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 Šī¸ 1995 kerri sherwood
the magic dots showed up. it is a happy day to wake up and see them.
with just the right angle of the sun and just the right angle of the miniblinds across the room on the east side windows of the bedroom, they sometimes – but not all the time – appear.
it is a little bit like fairy dust, the twinkle at the end of a magic wand, floating bubbles, glimpses of angel wings. and what could possibly not be good about all that?!
i have awakened in this room most of the 35 years i have lived here, save for bedroom rebuild/remodeling time and other moments here and there. with five windows, there is no shortage of light. it is bright and, though – like rooms in old houses – not big, it is airy.
it is spirit-lifting to wake up and see them…these magic dots dancing on the wall. and, during a time that is testing my spirit in more ways than i care to think about, i am grateful for the dots.
they poke at me, prodding me with mary oliver urgency – “what do you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” “eh??” they add. “well?” they insist.
they know – these magic dots – that there is much to be done. they know there is much to work through, to see to the other end, to process.
but seeing them reminds me to carry them with me. to not forget the fairy dust, the magic, the bubbles, wings in the middle of it all. to hold it all more lightly.
for, like, the magic dots, it will all disappear as the sun rises and the rays tilt in a different angle. with one turn of the miniblinds, they will be gone.
but in the meanwhile, they invite me to dance with them.
it made me smile as i walked in. these flowers graced the expansive ladies room window in the milwaukee public market. it’s a large decal – produced by a small business in the uk called dizzy duck designs. they call this piece “retro flowers frosted window film.” it was the perfect way to achieve privacy in this space.
i’ve been in a lot of churches, plenty of chapels and many cathedrals along life’s way. i have seen countless stained glass windows. they have depicted the stories of the bible, the stories of the religious institution. there have been folksy windows, tiffany windows, ornate windows with more colored glass than imaginable, geometric windows with monochromatic patterns. the beautifully simple and texturally or story-line overdone, both.
i can’t honestly say – despite honoring the obvious artistry in all of these panels, despite their remarkability, despite their intention of storytelling, despite the serious religious overtones, the shade of light cast into the building – that i have felt anything like what i felt this day as i walked into this ladies room. i have felt other things, but not this.
these wildflowers were charming, captivating. i instantly felt joy. stealing from my dear heidi, “sprinkles” kind of joy.
i stood in front of this window – which i had not seen before – for several extra minutes. i admired each whimsical flower.
i didn’t google the panel till much later. it doesn’t have a behemoth history like magnificent stained glass windows through the decades. it’s just a sweet family-run business, trying to fill a niche and make the places in which people hang out feel good.
bravo, dizzy duck designs! i can’t think of a better reason to be in business.
âspring gets you every time. every year it sucks me in, but then, I’m easyâa few cool blue skies, new grass, wildflowers, and i’m in love. (anne lamott)
the trees out front and across the street often filter the sunlight, depending on the angle of the sun. we are on the north side of the street and so, we have a southern exposure. gazing outside at the sun filtering through the limbs doesn’t always give me an accurate picture of what it’s like out. i am given to stepping out on the front step to see what it really feels like out there, to see what it’s really like, to see the real.
she said, “you can’t trust people just because of the mask they are wearing.” and she’s right. the masks – the titles – we make assumptions that don’t really depict the person. we grant pedestals upon which others have placed people wearing the masks, donning the costume, assuming the title, but all the while betraying authenticity. our view of others is filtered through their masks, whatever it is they want us to see. the sun through the limbs.
it all somehow makes me think of the song “return to pooh corner”, the hundred acre wood, the world of pooh and piglet. maybe it’s a yearning for that sort of innocence, that sort of blissful good intention. we didn’t wonder about winnie the pooh’s agenda or piglet’s loyalty. they were – clearly- a bear and a pig and they spoke to truth. winnie the pooh says, “i’m never afraid with you.” no filters.
i suppose that truth – sans filters – is like the hundred acre wood – the forest, though. like the sun, it’s always there – always available. a.a. milne states, “but of course, it isn’t really good-bye, because the forest will always be there…and anybody who is friendly with bears can find it.”
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 Šī¸ 1996 kerri sherwood
IN A SPLIT SECOND from AS SURE AS THE SUN Šī¸ 2002 kerri sherwood — PLEASE NOTE: This song is not “jazz” nor is any part of its copyright or publishing rights owned by Rumblefish.
and somehow, the universe knew and the snow began to fall.
and everything became quiet and peaceful. all forward movement ceased. we sat in the pause.
this fermata was certainly needed. we had been feverishly working, working. emotions were high and our energy was almost depleted. but then the snow came.
though spring had made an appearance and our garden – peeking out – was circumspect about the snowfall, we welcomed its hush. every flake that fell received thanks from us. and it kept falling.
our fermata in the snow granted us a bit of rest, a bit of perspective. we took deep breaths and moved slowly through our day. we gazed out the window and watched as the snow covered all – everything – in a blanket of white. it erased all the writing on the page. it shushed the noise in our busy heads. it lent ease to our weary minds and hearts. it took the astonishing – disheartening – events of the week and buried them under inches of snow. it cleared the ugly like the swoosh of lifting cellophane on a magic slate.
and when the swirl slowed a bit and i stood on the deck – giant flakes gently falling – gazing out at the pristine world surrounding us, i realized that was pretty much all that mattered. we had been granted time. time to consider and rejuvenate, time to reflect, time to clean off the shields we held so tightly – the ones that protected us. time to grasp onto snowflakes – quickly melting – and realize – once again – that life is just too short.
and soon, the world around us will explode with flowers. and spring ephemerals will rise out of thawing ground. crocus follow on the heels of earliest rising snowdrops. and then daffodils and tulips and maybe even hyacinths sneak into view. skunk cabbage joins the fray of the dance and trilliums send up their periscope stalks. jack-in-the-pulpit stands righteously in the savanna underbrush, sharing energy with jill-in-the-pulpit. and the mayapples…those mayapples wait to burst their canopy umbrellas up, protecting their delicate white blossoms. all together, it is a community of the transitory, sharing space. all thorns are set aside to regale the world with beauty.
george told us on the trail that many, many – most, he ventured to guess – do not look about as they hike. he said that it is rare to see someone stop on the trail to really notice, to pay attention, to ponder. he was pleased to see us – two strangers – standing and photographing.
for us, it is most-of-the-time impossible to hike and not pay notice. but, i can tell you, it is very difficult to hike – and really, truly pay attention – if there is something heavy on our hearts. i would think it impossible to hike – and wander in the fields of flowers – if there are thorns in your heart.
as far as i know, thorns in your heart may preclude your seeing of any beauty at all. they may predispose you, color your view, cloud your eyes to what-really-is, ruin any chance of you experiencing the ephemerally blissful moments of this life.
because – in terms of this world, this universe – we are really more like spring flowers than any other. we emerge and are quickly fading. we are gifted with ever so little time.
and, just like we are like spring flowers, we are also unlike spring flowers. we are not perennials. this moment – now – is our chance…to grow and bud and bloom.
how much better to wander in fields of flowers – of beauty – than to squander time and languish in thorns.
there are people who are immersed in negativity. they eat it, drink it, breathe it, live it. i have learned – that it matters not what truth is if they can convolute it into their own narrative, if they can spin it as negative, if they can lift themselves up by pushing someone else under water – or, in some cases – under the bus.
life
is too short for that.
is too much a gift for that.
is too interdependent for that.
is too precious for that.
has more potential than that.
and we can all choose differently.
we drove away from negativity. walked down the hill, got into littlebabyscion, drove out of the parking lot, made a right and a left and a right and drove on. away.
and behind us – far behind us – we left the scourge of scowling faces, of spinning stories, of agenda-riddling, of adversarial contention.
and we drove further, further.
away.
i opened the window of littlebabyscion.
the cold air rushed in and swirled around, pulling negativity out.
and i could breathe.
and my sweet momma – through the filament of dimension between us – whispered, “live life, my sweet potato.”
most of the time i can feel this. though sometimes, i am too busy or rushed. and though sometimes, i am frazzled with thoughts. and though sometimes, i am worried or distracted. and though sometimes, i have forgotten the simplicities in the midst of complexities.
i felt it though. and it was palpable.
the driveway greeted us as we pulled in – familiar cracks along its way. the wires overhead tugged and dipped in the wind. the leaves leftover from fall and winter blew in front of us. the house whispered, “welcome home.”
and this time – this time – i heard it. clear as day, as they say.
the whisper of a home – this place i have gone to for rest and nourishment, for creative work and rejuvenation, for the growing of beloveds and the gathering of friends, for belly-laughter and sob-filled tears, for refuge and solitude. this sanctuary. this place.
as we drove – on our way home – i could think of nothing better than to enter our home, hug on dogga, throw on my sweats and comfy boots, prepare a small meal. in this place.
my nest.
“this morning, in the fresh field,
i came upon a hidden nest.
it held four warm, speckled eggs.
i touched them.
then went away softly,
having felt something more wonderful
than all the electricity of new york city.”(mary oliver)
*****
THE WAY HOME from THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY Šī¸ 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood
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.
