reverse threading

the path back is the path forward


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the flower in the middle. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

we usually leave our house – and arrive at our house – through the back door. it all started when, years ago, i was having trouble with the front door – the key wouldn’t work in the lock and – at the time, and for some time – it was too pricey to have a locksmith either fix it or install a whole new handle assembly on an old door with a really unique and beautiful vintage brass handle. so i used the back door instead. exclusively.

now, clearly i went to the front door to answer it, to check the mail, to exit directly into the front yard. it was just more secure to leave through the back and it was impossible to enter through the front.

phew. enough about that.

anyway, the other day – mid-afternoon – i went to the front door to check the mailbox. dogga always comes with me to “check the mail with momma”. glancing out, i could see this bright yellow flower – just one – happily growing next to one of the big ornamental grasses between our front sidewalk and the old brick wall.

all perky-like, it totally captured my attention – this little stranger in the midst of all the green fronds around it.

it didn’t look unhappy in its lostness. on the contrary, it looked completely at ease.

when i was little i had this inordinate, oversized fear of getting lost. i was completely not at ease with it. and my big brother fed this fear (just like my big sister fed fears of mine – for they were both a decade older than me and i was an easy target.)

i would be traveling with my dad and my big bro – in our pink camper van they converted from a long island lighting company (lilco) fleet-van. this van had a propensity for breaking down and it always seemed to be while we were upstate somewhere, forcing us to get off the highway onto these side roads to nowhere – woods and fields everywhere and no gas station to be found. my heightened angst about being lost would kick in – egged on by my beloved brother. i was little enough to be convinced we were never going to get home from the place-in-the-forest we had ended up, always stuck on the side of the road in a pink camper van, forever and ever more.

because my dad and my brother were both male – they were not inclined to ask for help or directions or a tow. instead, they did things like cut bits of barbed wire from random fences to resecure whatever it was in the engine that was falling apart. they’d drive and drive for miles – using the sun for guidance – to try and find their way back to an entrance to the highway. you know, various brilliant avoidances of utilizing the rest of humanity to help them.

to their credit, we always did get home safe and sound. and – to their credit – they truly were brilliant themselves – resourceful rube goldbergs – creativity and mechanical savvy combining to make every journey a success, no matter what.

i do think, though, that there are many people who – like this beautiful yellow flower – find themselves out of place, lost. out of place and lost can make one feel increasingly frantic and afraid:

“i think a lot of people are like this – lost, confused, and looking for directions but too scared or embarrassed or ashamed to ask for help.” (valerie bertinelli)

in all the adult travel i have done – particularly the solo travel – i have, like you, not really wanted to get lost on the way. but something about always arriving – when i was a child who was fearful – taught me to just take a breath. i have found that i talk aloud to myself as i drive through confusing territory – reminding myself i can always turn around and retrace my steps, i can always go back over the bridge the way i came, i can always pull over and regroup. and these days – with GPS at our side guiding our every veer and turn – this is even less imperative.

that doesn’t cover existential lostness, though. it doesn’t help with the out-of-place we feel in situations or circumstances – crossroads – of life that have nothing to do with traveling or maps.

” so many travelers say that sometimes you have to get lost to find what you’re looking for…”

maybe it’s those early days in our pink van that helped. the laughter and the tears, the ribbing and the comforting, the getting lost and the finding. it all somehow balances out.

in just a few days our little yellow flower was no longer there. it was almost like it had moved on.

but i do believe it was supposed to be right there – right out the now-keylock-accessible front door – waiting for us to see its happy face.

a little drop-in flower that reminded us of the raw of lostness and foundness and the time in the middle.

*****

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

it began ever-so-slowly. but on a day we needed a glow, the glow showed up.

all of a sudden – from our adirondack chairs on the patio – we could see a glow peeking out, growing behind the metal sunflower over in the fern garden in the back corner of our yard.

we are sunseekers – but not in a tanning sort of way. on this day, after many days of humid and overcast, humid and hot, humid and ridiculously hot, here was a day that was significantly less humid. the early evening was starting and we were not sweltering. instead, we were tiki-torch-sitting in the backyard, watching the world turn.

i aimed the camera around the yard – to capture that time – barney and our daylilies, the taller switchgrasses, the birdbath, the pond, the ferns and breck, dogga laying on the deck. a half hour later is when the sun started to sneak between the back of the garage and the fence – the amber of my favorite spotlight fresnel gel – this time backlighting the metal sunflower we brought home from dogga’s birthtown across the state.

the sun is streaming across the quilt right now. it is a glorious early morning and our windows are open. the streaming sun assuages worries we carried into the dawn.

i think about all the times i have spent deliberately watching the sun rise. the fence-climbing into crab meadow beach, the eastern sky over the ocean, the sky over lake michigan, over the mountains, in the utah desert, climbing over redrock. i think about all the times i have spent deliberately watching the sun set. northport harbor, the gulf beaches, over summit county mountain peaks, over the grandest of canyons and the quietest of canyonlands, the answer to the sunset of the eastern sky over the lake, off the dock up-north, looking west from our southport beachhouse, in endless farmlands, on favorite hiking trails, off the coast on-island.

to deliberately watch the sun is to see in-real-life the parameters of a day. to know that – in what feels like an instant – another day will start, another day will end. and on and on it goes.

we recently heard news of the death of someone we knew. it took us both by surprise and saddened us. and it made me fall back into that weird space i always feel when learning someone has died – the wondering space – where i wonder how it is that the world can go on if this person cannot feel it.

i know it does – go on.

and i’ve never really answered the question. it just feels too big – too humbling, too consuming, too heavy, too existential – for me to truly wrap my head around it.

i don’t know…

maybe that’s why i watch the sun rise and the sun set.

maybe the glow knows.

*****

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coleus-rich. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

it was $2.49. it sat in the midst of lots of other tiny coleus plants, on sale. the colors spoke to us and, though we weren’t planning on potting a coleus, we couldn’t resist the sale. this little plant has literally done better than any other plant we have purchased this year, including the two sweet potato vines we have placed on ladders – which usually rock, but have been just too inundated with rain and heat this year.

just goes to show you that something doesn’t have to be really expensive in order for it to be exquisite.

the color patterns on this coleus remind me of things you did as a kid: when you put celery in a tall glass and added water and food coloring. then you watched the food dye climb up the xylem of the stalk. or maybe when you went to summer rec and made cool tie-dye t-shirts (when you weren’t making braided plastic-lacing lanyards).

we spent time on the deck studying our plants and potting stand. the weather has really taken a toll on our herbs and tomatoes. they will likely not last until the bitter end of summer this year, which is too bad in a season when you can’t feel comfortable with store-bought parsley or basil or cilantro or, well, many produce items. or eggs. or bacon. or beef. or granola. or – the big one – lettuce. it all makes one’s head spin…so we are sad to have a garden that is diminishing too soon.

our coleus, however, is apparently going to gleefully hang out for a while. one piece that broke off from strong winds in a thunderstorm is inside in a jar of water. it has rooted and we’ll plant it, hoping to carry the happy coleus into the fall and beyond.

we budgeted and planned for our potting stand and went a bit over, having to replace a few herbs along the way. the extra was fine with us – we can cut back somewhere else – for we find this little garden a joy. and in the middle of the salmonella-e.coli-cyclospora scares, we have been grateful for access to its harvest. though the produce return-on-investment may not be the same as buying bulk produce or herbs at the store, harvesting our own has – once again – inspired us. and this year – in particular – it kept us from buying anything worrisome. maybe next year we will add a few more veggies to our garden. maybe a galvanized raised garden or two.

in the meanwhile – between the time that the potting stand no longer produces and the time we plant again – in fall and winter as we plot a new crop of plants and think about the possibility of a farmstand subscription (CSA), we will glance over at our indoor coleus and remember the riches of this summer – even the ones that were just $2.49.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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we rise up. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

as sunflowers age, their woody stems lose the ability to turn back and forth – east and west – in their track of the sun. instead, their older, more mature stalks keep them more planted, most often facing east – to capture the rising sun and warmth from early morning’s rays, to stoke up.

now, i’m guessing that it would be easier for the sunflower if it were able to continually use their magical heliotropism superpower their whole life, but – much like humans – some of their flexibility fades as they get older and they deal with life differently as an aged sunflower.

in the storylines of our own lives, it would be much easier if we were able to constantly pivot to goodness – the sun, easy answers, fixes, healing solutions, the fair solving of problems, any evil affecting us succumbing to accountability.

to think that all might go our way – the first time – or, heck, any time at all – sounds mighty fine.

but life as a sunflower isn’t like that. and neither is life as a human.

instead, lots of times we must set down our expectations and take a breath. a deep breath.

we allow a bit of time to readjust: to maybe grieve, to pine for a different result, to rail over outcomes dashed.

we reassess. we sort. we brainstorm.

we strategize. we plan.

we gear up.

and then – we rise up – with strong and straight spine – and face the next day, ready for what comes next. whatever it is.

*****

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schisms. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

i found myself both infuriated and blubbering. it all suddenly became too much, much too much.

the daily corruption, the cruelty upon cruelty, the absence of any morality or conscience, the vapid extolling of this administration by sycophants – it is just too much.

and the fact that i have family members who agree with this – who cheerlead it – who believe in the extremism and the horror – who WANT this – and this: who have chosen all of this over their lifelong blood-related relationship with me – makes me ill.

it is heartbreaking – as i am sure it is for you as well…you who are dealing with this same sort of schism in your family, friend groups or community. i have lost family as a result of this administration. and that makes me feel rage.

we had survived a growing-up lifetime of memories, moments of utter joy, moments of anger and disagreement, moments of good health and struggling illness, moments of wondrous new birth and moments of despairing death, moments when laughter was the best approach to tension within the family, moments when forgiveness was necessary for betrayal. we had survived all of that – for almost six decades – with the bruises to show for it and the love that sustained it.

but this country’s twisted and irreverent leadership – its sadistic, bigoted, reprehensibly warped, narcissistic, gluttonous leaders – accompanied by cowardly, self-serving members of the cabinet and legislature, concentric circles doing the unconscionable – THIS has blown to bits this family.

there is silence in its wake.

and we are left like flotsam and jetsam – estranged – the detritus of a country-that-was – destroyed – we are floating around – isolated and grieving – without each other because of this.

because playing on the team of hate and division apparently became more fun than the hard work of love and unity. i can’t bear to think that the depravity was just more in alignment with them all along.

it is ALL unforgivable.

just what is our ancestral family legacy now?

*****

LEGACY © 1995 kerri sherwood

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it’s happening. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

the sweet potato is growing by leaps and bounds – it’s almost mind-boggling how quickly it has become so large. more accustomed to plants that grow slower, we wonder how it is possible. it’s only been two weeks since we planted the entire potato in this planter, its tiny pink tendril sprouts sticking out of the dirt.

now – merely two weeks later – this sweet potato is vining everywhere. this photo, taken a few days ago, is already outdated; the vine now reaches up onto the deck and is twirling around the pot that holds one of the basil plants. it reaches out to the lavender, over to the tomato, and forward onto the patio. it – seemingly – has no bounds, and these amazing heart-shaped leaves are multiplying, multiplying, multiplying.

the good takeover is happening.

what if love could take over that fast?

*****

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what we put into it. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

there is not a walk we take this summer in our hood – down around the marina and the harbor and the channel – when we are not filled up with beautiful flowers. everywhere we look – along the pathways that intersect by our lake – there are giant standing planters, hanging baskets or gardens brimming over with meticulously-tended blooms and greenery.

the other night we walked slowly past the really big containers along the road that flanks the saturday farmers’ market. every one of the vessels was different – each had a different grouping of flowers and vines – brilliant contrasts of texture and vibrant colors – we did not miss the obvious thought that went into these big concrete urns. it would be easy to produce a gorgeous coffee table photo book of these textures and colors just from these giant planters alone. and in the middle of winter – on one of those cold, grey, sunless days – this book would be an explosion of pantone color charts.

i would be remiss to not offer gratitude to the hard working park staff who carefully plan, plant and care for these stunning displays. we are fortunate to be reminded on every walk that such beauty exists – not only naturally in meadows and forests – but also with a great deal of tending by real people taking exquisite care of flowers growing in our town. a community becomes what people put into it. and though the textures and issues of our community go beyond the flowers, i am grateful for the acknowledgement that this beauty counts.

now – in too-easy juxtaposition – i could easily launch into a tirade about the utter level of ugly – and of unhappiness – that is permeating this country. the cruelty and – truly – twisted torturous devices – both emotional and physical – that are being subscribed to in an effort to make this country what it is not – homogenous.

each and every day i am shocked to my core – nauseated – to see the newest iteration of unlawful ruling or order or statement, the lies, the misinformation, the hideous display of conscience-less immorality, the destruction of national parks and of beautiful resources that make this country unique. every day i cannot believe the depths to which this nation is sinking. every day i am floored by a legislative branch doing nothing to stop this horrific madness. it is utterly devastating – this reprehensible movement. a country becomes what people put into it. and i am left wondering what exactly is being acknowledged as the things that count here.

what is happening all feels catastrophic to me. i know that we cannot do nothing – we cannot hide our heads in the sand while this hideousness just takes over a nation filled with possibility offered by its diverse textures and colors.

we are so much more than the ugly we are witnessing, so much more than the ugly that is in charge, so much more than the ugly that is permeating our every day – in every mind-boggling, on-all-fronts way they can find.

it is up to all of us to put a stop to all this.

every single attempt at beauty counts. every single attempt to stop ugly counts.

we need to fill up and get about it.

we will become what we put into it.

*****

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

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why the heck not? [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

in the hope of emotional diversion, we have taken to watching videos and video research about bigfoot. yep. sasquatch. yedi. call it what you may.

when we stayed in a mountain town in north carolina – in the pisgah national forest and close to the edges of the nantahala forest – there was a house near us that had large metal sculptures and paintings (or decals) of bigfoot proliferating their house and yard. i now wish we had spoken to these people, to inquire about their experiences and why they were so enthusiastic about this mysterious being. people are either immediately discarding of this “creature” or they are rabidly zealous about it. there’s not a lot of in-between, though i’d say we are somewhere in the in-between space, trying to sort the scientific possibility of reality.

my thought? why not? why wouldn’t there be a creature about which we are not very knowledgeable, of which many have not seen? why wouldn’t there be a creature that has evaded most people, has been able to live in the wild, has telepathic abilities and even some dimensional-change tricks up its sleeve?

and, i would expect that the universe is congratulating these creatures on their ability to live – and thrive – outdoors – as a part of the environment – without destroying it for their own gain.

in expedition bigfoot, scientists and explorers join together to seek out this elusive animal. with intricate technology and boots-on-the-ground investigator skills, they follow the tracks of these beings, evidence mounting in each episode.

i glance down as we walk along the lakefront talking about our latest video indulgence. the bricks under our feet here are ordered, grass growing in most every crack. we wonder aloud how we might feel if we were hiking somewhere and came across a very-very-large naked footprint – not unlike what we are seeing with this deep-diving research team.

i imagine that seeing something like this in-real-life might be somewhat disconcerting. but i don’t imagine that it’s not possible.

i don’t think that we – as humans – should be so arrogant as to think that we know all about every living thing. instead, i believe we should be open to that which is enigmatic or even inexplicable, to that which we need to learn more about. on every continent there is an equivalent to bigfoot in the narrative of the indigenous, there are stories told by real people; there is evidence for these stories.

though – to this point – i have never seen anything resembling bigfoot – in my own life i have gratefully experienced firsthand the absolute mysteries of others reaching across dimension, the grace of life in parallel planes of existence. i remind myself that there is much that is baffling about life, much that is hard to comprehend in a galaxy full of wonder.

and so, i would not be so quick to discard the possibility of bigfoot. after all, i have been surprised over and over again by the souls and the actions of REAL people – so why the heck not?

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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blushed with beginning. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

“if you remain generous, time will come good; and you will find your feet again on fresh pastures of promise, where the air will be kind and blushed with beginning.” (john o’donohue – to bless the space between us)

the licorice plant, in a pot on top of the little chest on the deck, was clearly stressed. actually, beyond stressed. something had invaded it; webs were forming inbetween its branches and most of the leaves were turning yellow.

after having no luck combating this invader and worrying that whatever it was would spread to the herbs and vegetables we had planted right nearby, we made the decision to empty the pot and put the licorice plant into the sort-of compost pile next to the garage. we felt bad but thought it was best for the rest – eliminate that which is harmful, minimize the potential of further harm. we decided to go back to milaegers at some point and purchase another licorice plant. we just love the muted, soft shade of green of this plant with its somewhat wild, trailing branches.

when we brought home the new licorice plant, we ended up bringing it inside – placing it on an old stool in front of the living room window, enjoying it inside this time. in its place on top of the chest outside is now a new mint plant, which seems to love the spot in the limelight.

the other day, d was bringing a handful of weeds over to the “compost pile” and spotted our licorice plant. there it was, glory restored, its branches clear of webs, all silvery green leafing, its root ball firm and seemingly undamaged. without a word, he replanted it into a bigger pot and placed it on our babycat chair next to the driveway. the next time we went out to go for a walk, he drew it to my attention.

i was shocked to see this stunning licorice plant – revitalized. it seemed perfect in our now-outdoor wicker, next to the old fence that sports a beautiful green vine wall every summer. a new beginning for this plant – nourished, i guess, by the tumble of compost, the rain and fresh air, the shedding of a pot that might have been too small for its roots.

to say we are thrilled at the rejuvenation of our licorice is an understatement. every single time we are out back or we pass by it is a reminder of the chance of a second chance.

and in these times – so fraught – when we get lost: in the travails of discord in daily life and relationships, in the failure of making headway in our work, in any ability to let go of wounds – when we wonder if we dare hope for a new start – when we fight to give voice: to move from stagnation or a past that needs air, that needs releasing – when we recognize and eliminate that which harms us – when we work to actually create that new start – in these times, we need that reminder.

time will come good and you will find your feet again…where the air will be kind and blushed with beginning.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this MERELY-A-THOUGHT MONDAY

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our little pando. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

and suddenly, we are witnessing a generational family branch of our aspen tree.

breck has sent out roots and has established a tiny clone just next to our pond. this baby seedling has tentatively sprouted – with its pink stems and littlest aspen leaves – merely feet away from breck, growing in the shade that breck provides when afternoon sun is filtering through its branches.

seeing pando is on my bucket list…the ancient, interconnected organism that is more than forty-thousand aspen trees – all sharing the same root, the same dna. it is in utah and i can only imagine the profound hush that is – standing in thousands of quaking leaves, one of the largest single living organisms on earth.

what would it take for people to have this kind of awe about the interconnectedness of real live humans? what would it take for a hush to descend upon us as we stand in the midst of others, gathered together? what would it take to recognize the utter importance of preserving such a connection, of honoring it, of absolutely cherishing it? what would it take for humankind to acknowledge its ancient roots, its depth of wisdom, its trembling resilience, its soul?

what would it take for the family tree of humans – people all across the globe – to understand what family – all-inclusive-family – means, what family can accomplish together, how being truly connected – despite any differences – could perpetuate goodness…in a world that desperately needs goodness?

we will watch baby breck closely, tend to its safety, listen to the softest vibrations of its tiny leaves quaking, always aware of its quiet wisdom.

*****

CONNECTED © 1995 kerri sherwood

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