see the damage a military grade weapon does to a human body, especially a small child’s body, if they might see beyond their personal ambition and lobby dollars. They might see murdered children and teachers with names, and parents. I know, I know, a stupid idea. Were they required to experience the reality, they’d have little or no time to legislate. 200 morgue visits in 5 months would certainly be a full time job. With ample time to lead or no time at all, it seems the result is the same.]

read Kerri’s thoughts on this saturday morning smack-dab.

smack-dab. © 2022 kerrianddavid.com

Lean On Poppo’s Cane [on KS Friday]

Next to the closet where we keep our shoes and old sweatshirts is a bucket. In the bucket are a few walking sticks we’ve plucked from the trail, used and brought home. We rarely walk with sticks so the few that made the trip home are in the bucket to remind us of special walks, the times we needed some stick-aid. And thank-goodness there was a stick available when we needed it.

In the bucket, alongside the walking sticks, is Poppo’s cane.

Poppo’s cane came in handy this week when Kerri broke her foot. She is a circle-walker and our house has square rooms so she regularly arcs too close to the doorjambs. She’s adept at breaking her pinky toe.

This time she broke more than one bone. When the yellow-green swelling hit her ankle we took her to the doctor and then she went for a spin in the x-ray machine. For a few days, I was her mobility prop and then Poppo’s cane took my place and became her trusty stick-aid.

She looked at me this morning and, with knitted-brow, asked the obvious question, “What’s going on?” I had no answer. In the span of a couple of years, she’s broken her wrists, torn ligaments, had fingers that simple refused to bend, lost mobility in her left shoulder, tendonosis, a tendon injury in her left foot, a digestive system that refused to digest,… She’s had a heaping plate of “what’s going on with my body? What’s going on with my life?”

Both are great questions to ask.

What do you do when your questions have no definitive answers? Lean on Poppo’s cane and take another step. What else? Appreciate the stick-aid. Perhaps one day, with a little perspective, while looking at the bucket of useful sticks, the story will make some sense. The questions will find understanding.

In the meantime, I’m considering moving Kerri into a furniture-less yurt. My theory is that circle walkers are safer racing around in obstacle-free circular homes.

Kerri’s albums are available in iTunes & streaming on Pandora

read Kerri’s blogpost about POPPO’S CANE

in these times/as it is © 2004 kerri sherwood

Attend To The Details [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

Don’t let this cartoon fool you. In another life, she would have made a crack detective. Or a masterful research scientist. Or a lawyer (god forbid!). Her attention to detail sometimes frightens me. Kerri loves to do research. For instance, when we are going to take a trip, she delights in investigating the available airbnb options. She scrutinizes each property down to the pots in the kitchen.

For a guy with his head firmly lodged in the clouds, it’s an excruciating process to witness. It is not in my fiber to consider minutiae. True confession: I generally hide until the the vast options are narrowed down to the top three. My head explodes if there are too many considerations and since I appreciate having a head, I’ve learned to guard my head-explosion-threshold. Three.

Besides. She has great taste. And, she likes to hang out with me! Those are the only details I need to know.

read Kerri’s blogpost on this SATURDAY MORNING SMACK-DAB.

smack-dab. © 2022 kerrianddavid.com

Make Dandelion Delicacies [on KS Friday]

Because our yard is a festival of dandelions and our trail is alive with the vibrant yellow flowers, just for kicks, I Googled “dandelion recipes.” Coffees and teas, salads and pizza, quesadilla, syrup, jelly and cookies; eat the root, chomp the greens, it seems dandelions are nature’s one-stop-yummy-snack-shop. Brats! And, of course, let us not forget about dandelion wine!

How is it that this pervasive-misunderstood-as-an-invader-plant is so edible and rich in possibilities? I’ve never eaten a dandelion. If I can find an insecticide-free-zone I’m going to pick a bucket full and try a few recipes. My bet is that Master Marsh has washed down a dandelion or two en route to picking a tune on his guitar. He can make anything – and does – so my future dandelion meal will follow MM around the kitchen and learn his favorite dandy-lion recipe and then enjoy the concert after the plates are licked clean. I’ll do the dishes after the show. It’s the least I can do.

One of my favorite rituals of the spring season is to watch Kerri discover and photograph the first dandelion. It’s like the return of an old friend. “Look-It!” she points and cheers. The camera comes out and a sweet photoshoot commences. She has a fond spot in her heart for dandelions. I wish I had the series of First Dandelion Sightings of the Season. Her eye has changed. The more photographs she takes, the better her composition-eye is becoming. Art works like that. Do it again and again and it gets better, more sophisticated. Easier. Her eye was great to begin with but now I do double-takes. “Whoa!” I say, “Let me see that again.”

Tom used to tell me that the alternative schools were filled with artists. Young people who do not fit in and cannot thrive in the restriction of the lawn. Pervasive-misunderstood-invader-plants. Pulled and placed where they cannot disrupt the blanket of green. Yet, so rich in possibilities. So versatile in form, capable of feeding the soul. Medicinal people. Seers. And, when they age (ahem), they make dandelion delicacies, play music for their friends, and celebrate the small pop of yellow on the side of the path.

It’s good not to be a lawn.

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about DANDELIONS

fistful of dandelions © 1999 kerri sherwood