reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Category Archives: fallow


by 1 Comment

forward-peeking. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

the honeysuckle has an early arrival on the trail. it makes me want to sit and write poetry about pioneer honeysuckle growing in the forest, along the edges of the path and deep into the underbrush, right on the heels of winter. poetry about a hopefulness that comes with early forward-peeking signs of spring, promises of growth, a nod making the past distant.

we have a way of holding onto the past – a metaphoric rope, if you will – with people and circumstances strung along it – holding the knots like tiny toddlers in a preschool line hold the knot of a rope to which their teacher is attached. in the case of the toddlers it is for safety. in the case of all of us – who drag along with us all the most toxic of our lives – it is not for the purpose of safety.

the day before my birthday i consciously chose to drop that metaphoric rope that dragged all the yuck with me everywhere i went. i have decided that there is no more good that can come from dragging the worst with me – every recollection of betrayal or hurt or time when healing was impossible. i decided – on that day – the day before my 67th birthday – that i was worthy of putting that rope down and leaving the past distant.

now, don’t get me wrong. as a thready person (and clearly, the use of the word thready must be deliberate) nearly everything is on some sort of connective tissue that stretches back to my heart. a compendium of threads and tissue and rope. some of those i will cling onto and hold dearly – that would be the ones with love and learning and success and hardship, a balance of life’s goodness and challenges, people i hold dear, filmy threads that don’t include people who have been intentionally mean-spirited or who have hunted opportunity to be demeaning or to exploit. those? those heavy loads will have to stay behind. i have finally realized – at long last – that i owe those people nothing and my choice now is laying down the rope with the rope-knots they are clutching – weighing me down – taking up space in my brain and heart. it’s way past time.

and so the honeysuckle’s appearance is like balm. new green. renewal. rejuvenation. a new season. a new cycle of growth.

it is a pioneer in the earliest spring, courageously greening when winter can still dash it, pummel it with ice and snow. but it has the promise of its history – when it has survived even with the change in season, even with threat of the challenge of weather. it both brings forward what it’s learned about survival and puts down the pain it has carried from past ropeknot instances in its life in the woods.

someone – just shy of five decades ago – told me i was dirt. it was meant to belittle me and scare me and it did.

i’ve just realized that i am. dirt. an honorable and basic part of this earth like every other living being. but i am also honeysuckle – and morning glory – and daisies – and peonies. i am house finches and black-capped chickadees and cardinals and march robins. i am poetry floating on the breeze and notes in sequence not yet captured. i am sun and moon and the horizon and the tide.

i am stardust on the edges of the trail, forward-peeking.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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

buymeacoffee is a website where you may directly support an artist whose work directly impacts you.


by 1 Comment

continued beingness. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

the seedheads stay present all winter. thimbleweed is ready. eventually the wind will carry it, dispensing it, seeding new growth, spreading it far and wide. the wooly tufts are evidence of nature taking care of nature.

the concentric circles are all around us. in reminders we get every single day, we are prompted to remember that even the tiniest of our actions will impact the next and then the next and then the next and then…

it is what makes me feel so utterly disheartened with what is happening here and now. it is not just the cruel actions of others that ripple out. it is also the mindbogglingly complicit inaction.

once again – and over and over – i see the absolute transience of this moment. once again – and over and over – i see the silky filament that exists between am and am not. once again – and over and over – i try to take in – to make part of my being – the presence of mind to be present, the ability to be stopped in my tracks, a nod to wondrous, utter gratitude for breathing.

to be amazed by the tufts of thimbleweed, to carry a sunrise or sunset, to drink the sun into our bodies, to hold one another.

and once again – and over and over – i wonder how it is that there are so many who would choose cruelty over kindness, who would choose corruption over goodness, who would choose marginalizing others over lifting others up.

how are we taking care of each other? what are we spreading in rippling concentric circles from our very center? how are we carrying, dispensing, seeding, spreading life – living – far and wide?

look to thimbleweed. its resilience, its anticipation. the seedheads seem to be ever-looking forward, planning for its survival, anticipating its continued beingness.

maybe – just maybe – nothing less than what humans should be doing.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

take a virtual visit to DAVID’s gallery

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

buymeacoffee is a website where you may directly support an artist whose work directly impacts you.


by 1 Comment

a start. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

when i was growing up, the time approaching my birthday was certain to be weather schizophrenic. but by the time my birthday arrived – the end of march – i was often pictured outside in a sweater, standing by the yellow forsythia bush in our front yard. on long island spring had arrived to stay.

here it is another story.

we just passed through fierce winds, sleet, a pummeling blizzard. as i write this it is supposed to be 70 degrees by late this afternoon. my birthday? a forecast of 38 with much colder windchills. now, were i in the high mountains of colorado, it would be about 72 degrees on that day. ahhh. but there’s no such thing as climate change, eh?

the old brick wall out front seems to hold the accumulating warmth of the afternoon sun. a couple days ago i went out there with my camera and was surprised to see tiny shoots of daylilies cozying up together in the leaves of fall we left there for insulation. even the little cabbages – sedum – in the front garden are appearing, tightly-wound and tucked into the dried stalks that remain. crazy.

however crazy, though, it made me insanely happy to see these tiny greens. the rising hope that growing things elicit…

it appears that we have made it through most of the winter. though i am certain not to be all cavalier about it – it can easily make several more appearances in snowstorms or ice or windchill – i can feel my spirit lighten – even the tiniest bit – thinking of spring.

we had to change the timers on all the lamps in the house that were on autopilot. we had to change the outdoor happy lights. every few days, i scoot the “on” time back a little later. each day as dogga wakes us early-early it is a little bit lighter as we sip coffee, watching out the east windows.

we now have two adirondack chairs that sit stacked on the deck. we’ve sat in them a few times now – on the patio, in the sun.

this is a time of renewal, nothing short of a bit of miraculous.

and we know – even with the green shoots and the sun and the light – that it may not be an easy spring. we have much to face – those of us in this country. and we each have our own stuff as well. so much dank darkness to push back, so much truth to let into the air, so much light to shine, so much fortitude needed to get there from here.

but the daylilies are growing.

and that’s a start.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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

buymeacoffee is a website where you may directly support an artist whose work directly impacts you.


by 1 Comment

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

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

buymeacoffee is a website where you may directly support an artist whose work directly impacts you.


by 1 Comment

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

tucked into the trail – the river trail – are spots i always find i am looking forward to: the curve of the river, the cattails in the marsh, the hill where you look down on the trees along the riverbank, the section that looks like a bayou, the turn in the path where deer linger, this one spot – where the reeds are thick and the turtles are numerous. we hike along and these are touchstones along the way, indicators of how far we have come, how far we have yet to go.

we all have them – the indicators of how far we have come, how far we have yet to go. i think about this now as i walk into my studio.

i spend way more time on the written word these days than on the piano bench. i spend way more time typing on a keyboard than pencil-jotting on scraps of paper scattered above the keys.

i look at high profile artists, years and years after their last album release, after long drought periods, in their 60s, now recording and releasing new albums. and it makes me wonder. it’s been 16 years since i released a full-length album.

sixteen years.

as someone who released fifteen albums in fifteen years that is stunning to me. and, thus, the wondering.

my piano is a touchstone to me, an anchor, something i can touch that is profoundly meaningful to me. i have walked a textured journey in the years i have spent with a piano central in my life, in time that the creating and performance of music was imperative. i have assigned success and failure, acceptance and rejection, support and betrayal to my piano.

and, in the way that enlightenment happens, i am beginning to learn that it is not my piano that is responsible. it has merely been my spokespiece, a vessel through which i might give voice.

instead, it is in that giving of voice – that expression of me – that amplification and celebration of music – that others – people – have squelched the how-far-i-have-yet-to-go, have taken the get-up from my get-up-and-go.

i don’t really know the reasons that one might feel they should push someone else under water, that one might feel the best use of their energy is to abuse or denigrate or minimize someone else, that one might feel that the most humane treatment of someone else is to concoct narratives and sway public or private-circle opinion. i don’t know the reasons why anyone would want to break another person or their spirit, creative or otherwise. i don’t really know the reasons why anyone would do any such things. it’s crushing.

i do know the impact these things have on a person. for no matter how tough one’s skin, how devoted to confidence, how determined, how bootstrapping one might be, there are others who can do great damage and who are – apparently – damned devoted to it.

it’s not my piano’s fault.

and so now – in this great enlightenment or admittance or downright sad awareness – i can see that those people who have done great harm have undermined so much between how-far-i-have-come and how-far-i-have-yet-to-go. and i am thinking – now – that I’ll be damned to let them rob all that from me, to let them take my piano – or my muse – hostage any longer. not that that’s easy. it is a difficult uphill journey.

it’s maybe time to stand in the reeds, hang with the turtles and cattails, get my feet wet in the marsh and walk – or sprint – or, more likely, crawl – toward the bench.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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

buymeacoffee is a website where you may directly support an artist whose work directly impacts you.


by Leave a comment

a changing sculpture. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

we were waiting in the examining room. i had a doctor’s appointment.

we were surrounded by beige and all manners of brown.

i said aloud, “if i had a doctor’s office, it would not be decorated or appointed in shades of beige and brown. it’s all rather flat and depressing.”

i suspect – for the same reason i said that about the office – you might say that about this photograph. you might even say that about this trail – for much of it is bathed in beige and brown, the reeds along the river, cattails, leafless trees, and dry underbrush populating the trailside.

but it’s different.

these shapes and textures are completely engaging. there has been a giving-over to nature, an organic timewornness that has taken place. and in this flower’s stead has been left a stunning sculpture, full of light and dark. you just have to see it.

in the new eyes i have since going slower, i feel drawn to each of these. i could be completely happy lingering on the trail, photographing one after another of these dried flowerheads, each distinct, each stunningly beautiful. the tall and stately, the rounded, the wishing seeds clinging to the rough edges after floating on the wind. so much life in so much fallow.

my sweet momma – at 93 – would look in the mirror to apply her lipstick. she’d frown and grimace, “i look like an old woman!” i’d assert the obvious – “well, momma, you are 93!” and then, looking into her blue eyes i’d tell her – “a beautiful old woman”. for it was those very wrinkles, those spots of age and wisdom and experiences, those eyes that told a million stories of love and pain, summit moments and disappointments that gave her the actual depth, the texture, the light and dark to BE beautiful.

i look in the mirror, glance down at my hands, get on the scale at the doctor’s office – i am a changing sculpture. i frown, i grimace.

and then i remember my sweet momma. and i remember the flowerhead on the side of the trail.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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

buymeacoffee is a website where you may directly support an artist whose work directly impacts you.


by 1 Comment

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

dogga stands on the frozen pond out back. it is covered with snow and this is the first time – the first winter – he has not still avoided it. he’s not a water-dog so – as an aussie that circumvents it when it is an actual pond, it is surprising that he is choosing to traverse it, dig in its snow, stand on it.

winter is his favorite. it is his beach-weather. it’s his bliss.

now, i’ve heard many people lately complaining about this winter. “sick of” cold, snow, grey skies, biting winds, they crankily bemoan winter – like it’s a monster dedicated to making them miserable.

i don’t feel that way.

it’s winter, i think to myself, and winter is supposed to be like, well, winter.

the last few wisconsin winters have been easy on us, moderate temperatures, little snow, no real winterish hardships or challenges. maybe that’s made some of us less tolerant of what winter really is. but this winter feels about right, as far as i’m concerned. i think you are supposed to want to linger inside, nest, cocoon a bit. i think you are supposed to rest and maybe clean out a bit, readying yourself for spring and new growth. i think you’re supposed to take stock of it all and appreciate the change in seasons as the spinning earth revolves around the sun. i mean, maybe that’s just me.

i find great beauty in the almost-monochromatic that is winter. i find a storehouse of rejuvenation in its fallow. i find anticipation in the slowly-lengthening days, the slight uptick of temperatures. i find a little bit of hope – even in the midst of the darkness that is this country right now.

when spring comes – after the temperatures level out a little bit – we will cut these grasses down so that new growth will have room to burst through the soil. in the meanwhile the tracks around the grasses show that there are tiny creatures taking shelter in them, warmed by the fronds into which they are nestled. the snow is gorgeous – so bright out back i cannot comfortably look out the window.

it’s february. i don’t know how long winter will last. i suppose it could stretch well into april, maybe a bit into may. whatever. i am just here – me, d, dogga, our new gutters and warming cables – riding the coaster. studying the milder weather where family and friends live, i wouldn’t mind a few days in the 60s, but i kind of need the seasons to be what they are.

we watched the birds in the birdbath yesterday. there were at least seven birds splashing and drinking out there. i guess the sun was strong enough to melt the snow that had accumulated. they seem elated. they’d fly away and then return, waiting their turn on the edge of the bath together. they know where the birdfeeder is and they frequent it. their chirping and birdsong in the morning reassures me that – yes – it’s just winter and this is what winter is like.

i don’t want to race through. i don’t want to wish for months from now. I don’t want time to go by without my acknowledgement of some sort, my appreciation.

i just want to do winter – because it IS winter.

i’ll get to spring when it’s spring.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this not-so-flawed wednesday

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

buymeacoffee is a website where you may directly support an artist whose work directly impacts you.


by 1 Comment

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

and the river runs…

i’d say that each time we see it, it looks different.

the des plaines is not a raging river. it is not a major water thoroughfare. it bubbles out of the ground a little north and west of here and flows south, through the rest of southeastern wisconsin and into illinois where it eventually – through joining with the kankakee and the illinois – becomes a tributary for the mississippi. its origin is from glaciers long ago, a heritage it carries in its current, in each bend.

it is a treasure, this relatively unknown river. we have hiked many of its miles, getting to know it in all its different seasons, its river-ness unflailing even in drought.

a place of solace, the trails that have developed around this river must be wrapped in the magic of the flow – for it is there we go (as we have written time and again) to sort, to ponder, to laugh with abandon and to cry.

and even in the moments when it is frozen, when all appears still and fallow is on the calendar, it is still moving. it is a living and breathing river – a body of water that continues.

i suppose that could make me feel the slightest bit less panicked about this country. this is a living and breathing democracy. though it appears frozen and at inordinate peril, i suppose there are tiny streams of constitutional law that are still bubbling up, pushing their way to the surface from aquifers deep in the earth. i suppose that the river’s origin 14,000 years ago should speak to me about tenacity through challenge – both natural and manmade. i suppose that the import of this simple river on the places through which it flows should remind me that every single impact counts, every effort to eradicate invasive species makes a difference.

and so, with no small measure of hope, i honor the uprisings of those who protest against the cruelty being dealt to the people of this country. i applaud the efforts of those who push back against the authoritarian rule that has surfaced in plain sight. i acknowledge that under it all – flowing underneath the vileness of this administration – are steady, solid, compassionate, reasonable voices. the people who stand firm on the principles upon which this country’s democracy was built – not silent, not still.

and the river runs…

*****

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

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

buymeacoffee is a website where you may directly support an artist whose work directly impacts you,


by Leave a comment

keeping on. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

spent. the at-least-ten-foot-tall sunflower by the library looks spent. but oh, no, it is not spent. the transience of its time – of time itself – is just the beginning of a new phase, a new purpose, a new cycle. its seeds perpetuate its enduring soul. it keeps on.

“i’ve spent the past fifteen hundred days working tirelessly toward a single goal – survival. and now that i’ve survived, i’m realizing i don’t know how to live.” (suleika jaouad)

and so, here in the little garden just outside our favored library in town, this sunflower is still in its glory. tall, stately, i still catch my breath to see it. alone, it towers above all else there.

today we will have irish stew and mashed potatoes for dinner. it is not a traditional big turkey extravaganza nor is it a gathering of many at our table on this day. but we two will sit – with candles and cloth napkins and steaming bowls and bread – and we will give thanks for each person in each of our phases who have helped us work toward survival, helped us with endurance, with purpose.

we will be grateful for the full table in our dining room just two weeks ago, our beloved children, with us. we will offer up thanks for the food we will eat, for each other, for cherished ones, for being together. we’ll likely chat about thanksgivings of our growing-up, tales of earlier grown-up thanksgivings, thanksgivings when – to their delight – our childrens’ dad did an early-morning turkey-dance with the turkey, thanksgivings when our parents did the traditional end-of-the-table carving.

and we’ll dream about thanksgivings to come when – hopefully – this nation will have come back to its senses, when it will lead with gratitude and appreciation for all its people and its wildly fantastic diversity. we’ll ponder when extended families might return to the holiday table together, in love and generosity, with compassion for each other and all the others, all schisms laid out forever to rest. we’ll wonder about the seeds of the soul of this day – thanksgiving – and the true honesty and heart behind the honest and heartfelt wish – “happy thanksgiving” – we’ve heard so many times this week before today.

we are reminded every day – by something or other – that we all don’t really know how to live. it goes beyond survival, beyond the giant yellow bloom on the ten foot tall stalk. it stands the transience of time and its soul of goodness endures, cycle after cycle.

it is not spent.

and we are grateful for another chance to keep on.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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

buymeacoffee is a website where you may directly impact an artist whose work directly impacts you.


by Leave a comment

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

in the initial moments when we clear our barnwood potting stand – pull all the plants for composting, stack the clay pots and garden tools to be put away, brush off the stand, close the wrought iron gate, and then step back – i feel a sadness for the loss of our tiny garden. this year yielded a wild crop of herbs and tomatoes, jalapeños and lavender. we thoroughly enjoyed our sweet potato vines and our miniature licorice plant, the sweet dianthus, our peonies. this summer’s heat and humidity was a boon to our backyard. so it is somewhat hard to see it ending.

but the tacet of our garden – after such an amazing fully-bloomed tutti – is just as important in its performance. the quiet of this time will serve to gather its energy, to bring impact to subsequent growth, to give rest to roots bound by pots.

this winter we will propagate some of our summer plants. it is a new venture, introduced to us by the gift of our dear friend – a small indoor greenhouse. we will be learning what these tiny plants need, trying to help them root, keep them alive, bring them back – out of silence – to a spring in which we have a bit of a headstart.

the clearing of our house is kind of like that, too, as we move from room to room, closet to closet, drawer to drawer, bin to bin. we are still in phase one of all this, but each bit of giveaway, of throwaway, of repurposing gives air to some more space and in that space i can hear the vibrations of possibility gathering.

there are two new fuzzy white pillows in my studio on a metal strapped swivel patio chair we brought up from the basement. it feels like sitting in that chair – sinking in – could lend itself to the expression of the tacet i’ve been in, the long time of fallow. i don’t know what that means. it could just mean gaining clarity. it could mean setting it all aside. it could mean a few new notes that lead to a few new songs. the times d mentions the word “when” i counter with the word “if” because i really don’t know. there’s been a lot of pain and the wounds haven’t yet healed over. the tacet and my reticence continue.

but the potting stand reminds me: even after a period of silence, a period of fallow and nothing really happening, there is actually much in play. energy is stoking up. the time of rest is giving import to the time of sprouting. and, though this summer’s heat and humidity were incredibly generative – much like the middle years of my artist life – so will be next summer’s heat and humidity, even if the conditions are different, even if the heat and humidity are less intense. it is still a growth season.

just like now. the season has not ended with the pulling of plants from pots. negative space defines positive space, silence creates tension, the narrative of our plants continues.

just like mine. i am still in a season of growth.

*****

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

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

buymeacoffee is a website where you may directly support an artist whose work directly impacts you.