reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Monthly Archives: October 2025


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and then. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

with what seemed a millisecond between seasons, it is – clearly – fall now.

i had a list of places to go, places to show d. but the tropical storm/nor’easter put a crimp in all that. planting fields, millneck manor, blydenburgh park, hecksher park, every beach on both shores, out east – it was all on the list.

but the reality was that both time and good weather were limited. so in tiny bits of time, we went to the most important places. the other places will have to wait.

grateful to be home, we went to our favorite loop trail and immersed in the turn of the season, appreciating all the little and big ways it had changed in the week we had been away – a week that felt infinitely longer.

i readjusted the smart lights and the old-fashioned timers. d pushed the garden lights earlier. we refreshed happy lights and, and just a few days ago, i turned on the heat for the first time this season. i love autumn, but the waning light is a bit challenging.

any store we enter now is decked out in full holiday schmalz. that – i have to say – is too much for me. though i am completely aware this works for some people, it just seems too soon and it seems a bit tone-deaf to me, considering all that is actually happening.

as i think about the holiday season – knowing our adult children will not be celebrating here with us this year – i wonder about our own celebration. i have some seriously mixed feelings about it all. though being surrounded by lights and cheerful reminders of merriment and joy would be helpful, i also know that there is a tipping point – at least for me. too much of that might be like closing my eyes to the painful changes taking place right here, right now. it will be important to balance the hope of a season of light with reality. some of the merriment, the decorations, the glitter and ribbons and wrap might have to wait. just like millneck manor and planting fields, the beaches and parks of the island. sometimes just a bit is also enough for the moment.

in the meanwhile, we touch this season. we take cuttings of our plants to propagate for next year. we miss long, lazy light as it slowly disappears. we start to wear boots.

the time of fallow is coming.

fallow.

and then?

i truly hope that soon we here in this country are able to – driven to – resume the cultivation of kindness and humanitarian goodness, to regenerate respect and care for each person here, to break the toxic infestation of these days, to recover a nation of integrity, equality, generosity and democracy for all.

*****

MILLNECK FALL © 1996 kerri sherwood

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

i could see the maple tree up over the roof of the house. it had really grown a lot in the decades since our family lived there. i thought about all the time i had spent in that tree…an innocent poet trying to piece together the world, make sense of it. back then, i was proud to spend time with my family, my beloved dog missi, on the piano bench or the organ bench or tucked against the trunk of my tree, riding my bike (or, later, driving my little vw bug) to the beach or the harbor, studying, doing homework. i taught piano lessons and worked at various part-time jobs – all on or adjacent to larkfield road – the main artery through our town. going back to these places after long years away makes one realize how small it all was – this world around me – with everything nearby and a steadfast belief in rainbows and sunrises and seagulls.

i wasn’t street-wise back in those days – not at all. the guys i worked with loved to test my naïveté by telling jokes and laughing before the punchline. in an effort to mask that i never really got the joke (particularly if it was a “dirty joke”), i’d laugh when they laughed. they caught me every time. but i didn’t care. it was a happy life and i was ever-so-slowly learning about the real world.

i wondered how it would feel when we first drove down into northport from high above the harbor. this cherished town, this dock – a place of inspiration for me – had taken on different meaning from the time long ago, when i left so abruptly. the sadness i felt leaving a place so ingrained in me had never left. there was grief, deep grief. as my innocence was shattered, my home – these shining places that were part and parcel to who i was had been tarnished. nothing was the same and i wondered what that would feel like, if i would feel misfit.

at first – as i’ve written – there was a disconnect. i’m certain it was a protective measure, something that would maybe prevent me from feeling the grief, touching it, maybe releasing bits of it. but the spirit – of the little village, the harbor, the dock, the gazebo, the beach, the maple tree in the distance – all swirled around me. and, as d and i created new memories there, my guarded heart opened.

the sunsets over the harbor are stunning. the inky nights on the dock are magical. i took them with me as we left, this time slowly, not fleeing.

and as we sit at the little bistro table in our sunroom, with driftwood and rocks from that place, it’s a different kind of grief i feel now. it’s the grief of missing a place that is indelibly etched in me, that is part of what has made me who i am, that is woven into what will heal me.

“…the waters part to let them go.

the wake follows, alone.”

(night dock – january 1977)

*****

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

littlebabyscion stayed home. good thing. we would have been dwarfed in the middle of all the trucks on the highway going into the city. at least big red had a bit more presence than LBS would have had. even so, it was like being in a cave – we couldn’t see anything else but the trucks. no view, no signs, nothing. just trucks.

it was a breath of fresh air when we got to the george washington bridge and the trucks veered left to traverse the bridge on the upper level. suddenly we could see the water. suddenly we could see signs. we could see the skyline of the city. we had perspective of where we actually were, instead of just inching along in a cluster – no real choice but to move ever-so-slightly in this cotillion of semis – with zero idea of our exact location.

this country feels that way right now. we are surrounded by corruption to the nth degree and it is insanely hard to try and stop hyperventilating and get any kind of perspective – we are seemingly inching along in a clusterf— of lawlessness, all pretense of the constitution removed, the horror of being controlless, with only the worst of the worst locating us.

there were moments when it was hard to breathe in the middle of all these trucks. i kept wishing there was another way off the island, but every artery has its issues and there are snagging problems getting off every way you go.

so we endured. and we went ridiculously slow; it took three and a half hours to get off the island and across the city. but we got there.

and so, i suppose that there is a lesson here. it’s not like we pulled over and gave up. we set the nose of big red to get there – west on the island, across the east river, across the hudson river and beyond. and, despite it taking longer than we ever anticipated, we got there.

i hope the same premise somehow applies to this redwood-forest-new-york-island country.

*****

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comfort in the kaiser rolls. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

i hadn’t had manhattan clam chowder in forever. but it was on the menu and the day in the village was sunny. with the scent of fresh bread baking wafting around us, we ordered a couple bowls and a couple kaiser rolls. we took it all outside to a tiny bistro table on the street next to the harbor. if we could, we would go back today.

when it was time to head out of town, we walked there early in the morning. a few blocks from the little apartment we were renting, we just wanted one more bakery visit. so in early sunlight, with a brisk breeze off the water, we walked over and placed our order for breakfast sandwiches – on the traditional kaiser roll. they wrapped them up for us to take.

there is comfort in the kaiser roll. it is most definitely a new york thing and, for me, even more specifically, a long island thing. growing up, my dad used to make breakfast sandwiches after church on sundays. he and my mom continued the tradition when they moved to florida, seeking out the best kaiser rolls they could find in bakeries run by people who had also retired from up north.

the bakery became our favorite place – in the several times we went there. witness to the ever-present crowd of patrons, you could feel there was a generous spirit there – of community and well-loved staff – diverse and embracing. because we aren’t really fancy-restaurant-types, in close second was the bar that had baked clams. the rest of the time we cooked.

somewhere down the highway on the way back, i realized we should have purchased a dozen or so kaisers to take with us. or one of the amazing loaves of bread stacked warm on metal pans or neatly in the display. because, then, we could have carried this community’s comfort with us.

back at home, i am feeling wistful for that small harbor town. not because it is beautiful. not because it is totally charming. not because it feels like a place straight out of a hallmark movie. but because – despite a feeling of sad, complicated, emotional disconnect when we arrived there – i left having been nurtured by that town. i left having reconnected with a place i have always cherished but had lost to trauma. i left feeling again the part of me that always loved it, that always felt it was a part of me, that always felt like it “fit”.

there was comfort in the kaiser rolls, comfort in my rocky beach, comfort in my old harbor town.

and, now, there is comfort in – truly – missing it.

*****

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children and dreams. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

it made me cry. it was all i could do not to down-and-out messy cry. had i lost control it would have been ugly. i grieved for every single american child as i struggled and hiccuped my way back to some semblance of calm. phil vassar’s lyrics were poignant and profound and deeply troubling.

the concert was amazing. phil vassar is a prolific songwriter, a consummate performer, his voice strong, his ballads clear. i’ve seen him in concert several times and was thrilled to see him again. he is now 63 and, having had both a heart attack and a stroke, he is making his way back – to the attention of the public – for the public forgets quickly.

there are artists you hold onto, particularly when you are an artist yourself. you know when there is something absolutely special about someone – you can feel it. every song, every note, every sung lyric – this man is a master singer-songwriter. there’s nothing really fancy about him…he plays a painted acoustic yamaha piano, often standing (which i can totally relate to). his band is extraordinary and tight, the perfect backup for him.

“cause 419 lakewood had no silver spoons/just an old beat up upright that played out of tune/now i’m singing and living the life that i love/and when i count my blessings i thank god i was an american child/an american child/’cause dreams can grow wild born inside an american child.” (american child – phil vassar)

every american child.

and that’s why i cried. because it’s no longer the same. i cried for my adult children. i cried for my friends’ grandchildren. i cried for the children i don’t know. i cried for what this country has lost, the dreams that have been violently stolen, the hope that has dissolved, the democracy that hangs by tiny filaments.

at the end of the concert, phil vassar – in seemingly no hurry at all – sat on the edge of the stage and chatted with people, took selfies with his fans, signed shirts and hats and cds.

i stood at our seats and watched, both proud of him and a little bit stunned at how very gracious he was – his obvious, deep gratitude to a concert hall that should have been filled.

i knew he couldn’t hear me – and i didn’t go up to tell him – but as i stood there i whispered, “you’re relevant, phil vassar. you’re so relevant.” deep down, he already knows. he’s always been relevant.

an american child. the american dream.

“there is no trust more sacred than the one the world holds with children. there is no duty more important than ensuring that their rights are respected, that their welfare is protected, that their lives are free from fear and want and that they can grow up in peace.” (kofi annan)

“a promise once made/will it shine, will it fade/will we rise with the vision or fall?” (american child – john denver)

*****

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

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waltz in the gazebo. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

we had the gazebo all to ourselves. it is likely that the tropical-storm-nor’easter had something to do with this. no one seemed inclined to be strolling about, nonetheless lingering on the gazebo.

so we danced. on the rain-soaked boards of this beautiful age-old gazebo, we waltzed to the music on my phone – the cherish the ladies instrumental if ever you were mine – the very piece we irish-waltzed at our wedding, surrounded by a circle of family and friends.

and on this dark starless night, with rain drifting in under the domed wood of the gazebo, it was not only magical. it was a little bit healing. it was sacred.

for here we were – both literally drenched – all alone on the gazebo of my youth – lifting the cellophane of the old magic slate – starting a new history.

just a couple people passed by in the park, walking the edges of the harbor. they paid no attention to our slow dancing. much is the way of new yorkers: you do you they imply.

we weren’t looking for an audience, so that was good. we were just sinking into the night – in the middle of the storm – in the middle of the storm.

and i could begin to feel the old break away a bit and new replace it as our feet got jumbled together in the waltz we hadn’t waltzed in a while.

i clicked play a second time, lifted the cellophane a second time.

just to make sure.

*****

SLOW DANCE © 2002 kerri sherwood

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what harbors are for. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

even in torrents of rain i wanted him to hear the clanking of metal-rigged sails. even in torrents of rain i wanted him to sit on the benches and watch the water. even in torrents of rain i wanted him to feel the dark sky blanket this harbor.

the design of the small pavilion at the end of the dock has stood the test of time – this slip-less harbor site where most boats are moored off-dock, with skiffs back and forth.

it is one of the places i go – in my mind – when i go ‘home’.

i spent a lot of time in this little coastal town. many poems and lyrics got their start on the boards of this dock, the waters of this place. there is a deep vibration here that resonates in me. i was grateful to immerse in a bit of time there with d. i knew he would love it too.

so as the tropical-storm-nor’easter pounded the island, we walked in its fury. drenched, we sat on the dock, watching the reflection of lights on the churning water. we were silent and we leaned in, to speak over the wind.

it seemed right to be there in the middle of the storm.

the sun came out after a couple days. we sat on the dock again. the waves had calmed, the wind had lessened, the rain was gone.

but the harbor remembered. it remembered sheltering the coast from the pummeling.

that’s what harbors are for.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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

“the smallest act of kindness is worth more than the greatest intention.” (khalil gibran)

it had been a long day. a very long day that was preceded by other very long days. we were tired and road-weary. the last couple hours were brutal. at one point i just wanted to stop in the middle of a dark intersection and weep. we kept on.

when we finally got there – after driving through corn-edged roads with slices of moonlight shining on the asphalt – i pulled the truck onto the gravel drive and – without any finessing to my parking – just stopped, more than ready to get out.

we opened the tiny cottage door, taking a breath, knowing that – sometimes – a place to land is merely that and nothing more – just a place to land.

in the moment of stepping over the threshold, it was instantaneous. the little cottage reached out and held us as we entered, its every detail thoughtful and comforting.

we wandered room to room – the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom. everything was impeccable. we were struck by the abundance offered in this place, instead of the sometimes helter-skelter just-enough conglomeration of furnishings, decor, necessities.

we stood in the bathroom by the cabinet, literally stunned by the stacks of thick, fluffy towels on its shelves. we had just come from a rented place where the towels were thin, musty, ragtag – the sort of towels we have downstairs in our laundry room for cleanup duties not guests.

we had a small dinner – on plates and glasses that neatly filled the kitchen cupboards, at a table with flowers and napkins, adjacent to a counter with a basket full of snacks.

but it was when we got ready for bed that really got to me, that helped me exhale my held breath and granted me a new, big, deep breath.

there on a giant scrumptious bed – with a thick comforter and quilt and multiple pillows – were two andes candies.

the tiniest sweet gesture.

yes, we paid to stay at this beautiful cottage that perched on a hillside above the river boasting plentiful water fowl and eagles. but we’ve also paid to stay at many, many other places. truth be told, we usually like them all, finding charm in the location, the aged history, the quirk. even when there’s only one spoon or one glass, a hodgepodge of plastic plates, not enough lights.

but when you are as embraced by a place as we were that night, you are reminded that going the extra mile is worth it. that any hospitality we might offer others – whether as a generosity or paid – whether near or far – whether beloved or stranger – should be considered, heartfelt, gracious, unsparing.

even the tiniest of gestures. like a couple andes candies.

because many people these days – in places all over the world – feel like weeping in the middle of a dark intersection.

*****

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

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that place. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

i couldn’t begin to guess how many times i have sat on that beach. i couldn’t begin to describe all the life i have navigated there, all the pondering i have pondered, all the sun and the snow and the rain, the early dawns, the inky skies i have shared with that place. in the mystery that connects you to certain places, it was always my go-to.

and the mystery continues.

we shared time with that beach again. profound time. time wherein i stood by the water’s edge talking to the universe. once again, feet in that sand, touching that water, eyes to that sky.

some of the benches just off the boardwalk have been there forever. the curve of the metal arm, the weather-worn wooden seat – familiar touchstones that date back and back. the seagulls diving, riding the waves, rising in air currents and dropping crabshells to the ground – their caws lodged in memory.

this is not the island’s finest. there are many beaches with less rocks, fewer shells, more shoreline, softer sand, less seaweed, stronger surf. but this is the one.

i left a piece of me – a free-to-be–crazy-with-potential–wildflower-growing piece – behind on this island.

and so i thought that maybe – just maybe – i could go put my feet on this very sand, touch this very water, drink in this very salt air to both reclaim that piece and set it free.

there was no drumroll, no hoopla, no folderol. there were no fireworks or lightning bolts.

as the wind became gusty and it got colder, i merely turned reluctantly away from the water’s edge.

he was waiting for me about halfway up the beach and he held me as i stood in that very sand under that very sun, taking it all in, grateful.

we walked arm in arm to the benches and sat on the oldest one.

it was a long time before we left.

but not before i wrote my name in the sand.

and not before i held her hand – that wildflower.

“i got you,” i told her.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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pretty basic. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

the business was closed as we walked by on the sidewalk. the luminescent sunset over the harbor was beckoning. but i stopped when i saw the sign – facing out the window: “work hard and be kind“.

i’m not sure what kind of office it was – maybe a realtor, maybe insurance, i don’t know. it doesn’t matter, though. the message was clear and we so appreciated it. it was like a combo quote – of my sweet mom and poppo smushed together. there were other signs of my mom and dad here and there. simple gestures from another dimension.

when big red’s windshield started to high-pitch-whine, there was no way to ignore it. with no time for an official windshield rubber seal repair, we pulled off and found a home improvement store. i could hear my dad as we purchased and then tacked black gorilla tape all along the top windshield seal. his instructions were clear – trim the spots where there is a little gutter so that rain doesn’t accumulate there (good advice considering we were about to be driving in the torrential tropical-storm-turned-nor’easter), be sure to bring the tape all the way across and down into the well created by the driver and passenger doors, press it all down firmly and eliminate as many air pockets as possible.

i couldn’t help but remember the time – more than five decades ago – that my dad and my big brother and i had a breakdown upstate new york and they cut barbed wire from a fence for our pink-painted lilco-van-turned-camper to fashion some kind of engine fix that would get us home.

we laughed as we applied my dad’s version of a rube goldberg repair. and we laughed even more, clear that columbus and my dad were having a good chuckle together watching us from the other side. mostly, we worked hard together at trying to solve a problem, at staying calm and being kind to each other in the process. because a screaming (and later, leaking) windshield can most definitely cause stress and grumpiness.

only a little water managed to get past our super-duper-3-times-stronger-heavy-duty-all-weather homemade seal, which is pretty impressive considering the torrents of rain and wind it endured.

by the time we were walking on the sidewalk down toward the harbor and the sun, we had forgotten about the windshield challenge. we were immersing in a little harbor town i have always loved, intentionally appreciating people who were working hard and people who were kind to us.

but back in big red, on the way back – sans whistling windshield – we talked about our rube-goldberg-ing on the way out.

it all seems pretty basic to us.

gorilla tape won’t fix everything but working hard and being kind can.

*****

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

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