reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Category Archives: DR thursday


by 1 Comment

berries or art. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

i was minding my own business hiking the trail. the sun was sifting through the trees, the cool breeze was brilliant, the dirt felt good underneath my feet. lost in thought and feeling the glorious change in weather – the heat dome having moved on or dissipated – i was taken by surprise.

the bird poop landed on my forehead and splatted my sunglasses, schmearing down my nose, dropping onto my shirt. it was more than a little shocking and i said to d, “a bird just pooped on me!”. apparently, at the time i said this i was looking down at my shirt and he glanced over to see some evidence of this pooping, none too impressed until i looked up at him.

the look on his face told me what i needed to know. “it looks like blueberries,” he said, intending to be helpful, i think. i responded that the birds – and one in particular – must be eating berries, digging in my backpack for a paper towel and not grokking why their diet was of importance when i had shat on my head and face. i didn’t see the bird, but i’ll for sure remember it anyway. we started to laugh, which is always a good thing, and i instantly remembered the scene in “under the tuscan sun” when the pigeon pooped on diane lane’s head – supposedly a blessing of good fortune.

i googled it.

the thing i came across the most was the rarity of birdpoop actually landing on you. the probability of this is near zero, which is why the act of being bird-shat-upon is considered lucky, even a blessing. when we thought of how many times we have hiked trails – this one and tons of others – we cannot recall a time when birdpoops even came near to us.

so i’m going with lucky.

there were several sites of rock art on our special beach. i found this gathering of rocks particularly beautiful. at first i thought it was a spiral, but it seems more a depiction of a tiny galaxy, a planetary system. coming upon these recently-constructed manmade mini petroforms: the mini galaxy, a black and white pinwheel of rocks, a series of rocks simply planted standing in the sand, we know that someone took the time to align these, to say “i’ve been here”, to leave something behind. we were a few of the fortunate ones who saw their work. it’s likely someone will shuffle along the sand and, tempted by the patterns, rearrange the rocks, undoing these designs.

if i had to choose a way to be remembered – let’s say, a choice between, well, the difference between momentary – umm – purge (be that a spewing of anything – including words or actions) or momentary art, i’d have to say i would go with art. though my writing and my music, photographs and designs will be just a flash in the arc of time, they are not as messy – for the most part – as berries.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

visit DAVID’s online gallery

like. subscribe. share. support. comment. ~ thank you. xoxo

buymeacoffee is a donation site with a “tip jar” approach so that people might support the work of artists they find valuable. thank you for your consideration. xoxo


by 1 Comment

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

i stood in the surf to take pictures of it. i could feel the sand sinking beneath my feet and the water pulling me out. the breaking waves were glorious and the cool water was rejuvenating. i stood there a long time, snapping photos. later, my feet – from sandwalking and wavecleansing – felt like i had taken an expensive exfoliation scrub and lavishly basked in its luxury. the magic of these two – elements of the tide, in time, of forces playing together.

we sat – in quiet – on the patio, over adirondack chairs facing the backyard. all summer we have had a hummingbird feeder out back. we have felt fortunate to see a hummer a time or two, maybe at day’s end, sipping and zipping away. but after the deluge of rain, after i refilled the feeder, the word seemed to have spread in hummingbirdland. and suddenly, our yard became a destination. and so we sat, quietly watching, transfixed by these tiniest birds, binoculars at the ready. and they came and went. they ate at the feeder and sat perched on the wires and on the garden fencing. they chased each other, zooming past our chairs and up and over the house. it was the first show and it was enchanting. we relaxed into its magic.

the trail was hot and we were on mile nine. at that point – in the feels-like high nineties – we were talking about getting to littlebabyscion in the parking lot. but then there was this butterfly who captured my attention. on a stand of tall yellow wildflowers, the viceroy butterfly shared the edge of the trail with me. i was close to it and took photographs as it sunned, seeking nectar. it didn’t fly away, instead allowing me to snap pictures as it stayed on the bright blossom. i forgot about how much i wanted to sit down, the weary disappearing into the magic of this creature’s presence.

when we were little, there was little that was not magical. and then we grew – taller, older, supposedly wiser. and some of the magic dissipated into clouds.

but, we are lucky beings. because from time to time, we are reminded. they need not be big moments of grandeur, though they could be. they need not be big moments of contrived entertainment, though they could be. they need not be stunning vistas or neverending horizons, though they could be.

instead, they are tiny bubbles and droplets of water, tiny grains of sand, gathered together in a restoring wave. they are tiny birds sanctuarying the backyard. they are a butterfly on a flower, almost unnoticed.

and we remember. we remember to remember, to not forget that the magic is right there waiting.

and in the wisdom of the littles, we realize – again – there is little that is not magical.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

sunrise. sunset.

like. share. subscribe. support. comment. ~ thank you. xoxo


by 1 Comment

in the turning. [d.r. thursday]

we passed the stand of coneflowers – so beautiful in waning as summer wanes – the passage of time barely a whisper, yet it is august and a new season will soon be upon us. the side of the trail – the underbrush – told stories of summer’s heat, of the successful eradication of invasives, of new growth, of the turning – always the turning.

we walked back to where we had parked big red, this old truck that has now passed through twenty-five years of turning. barely seventy-thousand miles on its odometer, it seems happy to be driven, to have adventures, to be out and about.

we have had big red for the last four years since columbus gifted it to us. unable to drive any longer, he passed it to david and we promised to care for it as he had. every single time we have driven it, we have wondered why the rattle…loud rattle…from both sides of the truck. we determined it was the running boards. the bolts were tight but the metal steps shook and rattled, nonetheless.

so, on this day of waning time and everyone and everything getting older, we decided to bring it somewhere to see if we could possibly make a difference in the ridiculously loud sound and jarring shake the running boards were causing. we don’t know what put us over the edge this particular day. we wondered how columbus put up with this for the first 60,000 miles. for me, in particular, anything that has any kind of rhythm – and then is juxtaposed with a different rhythm close by – say, on the other side of the vehicle – simultaneously(!) – makes me crazy. it’s torture! let’s just say it interrupted the ride and ford’s slogan “go further” sounded less and less appealing. i mean, we are “ford tough” but c’mon…!

we googled who to take it to. picked a shop. and drove to it, a tiny bit fearful of the price tag of this fix. particularly right now. we knew we could get an estimate and walk away, if need be. what’s a little rattle for a little longer?

the guys at line-x took maybe 75 seconds to decide what to do and scheduled us for later in the week. merely thirty minutes after they began to install a steel anchor bar on each running board, our problem had disappeared.

because we have hyped-up sound and muscle memory – reinforced by four years of sound and bouncing, we could both easily imagine the noise and the jarring we were now missing. big red drove smoothly down the street, still driving like a big old ford f150 – in a big ole truck kind of way – but minus the runningboard imax symphony.

surprisingly, it was an easier and less costly fix than we had imagined.

i suppose as we watch other things around us age and wane – our house, littlebabyscion, our fridge, our stove, this very laptop, my iphone, our bodies (ouch!) – this would be a good lesson to remember.

no less beautiful, no less a coneflower, the turning just requires a little care.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

EMBRACED NOW acrylic 48″ X 36″

like. share. support. comment. – thank you. xoxo


by 1 Comment

lint-free. [d.r. thursday]

we stepped out of the forest and into the meadow. and it was filled with wildflowers, purples and hot pinks and blues and whites and bright yellow black-eyed susans. it is practically impossible not to smile in the presence of so many happy flowers. it is as if they are there simply to greet you, to cheer you, to make your way a tiny bit softer.

“and now i understand something so frightening, and wonderful—how the mind clings to the road it knows, rushing through crossroads, sticking like lint to the familiar.” (mary oliver – blue pastures)

we do. we scurry along, listing to the memories that perhaps least serve us, the road we’ve known, the road we know, the unfamiliar scary like the forest. our hand lingers over the delete button, but never touches it, knowing it isn’t just that simple. instead, we hold onto moments – clinging – to things that harm us, that take away from who we are, rather than celebrate who we are. we file them away, processing little as we store the times of our lives in boxes and bins in our minds. we come upon intersections and we often choose the harder road, bypassing the crossroad that offers rest or healing, the crossroad that offers choices we may never have considered, the crossroad that opens our lives.

“when will you have a little pity for every soft thing that walks through the world, yourself included.” (mary oliver – blue pastures)

the happy black-eyed susans whisper murmurings of encouragement to all who pass by. one must just be quiet and lint-free to hear them.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

SEE AN OWL – acrylic 24″ x 48″

QR or this link if you would like to help support our content creation. xoxo


by 1 Comment

teasel tease. [d.r. thursday]

“if left unchecked, teasel can form large dense patches and severely impact a habitat planting. teasel can be very difficult to manage because once established it pollutes the soil with durable seed that can germinate throughout the growing season.” (plantscience.psu.edu)

“leaves have spines on the underside of the midvein and smaller spines on bases on the upper leaf surface. the stem leaves are opposite and prickly, especially on the lower side of the leaf midvein.” (nwcb.wa.gov)

“handling teasel is best done with heavy gloves, every part of the plant is prickly to the point of piercing human skin.” (fairegarden.wordpress.com)

“once teasels become established in an area, they are hard to eradicate.” (fllt.org)

“if left unchecked, teasel quickly can form large monocultures excluding all native vegetation.” (illinois.edu)

if left unchecked…

it would seem these teasel beg the metaphoric reference to people within communities. it is no wonder – in these times – that my mind immediately goes there.

but teasels are beautiful, with interesting texture. like the flat-back-hand-carder for the vintage spinning wheel in our basement that cards wool or raises the nap on fabric, they were utilized for decades and were initially cultivated from the old world. they appear in planted gardens for their dominant sculptural presence and in meadows, growing wild and free.

on a quest – every day – to take photographs, i find myself back at 18. i was given my first 35mm camera when i graduated from high school early, my parents pretty certain i would love it. i did. i was out the next day, walking the beach in winter, reveling in capturing it all. i took that camera everywhere and took pictures of everything, reveling in the freedom of aperture and shutter speed. the deliberate taking of photographs brings one to center, into presence – there is no need for speed. instead, it is about slow movement, about noticing, about paying attention.

and i am – lately – feeling a tad bit back-there. at 18. the tiny lone flower, the shadow, the curl of bark – they get my attention. i pause.

these teasel stopped me. there was a teasing tension between their color, their thorns, the sky, the pine trees in the background. the juxtaposition of the bristle and the luminous. beautiful. i, too, couldn’t resist the teasel.

“despite its noxiousness, it’s impossible not to find the teasel rather endearing…” (jacqueline stuhmiller, fllt.org)

one just needs remember the thorns.

be wary. don’t hug a teasel.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

check out DAVID’s beautiful (and ever-evolving) new gallery site

QR or this link if you would like to support our continued content creation. xoxo


by 1 Comment

growth spurt. [d.r. thursday]

breck is having a growth spurt. like when your toddler suddenly grows inches and miles and you cast aside the tiny outfits, reaching for the next sizes up.

you don’t really know what to expect about how a child will look when a baby is born. every day – in the middle of the chaos that is parenthood – you look at this precious child, pretty much incredulous. there are days when nothing about their tiny face and body looks much different. there are days when you have an inkling of what this little person will look like as they grow. there are days you stare and wonder whose child you are holding.

breck is kind of like that. for years since we brought breck home from – yes, breckenridge, colorado – it has looked like a small quaking aspen sapling. potted and then in the ground in numerous places in the backyard, its leaves were small, easily-identifiable aspen leaves, the classic well-loved shape of mountain breezes and stands of shimmering, rustling.

and then, this summer.

breck is now – apparently – an awkward teenager. the new leaves are giant, the new growth resembles the beanstalk that jack planted. it is as high as the lowest point of the garage roof and each day there are new leaves up there, new inches. we are not quite sure what is happening out there. but it sure looks like breck is having the time of its life.

breck’s vigorous growth this very summer seems really hopeful to us. in these past five summers we have watched breck maintain, keep status quo, a little teeny growth here or there. we’ve been grateful it has sustained. we feel inordinately connected to this little tree that made its way home from the high mountains with us in littlebabyscion.

we wonder about its sudden enthusiasm. we wonder about its new and different leaves. it feels like it is somehow bursting out of slow-and-steady into what-the-heck-full-steam-ahead.

we’re hoping it’s contagious.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

visit DAVID’S evolving gallery website

QR or this link if you would like to buy us a coffee or help support our content creation. we so appreciate it. xoxo


by Leave a comment

french lavender. [d.r. thursday]

with the string you tie around boxes of cakes and pastries from a bakery or sweet patisserie, small bundles of dried lavender hang around my studio. from the big old black window frame that sits on the chifferobe i use for supplies to over by the djembe in front of the turned-off radiator by the window. bundles of lavender.

i used to have a lavender garden out back, started with cuttings divided out from the same bed these bundles were from. then the snow-on-the-mountain snuck under the fence from my neighbor’s yard and, despite my best efforts, took over the lavender (and anything else in its path). snow-on-the-mountain is like that. it barrels down anything in its way and takes much effort to eradicate. it’s aggressive and a tad bit bullying, not unlike some people i have known. i didn’t invite it into my yard, but there it was, anyway. i’ve tried to – now – incorporate it while still somewhat controlling it – the new normal. sounds a lot like the stuff of life.

each year we plant a big pot of lavender. each year, it is a slightly different strain of lavender. last year, our daughter chose the plant, as she was here at the time and we visited a nursery. it exploded into a gigantic plant – the bees seemed to love it as much as we did. this year, we chose one that seemed unique, it’s purple petals growing out the top of the stalk – french lavender, with butterfly-like narrow petals.

lavender is known for bringing serenity, for its calming soft scent. for me, it’s a balance plant. it is – without any real effort – growing in its giant pot.

i walk over and, with the slightest of touches, am caught in a whirl of its beautiful aroma. i think about tying some branches and hanging them to dry at the end of the summer season. or maybe making small lavender sachets. anything to keep it going.

i can add some to the gifted lavender in my studio. bring serenity in. and push out the ghosts of invasive snow-on-the-mountain.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

QR or this link if you would like to help support the creation of our content xoxo


by 1 Comment

and the handbells. [d.r. thursday]

before they moved, the neighbors around the corner had windchimes that were about three feet long. we’d stand on the sidewalk and listen to them, particularly when the wind was off the lake. gorgeous, deep resonant voices, each of the chimes. shortly after the house sold, we noticed that the spot where they hung in the old tree out the back side yard was empty.

these tiny bells hang off the garden fence in the back, attached to a metal heart that is also rusting. when my children were growing up, this heart with its bells hung next to the door into the kitchen. as i would walk into the kitchen holding my children when they were very little, in particular, they would reach up and jingle the bells. now the birds light on them and, though they don’t jingle, they seem to know.

i’m not sure the handbells are played anymore. we had three octaves and a dedicated choir of players. it was the last rehearsal of the night – after choir, after ukulele band. by the time we got to handbells everyone was a little bit giddy. many of the bell players were also in ukulele band, so these amazing volunteers spent quite a bit of time in the choir room.

playing handbells requires a bit of hand-eye coordination. you are reading music while you have this bell as an extension of your gloved hand…counting, counting and then…you thrust your wrist forward, allowing the clapper to strike the bell, hoping it’s at exactly the right moment. there are many evenings when laughter was the music we produced. as the director, i was always grateful for the generous collaboration of this group. and every time we played – from old hymns to gospel songs to contemporary pieces – it was beautiful. the bells would ring out into the high-ceilinged sanctuary and, i suspect, each player would marvel at their own contribution to such beauty, to such a particular lift of melody, of harmony.

if the handbells are silent now, i am sad. handbells harken back to the late 17th century and early 18th century and are considered percussion instruments. their sound is particularly unique, meditative in isolation, exuberant in chorus.

were i to have a bell to ring today – and perhaps we’ll use the metal singing bowl – it would be for jonathan. one ring without damping. his light will go on forever and we are eternally grateful to have known him, to have made music with him, to have broken bread with him and sipped wine with him. he was – and i suspect, continues to be – full of wisdom and love, and the world was a better place with him in it.

just like the sound of the bells on the metal heart on the kitchen wall and the large windchimes in the tree of our neighbor’s yard, handbells, too, are now a thing of my past. each, however, resonates on and on in the album of my memory. in times of quietude, i can hear them.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

BASS PLAYER acrylic 24″ x 48″

(in memory of jonathan, our bass player)

QR code or this link if you would like to help support our content creation. with our heartfelt thanks. xoxo


by Leave a comment

like sheets off the line. [d.r. thursday]

i grew fond of clotheslines when we were on washington island. four years ago – almost to this very day – we hung out our first freshly washed laundry. the machine at the littlehouse was one of those washer-dryer combos but it had a few issues with the drying part and we felt it was using too much energy. so we went to mann’s true value hardware and bought clothesline and clothespins and, using the metal poles already sunk in the ground, we strung up our dryer.

it seemed simpler. it was simpler. and time slowed down a little. you can’t rush laundry on a clothesline. the sun and the wind off the lake had to do their job. and we had no control over that. we just waited. every now and then we’d go check the clothes for dryness. and then we’d wait a little longer.

my sweet momma had a clothesline out back – the rotary kind. i wasn’t paying a lot of attention back then, but i did notice the fresh outdoor scent of the sheets when she hung them out.

so when the farm in iowa had a clothesline, both of us had a wistful moment. not to mention the rust made for a plethora of photographs. it’s chip and jojo at their best, or leanne ford, featuring vintage, repurposing the old, framing the rusty, the chipped, the peeling. it’s exquisite stuff. surely this very clothesline t-pole could make an appearance inside were it to be retired from clotheslining.

we have stepped away from washington island. it’s been three years now. covid did a job on performing arts centers everywhere and wiwi’s TPAC was no exception. our co-managing director positions were given to someone local, someone who lived on-island full-time, someone who was already part of the island’s very fabric, lowering overhead costs and fashioning it into what they needed post-pandemic.

to say i don’t miss it would be truly false. though it had some issues in growing, we were dedicated to symbiotically weaving together the organizations on-island and elevating the maturing pac for outsiders as well as insiders. we would initiate change slowly – and some change more quickly – and then wait – just like the clothesline.

and then, the sun and the wind off the lake would let us know how it was going. we’d shift a bit in the stiff breezes and seek shelter of shade in too much glare.

and we knew the clothes and ideas would eventually dry and all would be fresh and sparkling and we could take off the clothespins and bring them in, welcoming them – just like sheets fresh off the line.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

A DAY AT THE BEACH mixed media 38″x52″

QR code or this link if you’d like to buy us a coffee or support our artist creative content xoxo


by 1 Comment

peonies in perpetuity. [d.r. thursday]

the time for our peonies has passed. they have been momentary, ephemeral. yet, even in their briefest of moments, their impact has been profound. their sweet fragrance wafted through the backyard, their stunning pink punctuated the green of the garden, their blossoms – from bud to full bloom – have been enchanting. and now, the green remains. i understand the plant is in full working mode – storing up energy for the next season of blooms. i already can’t wait to see them.

we planted a small herb garden on our potting stand this past weekend. basil, rosemary, mint, parsley. we added one dwarf indeterminate cherry tomato plant. and we placed a potted citronella on the deck. there is something infinitely satisfying about going outside with kitchen scissors to snip off the herb i need for a recipe. caprese salads or skewers, mint tea, parsley because heidi’s mom said everything is lifted with a little parsley, and rosemary – it reminds me of the brunch we had one day a couple years ago on the porch of the gingerbread house bistro up west of milwaukee. we split a steak seasoned with rosemary – i can still taste this delight. i’ll be using the rosemary today with roasted baby potatoes. all from steps away, an extension off our patio.

i wrote the album this part of the journey in 1997. piano-based instrumentals, a few of the pieces on that album had their moment on adult contemporary radio. and then, like all good peonies, they faded a bit, stoking up energy in the plant for next. but as i pull up the album and listen – last i saw you, the way home, good moments – i can still hear the pink, can still feel the peaceful wafting, can grasp its relevance. i still hear about this album from people out-there listening. it’s steps away from now, but it’s on an extension of the patio of my discography.

instrumental music – like peonies – has no half-life. both evoke emotional reactions – visceral reactions – both are steadfast in their passive zeal to just be. both wrap one in the right now. both go on.

i suppose, in a rare moment, i might one day put this album – or as it is – or any of my instrumental albums – on the cd player. i might sit down in an adirondack chair next to the peony within the concentric scent-circle of mint and basil, and simply listen.

i might be reminded of the moments in composition, the moments in practice, the moments in recording, the moments in concert.

and i might be able to see the peonies that will surely arrive next season.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

visit DAVID’S gallery site – under construction…

QR or this link if you would like to help us keep this content going – and thank you so much.