reverse threading

the path back is the path forward


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pieces of driftwood. pieces of my life. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

i’m having a chance to renew my relationship with the harbor town. a tiny spurt of time here, a tiny spurt of time there. one of my favorite places on earth – the dock, at night, clanking masts, the sound of small fishing boats and soft troll motors – it is a good thing for me to revisit all this at a new time.

i didn’t know how much i needed to re-create this tie, to heal it. i didn’t know how much i needed to walk the pebbled beach, to scout for rocks and shells and driftwood, to sit and stare at the waves coming in.

when we left the last time we brought home this driftwood garland. we hung it in the place in our sunroom that seemed to be waiting for it. we sit next to it every day. and in the night that was draped in darkness from the storm, we sat next to it in candlelight.

we’ll go back. we’ll maybe pick up some more rocks for our rock garden. we may find a shell or two. we may bring home a piece of driftwood or other sea treasure. we’ll see.

the thing i do know is that each of these times i find another piece of me there. i rejuvenate another memory, process another bit of it all, feel affirmation.

somewhere on that beach, on that dock, in that town are pieces of my 19 year old self. the girl with the dog who climbed on the jetties and danced on the sand, who ran on the boardwalks and soaked in the sun on big old beach towels. there are pieces of me to reclaim, to go pick up in the corners of my memories, to re-empower. there are truths to release into the air of the world – finally. there are notes poised, floating in the air to compose, words in peripheral vision biding time to be written. i can feel the vibration of it all – that flutter in my chest.

and, though it is now a fancier bistro, the next time we’ll go – this place that was a pub where i’d fill up on baked clams and salty air. we didn’t go the last time because we knew it would be expensive and we are careful about our budget.

but the next time – yes – we will go.

because there is no price that you can put on the restoration of power, the retrieving of juju, the butterfly-net-capture-and-healing-release of muse that had been muted, stalled from trauma. to sit on those stools – even if they are different stools – is to sit on the sacred ground of yesterdays ago. it is something to celebrate.

the driftwood next to me in the sunroom taps my shoulder and my heart. it tells the story of ebb and flow, of survival and resilience, of transformative renewal and of a metamorphosis into something that has ridden the waves of the sound and – ultimately – emerged stronger.

*****

HOLDING ON, LETTING GO © 2010 kerri sherwood

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the fragile crossing. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

and then, the quiet after the storm.

there is nothing like fierce winds, torrential sleet, and a blizzard to get your adrenaline going. it’s been a minute since a bit of quiet.

so monday morning – as we gratefully sat under our comforters and quilt and sipped coffee – the sound of red-winged blackbirds in our pine tree was like a symphony – significantly even more moving, at this moment, than listening to the ode to joy finale of beethoven’s 9th symphony.

we were in the aftermath.

even with the bits of destruction we experienced and unexpected – but necessary – expensive repairs – some already made and some on the ever-present maintenance docket – we felt the change and we rested in the sound of birds who had essentially disappeared during the chaotic weather.

the sun came out, we saw a bit of blue sky.

we took a breath.

there will be other storms.

some will be weather, some will be personal challenges, some will be directly connected to the state of this country.

and for any of it – for all of it – we need to gear up.

so – for right now – the sun, calm winds, melting snow, a few comforters and a quilt, coffee and the birds of our backyard will all help. they stoke up the fortitude, endurance and resilience we all have and we all draw on, the fragile crossing from destruction to recovery.

*****

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first. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

there was little light. without power we had tealights and candles scattered about the house. a small ikea lantern my poppo gave me years ago lit the way to the bathroom. and i put fresh batteries in a few small flashlights. both of us – and our dogga – have had plenty of time in our old house that we can find our way around in the dark, so bright light wasn’t an imperative. heat – yes. bright light – not so much.

the far-reaching effects of the lack of power are striking. we were at a standstill in some dramatic ways. no power. no heat. no stove or oven. no internet. no home phone. no cable. no inside phone charging. a lot of waiting and not a lot of doing. pacing.

we sat at our little bistro table – with this candle – and talked. we spoke about people overcome by the ravages of war, people in crumbled cities destroyed by hatred, people trying to live in rubble in the dark, in the cold, in sickness, in hunger. we were silent as we both became overwhelmed. quite certain that we had more in this cut glass candle, we were downright appreciative for the promise of our power being restored at some point, even if that timeline didn’t fit our preferred plan.

we watched the shadows play off the wall and dance on the ceiling. i took photographs. we put a frozen baguette on the grill to thaw and heat up. we cut up cheese from the fridge, prepared a small charcuterie in a hobnail server. we made lemonade. it’s easier to make lemonade when you know that all will be well again.

i would imagine it’s nearly impossible to make lemonade when nothing will be well again. that kind of spirit, that kind of chutzpah, that kind of fortitude is hard to muster in desperate situations. we – once again – felt humbled by the destruction felt around the world, our own immediate problem less than a mere blip in comparison.

there are many lessons learned from perspective. much humility learned from knowledge. a realization of interconnectedness – we-are-all-brothers-and-sisters – learned from even the smallest degree of empathy. and the stunning acknowledgement that fighting, the subjugation of people all over the world, cruelty beyond compare continues on and on and on as we burn our candle.

it was early when we tucked in under an extra comforter. snowflake flannel sheets, two comforters and a handmade quilt – even with mighty cold house temperatures – were cozy and we fell asleep, exhausted and knowing the next day would bring both the hope of reconnected power and the beginning of the blizzard.

post-nightfall, standing in the living room – bathed in light – we looked at each other not sure what to do next.

but first – first we were grateful.

*****

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protect the value. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

my sweet momma had some quirks.

instead of taking a shopping bag with us when we shopped, she did the opposite. it seemed to work – we’d find the things we were looking for when we did not have the shopping bag.

instead of taking an umbrella for the impending rain, she’d take an umbrella to quell the rain. that also worked much of the time.

it was sort of like the opposite of preparedness. manifesting what she wished for, staving off the rain, inviting the bargains – all seemingly achieved by opposite actions. even though my sweet momma was a staunch girl scout supporter and volunteer – with the motto “be prepared” – she also exercised her own juju as she went about life.

though i laugh when i think about it – and have told d about these itsy-bitsy quirks of my mom (unlike me – with no quirks at all – teehee) – i tend to take the polar opposite action. i put the umbrella in my backpack. i take the fold-up shopping bag. i put snacks in my purse. i tuck duct tape and tools, extra oil and blankets into our old vehicles. and i bring the phone charger when we leave home for any destination, event or activity over an hour away.

so when we saw the weather report that issued wind warnings – which we and our new electric mast can now certainly attest to – we brought in the windchimes. they are really beautiful and their soulful, resonant sound is of reassurance to us from the backyard, so we did not want them harmed by the coming winds. we often take off the clapper if the weather is too gusty, but this time d brought the whole kit-n-kaboodle inside. we both felt better seeing them safely on the rug in the sunroom. just a small action, but a nod to being prepared for what was on its way, to protecting their value to us.

it’s hard – extremely hard – not to take these little lessons we have all learned along the way and apply them to the present-day in our country. it feels like utter chaos, with no real preparation, no real plan, nothing but self-serving agenda reeling around and running the show. it is utterly exhausting.

we are in the very tiny lull in the middle of the blizzard that started last evening. radar shows that we are in this small white blob in the middle of a gigantic blue blizzard field. soon the snow and the winds will start howling again; it is to go on for several more hours. the gusty sleet pummeled the windows last night as i worried about trees and power lines and electric poles and new electric masts. we take a deep breath, getting ready for the rest.

it temporarily took my mind off of war and mass deportation, healthcare and social safety net programs and exponentially rising costs, extremism and voter disenfranchisement, a justice system and leadership sycophants hiding blatant sex-trafficking, abject cruelty and an absolute lack of regard for fellow humans complete with disdain for any social differentiation.

i don’t know what that all says about preparedness. it certainly raises some outraged emotions. i do feel like “they” have been preparing for years – stoking up hatred and bigotry to the gills – conniving and in cahoots with the richest – and clearly most cavalier – people in the world – with the dedication and commitment to take over everything. they have prepared. and they have not prepared. they have plans and they shoot from the hip. they are the wind blasts and they are surprised by the pushback and the guards against the battering wind.

the wind last night kept me awake. because i know what can happen. and i want to protect us from all that harm.

why is it that so many in this country’s leadership seem to care so little about how battered this country is becoming? where are the checks and balances on this administration? how is complicity so rampant? how is it that there are so many citizens who seem to care less about being in the middle of this storm – the unbelievable corruption, the outrageous grift, the isolation, taunting the rest of the world, the clear attempt of authoritarian takeover? is there no natural tendency within them to protect the country – our cherished country – from all that harm?

what is the value of this country, its democracy, its people, and its laws to all of us?

i glance over at the treasured pipes on the rug. knowing that soon we’ll hang them back in the tree and the chimes will once again float in the air, i’m grateful we took precautions to keep them from being destroyed.

*****

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comfort in power in comfort. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

it was even before the windstorm. before the tree fell in a yard behind us. before the tree – landing on the wires – snapped the utility pole. before the utility pole put intense tension on our electrical wires. before that tension severely bent our electric mast. before our quadrant in the neighborhood lost all power for two days. before the house was aching-joint-cold inside. before the angst of the last-minute – very pricey – ultimatum of having to have a new mast installed – on a weekend – before we could get power restored to our home. before.

because there was plenty before all that that required comfort.

and it was most definitely a pasta day.

had we had power, each of those next days were also pasta days.

it was dang cold in the house. everything slowed to a standstill. no power, no heat, no internet, not a lot to do but watch out the window and wait for any sign that the power company was coming.

our friends and neighbors – we all kept in touch. they rallied around us with offers of help, our turn for the concern of those who care about us.

when the power company did arrive and we saw them out back, it began to raise our spirits. we knew they had a lot to do – the downed tree, wires all enmeshed in bushes and tree branches, a snapped pole in a difficult-to-get-to place, placing a new pole, restringing wires. a ‘hood without power. our comfort lay in their hands.

and these guys – in windy conditions and cold temperatures – and eventually – snow – were out there, diligently getting it done.

at the last minute we were told they couldn’t safely connect us without a new electric mast. 4pm on a saturday.

in high gear, we feverishly placed calls and texts to electricians and our friends and electricians of our friends. we knew it might not be easy to get someone – with a mast in their back pocket – to swing by and install it – at that very moment.

the young electrician who’d done work for us before came through. and it was no small comfort we felt knowing that he and his colleague were out there installing our shiny new electric mast. in texts our friends cheered them on.

the power guys were finishing up when our guys were juuuust about done. knowing the weather that was due to arrive the next day – a blizzard and, subsequently, negative windchills – they worked together to make sure we got connected – the only house with a damaged mast in this particular wind-tree-wires-pole-wires-mast fiasco. comfort.

i walked back into the house – with all the layers on that i had worn for the entire day – and the lights were on. i could hear the boiler as it worked to start warming up the radiators, which had a long way to go from in-house temperatures in the 40s.

d and i stood in the living room, staring at each other, tired from the worry and the cold.

we both spoke generous words of appreciation for the workers who had restored power – that basic of which we all take for granted. we both spoke generous words of appreciation for the electricians who dropped everything and accommodated our need. we both spoke generous words of appreciation for those people who had reached out to virtually keep us company. we both spoke generous words of appreciation for keeping relatively calm in what had become increasingly angst-ridden.

we reveled in light. and heat. and comfort.

the comfort of power.

the power of comfort.

simple stuff.

*****

comfort you – van morrison

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the burn. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

=

the day after i wrote about yesterday’s stunning grapevine knot we went back to our trail. it was a gorgeous day – the nicest day we have had in months – the sun warm on our backs as we hiked, a no-jacket day, a hiking-sandals day.

the peepers were out for the first time and the first butterfly we’ve seen flitted in our path, circling us, teasing for a photo shoot. it was exquisite to be out there.

except for the smoke.

for this was a burn day. and they were out there, burning the invasive underbrush in the woods, with smoke filling the air on the west side of the forest and nature preserve. the ecologists manage the natural communities, sorting to balance and eradicate that which seeks to take over the rest.

though the smoke can be disturbing, the point of the burn is well-taken and we respect their dedicated efforts to give this land the freedom to transition into spring – and next – without its life being suffocated by invasive species. we know that the future of this preserve is dependent upon this care – these checks and balances – and we are grateful for this diligence so that we might continue hiking along this beautiful river and in its forests.

though – once again – the metaphor that aligns with the current government and state of affairs in this country – the metaphor of parallel eradication of that-which-is-invasive here and now just begs for attention, i am trusting you are drawing the parallel and there is no reason for me to rant on and on about that.

and so, instead, i will go personal and introspective because even though i was struck by the timing of the burn in light of my checks-and-balances rant yesterday, i was even more struck by the timing of the burn from the inside out.

there are times we all need to uncoil the knot that has wound into our souls somewhere and tend to its throwingout. in watershed moments, we ferret out stuff that no longer needs to have residence in our bodies, no longer needs to cause pain or distress, no longer needs to keep us awake at night. this is never easy. and never really finished.

the burning underbrush was raw for me. at a time that i am deliberately choosing fire over silence i recognize that there is a shift happening and that i will never return to the previous state – some of that is becoming ash. just like i can mark – with absolute certainty – the before and after of my life very, very long ago – so can i mark the before and after of this burning fire.

i was struck by the beautiful spiral of layered leaves as they smoldered, the bits of spark in the logs trailside, leaves and ash co-habitating. i was indeed stunned by how clearly distinct the line of demarcation between burning and not-burning, how the mitigation biologists controlled this fire.

the health risk of this ecosystem is being tended.

just like i am tending mine.

*****

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metaphors everywhere. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

we talked about what this stunning vine would look like in a time-lapse video of itself – curling around this stem of underbrush, coiling in and out. it would be fascinating to see.

we watched a PBS special of a vine – reaching, reaching – for the sky. it was nothing less than intense. it would seem that vines are definitely in the every-being-for-itself gang, striving to get sun and squashing – choking – all in its way. which, in these times, sounds devastatingly familiar.

i see this vine off the side of the dirt trail we are on – tightly wrapped around underbrush – and think about how stuck it is, there on that stalk. i wonder – as I look at it – if it is even possible to unwrap itself, to loose its deathgrip on its victim, to shed its imperative to conquer as it climbs. or if it is lost in this dedication, this seeming mandate; if it is too immersed in its scheme of obliteration.

once a vine is a vine is there a point of no return, that dedication to climbing the ladder, so to speak, with no thought of that which it is crushing?

a little research shows that vines climb and block sunlight – starving the host plants. they add weight to delicate branches and foster rot. they are smothering. many are rabidly destructive, aggressive invasive species, hard to mitigate, impervious to control or checks and balances. hmmm. again, sounding familiar.

as i studied this creeping grape-vine-knot in the woods, i was struck by its beauty, taken in by its curves and the graceful way it had wound itself. it did not occur to me – as i studied it and photographed it – of the harm it may be causing. a little time dedicated to research, to asking questions, to garnering factual information and the vine-knot took on different meaning and made me wary of any championing i might give it.

“vines can deform trees by interfering with branch growth.” “active, localized efforts to manage and eradicate wild grapevines exist in wisconsin, primarily to prevent them from choking out trees and native vegetation.”

“without constitutional checks and balances, the presidency risks shifting toward authoritarianism, where the executive branch can ignore court orders, dismantle regulatory independence, and weaponize the department of justice against political opponents. this breakdown of oversight allows for unconstitutional executive orders, consoldation of power, and the potential erosion of democratic norms.”

there are metaphors everywhere.

*****

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HELPING HANDS
53.5″ x 15.25″

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zig choices. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

“because of some strange little voice inside, i zigged where i was expected to zag…”(anna quindlen)

aging is a funny thing. you come screeching to a halt at this place – a kind of dr. seuss waiting place – and you have the chance to make some decisions. which way do you go now? what route do you take? where are you headed?

or maybe you come screeching to a halt – having been on this one solid path – to a place – a kind of dr. seuss waiting place – and you linger there, looking around, out of breath and a little bit tired. in front of you, choices fan out, beckoning you. you sit down, in the lazy boy of havinggottenthere and you ponder, panting, exhausted.

for, all of a sudden, you don’t feel compelled to drive forward on one straight line. you are suddenly empowered by the realization that none of it – and all of it – counts. you have begun to realize that the dust you will leave behind will not be measured by accomplishment. it, likely, won’t even be remembered by accomplishment. for those things dim and boxes of those remain in the basement, ready for some thrift store or antique shoppe. mementos have gathered dust and certificates have faded on office walls. the hills you climbed, the battles you waged, they have evanesced. the trophies, the medals, the awards, the stock options – all so greatly valued at one time – have lost their lustre.

so you take stock. your havinggottenthere lazy boy slowly rocks while you stare ahead and think about what path might “align with your purpose, peace and trust in the future” (the “best path” as defined by google).

and something is itching inside you to go rogue, to take a path no one expects, to zig where they expect you to zag.

and, as it appears on the twiggy hogweed map, you can always backtrack back to the waiting place – to re-evaluate, to rest, to try something else on for size.

there is a freedom to this aging thing. (granted, there would be more of a freedom if there was not chaos.)

this freedom to explore without expectation, to try without any measure of succeeding, to grab onto more experiences – but without preconceived notions, to discard the safe path and embrace a bit of fear, to muse-work and branch-out or sit-and-stare with abandon.

there is a freedom knowing that as much as one matters, our tiny existence is yet tiny. and what we feel at dawn as we breathe in early spring-like air or listen to birds collecting at the feeder or pull up the covers for just a little longer – all that matters.

there are moments i am stunned by the ability to feel. physically. emotionally. the ability to FEEL. it’s shocking. i recognize that there have been days – maybe even weeks or months or years – when i paid little to no heed to being able to feel. lost in the mayhem of everylittlethingthatmustgetdone i missed it. we have all been racing to finish.

and yet, here we are – in this time of utter chaos – where everything seems upside down, corruption is rampant, the country is flailing while its leaders violently push it backwards, isolate it, make it a pariah – and THIS happens to be our time.

we feel bits of wisdom pop up evvvvvery now and again, evvvvvvery here and there, through fallowed earth like snowdrops or crocuses desperate to emerge. we stand up. we speak up. we speak out. we cuss. we bellylaugh. we rail. we inhale, another deep breath.

we are feeling. we are making time to feel.

we are considering our zigs.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this NOT-SO-FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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my souvenirs. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

she pointed at the artisan-crafted wooden sconce and said, “did you see the heart?” one of the wooden discs was in the shape of a heart. i hadn’t noticed, which is saying a lot since i always notice hearts. i was thrilled, though, because the thought of her having this heart-infused sconce on the wall of her newly-purchased “dream home” was, well, totally heartwarming. this person was the right person to have these family-handed-down scandinavian birch sconces – and that was the moment i knew it.

each day i am finding something else of which i am ready to let go. it’s not always easy. sometimes the connection is hard to break. but i am trying to make decisions based on the unlikelihood of our actually using a piece versus the chance that someone else might be able to use it, has been searching for it or is just charmed by that very thing. storing something ad nauseum seems completely silly now. despite its charm, the beauty of something hand-crafted, the ancestry strands connected with it, if i haven’t used it in decades, why would i expect to use it now?

it is a tad bit overwhelming – i realize i am redundant-beyond-the-beyond here – to go through everything. the bins, boxes, closets, attic, storage rooms seem neverending. and yet, there are some great stories i am able to tell david, some history of these relics, with mixed emotions that accompany them.

as i move them on, i begin to see that the artifacts of the past – though some laden with positive or negative emotion – are not that which holds the emotion. the curio is merely the vessel of what jolts my memory, pokes at my heart, the physical thing that – when i see it or touch it – brings up whatever the emotion might be.

there are a few things that still don’t pass muster. even if i smudged them with great amounts of sage, they would still be too much for me to hold onto, too much for me to tuck back into a bin or box, a closet or the attic. some things must move on – and there is no reticence whatsoever.

it’s been a big learning. and it has gained momentum for me. as i unearth each bit of relic for release, i see yet another and know it is time.

some of it i send out with bits of my heart and some with a deep exhale. and, either way, i know that – eventually – it all remains anyway. even when the bins and boxes and closets and attic and storage rooms are way less labored with stuff.

i have connected with the memory, acknowledged it, felt it, and stored it back away. i have wrapped my heart around it or dealt with processing it.

and the fragments of memory – now invisible remnants of all the stuff – are now my souvenirs.

*****

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in our back pockets. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

“symbolizes wisdom, intuition, and the ability to see beyond deception or hidden truths.” (google)

it was on our way back on an out-and-back trail. we had already had the good fortune of hiking in the sun, our shadows falling on reedy marshes and fallowed underbrush of the forest, deer crossing our path.

the trail was muddy. i was watching where i was stepping.

and there it was.

a solitary feather.

a search told us it was an owl feather.

though there are resemblances to hawk feathers, i’m not minding the idea of going with owl – particularly since the symbolism is timely.

so, let’s go with that. (of course, i do welcome any birder’s opinions on this.)

we left it there, on the trail.

but we carried with us the good news of its symbolism, the wisdom, intuition and ability to discern truth. heaven knows we all sure need that right now.

in these times of unbelievable chaos, unbridled deception and grift, rank, depraved cruelty, a country being unconscionably deceived by its appallingly incompetent leaders, we are certain to need to stand in earnest wisdom with clear-eyed views of what is real versus what is propagandized or outright lying. we need to move with grace through all these challenges, protected against vast negative energy, step by step toward transformation and renewal in our country.

maybe we should all carry a virtual owl feather in our back pockets as we walk through these days.

*****

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