reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Category Archives: fallow


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

on the southern part of the trail, most of the leaves have fallen. we shuffle through them, making that crunchy sound of autumn hikes. we can see further now – further down the trail, deeper into the woods. we can see the river, so often hidden by foliage. our views are unobstructed by earlier thick growth of underbrush and leafy trees.

the golden leaves cling to the willow. the sun catches them and they glow. i am grateful for their color and for this day of technicolor as november begins to push the need for more vitamin d. storm clouds rushed past, hinting at the possibility of pummeling us. yet the sun returned and we hiked on, glad to be out there, grateful to reclaim some air on the trail.

the days are darker now. and it makes me think of the many seasons of alone (the history channel) we have viewed, as moderate weather early in season episodes seemed to morph quickly into unthinkable cold, punishing loneliness, long darkness. we binged on alone during our month plus of covid. and as we hike now, we talk about the ability of the contestants to survive, to sustain. clueless about true survivalist skills, we both know we would likely fail miserably out in the wild – alone.

kielyn – season 7 – was out there for an unbelievable 80 days. a personality full of color, in one episode, she said, “women. we are a force to be reckoned with.”

yes. we are.

and even in the fallout of the fallout of this election, the fallout of the fallout of insane politics and a divided country, the fallout of the fallout of an agenda to kick women (among others) to the ground, we are still a force. she is right.

the lush leaves of spring, summer and early fall blocked what you could see in the woods, past the woods. they blocked long vision.

until they didn’t.

it was in the falling of the leaves on-trail that one could again see. it is in that clearing out, the storm threatening, winter on its way, that one can see further – beyond just existing, beyond just surviving, beyond just sustaining – further – to a place where thriving is an imperative. it is heading into fallow that any bit of color stands out, interrupts the grey.

because we women are out here. and no clearing-out, no storm, no winter will stop us.

long vision is one of the plates we women spin.

we aren’t afraid of a time of fallow.

and we sure aren’t afraid of the dark.

we are a force. you will have to reckon with us.

if the willow has lost all its leaves, we will bring the color.

and it will be our golden moment.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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gutted. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

no air.

there has been little air in me these last days. like many of you – but clearly, not all of you – i feel gutted.

i, too, watched as this nation elected what it elected. and, like you, we all know what that means, voting in cruelty, burying compassion, damning moving forward and any what-could-have-been’s.

someone dear to me texted me on election day, writing: “and the thing is, people will never not know who they [others] voted for and supported.”

exactly. we cannot un-know what you voted for.

as I quoted yesterday, you are who you elect. (michael ramirez – the washington post)

i woke up yesterday, my eyes still swollen – like yours – feeling strangled by the results of this election. it was as if color had escaped, as if texture had been jackhammered away, as if air was only to be found in shallow hyperventilated gulps. my children, i kept thinking, pondering their future, my daughter, my son.

there is much to do. and I don’t even know what that means right now.

we took a walk in the woods.

there was the simplicity of our footsteps – one foot in front of another – step, step, step. boiling it down. movement.

it was quiet but for rustling squirrels, blissfully unaware of the election, merely gathering for the fallow that will soon befall the forest.

there was beauty. inevitably. and, for a bit of time on our hike – the time when we weren’t spilling our grief on the path – i got just the tiniest bit lost in it.

i fear that things, that living – for the rest of my life – will never be the same again. that the darkness – darkness which people we all know have chosen – will engulf everything.

so i know that there is much to do, despite the utter grief and despair i feel right now. there is much to do to bring back the light.

this morning i woke when the sun was just coming up. dogga jumped on the bed as soon as he knew we were the slightest bit awake. we were quiet as the light began to stream into our room. we sipped coffee.

we will clean the house. we will go take a hike. we will attempt to breathe. we will be aware of beauty. we will study it – its astonishingness – and i will try to figure out how to bring it to this aching world any way i can.

and all the air will circulate ’round – the wind of next days and next days – filling our tired lungs, drying our eyes, helping us take one step after another, so that we can do the much that needs to be done.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY


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

in this time – the lull – we will immerse in each moment. we will not tarry in angst nor indulge in everyday worries. we will step back from all of it. we will try to quiet our minds. we will simply be in it.

it’s like a pause. only not. because we are not paused; we are breathing and moving and appreciating – all in gratitude, intentionally slower, intentionally sans complexity, intentionally sans discord.

soon enough, there will be lists of things to do, to sort, to attend to, to concern ourselves with. things to decide, things for which we need muster courage or fortitude.

but for right now, for this bit of time, there is only the lull.

*****

listen to PEACE: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=7T3pQmQrz4A

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the pilot light. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

there was a tornado watch. because i am pretty storm-averse, i was vigilant about checking whether it would become a tornado warning. i have things prepped for such moments and have put them into practice each time a warning has come our way.

some storms, though, are not forecasted with such specificity. these – the ones we can’t prep for – are the stuff of bootstraps. these are the ones that test our levels of fear, our anxieties, our outrage, our limits of patience. we try not to imagine the worst as it all starts to shake out. we struggle. sometimes we simply flail and tread water, wondering when it all might stop. we are surprised by the people around us – in both good and not-so-good ways.

we’ve all been through these storms. to be human is to encounter them. health, relationships, work – the storms come and test us, buffeting our attachment to things-staying-the-same, our cling to the season.

and after a bit of time – and some mussing of our lives – we emerge.

and the pilot light* is still there. it’s still lit. the job of pilot lights, it hasn’t dimmed nor gone out. it’s just simply waiting. a tiny flame. waiting. and burning. and waiting.

and then, eventually, after a great deal of time or a very little time, the new season begins.

“…for some things there are no wrong seasons. which is what i dream of for me.” (mary oliver – hurricane)

*****

*crediting mark with this superb expression – “the pilot light”

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

the daisy might have thought no one would notice it. that it was past being noticed.

but i was drawn to it as we passed by. nestled in the grasses on the side of the trail, it spoke to me.

“i am not done, though look past my prime.

i am still in the sun, still standing in time.

though shrivelly and dried,

i don’t need to hide;

i know i am beauty and am very alive.”

i was surprised to hear a daisy speaking in rhyme, but not surprised at its expression of beauty, its yearning to be poetic.

i’m finding more and more – in my time in the sun now – that it is the poetry that makes me linger. it is the waning moment in the sun, the flower post-bloom, the cracked plaster, the weathered peel of paint. it is the imperfection that is attractive, the slowing gait, the putting-down of ladders, the simplicity of less.

like the daisy – i don’t know what’s next. i am steeped in the here. biding in the meadow.

but right now daisy’s yellow disc florets are in symphony – in a song to the sun and everyone else under the sky – whether or not anyone chooses to listen. it will continue on and on, weaving through the underbrush and the woods, past the river and up, up floating in clouds. it won’t cease…it is not done.

my song to the sun is gathering up energy. it, too, is not done. though nebulous, i can sense it wakening. though slightly beaten and weathered, i can feel it rising. though slower, i am aware of its resilience. though tentative, i recognize its imperative. the downbeat waits patiently.

a poem. a symphony.

like daisy.

on and on.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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we are all tiny ferns. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

looking like a new year’s eve party noisemaker waiting to unfurl in celebration, the fern steadily grows. in-between last year’s clipped stalks and in and among dried leaves and the last vestiges of winter’s effect on mulch, it peeks out, pushing up toward the sun. it chooses to thrive, even covered by sandy soil and bits of the past. one day soon i will walk out to the back – where the fern garden is – and this tiny fern will have stretched and straightened and fanned out into a lanky beautiful feather.

it makes me think about blowout noisemakers. all furled up they look relatively innocuous and not particularly capable of being noisy. a little gumption and air blown into them and they can be pretty doggone loud.

the little fern breathes deep and reaches down into where gumption is stored. against the odds, this seemingly fragile, willowy plant rises up, centimeter by centimeter. suddenly it is a powerhouse, standing tall in the rain and a part of the wind in storms.

though it may be all trembly inside as it makes its journey upward and outward, its gumption, air and the sun give it courage and strength. it is tough and resilient and – it is said – has an incredibly strong survival instinct.

how often we are all tiny ferns – over and over – through fallow and rejuvenation, covered in the patina of the past and growing it off. innocuous and silent.

and then, we rise up and unfurl.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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

it’s not-this, not-that. neti, neti. a period of duality.

we are not in winter. we are not in spring. though calendars will challenge that, the meteorological fallout of not-this-not-that surrounds us. and we all learn to live in duality. dress in layers. be prepared for anything.

most northern states stake claim to some iteration of the saying, “if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes and it’ll change.” so littlebabyscion has a backseat laden with vests and jackets; we are always ready for whatever weather shifts our way.

in the meanwhile, we live on the cusp.

we hiked during the eclipse. with the exception of two or three others who passed us, we were completely alone.

though we went to several places to attempt purchasing eclipse glasses, we were too late, and we didn’t have protective eyewear. it was remarkable that so many glasses were sold out at so many places and that meant that so many people were planning on watching this extraordinary event, setting aside portions of their day to view and to celebrate.

so we did not look up. instead, we aimed the camera at the sky and snapped photos. because we didn’t research ahead – which is highly unusual for us – we also didn’t realize we needed these glasses – or a filter – to capture the essence of the eclipse in a photograph with our iphones.

but it doesn’t matter. because we felt it.

the deer must have known. they lingered trailside, aware of our presence, yet not fleeing. we watched each other – in this time of not-this-not-that, not-light-not-dark – they seemed, oddly – for usually they run gracefully away, accepting of us.

at exactly 2:08 – the moment when the eclipse was at peak in our area – the light around us changed. everything took on a surreal, somewhat golden glow, intensifying color around us. we stood still and looked around, certain, even though our photographs were belying the truth, that we were in the moment. the birds were loud, the heron flew above us. the wind changed. and then, it was time, suspended.

we hiked back to the trailhead, knowing that light had been filtered through dark. hopefully, a time of renewal. maybe a time of shedding old energy. i wondered how the world would feel if we lived in that moment at all times. not in the not-this, not-that, but in new light, each and every day.

i suppose we should be as astounded by the sunrise each day. we should be astonished at the play of dark into light. we should be gobsmacked by the new beginning of dawn.

because, really, everywhere around us there are miracles of transformation. and we are always on the cusp of everything beautiful, were we to just stop, were we to just look, to just recognize it. to live in the eclipse.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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

and in her waking-up, in the tease of spring, in the liminal space between seasons, mother earth offers up her flowers. it’s a tiny posy of possibility, an olive branch extended to stave off impatience as we pine for warmer days, for everything to green up. and, in this waiting zone, these dried flowers spur our imagination, carry us forward.

it’s the interim times – the periods in-between – the time spent in the hallway before the next door opens – these are the reluctant times. we are reluctant to sit in the hall. we are reluctant to wait and see. we are reluctant to accept a zone of time sans shape. we think it all – the minutes and seconds, hours and years – needs definition. we are reluctant to be still. we don’t understand what feels like a screeching halt. we yearn to move, yet we are frozen in fallow.

but we are morphing. we are beautiful winter nosegays tucked into mason jars. we are march and april. we are stoking up. we are no less beautiful than verdant june and july. we are just different.

and for this time – we are somewhat rustic, somewhat fragile. we are color-muted now to be opulent later. we are the quiet before the fortissimo, meek before rackety. we are simply waiting.

we read the same paragraph over and over again, listen to the same strains of music time and again, sit and pace and sit and pace. we are the dried wildflowers, the straining buds, the transitional space, the interlude. we are the hallway.

and then.

*****

UNTITLED INTERLUDE from RELEASED FROM THE HEART ©️ 1995 kerri sherwood

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

today i am 65 and this is my future.

it is full of seeds, full of possibility, full of tomorrows.

and it will all spin and float and whirligig – just like these maple seedpods.

though wrinklier now than in last spring or last summer – and, really, ever more wrinkly – these samaras are ever viable and will coax saplings from the ground once they disperse. with big breezes at their backs, the winds of change, the tug of relevance, in fields of gold and forests of native plants. though they have been dormant, though they haven’t germinated for months or even years, they remain alive.

alive.

resilient.

for placing samaras in a bowl of water, it is the seedpods that sink that have seeds likely to germinate. the others – the ones floating – are less likely, though sometimes it simply takes a little soak in warm water, a little good soil and a continued cold blast of air for some time – a bit of fallow – that will draw out the remaining life.

it’s funny. you’d think that the test for a maple seed would be it if floats in water – floating – the ability to rise above that which wishes to drown you. but the real test – for the likely viability of a maple seed – is to hope that it sinks. clearly, maple seeds hold their breath.

and then, the seeds breathe. out of the bottom of the bowl in which they have sunk. and the seeds sprout. even from the trauma they have endured, the inertia they have tolerated. and the seeds grow big strong maple trees, even though buckthorn and other toxic invasives would prefer them stifled. the maples withstand, persist, ride it all out.

so – for those of you out there who are thinking 65 is run-roughshod-over, washed-up, put-out-to-pasture, tested by toxins, no-longer-relevant, done – i have some news.

some good news.

it is the steadfastness of a drowned seedpod.

or, in the case of a wrinkled-up-old-floater, just a little warm water, a little good soil, a little cold fallow and then, a little sun.

either way, watch out. 65 is only the beginning.

*****

THAT MORNING SOMEDAY from BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL ©️ 1996 kerri sherwood

IN A SPLIT SECOND from AS SURE AS THE SUN ©️ 2002 kerri sherwood — PLEASE NOTE: This song is not “jazz” nor is any part of its copyright or publishing rights owned by Rumblefish.

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the green glow. life. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

and the deadened stalks of underbrush began to show signs of life. instead of the greys and browns of winter, its lack of light and its deep shadows, the sun has drawn out buds of newness and there is a slight glow of green in the woods.

soon, that green glow will grow and it will push out all the shadows of what had been, of the eradication that had happened in the preserve, of the fires and the heavy equipment’s tearing and grinding of buckthorn and other invasives. soon, the green glow will reflect back the warmth of the sunlight of spring and regrowth and we will walk in places that are not heavy with the press of toxic plants or trees. soon, the green glow on stems of underbrush, on trunked branches of trees will distinguish goodness from that which chokes out life.

walking – in the woods – last summer, last fall, early winter – it was hard to imagine – almost impossible – to really grok – that the beauty of the underbrush and the forest was being overrun by that which would utterly ruin it.

walking now – in the woods – in late winter/early spring – still with its juxtaposition of the echoes of the dark and the light, new vegetation and old chokemonsters, goodness and destruction – it’s ridiculously easy to see the difference.

the green glow. and the forest grows.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

INSTRUMENT OF PEACE mixed media 48″x91″

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